I made it.
The afternoon sun was fading as I hauled my bags up the stairs—so heavy that I had to toss them one by one, piece by piece.
My new roommates are in House 2. The other artists are in two different houses, and I haven’t met them yet.
Clementine, an electronic musician.
Kenna, a painter.
Amir, a visual artist.
We shared dinner, talked, and began weaving the first threads of connection—four generations (Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, Gen Z) under one traditional Japanese style roof. It felt easy.
I’m second-guessing my project a little, but at least everything’s unpacked.
The next day, I wandered through Itoshima, a place thick with shrines—each one a quiet custodian of stories. If anywhere could hold a project about memory, it’s here.
Matsusue Tenmangu is located just one block from our house in Itoshima. This small shrine, shaded by old trees, appears to be dedicated to Tenjin (though I totally googled it and need to verify this with Hiro). The wooden ceiling shows remnants of paintings. Seeing the paintings reminded me of my project. Like my bundles of letters, these whispers outlive their speakers, becoming both artifact and enigma. This is how memory survives, not in whole stories but in luminous shards.
Then I walked to Hakoshima Shrine – A small island jutting into the sea like something out of a myth, Hakoshima Shrine is dedicated to love and—interestingly—ear healing (although again – googled). Surrounded by water on three sides, it looks like it’s floating. I climbed a little mountain path, and there it was: simple, silent, a place I know I’ll return to write.
At high tide, the island cuts itself off from the shore, unreachable. No bridges. Just the sea deciding when you can cross.
Then, I thought about my project.
I unfolded the letters I’d brought—why had I saved every scrap? Fragments from Kirsten, Rebecca, Dorothy, Zoe, Loc, Sara, Mom, Dad, Simon, Zoe and Lan, Shannon and Nic and Diyah. So many voices. Proof of years spent writing and being written to, of love sent and received.
It made me happy, and it made me sad. Happy for the love, still so alive in these pages. Sad because those moments are gone now, tucked away. Most were joyful, silly things—updates about living situations, new boyfriends, wild nights, some sorries and friendship breakups. My mom’s letters were full of encouragement and pure love.
Letters are obsolete now. Everything is texts—quick, disposable, forgotten. Maybe the next project I do digs into those digital breadcrumbs: autocorrect fails, unanswered threads, heart emojis stranded in read receipts.
But no. Stop. This isn’t about some future idea—it’s about these damn letters in front of me now. Figure out how to turn them into something.
For now, I’ve hung them on a laundry rack, letting them breathe. Maybe I’ll set them up as MIDI triggers, see if sound can pull meaning from them. Or maybe I’ll just leave them there, suspended.
Sometimes, I wonder why I’m doing this. But that’s how it goes—I question, I circle back, and eventually, it feels right again.
Right now, it does kind of feel like a dumb idea. But I’ll keep going anyway.