It’s kinda dumb, but when I packed all my clothes, I brought like five bathing suits, lots of shorts, and a ton of little dresses… but no pants. NO FREAKING PANTS. And it’s cold here. So, in addition to writing songs, I’m going to tryyy to find some warmer clothes—and pants that actually fit me—which might be a bit of a challenge.
Anyhoo.
I’ve been writing—a lot. Fragments, thoughts, phrases, and slowly, a shape is starting to emerge. When people ask what I’m working on, I usually end up talking in circles. It’s not that I don’t know—it’s just that I’m still learning how to speak it aloud.
At its core, this project is a five-part movement—five songs—that channel memory, body, and ancestral echoes into immersive soundscapes. The working titles are:
- Tincture of Dissonant Light
- Amber of Voice
- Vapor Bloom
- Root of Memory
- Invocation of the Forgotten
Each one explores how memory, identity, and ancestral connection are carried not just in the mind, but in the body, the voice, and the surrounding environment. They are sonic rituals, vessels for things nearly lost.
I’ve begun writing fragments of the first three songs, and though it’s early, that act alone has given me a little momentum. It’s nerve-wracking knowing I’ll be presenting this, but it’s also helping clarify my ideas. Sometimes you need the pressure to untangle the “why.”
The Apothecary concept has been serving as a kind of poetic container for the project’s structure. It imagines each piece not just as a song, but as a remedy: tinctures, vapors, roots, ambers, and invocations. Prescriptions for remembering. I’m not sure if I’ll keep that framework, but for now, it’s giving me something to lean on.
It’s also been lovely to meet the other artists here. Today I had lunch with Juan, Rita, Jaingqi, Bea, and Kenna. It’s amazing to meet and spend time with other people who think in non-linear ways. These are the doers. The ones who just decide, ‘I’m going to make something,’ not for recognition, but because something inside them insists on being made. It lives deep within—quiet, persistent, and personal. We create because we have to. Because it’s how we make sense of ourselves, our memories, our questions. And to be surrounded by others who feel that same pull is deeply grounding.
So I’m just going to keep making—and keep moving—here in Japan.
And try to find some pants to keep me warm.