With this final post, I’m closing one chapter and stepping into the next.
On my final morning, I biked through the rice fields one last time, winding my way to 7-Eleven for a final coffee and shake—my quiet ritual. I took the same route where, weeks ago, my groceries spilled into the river. I had stood there cursing, watching bags drift away under the sun. Even that small moment has settled into something sacred now—etched into the fabric of this place.
I climbed the stairs to the red shrine one more time. The same shrine that became my north star, telling me I was nearly home. I sat on its cool stone steps, letting memories rush in. I thought about the project I came here to build, and all the people who unknowingly shaped it and left their mark.
This project, Wildroot & Amber, was never only about the finished songs. It was about fragments. Traces. The way memory lives in the body, in the land, in the small, unnoticed things. Like the tiny bottles filled with sand. Like a loop that fades as it plays. Like a voice that breaks into breath. It was about making something that could hold a moment—and then vanish. That vanishing, I’ve learned, is part of the work.
The memories I carry don’t arrive in order. They flicker and fold: wine shared on the shrine steps, karaoke against the white walls of the studio, afternoon conversations around the kitchen table with Betsey, Ali, Anita, and Lyndon. The music party with Clementine and the gang from the first cohort. Playing violin with the shoreline as my stage.The great big spider that Lyndon sucked up with the vaccum. The softness of unexpected tears with Angela. My walk with Juyi. The silly fun with Madeline, Venna, and Gloria. Sneaky cigarettes with Vanessa, Piret, and Justin. I remember riding through the rice fields. I remember the izakaya nights. And I remember how people showed up—not just for the work, but for each other. The box Lyndon made by hand. The store runs Betsey made when Ali was sick. The shared meals.
There are more moments, I know. They’ll come back in fragments—out of sequence, unannounced.
And especially, I’ll remember my roommates. We were very different people brought together by chance, figuring things out as we went. There were long afternoon conversations, quiet mornings, shared meals, and moments of silence that felt natural. Slowly, we settled into each other’s rhythms. And that turned into friendship—unforced, grounded, and real in the way only living side by side can create.
When it came time to take the installation down, Angela asked if I wanted to document it. I nearly declined. I was tired. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones when you’ve given everything. But I said yes, and I’m glad I did. Betsey stepped into the space as I played the songs one last time to be the trigger model. Angela moved through it with her camera, catching the breath of it—the light, the textures, the way it cast shadows just before it disappeared. It was the final act of witnessing, and it made it real.
Afterward, I knew: Angela’s art had to be the cover. Something in her work carried the soul of of the project. Our collaboration continues now—stretched between Japan, Vancouver, and New York—a quiet line connecting distant places through shared intention.
Later, I dismantled the entire structure. I clipped the wires, folded the panels, packed the sounds away. In minutes, it was gone—as though it had never been. But it had. I know it had.
The next morning, I walked through the town one last time with Juyi. Rain began to fall—soft, steady, and insistent. We didn’t stop. We talked about art, about life, about the friendships formed in compressed time. Later, we shared a final meal with some of the others, letting the day unravel slowly, without urgency.
Eventually, I said goodbye to my roommates—the people I lived beside, worked beside, laughed with. Somehow, I have a feeling I’ll see them again.
Now, I’m sitting in the stillness.
And yes, I’ll miss this place. I’ll miss these people.
Maybe we’ll meet again. Maybe we won’t.
But the imprint remains—quiet, undeniable, and part of me now.