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It is Late Here in Japan
Ramblings from the evening
It is late here in Japan. I find myself on this quiet night stretched out on a yoga mat, writing. Struggling to find a sense of clarity. Disorganization has been a silent hum that filled the room like smoke, and the fire alarm has been blaring in my brain for hours: Get out now.
My latest struggle is in filming. I have been trying to find new ways of documentation and displaying my process. I’ve found it to be difficult and to show the work in an honest way that doesn’t belittle it has been challenging. It is as if I can't differentiate between discomfort and dishonesty.
Tomorrow I will be taking a self-portrait. Quarantine has seemed to will that out of me, so I will see what can create. I just don’t understand why starting has been proving itself to be the most challenging. Dislodging rocks from solid earth is easier.
The possibilities just seem to be endless.
In my sketchbook, I found a page that I do not remember writing. But it seemed to lift itself from the page to my eyes.
A wrong truth, too early,
Too reminiscent of mother
Triggers an avalanche
of rocky memory,
400 years of inherited pain
The boulders that don’t
crush my bones and flatten me
Are pulled up beneath us
Barricading us from each other
And now I don’t know how
to reach you on the other side
