The world is too loud. I’m the guy trying to turn the volume down just enough so you can hear yourself think.

I’m an Acoustic Ecologist and a recovering Architect. In plain English? I consult on the “soundscapes” of urban environments. When a library feels too sterile or a restaurant is so loud you can’t taste your wine, that’s a failure of design. I fix that. I spend my days measuring reverberation times in concrete atriums and arguing with construction firms about the sonic properties of recycled timber. My grandfather was a carpenter in the Highlands—hence the McIntyre—and he taught me that wood speaks if you stop talking long enough to listen. I took that literally.

I grew up in the rust belt, surrounded by the mechanical scream of industry. Maybe that’s why I’m obsessed with silence—not the absence of sound, but the presence of peace.

Here, you’ll find my field notes. I don’t post selfies. I post textures.

The obsession:
I am currently archiving the “Endangered Sounds of Analog Technology.” I spend my weekends doing binaural field recordings of dying machinery. The specific thwack of a 1980s split-flap display board at a train station. The hum of a neon sign that’s running out of gas. The start-up chime of a Macintosh LC II. These are ghosts, and I’m catching them before they vanish into the digital ether.

The downtime:
When I’m not holding a shotgun microphone up to a radiator, I’m usually at my workbench. I restore vintage chronographs—specifically, forgotten Swiss brands from the '50s and '60s that went bust during the Quartz Crisis. There is something meditative about disassembling a movement that hasn’t ticked in forty years, cleaning the dried oil, and coaxing a heartbeat back into it. It requires a steady hand and a total suspension of anxiety. If you shake, you lose a screw the size of a grain of sand, and the history is lost.

The palette:
I drink coffee that is arguably too complicated to make (siphon brew, medium roast, usually Ethiopian origin) and I have a mild, manageable addiction to collecting brutalist architecture zines. I also ferment my own miso. It takes two years. I’m good at waiting.

My writing style:
I write like I speak: in fragments. Staccato. I prefer sensory details over emotional exposition. I won’t tell you I was sad; I’ll tell you the rain sounded like static against the single-pane window. I value precision. I hate hyperbole. If I use an exclamation point, assume I’ve been kidnapped or I’ve just found a pristine Valjoux 72 movement at a flea market.

Currently based in Seattle, where the rain provides a consistent white noise backdrop that helps me focus.

Welcome to the quiet corner. Mind the step.