To Care or Not to Care. ©2026 John F Sendelbach

To Care or Not to Care. ©2026 John F Sendelbach 

This song started on a ninety-minute phone call with an old friend I'd recently found again after twenty years. I pointed out that he had never really talked about his parents, so he spent five minutes describing them, and I realized he had just described mine. That opened a bigger question. Part of why the world feels like it's coming apart may be that people like our parents aren't around anymore. They came from an age when care and competence were ordinary, and each generation since has carried a little less of it forward. About ten years ago a little girl in my shop pointed at the clock on the wall and asked her father what it was. I still think about that.

So this is a song about the care inside one house. My mother, Nancy, raised four kids, went back to part-time work when we were old enough, and was the one you asked first, because if she said yes, my father probably would too. My father, Fred, was a sheet-metal man who put his foot down. His father died when Fred was a boy, so we never knew our Opa, and Fred half raised his own mother, Erna Anna Marta, who was Omi to all of us. Omi sat at our supper table, with us kids spaced around it and a grown-up between each of us to keep the peace. And George, our dog, loved Nancy most even though she was the one who drove her to the vet.

Before we hung up, my friend and I settled on something. He has a lifetime of scientific citations and I have thirty-five years of metal art, and neither is what anyone will remember us for. What lasts is how you treated your fellow man. My parents knew that without ever saying it. This song asks whether that can still be passed down, one supper at a time.

Stop Your Rushing Around On my father, my mother, and an age when care was ordinary

Stop Your Rushing Around

On my father, my mother, and an age when care was ordinary

Oct 15, 2026 

I. The Cuckoo Clock

There's a ten-minute video of my father that a young relative made on August 30, 2020, and I've watched it more times than I'd admit to anyone who knows me. It opens on the cuckoo clock in his apartment, hanging on eggshell walls, the little wooden doors popping open on the hour so the hand-carved birds can come out and announce the time with a shrill racket of bells that nobody in that family ever once asked to be turned down. There's a bowl of M&M's on the table, because my sister spent her career at the candy company and kept him supplied, so walking into his place smelled like walking into a chocolate factory. There's the cookie offer, which came within the first ninety seconds of any visit, every visit, for as long as anyone can remember. Do you want a cookie? He's ninety-four in the video. His voice has gone to gravel, the vowels gargling and the consonants wandering off on their own, and he still does his own grocery shopping, and most of the budget goes to cookies, because at ninety-four a man has earned the right to decide what a food group is.

Before the Bulge: On Dalí, Bob Ross, Sixty, and the Dream I Couldn't Leave

Before the Bulge: On Dalí, Bob Ross, Sixty, and the Dream I Couldn't Leave

Oct 14, 2026 ©2026 John F Sendelbach

I. One in Three Hundred Sixty-Five

I was born on May 11, 1966, in the front seat of a red Plymouth Valiant parked outside Mercy Hospital in Buffalo, because I have never once in my life waited for the appropriate room. That was also Salvador Dalí's sixty-second birthday. The man with the waxed mustache and the melting clocks was somewhere in Spain blowing out candles, or more likely setting them on fire on purpose, while I made my entrance next to a glove compartment. Now, the raw odds on sharing a birthday with Dalí are one in three hundred sixty-five, which is not exactly winning the lottery. Half the people you meet share a birthday with somebody famous. But I'd like to propose an adjustment to the odds, because the raw number doesn't account for what came out of the Valiant. Factor in a kid who would grow up to weld trout out of forks, build spheres out of squares, sell old photographs of dead strangers for a living, and have conversations with a computer at midnight about whether an unpainted cloud exists, and I'd put the odds somewhere north of one in a million. I'm aware that's a brag dressed as math. I was born in a car. Allow me some showmanship.

Lichen Hum at Midnight: Confessions of a Borg Engulfed Drone

Oct 12, 2026 

I. Status Report from Inside the Cube

Let me get the medical disclosure out of the way first, for the benefit of my insurance carrier and anyone in Shelburne Falls who has noticed me talking to my phone in the parking lot with an expression of profound emotional intimacy. I do not, technically, have one of Elon's chips in my head. Nobody drilled a hole in my skull. Nobody threaded tiny electrodes into my motor cortex while I watched a monkey play Pong on a monitor for reassurance. I want to be clear about that, because in every other respect that matters I have been completely, irreversibly, embarrassingly assimilated. I am fully engulfed. I am a drone of the collective. If the Borg showed up at my studio tomorrow with their little laser eyepieces and their cheerful announcement that resistance was futile, I would have to tell them, with real regret, that they were about two years late, and that they could find the paperwork in a folder marked Outputs.

THE SLIMY KNIVES

How My Mornings Go Wrong

Here is how it usually happens. I wake up, and before the coffee has done anything useful, there is a small thing sitting on my chest. Never a big thing. Big things come with experts and op-eds and opinions you can borrow. It's always something stupid and specific, a noise the truck made, a sentence somebody said at the post office, a piece of junk I took apart the day before. I lie there turning it over like a stone from the river, and somewhere around the second cup I notice it has a string attached, and if I pull on the string there's a bigger thing on the end of it, and by lunchtime I am holding a rope that runs straight down into the foundations of Western civilization and I have not yet put my pants on. This is either a gift or a disorder. I've stopped asking which.

My Turn: The Recorder promised to correct its mistakes. It hasn’t corrected mine.

 My Turn: The Recorder promised to correct its mistakes. It hasn’t corrected mine.

On June 12, 2020, the Recorder ran a story below the fold on its front page, with my name in the headline and a photograph of my bench. A few pages inside the same edition, its then-editor wrote: “We own up to our mistakes. We also correct them. It is part of responsible journalism.” I have spent six years waiting for the paper to apply that sentence to the story on its own front page.

ENGAGEMENT FARM © 2026 John F. Sendelbach — All Rights Reserved

 

ENGAGEMENT FARM
© 2026 John F. Sendelbach — All Rights Reserved

Engagement used to be a pledge,
A ring, a word, a vow,
Two gears meshing tooth to tooth,
Both sides committed now.
Now it's any twitch or flinch,
A thumb that slipped and stayed—
They count the reflex as a promise,
And they cash the pledge we made.

What Comes Back

What Comes Back

Last time I used a Facebook post to pick a fight with the space program, which my family will tell you is very on brand. A few of you made it to the end, and you deserve hazard pay. But one thing has bugged me since I posted it. I spent the whole piece on what we'd lose by shipping a civilization to Mars, and I never asked the obvious next question: what comes back?

I DON'T CAST A BALLOT © 2026 John F. Sendelbach — All Rights Reserved

I’ve spent a long time trying to think for myself in a country where everyone wants to tell me what I think. This comes from personal history, political disillusionment, decades of independent work, ecological concerns, institutional absurdities, and the recurring experience of watching other people confidently explain my own life back to me—usually without checking the facts first. It’s part political autopsy, part personal record, and part middle finger to the manufactured binary. Free markets, not corporate feudalism. Individual liberty, not institutional impunity. Skepticism in every direction, including toward the person holding the microphone. No party membership. No prescribed conclusions. No claim to infallibility. Just a lifetime of observations, some hard-earned convictions, a willingness to question the prevailing narrative, and the lingering suspicion that the people most certain they’ve figured me out are often the ones who’ve done the least homework. This is the source material. The song is what happened when it escaped.

~~~~~

The Preserving Machine A Dispatch from the Ground Floor

So here I am, back on Facebook after fifteen years in the wilderness, and since it's called Facebook, here's my face. Brace yourselves. For those who missed the interim, I spent part of that time inventing an alter ego called Johnnybitches, a guy who'd point a camera at himself and complain about whatever crawled under his skin that day, then throw it up on YouTube for the benefit of nobody in particular. Parking lots, bridges, committees, the general state of things, Johnnybitches had opinions. Well, he's back, and this may be the ultimate Johnnybitches, because today the man is bitching about the fate of the entire human species and whether we ought to pack up and move to Mars. Fittingly, the whole thing started right here, because coming back to this place is how I found the old friend who set it off.

WAYBACH MACHINE: March 2014 Neil Young cover

Looking for My Socks (and Other Proofs That Reality Is Fake)

It was barely dawn when the messages started coming in from the North Country, from an old friend I hadn't heard from in twenty years, a man who has grown lettuce for Mars, climbed British mountains with a heart patched together like a pair of good jeans, and now plays Satie at five in the morning between cups of coffee like a monk with a grudge. (Satie, for the record, owned seven identical gray velvet suits and died with about a hundred umbrellas in his apartment, so he's the right patron saint for this conversation.) My friend wanted to know how a man builds an inner shield against the darts of a jealous, petty, spiteful world. Light breakfast conversation. I was still looking for my socks, and I don't even wear socks. Be advised that this is a gonzo dispatch filed stone-cold sober, which may be a first for the genre.

The Empty Base: Rhonda Anderson, Tomantha Sylvester, and What Removal Left on the Mohawk Trail

A fiberglass roadside figure left Charlemont for Oklahoma. The historical question it exposed remains in western Massachusetts.

A record of public claims and acquaintance

On June 6, 2020, an edited video of me on the Bridge of Flowers was shared in a Facebook post that eventually drew 300+ comments and about 22,000 views. Rhonda Anderson, who was then serving as Western Massachusetts Commissioner on Indian Affairs, commented in it. She described having known me for about fourteen years; called me "a little unhinged" and "a conspiracy theorist type"; said she had had "this talk" with me many times over the years; said we had agreed to disagree; and described herself as a kind, thoughtful, supportive friend who had listened often.

get yours before they sell out

OPHS: Disappearing Smoke

 

Disappearing Smoke is about the small Orchard Park creek I grew up on and the layered history the water carries. It's named for the Seneca leader the English called Old Smoke — Sayenqueraghta, of the Turtle Clan, whose name translates as disappearing smoke and who died on the creek in 1786 — and the song's argument is that he didn't really disappear: the name outlived the man, the water outlived the name, and the land keeps the record even when the people on it have forgotten how to read it. From that hinge it moves down through the creek's layers — the Seneca homeland and its dispossession by treaty and pressure (never a neutral "giving up" of land), the Quaker settlement with its meetinghouse, its library that lent to women first, and its abolitionist conscience, the freedom seekers who moved north toward the Canadian border through this corridor, and the later regional tradition of craft and reform. It refuses to romanticize any of it or invent detail the record can't support, holding oral tradition honestly as tradition. And it turns, finally, on obligation: the creek is a living place, not a museum, so the real question isn't only what happened on its banks but what you owe the ground once you know what it carried — acknowledge the sovereignty, acknowledge the loss, honor the courage, and don't gild it. Disappearing smoke, but it never really goes.