Without Mind: An Album Designed for Deep Listening in a Distracted World
In a world where music is often consumed in fragments — a playlist here, a 15-second clip there — Without Mind was always meant to be something else entirely. It’s not background noise, it’s not a quick dopamine hit, and it’s certainly not made for skipping through. This record asks you to lean in, stay awhile, and let the sound pull you somewhere quieter.
When I began Without Mind, it was in the context of a single, transformative experience: creating an improvised soundtrack for ketamine-assisted therapy. The music unfolded in real time, with no edits, no plan — just instinct, emotion, and the tools around me. Modular synths, my Moog Matriarch, Minimoog, and the physical space itself all conspired to create textures that felt alive and unpredictable. That spirit carried through the entire trilogy.
I chose to release it in three parts before the full album dropped — a deliberate push against the “all at once, onto the next” mentality that dominates streaming culture. I wanted each section to have its own breathing room, to give listeners a chance to live inside it before moving on. Now that it’s all together, all 12 tracks, it feels like the record I always envisioned: big, dense, and immersive, but with moments of stillness that invite you to exhale.
The title, Without Mind, comes from the idea of being fully present without the constant narration of thought — the meditative state where awareness expands beyond words. That’s the listening posture I hope for: no pressure, no expectation, just allowing yourself to be carried.
If you can, try listening front to back in one sitting. Put your phone on the other side of the room. Maybe close your eyes. Let the room change shape. Let the layers reveal themselves. You’ll hear the deliberate imperfections, the subtle tape warble, the spaces where the gear was breathing on its own. That’s where the humanity is. That’s where I’m most at home.
And if you prefer something physical, the limited-edition 3xLP vinyl is out now — hand-numbered, beautifully packaged, and meant to be as much an art object as a listening experience.
Returning to the Quiet: How Floating Became a Spiritual Portal for Creativity and Calm
The first time I stepped into a sensory deprivation tank, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was chasing—maybe peace, maybe silence, maybe something unnamed. It was 2018, and I was deep into my mindfulness and spiritual practice in New York City. A friend had mentioned floatation therapy, and in a way that felt both impulsive and divinely timed, I booked a session at Blue Light Flotation with Sam Zeiger, one of NYC’s original floating veterans.
I was nervous, of course. The idea of being sealed away in darkness, floating in silence with only myself for company, held a quiet kind of terror. But Sam had a calm to him that put me at ease. He had that grounded energy—the kind that comes from someone who has seen many people return from the deep. Under his guidance, I began with 60-minute floats and gradually moved to 90, then 120. Before long, I was floating every two weeks.
And each time, I returned to something unspeakably profound.
After each session, Sam would offer me tea—never in a rush, never prescribing a response. He’d sit with me in stillness if I didn’t feel like talking, or he’d listen quietly if I did. That kind of presence is rare, and in a world that moves so fast, it left a lasting imprint on me.
Inside the tank, stripped of sound, light, weight, and time, I began to sense something sacred—a space beneath language, a stillness that felt alive. These weren’t just moments of relaxation; they were glimpses of the vastness we carry inside but rarely access. It felt like stepping into the quiet between heartbeats. Language fails there. But music—my music—began to shift.
As my float practice deepened, I noticed changes in my creativity. Ideas no longer arrived through effort but drifted in like fog, subtle and whole. I would leave the tank, towel-wrapped and blinking in the afternoon light, and head to the studio with melodies already humming behind my eyes. Floatation wasn’t inspiring in a conventional sense—it was reorienting. It reminded me of the creative power of stillness.
After moving to Austin, I lost the rhythm of floating. I tried a few places, but nothing quite clicked. There’s a vulnerability to this practice, and I needed a space that felt right—safe, warm, reverent. Recently, I discovered Ocean Lab, and I’m slowly reestablishing my ritual. The 90-minute floats are becoming my new cadence, offering relief for anxiety, releasing muscle tension, and opening the creative channel in ways that still surprise me.
Floatation therapy is more than relaxation. It’s a form of listening. A spiritual practice. A return. Inside the dark and weightless space, free from noise and gravity, I remember what it feels like to simply exist—unburdened and aware. For me, it’s a kind of meditation far beyond posture or breathwork. It’s presence distilled to its purest form.
In the context of ambient music composition, this stillness is everything. My work as Six Missing depends on slowness, on texture, on breath. Floating is the deepest breath I know. The clarity it offers is subtle but unmistakable—decisions feel less forced, sounds feel more connected. And in the silence of the tank, I hear the contours of new music before they even form.
If you’ve never floated before, it might sound strange to say that a pitch-black tank filled with warm water could change your life. But it can. It changed mine. And while I may go months without it, I always return—to the water, to the dark, to myself.
Smoke Signals: Ritual, Scent, and Creating Energy in the Studio
Before a single note is played, before the gear hums to life, I almost always begin with scent. A moment to light incense or Palo Santo, to let the smoke curl around the space like a gentle reminder: this is sacred.
It’s a small ritual, but one that creates a noticeable shift in the studio. The air changes. My body settles. The creative process doesn’t just begin with a sound—it begins with intention.
Why Ritual Matters in a Creative Practice
Over time, I’ve come to recognize that the work we do creatively isn’t just about inspiration—it’s about preparation. And for me, that begins with preparing the space. The scent of Palo Santo or the slow burn of incense becomes a kind of threshold, a way to cross into a different headspace.
It’s a centering practice. A clearing. It tells my nervous system that it’s time to shift from noise to presence, from scattered thought to focused openness.
Much like ambient music, scent works on a level that’s subtle and immersive. It doesn’t demand attention, but it shapes the experience. It holds the space.
Scent as an Extension of Sound
What I love about using incense in the studio is that it feels like a companion to the sound. The scent drifts slowly, like a drone or pad, subtle but expansive. It creates a space where ideas feel more welcome—like the energy has been wiped clean for something new to emerge.
Ambient music thrives in the spaces between, and scent works much the same way. It fills the gaps between thoughts. Between breaths. Between takes. It becomes part of the atmosphere, part of the architecture of the moment.
A Collaboration Rooted in Ritual
As part of the upcoming vinyl release of Without Mind, I’ve partnered with Goyo to create a custom paper incense blend that captures the feeling of this record. Goyo shares the same appreciation for ritual, intention, and sensory experience—and together, we’re crafting something that expands the world of the album beyond sound.
The idea is simple: when you light this incense and drop the needle, it becomes a full-bodied experience. One that’s not just heard, but felt. Smelled. Remembered.
I’ll have more to share soon about this limited edition piece of the Without Mind release, but I couldn’t be more grateful to work with a brand like Goyo that understands how scent can shape presence.
Creating Your Own Ritual
You don’t need a studio full of gear to build a ritual. All you need is intention. It could be incense. A deep breath. A light stretch. A walk around the block. Whatever helps clear the static and create the space.
And if you’re looking for a place to start—musically—I’ve curated Meditative Moments, a playlist of ambient tracks designed to support slow, intentional living:
🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments
Let the scent rise. Let the music settle. Then begin.
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
– Six Missing
Scoring the Everyday: How Ambient Music Can Shape Your Daily Rhythm
I’ve always loved the idea of a soundtrack for life—not in the dramatic, cinematic sense, but in the quiet, invisible way music can wrap itself around our routines. For me, ambient music isn’t just something I create—it’s something I live inside of. It shapes how I move through the world, and how the world feels as I move through it.
There’s a soft kind of magic in choosing sound intentionally. It can reframe a moment, shift the mood of a morning, or turn a mundane task into something meditative. And more and more, I find myself drawn to the idea that ambient music can be used to score the rhythms of daily life.
Music as Movement, Not Just Moment
Some people think of ambient music as background. I think of it as a thread—something that ties together the breath between moments. It’s not there to distract or to hype, but to accompany. To ground. To soften.
I’ve heard from listeners who play Six Missing while they make coffee, journal, stretch, meditate, walk, or simply breathe for a moment before the day begins. And that feels like the highest compliment—that something I created in stillness can now help someone else settle into their own quiet.
Routines as Rituals
Creating a sense of rhythm in your day isn’t about rigid scheduling. It’s about turning the small things—brewing tea, opening a window, lighting incense—into tiny rituals. And music can help anchor those rituals.
I often begin my mornings with sound before screens. A gentle drone. A slowly shifting pad. No lyrics, no rhythm to chase—just space to re-enter the day with softness. It’s a reminder to treat the first few hours not as a to-do list, but as a return.
Designing Sound for Function and Feeling
When I make ambient music, I’m often thinking about function just as much as feeling:
Can this track help someone focus?
Could it hold space for a moment of grief or clarity?
Might it soothe the edges of a tough afternoon?
That’s why playlists like Meditative Moments exist—not as definitive answers, but as gentle suggestions. A sonic offering for wherever you find yourself.
🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments
Whether it’s background for a slow morning or accompaniment for evening journaling, these tracks are here to support your rhythm—not disrupt it.
A Living Soundtrack
Your life deserves to be scored with intention. Not every moment needs a crescendo. Some just need a breath, a tone, a little space to exist inside of. That’s what ambient music offers—a reminder that we’re allowed to move slowly, feel fully, and listen deeply.
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
– Six Missing
When the Sun Stays Too Long: Reflections on Summertime Depression
It always surprises people when I tell them that summer is the season I struggle with most. There’s this collective image of summer being carefree, joyful, full of barbecues and sunshine and bike rides. And as a kid, I loved it—the freedom from school, the summer movies, the long days of doing nothing. But somewhere along the way, summer shifted for me. It became too much.
Too bright. Too long. Too loud.
The Discomfort of Lightness
As someone who finds comfort in dim rooms, early sunsets, and a soft hoodie pulled over my head, summer feels like an unwanted spotlight. The constant heat, the expectation to be out and doing, the lack of quiet corners—it all builds into a kind of emotional friction. There’s a strange guilt in feeling low during a time the world tells you should be your happiest.
Living in Austin has magnified this. The summers here are long and relentless, and I often find myself retreating inward—not in a romantic, reflective way, but in a survival mode. The heat becomes isolating, not just physically but emotionally. It’s like a reverse winter. Everyone is outside and active, while I’m inside trying to protect my nervous system.
Seasonal Depression, Flipped
Most people associate seasonal affective disorder (SAD) with winter—and rightfully so. But summer-pattern SAD is very real, and it’s less often talked about. While winter SAD tends to be marked by low energy and craving comfort, summer SAD can show up as agitation, restlessness, anxiety, and trouble sleeping. It’s more like being overstimulated than depleted.
And for creatives, that internal restlessness can feel even more complicated. I want to make, but my nervous system is taxed. I want to feel inspired, but everything feels flattened by the sun.
Ambient Music as a Place to Retreat
This is one of the reasons ambient music has become not just my practice but my refuge. Ambient music offers a kind of internal season—a soft, cool, slow space I can return to even when the external world feels like too much. It gives me permission to slow down, to dim the lights, to exhale.
Many of the tracks I’ve made during summer months were born out of this exact feeling—not an escape, but an effort to build a space I could feel safe and soothed in. A sonic shelter.
If summer ever feels too intense for you, I’ve curated a playlist called Meditative Wind Down, which includes ambient pieces designed to ease the nervous system and cool the temperature of your thoughts:
🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Wind Down
Letting Yourself Feel It
If you also struggle with summer—whether in a small way or a deep one—you’re not alone. There’s no season that fits all of us. And just because the world feels bright and fast doesn’t mean you have to match it.
Your experience is valid. Your energy is valid. And your need for slowness, shade, or stillness is sacred.
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
– Six Missing
Inner Space: The Emotional Landscape of Six Missing
One of the questions I get asked often on podcasts is: Where does this music come from? Not in the technical sense—not the gear or software—but the deeper question of what drives the sound. And the truth is, everything I create as Six Missing comes from a place I can only describe as inner space.
It’s that space behind your eyes when you close them. The quiet place between thoughts. The part of you that remembers without words. That’s the terrain I try to explore through ambient music.
Sound as Emotional Memory
In my conversations on podcasts like Spotlight On and We All Speak In Poems, I’ve talked about how sound, for me, is often a form of emotional processing. I’ve never been someone who could easily articulate how I’m feeling in the moment—but give me a guitar, a delay pedal, a synth—and I can express what words can’t.
It’s not just about creating beautiful textures. It’s about tracing emotional arcs—anxiety, peace, loss, curiosity—and turning them into sonic environments. That’s why so much of my music is spacious. I want to give the listener room to feel, to breathe, to reflect.
The Influence of Burnout and Recovery
In the Spotlight On interview, I talked about the period of burnout that led to the creation of my EP Gentle Breath. That time taught me the importance of slowing down, of listening inward, and of creating music that doesn’t demand anything from the listener. No narrative. No hook. Just presence.
Music became a way to soothe my nervous system—to ground myself when things felt overwhelming. And now, it’s my way of offering that same stillness to others.
Improvisation and Flow
Another thread that came up in Modular Stories and Ambient Discourses was how much of Six Missing is built on improvisation. I love the idea of capturing a moment—not planning too much, just letting the sound unfold. Improvising with a synth and a filter, letting the delay trail carry a melody into somewhere unexpected—that’s where the magic lives.
That kind of spontaneity mirrors how I experience emotion. Rarely neat. Often nonlinear. But always layered.
Ambient Music as Permission
At its core, I think ambient music offers permission—to slow down, to feel, to not know, to not rush. Whether it’s playing during a walk, a late-night journaling session, or just while lying still on the floor, ambient music meets you where you are.
I’ve come to think of my music as a kind of mirror. Not one that reflects the outer world, but one that reveals something quiet and often overlooked inside. The parts of us that are still, that are soft, that are waiting to be heard.
If you’d like to step into that space, I’d recommend my Meditative Moments playlist. It’s filled with songs—mine and others’—that carry that same sense of emotional presence and stillness:
🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Creating Emotion with Reverb & Delay: The Heart of Ambient Music
If there's one thing I've learned in making ambient music as Six Missing, it's that sound alone isn't enough—emotion lives in the space around the sound. That’s where reverb and delay come in. These two effects are the heart of how I shape emotional texture and movement. They’re not just tools; they’re mood shifters, sculptors of space, and conveyors of feeling.
Ambient music, by nature, doesn’t rely on melody or rhythm in the traditional sense. It relies on atmosphere, tone, and depth—and reverb and delay are essential for building that immersive world.
Why Reverb Matters
Reverb simulates space. It tells your brain how big a room is, how far away a sound might be, or whether you're hearing something in a cathedral, a cave, or under the surface of water. But in ambient music, reverb isn't just about creating a sense of space—it's about dissolving boundaries.
I often use long, lush reverb tails that stretch notes into eternity, letting them drift and blur into one another. This creates a kind of sonic fog that softens edges and makes everything feel connected. It’s a way of letting a sound linger emotionally, like the echo of a thought or a feeling you can’t quite shake.
The Emotional Weight of Delay
Where reverb creates space, delay creates memory. A delayed sound is a reflection, a moment that repeats and transforms over time. In ambient music, I love using delay not just for rhythmic echo, but for the emotional weight it carries—a voice or guitar note bouncing back like a memory you keep returning to.
Delays can be short and subtle, like the feeling of déjà vu, or long and unpredictable, like the passage of time. I often use tape-style delays or analog units that introduce gentle imperfections—flutter, warble, degradation—that make the echoes feel more human.
How I Use Reverb & Delay in Six Missing
One of the ways I build emotional space in my music is by stacking multiple reverbs. I might use a shorter room reverb to emulate a physical space or proximity—something that brings a bit of presence and intimacy—and then layer it with a long, washed-out tail that lets everything dissolve into the atmosphere. This contrast helps create depth, giving the sound both weight and lift, grounding it while allowing it to drift.
In my studio, I’ve built a signal chain that includes vintage delay pedals, reverb units, and modular effects chains that allow me to sculpt space in real time. Some go-to tools include:
Boss DD-20 in looping mode for cascading echoes.
Meris Mercury7 for reverb that sounds like it’s from another galaxy.
EarthQuaker Devices Avalanche Run for dreamy stereo ambiance.
Analog tape machines to create natural tape delay and saturation.
When I'm creating, I rarely hear a dry sound and say “that’s it.” It's usually once the sound is bathed in reverb or bouncing through delay lines that it starts to feel like Six Missing.
Why It Matters
In a world that’s loud, fast, and sharp-edged, ambient music offers a place to slow down and soften. Reverb and delay create that softening effect. They let sounds blur into one another, letting listeners rest in the spaces between.
Whether I’m designing a track for meditation, nighttime reflection, or a deep emotional dive, these tools allow me to shape an experience that’s not just heard—but felt.
If you’re curious about how these textures play out in real time, check out my playlist Meditative Moments, where reverb and delay are woven into every track to help you slow down, breathe, and just be:
Returning Home: Reflections on Family and Self Through Sound
Spending time with family is never just about the visit—it’s about the history, the patterns, the quiet moments that stretch between conversations. It’s about returning to a version of yourself you thought you outgrew, only to realize how much of it still lives in you.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how being around family can be its own kind of meditation. There’s something about sitting across from your parents, seeing your mannerisms reflected back at you, hearing a familiar tone in someone else’s voice—and realizing, that’s me too.
The Mirror of Family
Being home—physically or emotionally—means stepping into an environment that shaped you. It can be comforting. It can be challenging. Often, it’s both. You catch glimpses of the traits you’ve carried forward: maybe a stubbornness, a certain way of handling stress, a deep sense of care. And then there are the things you’ve tried to unlearn, the parts you’re gently rewriting in yourself.
It’s not about judgment. It’s about awareness. Noticing the echoes of your upbringing in your adult self and asking, Do I want to keep this? Or do I want to shift it?
The Practice of Patience
Family dynamics aren’t always easy. Old stories resurface. Roles we thought we shed reappear without warning. But what I’ve learned is that these moments, though sometimes difficult, are invitations—to slow down, to respond rather than react, to extend the same compassion we offer to strangers back to the people who raised us.
In that way, being with family becomes a practice, one not so different from meditation: sit with it, breathe through it, notice what comes up, and let it move.
How Ambient Music Mirrors This Process
There’s a parallel for me in the ambient music I create as Six Missing. So much of ambient composition is about space, patience, and reflection. There’s no rush. No hard start or stop. Just the slow unfolding of texture, the subtle shifts that ask you to notice rather than chase.
Just like in family relationships, there’s room for tension and release, for moments of dissonance and deep harmony. Sometimes a single drone or melody line will repeat and shift so slightly that you don’t realize it’s changed until you’re fully immersed in something new.
Creating this kind of music has taught me to listen more closely, to be with what’s present without needing to fix it—a skill that’s just as important when navigating the nuances of family.
An Invitation to Reflect
If you’re spending time with family, or even just thinking about your roots, I invite you to approach it like you would a quiet piece of music:
Pause. Notice what emotions arise.
Listen for what’s beneath the surface. Not everything is loud or obvious.
Allow space. Sometimes just being together is enough.
And if you need something to help ease into that reflective space, I’ve curated a playlist called Meditative Moments, full of ambient tracks that hold space for introspection, including subtle field recordings and gentle textures that mirror these emotional landscapes:
🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments
Whether you’re sitting with your parents at the kitchen table or alone with a memory, know that the process of noticing, reflecting, and evolving is sacred. And you don’t have to rush it.
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
How Field Recordings Bring Ambient Music to Life
One of the most fascinating aspects of ambient music is its ability to transport listeners—to create a sense of place, mood, and emotion without the need for traditional song structures. One of the ways I love to achieve this in Six Missing is through field recordings—capturing and integrating real-world sounds into my compositions.
Field recordings have the power to ground music in something tangible, making it feel more alive, more connected to the world around us. A subtle breeze, the distant hum of a city, or the soft rhythm of waves can add a level of depth and atmosphere that synthesizers alone can’t always achieve.
What Are Field Recordings?
Field recordings are sounds captured from the real world, whether from nature, urban environments, or even unexpected mechanical sources. They can be used to:
Enhance texture – Adding organic layers that blend with electronic elements.
Evoke emotion – Creating a sense of nostalgia, serenity, or mystery.
Define space – Making music feel like it's unfolding in a specific location.
Introduce unpredictability – No two natural sounds are exactly the same, making each recording unique.
The Emotional Impact of Real-World Sounds
Music is deeply tied to memory and sensory experiences. A simple field recording—like birdsong, distant thunder, or the echo of footsteps—can instantly transport listeners to another time or place.
Think about how certain sounds make you feel:
Rain on a window – Often associated with warmth, introspection, or solitude.
Distant traffic at night – Evokes a sense of movement, longing, or the quiet energy of a city.
Wind moving through trees – A feeling of openness, calm, and deep connection to nature.
These aren’t just sound effects—they’re emotional triggers that help shape the experience of the music.
How I Use Field Recordings in My Music
For Six Missing, field recordings are a key part of my sound. I like to incorporate:
Subtle textures beneath synth drones – A faint, almost imperceptible environmental noise can make a piece feel more immersive.
Natural reverbs and echoes – Capturing how sound interacts with different spaces can add an organic depth that studio reverb can’t replicate.
Looping fragments of real-world sound – Sometimes, a repeating rhythm of a distant train or dripping water can act as a percussive or meditative element.
I’ve always been drawn to the interplay between synthetic and organic sounds—how a processed, filtered synth pad can feel like it belongs in the same world as the rustling of leaves. It’s this blending of human-made and natural sound that makes ambient music feel truly alive.
Field Recording in Ambient Music History
Many ambient artists have embraced field recordings to create immersive worlds in their music:
Brian Eno incorporated environmental sounds in his early ambient works, making the listening space itself part of the experience.
Hiroshi Yoshimura used recordings of water and nature to enhance the meditative quality of his minimalist compositions.
Chris Watson, known for his work in sound ecology, brought high-fidelity nature recordings into the world of ambient and experimental music.
How to Start Using Field Recordings in Your Own Music
For artists and producers who want to explore field recordings, here are a few tips:
Use your phone or a portable recorder – You don’t need expensive equipment to start; even a simple phone mic can capture compelling sounds.
Be intentional with sound selection – Find recordings that evoke a mood rather than adding noise for the sake of it.
Layer recordings subtly – Blending them under synths, pads, or reverb can create a feeling rather than being the focal point.
Experiment with processing – Stretching, reversing, or filtering recordings can transform everyday sounds into something surreal.
Experience Field Recordings in Ambient Music
If you want to explore how field recordings create depth and space in ambient music, check out my Meditative Wind Down playlist:
🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments
This playlist features carefully curated tracks that highlight the beauty of field recordings in ambient music, blending organic textures with deep, immersive soundscapes.
Field recordings remind us that music isn’t separate from the world—it’s part of it. Every sound, every breath, every subtle movement of the air is music waiting to be heard.
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
The Role of Silence in Ambient Music
In music, we often focus on the notes, the melodies, and the textures that shape a piece. But in ambient music, silence is just as important as sound. The spaces between the notes, the pauses, the moments of stillness—these are what give the music its depth and emotional resonance.
I’ve always been drawn to the power of space in sound. Silence in ambient music isn’t empty; it’s an active presence, shaping the listener’s experience and allowing the music to breathe. Some of my favorite ambient compositions use silence as an instrument itself, creating an ebb and flow that mirrors the natural rhythms of life, breath, and thought.
Why Silence Matters in Ambient Music
Silence in music is often misunderstood. In more traditional compositions, silence might serve as a pause between phrases, a way to create tension before resolution. But in ambient music, silence is part of the texture, allowing the listener to experience sound more deeply.
Think about how a deep breath can change your perception of a moment. Silence in music acts the same way—it resets the mind, allowing space for reflection, for feeling, for simply existing within the soundscape. Some of the ways silence functions in ambient music include:
Creating a Sense of Space – Silence allows the music to expand, giving the listener a sense of vastness, as if the sound exists in an open landscape.
Encouraging Deep Listening – With fewer elements competing for attention, silence invites the listener to focus on the subtleties of sound.
Allowing for Emotional Impact – The absence of sound can be just as moving as a soaring melody, creating moments of introspection.
Mimicking Natural Rhythms – Just as the world has its own cycles of activity and stillness, silence in ambient music reflects that natural balance.
How I Use Silence in My Music
In Six Missing, I intentionally leave space within my compositions, allowing each note, drone, or texture to fully unfold before moving on. Some of my tracks use long decays, where the tail end of a reverb slowly fades into near silence, while others leave open gaps between tones, letting the silence itself feel like part of the arrangement.
I also experiment with field recordings that capture natural quiet—the soft hum of a distant landscape, the nearly imperceptible shift of wind through trees. These elements create a sense of presence, where the silence feels alive rather than absent.
The Influence of Silence in Ambient Music History
Many pioneers of ambient and minimalist music have explored silence as a core part of their work:
Brian Eno embraced space in his compositions, particularly in Music for Airports, where silence plays as much of a role as the drifting piano tones.
Harold Budd often spoke of “soft pedal” playing, where the space around the notes carried just as much meaning as the notes themselves.
Japanese ambient composers like Hiroshi Yoshimura and Midori Takada used silence and subtlety to create deeply meditative listening experiences.
Listening With Silence in Mind
The next time you listen to an ambient track, focus on the moments of stillness. Notice how the silence isn’t just absence but an intentional presence, shaping how the music is perceived. Try incorporating silence into your own listening habits—whether it’s pausing between tracks, sitting with a song’s natural fadeout, or simply listening more deeply to the spaces within the sound.
For those looking for an ambient playlist that embraces these elements, I’ve curated Meditative Wind Down, featuring tracks that highlight the beauty of space and stillness in music:
🎧 Listen to Meditative Wind Down
Silence isn’t just the absence of sound—it’s an invitation to listen more deeply.
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
The Moog Minimoog: My First Vintage Synth & A Spiritual Connection to Sound
There are certain instruments that feel more like guides than tools—ones that don’t just produce sound but seem to speak a language of their own. For me, that instrument is the Moog Minimoog Model D.
This wasn’t just my first real-deal synthesizer—it was my first vintage synth, the one that truly unlocked my love for analog sound design and changed how I approached music forever. It was also the first time I ever made a big investment in an instrument, and I’ll admit, I hesitated. The price tag made me nervous, but Hanna encouraged me to go for it. She knew—before I even did—how much I would connect with it, how much it would shape the sound of Six Missing.
She was right. The Minimoog has since become a staple of my work, making its way into nearly every Six Missing track.
A Synth That Feels Alive
There’s something undeniably human about the Minimoog. From the moment I first played it, I realized that this wasn’t just an instrument—it was a living, breathing sound machine. Its oscillators have a warmth and richness that feel organic, as if the sound is growing and evolving in real-time.
The Minimoog is known for its thick, unmistakable bass tones, but what drew me in was its ability to drift between the earthly and the otherworldly. It can sound as grounded as a cello or as vast as the cosmos. The way its filter moves, how it subtly reacts to the slightest changes in touch, makes it feel alive.
That’s what I love most about vintage synths—the unpredictability, the imperfections, the way they breathe. No two performances on the Minimoog ever sound exactly the same, which makes it feel like a true collaborator in my creative process.
A Spiritual Connection Through Bob Moog
After I bought the Minimoog, I became fascinated with Bob Moog himself. I watched a documentary about his life, and something about the way he spoke about sound resonated deeply with me. He didn’t just see synthesizers as machines—he saw them as something spiritual, something alive.
Moog believed that synthesizers weren’t just tools for making music but instruments that connected us to something greater than ourselves. He spoke about sound in a way that felt almost sacred, as if music wasn’t just something we create, but something we uncover—something that already exists in the ether, waiting to be heard.
That idea is central to Six Missing. My music has always been about creating a space—about capturing something just beyond reach. The Minimoog, with its almost mystical ability to bridge the electronic and the organic, fits perfectly within that philosophy.
The Sound of Six Missing
Since that first moment with the Minimoog, it has shaped my sound in ways I never expected. It has been the foundation of so many Six Missing tracks, whether subtly tucked into the atmosphere or leading the way with deep, resonant tones.
The way it interacts with effects—reverbs stretching it into infinite space, delays warping it into something ethereal—makes it an essential tool in crafting the textures I’m drawn to. It’s not just about the notes it plays; it’s about the space between the notes, the movement, the way the sound lingers and evolves.
The Synth That Almost Wasn’t
Looking back, I’m grateful Hanna gave me that final push to go for it. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the things we hesitate on are the very things that will shape us the most.
The Minimoog wasn’t just my first vintage synth—it was the beginning of a deeper relationship with sound itself. And I know that relationship will continue to unfold with every track I create.
Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
How Ambient Music Can Help Children Wind Down for Sleep
As I continue exploring the impact of ambient music on relaxation and sleep, I recently learned about an unexpected way my music is being used—my sister plays my ambient compositions for my nephew at night as part of his bedtime routine.
It turns out, ambient music isn’t just for meditation, deep focus, or adult relaxation—it can be a powerful tool for children as well. The gentle, evolving textures and soft frequencies provide the perfect backdrop for winding down, creating a calm and predictable nighttime atmosphere.
Why Ambient Music Works for Kids’ Sleep
Children, especially toddlers, thrive on consistency and routine. The process of transitioning from an active state to rest can be difficult, particularly for young children with high energy levels. Music acts as an environmental cue, signaling to the brain that it’s time to slow down and prepare for sleep.
Unlike traditional lullabies, ambient music is non-intrusive, free of lyrics, and allows for a natural, gradual shift into relaxation. Studies show that soothing soundscapes help regulate cortisol levels, the hormone responsible for stress, while encouraging the production of melatonin, the hormone that controls sleep cycles.
How Music Supports a Healthy Bedtime Routine
By incorporating ambient music into a child’s nightly routine, parents can create a soothing, predictable transition to bedtime. Here’s how it helps:
Creates a Calming Atmosphere – The slow-moving sounds help ease the nervous system into a restful state.
Encourages Mindful Breathing – The lack of sharp transitions or sudden shifts allows children’s breathing to naturally sync with the music’s slow pulse.
Blocks Out Household Noise – Whether there are older siblings, street sounds, or general distractions, a soft ambient playlist provides a gentle sonic cocoon.
Becomes a Sleep Association – When played consistently, ambient music can become a subconscious signal that bedtime is near, making it easier for kids to fall asleep over time.
A Simple Bedtime Routine with Ambient Music
If you’re looking to incorporate ambient music into your child’s bedtime routine, try this approach:
Start playing the music 20-30 minutes before bedtime – This gives your child’s body time to respond to the sounds.
Keep the volume low – The music should be a background presence rather than an active focal point.
Pair with other calming activities – Reading a book, dimming the lights, and limiting screen time will reinforce relaxation.
Let it continue playing after they fall asleep – The steady sound can help prevent night wakings by maintaining a consistent sleep environment.
Music for the Next Generation
Hearing that my nephew listens to my music as part of his bedtime routine has been one of the most rewarding surprises of my journey as an ambient artist. Knowing that something I’ve created is helping others—not just adults but also children—reinforces my belief that music has the power to shape our emotional and physical states.
If you’re a parent looking for a gentle, peaceful way to support your child’s sleep, try adding ambient music to their nighttime routine. You might find that it helps create a sense of calm and predictability, not just for them, but for you as well.
🎧 Try my Sleep & Ambient Music Playlist
Wishing you (and your little ones) a restful night.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
The Science of Sleep: How Ambient Music Helps You Rest
Sleep is one of the most essential functions of the human body, yet for many people, falling and staying asleep is a nightly challenge. In a world filled with screens, notifications, and overstimulation, winding down can feel impossible. That’s where ambient music for sleep comes in.
I’ve always been drawn to the way sound shapes our mental and emotional states, and over time, I’ve come to appreciate just how powerful ambient music can be in preparing the body and mind for deep rest. The science backs it up—listening to calming music before bed can help slow your heart rate, reduce stress hormones, and even enhance brain function while you sleep.
How Music Prepares the Body for Sleep
Our bodies are deeply attuned to rhythm. Slower tempos, gentle drones, and evolving soundscapes signal to the brain that it’s time to transition into rest mode. When we listen to low-frequency tones and soft, sustained notes, the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in, lowering heart rate and blood pressure, which naturally promotes relaxation.
Some studies suggest that music around 60 beats per minute (BPM) aligns with the body’s resting heart rate, creating an entrainment effect that encourages deeper sleep cycles. This is why ambient music for relaxation often features minimal rhythm or a slow pulse, allowing the brain to gently synchronize with its natural bedtime state.
The Brain’s Nightly Reset: How Sleep “Bathes” the Mind
While you sleep, your brain isn’t just resting—it’s actively working. One of the most fascinating processes is the glymphatic system, which “washes” your brain with cerebrospinal fluid, removing toxins that accumulate throughout the day. This nightly cleansing is crucial for cognitive function, memory consolidation, and mental clarity.
Listening to ambient music during this process can create a sound environment that enhances the brain’s ability to reset. By reducing external noise and providing a steady, gentle background, ambient soundscapes help limit disturbances and keep the nervous system in a relaxed state throughout the night.
The Science-Backed Benefits of Ambient Music for Sleep
Research has shown that listening to soothing music before bed can:
Decrease stress and anxiety by lowering cortisol levels
Improve sleep quality and reduce time spent awake during the night
Encourage deep, restorative sleep by slowing brainwave activity
Aid in memory consolidation by enhancing neural processing during REM sleep
How to Incorporate Ambient Music into Your Sleep Routine
If you’re looking to experiment with ambient music for better sleep, here are a few simple ways to integrate it into your nightly routine:
Start 30-60 minutes before bed – Begin playing ambient music as part of your wind-down routine to cue your body for sleep.
Keep the volume low – Music for sleep should be just above the threshold of hearing, acting as a gentle backdrop.
Avoid abrupt changes in sound – Choose tracks that flow seamlessly without sudden shifts in dynamics or tempo.
Use a timer or looping playlist – Set your music to play for a specific duration or allow it to run throughout the night for uninterrupted rest.
As someone who creates ambient music, I love hearing how people use these soundscapes in their daily lives. If you struggle with sleep, try incorporating ambient music into your routine and see how it affects your rest.
My Ambient Music for Sleep Playlists
If you’re looking for something to try tonight, I’ve curated a playlist featuring my own music and other sleep-friendly soundscapes:
🎧 Sleep & Ambient Music Playlist
I hope this helps you find the stillness you need. Sleep well.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Discovering Japanese Ambient Music: A Journey into Sound and Space
I’ve always been drawn to ambient music, but my recent exploration into Japanese ambient music (Kankyō Ongaku) has been something entirely different—both deeply inspiring and incredibly meditative. As someone new to this world, I’m finding myself captivated by the way these artists utilize field recordings, minimalist compositions, and environmental soundscapes to create something that feels like breathing room for the mind.
A Brief History of Japanese Ambient Music
During the late 1970s and 1980s, Japan saw a flourishing of ambient and minimalist music, much of it falling under the term Kankyō Ongaku, meaning "environmental music." Unlike traditional ambient music in the West, which often focused on pure electronic textures, Japanese ambient artists integrated elements of nature, traditional instrumentation, and everyday soundscapes to craft immersive sonic environments.
This movement was influenced by Western ambient pioneers like Brian Eno, yet it took on a distinctly Japanese approach—one deeply rooted in the country’s cultural appreciation for space, impermanence, and the beauty of simplicity.
Artists That Defined the Genre
Exploring this world has led me to some incredible artists, many of whom have redefined my understanding of how music interacts with time, space, and emotion. Here are a few that have stood out:
Hiroshi Yoshimura – Perhaps one of the most well-known names in Japanese ambient music, his 1982 album Music for Nine Postcards is a masterpiece in minimalist soundscapes, blending delicate synth melodies with an almost weightless atmosphere.
Midori Takada – A composer and percussionist, her 1983 album Through the Looking Glass remains a landmark in experimental ambient music, combining gamelan-inspired rhythms and organic textures to create something otherworldly.
Satoshi Ashikawa – His album Still Way (Wave Notation 2) is a defining work of environmental music, where each note is intentional, and silence plays just as much a role as sound itself.
Yasuaki Shimizu – While known for blending avant-garde jazz and classical elements, his work also drifts into ambient territory, creating cinematic and expansive compositions.
The Art of Space and Silence
One of the most fascinating aspects of Japanese ambient music is its ability to create an experience beyond just sound. Field recordings of water, birds, wind, and urban life are often woven seamlessly into the compositions, making the listener feel like they are inside a living, breathing soundscape.
Unlike much Western ambient music, which often builds upon dense layers of sound, Japanese ambient music embraces negative space, allowing room for silence and subtlety. This intentional use of space makes the music feel almost meditative, providing a sense of stillness even as it moves forward.
How This Music is Inspiring My Own Work
The more I listen, the more I find myself influenced by these ideas. The way these artists use repetition, natural sound, and slow movement resonates deeply with how I approach my own ambient compositions. There’s something profound in letting the music breathe, in letting it simply exist rather than trying to force it somewhere.
As I continue learning about this genre, I find myself paying more attention to the role of silence in music, the textures that field recordings add, and the emotional impact of restraint. There’s a quiet beauty in allowing sound to unfold naturally, and that’s something I hope to carry into my own work.
A Playlist for Exploration
If you’re curious about Japanese ambient music, I’ve put together a playlist featuring some of these artists. Whether you’re looking for something to accompany meditation, deep focus, or just a moment of stillness, I highly recommend diving in.
This is just the beginning of my journey into this world, but already, it’s reshaping the way I think about sound. If you have recommendations or thoughts on this genre, I’d love to hear them.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Time, The Trickster: Five Years in a Blink
Time is wild. It bends, stretches, compresses, and warps in ways that make no logical sense. Five years in Austin have disappeared in what feels like a blink, yet somehow, the move from Astoria to Austin in February 2020 still feels like it just happened. It’s as if my body is here, but some part of me is still walking those familiar streets, weaving through the hum of the city, past bodegas and brownstones, caught in the echo of a place that never fully lets go.
And then, just like that, another February arrived. This time, February 2024, not with a cross-country leap, but with a milestone—closing on a new house and studio. A full circle moment. But how could five years have evaporated like mist, while other moments—waiting in a doctor’s office, a flight delay, the last minutes of an unbearable meeting—feel like they stretch into eternity? The contradiction of time is maddening, mesmerizing.
The Illusion of Time
Some argue that time doesn’t actually exist. That it’s a construct we’ve wrapped ourselves in, like a blanket woven from sunrises and deadlines. Physicists have made cases that past, present, and future all exist simultaneously, that time isn’t linear, but something more fluid—something our minds simply perceive as a straight line because that’s the only way we can process it.
And yet, we live by the clock. We measure, we count, we celebrate anniversaries, we mourn the years that slip away too fast. Time is both real and unreal, both rigid and elastic.
The Fast and the Slow
If time were absolute, then five years should always feel like five years. But the human mind doesn’t work that way. Time moves at the speed of experience. When we’re immersed in something new, when our senses are overloaded, when we’re present, time expands. It becomes vast. That’s why childhood summers felt endless, why a single month in a new city can feel like an entire era.
But routine compresses time. Days blur. Wake, work, eat, repeat. The rhythm of familiarity tricks us into believing that time is slipping through our fingers. Maybe that’s why Austin still feels new—because in between, the world paused. Just weeks after moving, the pandemic rewrote everything. Time became even stranger, a limbo between what was and what would be. And now, stepping into this next chapter, it feels like I’ve finally hit play again.
A Moment to Breathe
I don’t know if time exists, not in the way we think it does. But I do know that it doesn’t wait for anyone. And if the last five years have taught me anything, it’s that being present—truly here, truly awake in the moment—is the only way to slow it down. Not by trying to hold on, but by allowing each moment to be fully lived.
So here’s to five years that passed in a blink. Here’s to the next five, and whatever strange, beautiful, impossible way they unfold.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Letting Go of Hyper-Productivity: Why Rest is Essential to Growth
For years, I believed that the only way forward was through constant movement. More output, more progress, more pushing through. Rest felt like wasted time, an indulgence that I couldn’t afford if I wanted to build something meaningful. But over time, I’ve realized that hyper-productivity isn’t sustainable—it’s a fast track to burnout. And ironically, slowing down has been the key to unlocking more creativity, clarity, and fulfillment in my work and life.
The Illusion of Constant Motion
Somewhere along the way, we were taught that success is about doing more. We glorify the grind, wear exhaustion like a badge of honor, and convince ourselves that if we just push a little harder, we’ll reach some imagined finish line. But the reality is, creativity and well-being don’t thrive in a state of depletion.
I’ve spent years operating at full speed, measuring my worth by how much I could accomplish. But I started noticing something: the more I forced productivity, the less inspired I felt. The more I filled every moment with tasks, the less I could hear my own intuition. You can’t create from an empty well. The body, the mind, and the creative spirit all need time to recover.
Slowing Down to Speed Up
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned—one that I’m still learning—is that rest isn’t a pause in progress. It’s part of it. When I step away from the pressure to constantly produce, I allow space for ideas to unfold naturally. The best insights don’t come from forcing creativity; they come from letting it breathe.
Whether it’s taking a long walk, meditating, or simply allowing myself to do nothing for a while, I’ve found that slowing down actually speeds up my ability to create with intention. Some of my most profound musical ideas have come not while actively working in the studio, but while staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Stillness is where sound is born.
Rest is a Form of Trust
There’s a level of trust required to step back and believe that you’re still moving forward. Rest isn’t laziness; it’s faith in the process. It’s understanding that ideas need time to incubate, that not every moment needs to be filled with action.
As I embrace this, I’ve started to redefine what productivity means to me. It’s no longer about checking off a never-ending to-do list but about creating in alignment with my energy. Some days, that means writing and recording for hours. Other days, it means walking away and giving my mind time to reset. Both are valuable. Both are necessary.
The Music of Stillness
This shift has influenced my music, too. The ambient compositions I create are about space—about what happens in the pauses between notes. Silence is just as important as sound. In many ways, learning to embrace rest in my life has deepened my understanding of stillness in music. It’s in the quiet moments that we find clarity, both in art and in ourselves.
Moving Forward with Intention
I’m still unlearning the idea that worth is tied to productivity. It’s a process. But I know now that slowing down isn’t a setback—it’s a strategy. Rest is what allows us to show up fully, to create from a place of depth rather than depletion.
So if you’re feeling stuck, drained, or uninspired, maybe the answer isn’t to push harder. Maybe it’s to step back, breathe, and trust that you’re still on your way.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Six Missing: The Ghostly Encounter That Inspired My Name
Some moments never leave you. They linger in the back of your mind, shifting and reshaping over time, but always present. My ghostly encounter was one of those moments, and it ultimately led to the name Six Missing—a name that now defines my music, my sound, and the unseen layers of existence I explore through ambient composition.
A Haunted Recording Session
Years ago, my band and I traveled to West Chester, Pennsylvania, to record an album at a studio near the Brandywine Battlefield, a site steeped in Revolutionary War history. The property had an eerie stillness to it, an almost unsettling quiet that seemed to hum beneath the surface.
We stayed in a small cottage on the grounds, separate from the main studio. Late one night, after a long session, I realized I had left something behind in the control room. I made the short walk alone, stepping into the darkened space, where the only sounds were the occasional creaks of an old building settling into the night.
As I retrieved my gear and turned to leave, a sudden, overwhelming sensation crept over me—an unshakable feeling that I was being watched. The air felt thick, pressing against my skin like static before a storm. I hurried back to the cottage, convincing myself it was just my imagination. But what happened next made me question everything.
A Presence in the Night
I climbed into my bunk, trying to shake the unease, when the silence was broken by the slow creak of the screen door opening. My body froze. I strained to listen, waiting for the sound of footsteps—someone from the band, maybe—but there was nothing. Just an emptiness stretching through the dark.
Then, without warning, a piercing, ice-cold sensation shot through the center of my back. It was as if something—someone—had pressed into me, sending a wave of despair and weightlessness through my entire body. I tried to move, to turn, but I was completely paralyzed. A deep, sinking feeling overtook me, a sensation I can only describe as slipping into the void.
I don’t know how long it lasted, but at some point, I remembered something I had seen on a ghost hunting show—speak with authority, take control. Summoning every ounce of strength, I forced out the words: LEAVE ME ALONE.
The moment I spoke, the weight lifted. My breath came back in a rush, my limbs unlocked, and the air in the room shifted. Then, just as clearly as before, I heard the screen door creak open again—and then softly close.
The Missing Six
The next morning, I hesitantly brought it up to the rest of the band, expecting them to laugh it off. But one of them turned pale. He had woken up in the night and heard the door open too, thinking it was one of us stepping outside.
Later, curiosity got the best of me, and I started researching the area. That’s when I came across the historical records—six soldiers from the Battle of Brandywine were documented as missing. Their bodies were never found, their stories lost to time.
I couldn’t shake the connection. Whether what I experienced was tied to them or not, it felt like more than a coincidence. The idea of something unseen but present—of spirits lingering just beyond perception—stayed with me. It resonated deeply with how I think about sound, about atmosphere, about the spaces between notes where emotion truly lives.
The Sound of the Unseen
When I started releasing music under the name Six Missing, it wasn’t just a nod to that night. It was about everything the experience represented: the unseen, the unknown, the way sound and memory intertwine. My ambient compositions aim to capture that—textures that feel both present and distant, melodies that drift like echoes through time.
There’s something powerful about what exists just beyond our reach. Whether in history, in memory, or in sound, the missing pieces often tell the most compelling stories.
That’s what Six Missing is about—creating music that lingers in the in-between, that resonates in the quiet spaces, and that, maybe, just maybe, touches something beyond what we can see.
A Soundtrack to the Unexplained
If you’ve ever felt something inexplicable—an eerie presence, an unshakable familiarity with a place you’ve never been—then you understand the feeling I chase in my music. My compositions are not just about melody or harmony; they are about atmosphere, memory, and the spaces in between.
I want my music to be a soundtrack for those moments when reality feels just a little thinner, when time slows, and the unseen world brushes against our own. Whether you listen for meditation, for deep focus, or simply to lose yourself in sound, know that you are stepping into that same ethereal space—where stories linger, where echoes fade, and where the missing are never truly gone.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Finding Stillness: How Ambient Music Helped Me Through Addiction, Anxiety, and Depression
For much of my life, I struggled to find stillness. My mind was constantly racing—sometimes with thoughts I didn’t want, other times with an overwhelming sense of unease. I turned to alcohol as a way to quiet the noise, to numb the weight of anxiety and depression that felt impossible to shake. What started as a temporary escape became a cycle I couldn’t break. It wasn’t until I found my way back to music—specifically ambient music—that I began to understand healing in a new way.
The Weight of Addiction
Addiction is deceptive. It doesn’t happen all at once—it creeps in slowly, disguising itself as relief, as control. For years, I convinced myself that alcohol was helping me manage my anxiety, when in reality, it was fueling it. The more I drank, the further I drifted from myself.
Anxiety and depression have a way of isolating you, making you feel like you’re stuck in a loop that no one else can understand. The drinking only made that loop tighter. At my lowest, I realized that I was trying to escape my own mind, but I didn’t know how to exist without the distractions I had built around me.
Rediscovering Sound as Healing
Music had always been a part of my life, but during my struggles with addiction, I lost my connection to it. The urgency of traditional songwriting—the need for structure, for lyrics—felt suffocating. I needed something that allowed me to just exist, something that didn’t demand anything from me.
That’s when I truly discovered ambient music. The first time I listened to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports, I felt something shift. The absence of a defined rhythm, the way the sounds stretched out into infinity—it was exactly what I needed. There was no expectation, no pressure, just a space to breathe.
As I started creating my own ambient music, I realized how much it mirrored my own recovery process. The layers of sound, the slow evolution of a piece over time—it all reflected the patience and presence that sobriety required. Ambient music taught me that healing wasn’t about erasing the past; it was about allowing things to unfold naturally, without force.
The Power of Deep Listening
One of the most valuable things ambient music has given me is the ability to truly listen. In the past, I used alcohol to drown things out—to escape discomfort. But ambient music does the opposite. It invites you to sit with the discomfort, to observe it without judgment. It allows you to recognize that emotions, like sound waves, rise and fall—they aren’t permanent.
This shift in perspective changed everything. Instead of resisting my anxiety, I started using music as a way to move through it. I experimented with vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100, exploring textures that felt soothing rather than overwhelming. I built looping layers of sound, letting each note breathe, much like I was learning to do in my own life.
Music as a Meditation
As I deepened my sobriety, I found that making music became a form of meditation. The repetitive nature of looping, the way a delay pedal could stretch out a sound indefinitely—these elements mirrored the stillness I had been searching for. I began to understand that healing isn’t about distraction; it’s about presence.
Meditation had always been difficult for me in the traditional sense, but ambient music became my way in. I found solace in sound, using it to center myself when my thoughts felt too heavy. Floating in an expanse of synth waves, I could detach from the need to control everything and instead just be.
Creating for Others
The more I created, the more I realized that this music wasn’t just for me. People began reaching out, telling me that they used my music for their own moments of stillness—for studying, meditating, even coping with their own struggles. That connection reminded me why I started making music in the first place.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing isn’t linear. Some days are harder than others, and that’s okay. But finding something—whether it’s music, movement, or meditation—that brings you back to yourself is invaluable.
For me, that’s ambient music. It’s not just sound; it’s a space, a refuge, a reminder that even in stillness, there is movement.
Moving Forward
Now, over a decade into my sobriety, I look back on my journey with gratitude. I know that I wouldn’t be here without music, without the ability to lose myself in sound and find clarity in stillness. Ambient music helped me rebuild my relationship with myself, and it continues to be my guide.
Wherever you are in your own journey, I hope you find something that gives you space to breathe, to listen, and to simply be.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
The Gear That Shaped My Sound (Part 1)
The Gear That Shaped My Sound
Every artist has a toolkit—an array of instruments, effects, and processes that define their creative language. For me, that toolkit is built on texture, space, and the unpredictability of sound. Six Missing wouldn’t exist without the instruments that have shaped my sonic world, from vintage synths to looping techniques that stretch time itself.
The Role of Vintage Synths
For better or worse, I have a lot of gear—and I happen to love it all. To prevent this blog from running too long, this will likely turn into a multi-part series or a recurring feature to cover all my gear babies. Synthesizers have been at the heart of my exploration into ambient music. Early in my journey, I discovered that not all synths are created equal—there’s something undeniably human about vintage analog gear. Their slight imperfections, the unpredictability of their oscillators, and the warmth of their tone make them feel alive.
Some of the most influential synths in my setup include:
Moog Matriarch – A semi-modular powerhouse that allows for deep, organic sound design. The way its filter interacts with evolving patches has been central to my compositions.
Moog Minimoog Model D – One of the most legendary synthesizers of all time, its unmistakable tone brings warmth and character to any track.
Korg PS-3100 – A polyphonic monster with rich modulation possibilities, perfect for creating vast, evolving soundscapes.
These synths have become more than just tools—they're collaborators in my creative process, each adding its own voice to the sonic conversation.
Delay & The Art of Sound-On-Sound
Before I ever touched a synthesizer, I was obsessed with delay pedals. There’s something hypnotic about hearing a note repeat, degrade, and take on a life of its own. This obsession led me to experiment with sound-on-sound looping, a technique where repeated layers of sound evolve organically over time.
Some of my go-to delay and looping tools include:
Boss DD-20 Giga Delay – My introduction to long-form looping, allowing me to create lush, evolving textures with extended delay times.
Strymon El Capistan – A tape-style delay that captures the character of vintage tape echoes, adding warmth and unpredictability.
EarthQuaker Devices Avalanche Run – A pedal that blends delay and reverb into one ethereal wash of sound, perfect for ambient compositions.
By layering loops with subtle modulations, I create evolving atmospheres that feel immersive and organic, allowing each piece to develop naturally over time.
The Studio Workflow
Though I started with Pro Tools, I transitioned to Ableton Live in 2018 and never looked back. Its non-linear workflow makes it perfect for experimenting with loops, textures, and unpredictable signal chains. Whether I’m routing synths through a chain of analog delays or resampling a field recording into granular synthesis, my approach to recording is fluid and exploratory.
At the heart of my studio is an ethos: let the sound guide the process. Whether it’s a synth patch that unfolds in an unexpected way or a delay trail that becomes the foundation of a new piece, I embrace happy accidents. It’s in those moments of unpredictability that the real magic happens.
Why Gear Matters and Doesn't
At the end of the day, gear is just a means to an end—but the right tools can unlock something deeper. That said, I could accomplish this with far less gear, and I fully acknowledge that. If you're just starting out, don’t feel pressured to amass a collection—some of my favorite pieces of music started with just a single instrument and a simple effect. The process takes time, and the journey should be fun. Experiment, learn what works for you, and remember that creativity isn’t about how much gear you have—it’s about how you use it. Each synth, pedal, and effect in my setup has shaped Six Missing in its own way, providing the textures and colors that define my sound. While I’ll always experiment with new tools, it’s the ones that inspire me to listen differently that truly matter.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Meditation & Music: The Sound of Stillness
Meditation & Music: The Sound of Stillness
Stillness isn’t the absence of sound—it’s the ability to hear what’s already there. That realization changed the way I approached both meditation and music. For years, I struggled with traditional meditation, finding it difficult to sit in silence while my mind raced. It wasn’t until I discovered sound as a meditative tool that I truly understood what stillness could be.
The Role of Sound in Meditation
Meditation doesn’t have to mean complete silence. In fact, sound can be one of the most powerful gateways to a meditative state. Ambient music—particularly its evolving textures and long-decay reverbs—acts as an anchor, allowing the mind to settle while still engaging with the world in a different way.
I’ve always been drawn to the idea that music can create space—both physical and mental. The warm, evolving tones of vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100 provide a sense of depth, a sonic environment that allows the listener to step outside of the constant noise of daily life. This is why ambient music pairs so well with meditation: it doesn’t demand attention, but it provides a space to simply be.
Sensory Deprivation & Deep Listening
One of the most profound meditative experiences I’ve had came through sensory deprivation therapy. Floating in a completely silent, weightless environment removed all distractions, forcing me to become deeply attuned to my own internal rhythms. I noticed every breath, every heartbeat, and—most interestingly—the way sound continued to exist in my mind even when external noise was absent.
That experience changed how I compose music. It reinforced the idea that silence is never truly empty, and that music isn’t just something we listen to—it’s something we feel. Now, when I create, I think about how the listener will experience the space between the notes just as much as the notes themselves.
Music as a Tool for Stillness
The beauty of ambient music is that it doesn’t rush you. It’s not trying to reach a climax or resolve a melody—it simply exists, evolving at its own pace. That’s what makes it such a powerful tool for meditation, deep focus, and relaxation. Whether I’m composing or listening, I find that ambient soundscapes provide a kind of structure for stillness, guiding the mind into a state of openness without force.
Some of my favorite moments in creating Six Missing have come from improvising with nothing but a synth and its filter, letting the tones shift naturally. There’s something about the way sound interacts with time that feels meditative in itself. It reminds me that everything is in motion, even in stillness.
Creating Soundscapes for Meditation
Many listeners have shared that they use my music for yoga, journaling, or simply winding down at the end of the day. I love that. It reinforces my belief that music can serve as a tool for well-being. It’s why I take such care in crafting evolving soundscapes—ones that don’t just fill space, but create it.
If you’re looking to incorporate music into your own meditation practice, start by focusing on how sound makes you feel. Pay attention to the way certain tones resonate in your body, how different textures bring about different emotional states. There’s no right way to meditate with music—just listen, breathe, and let the sound guide you.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing