The first month has quietly slipped by, and just like that, I’ve reached the halfway point of my residency. What once felt unfamiliar is beginning to settle into a strange, steady rhythm. But everything is shifting again. People are packing up. New ones will soon arrive. The energy is changing, and I can already feel its shape gathering around me as departures begin and familiar faces start to trickle away.
This week, we held the final gallery show for those finishing their time here. Since my own exhibition is next month, I had the pleasure of simply wandering. I took in the finished pieces without the pressure of showing my own work (that’s next month for me). Everyone had worked hard all month, and it was fun to see how the beauty of play and exploration had taken shape. These are the makers—people who dive in, get messy, and trust the process.
It rained all day—not a gentle mist, but a full, relentless downpour. My roommate gave me the silent treatment with no explanation. An invisible weight standing in the room. Later, I learned it wasn’t even about me. Still, that kind of silence has weight, and it settled over the day like fog. I ended up walking for an hour in the rain, trying to shake the heaviness out of my body. I came back soaked, but lighter. Sometimes the only way to let go of a feeling is to walk until it dissolves into something else.
I’m looking forward to the arrival of new people. Fresh stories, new perspectives, another small world unfolding. But more than anything, I just want to finish the work I came here to do. The project has shifted slightly—grown around the edges—but the heart of it remains. I’ve finished the foundation for all of my songs. The structure is there, solid and steady. Now I’m turning toward the details: prototyping MIDI triggers, exploring how I’ll layer in conductive materials, thinking through how sound, touch, and presence will live together in this final form.
I also changed rooms this week, and it feels like a quiet kind of reset. My new space is simple and beautiful, with traditional Japanese sliding doors, tatami floors, and soft morning light. It’s peaceful, a space that seems to listen back.
There are moments when I pause and wonder why I’m pushing so hard. But the truth is, this is my joy. This is where I feel most alive. In these moments of deep focus, I don’t even feel the need for company. I get to follow the thread of an idea until it sings. For two months, I’ve been given the rarest currency—time—to live fully inside the creative process.
I don’t know if anyone will listen. It’s slow and contemplative, with an interactive thread that feels a little strange, maybe even hard to reach. But I love it all the same. It feels like a quiet offering meant only for me, a small world I built to step inside and stay for a while.
Yesterday, I was working on Amber Voice and listening to old recordings of my mom. These are the samples I’m threading into the song—small, sacred fragments of her voice.
“Listen closely. The warmth you feel is a voice remembering you.”
It’s strange how, even after twenty years, the loss doesn’t fade. When someone is ripped away from you, you never really get over it—you just learn how to live around the absence. But hearing her voice again, even in fragments, I felt that warmth. Real, immediate.
These songs are all so personal that I’m not even sure I want to share them. They feel like little secret rooms I’ve built inside myself, and opening the door to let others in feels vulnerable in a way that’s hard to describe. But maybe that’s the point—maybe what’s most intimate is also what connects us.
I dunno.
I miss home. Maybe more than I expected. I miss the people who make my days feel full: the ones I go out for drinks with, the ones who say yes to last-minute adventures, the laughter, the messy, beautiful togetherness of it all. I carry them with me, quietly, in the background of every day.
Here’s what I’ve noticed—what feels true right now: we’re always living in layers. Part of us in the place where our body is. Part of us where our memories live. And another part in the quiet, invisible space where desire and becoming take root. Residencies like this don’t just give you time to make—they give you time to listen. To yourself. To the work. To the spaces between. And sometimes, what you hear isn’t comfortable. But it’s always honest.
Halfway through, I feel grateful. Tired. Curious.
And still—so deeply—inside the making.