Babajiji in Blushes of Blue
Some evenings seem to exist outside of time.
At Babajiji , the room slowly filled with music, conversation, shared meals, and the kind of warmth that only appears when everyone arrives with an open heart.
There was laughter in every corner, people dancing without hesitation, and an energy that felt impossibly light. It was one of those rare nights where strangers somehow already felt familiar.
The evening opened with a deeply touching all-acoustic set from Koito that seemed to soften the walls themselves. Every song carried a quiet tenderness, inviting the room into stillness before gently returning us to one another.
Later, Emmanuel and Himi guided us somewhere entirely different—through jazz, improvisation, and experimental sound. Their performance felt less like songs and more like a conversation unfolding in real time, full of curiosity and trust.
One of the most meaningful moments of the night came when I had the opportunity to play the flute. Standing there, surrounded by so many attentive and generous people, I felt completely present. It reminded me why I continue making music—not to perform for people, but to share something that words alone cannot hold.
What I'll remember most, though, isn't any single performance. It's the people.
The conversations between sets. The smiles exchanged across the room. The laughter that seemed to ripple through the space all evening.
Meeting so many kind, creative, and thoughtful people reminded me that music has a quiet way of bringing exactly the right people together at exactly the right time.
I left that night feeling grateful—not only for the music we shared, but for the community that made the night possible.
Some gatherings end when the lights come on. Others stay with you long after you've gone home.
This was one of those nights.
‘a boy carrying god’
‘a boy carrying god’ the title track is a meditation on faith, identity, grief, and becoming.
Through deeply personal reflections, this song explores the tension between spiritual devotion and human vulnerability—moving through doubt, inherited weight, healing, and acceptance.
Rather than offering answers, the song sits with life's contradictions, tracing the quiet journey of someone learning to carry belief, pain, love, and purpose at the same time.
It is less about religion than the search for meaning, and the realization that being human is both the burden and the gift.
What begins here continues through the other songs— different forms of carrying, and one journey beneath them all.
Kyushu in Kolor
Some encounters arrive so naturally that they make you believe the universe has its own quiet way of bringing people together. Meeting Alexis for the first time felt like that. Even though we'd just met, there was an immediate sense of familiarity, as if we'd known each other much longer. Through him, I met Michelle, and somehow my music found its way into their lives.
Watching this film is a reminder that connection can happen in the most unexpected ways. Michelle and Alexis captured their time in Kyushu with such honesty and care—a place I’m grateful to call home, and one that continues to shape the way I see the world and the music I make. Seeing some of my own memories reflected through their lens feels incredibly special.
I'm deeply thankful that our paths crossed, that my music resonated with them, and that they generously allowed me to share this beautiful piece here. Sometimes the most meaningful collaborations aren't planned at all—they simply happen when people are meant to find one another.
Credits
Super 8 film by Michelle & Alexis
Music: Dream On by Isa Tineo
Two Days Beneath the Cherry Blossoms
My dear friend Malcolm and his wife Anya came to visit me in Tokyo during cherry blossom season.
There was something quietly profound about seeing Malcolm here for the first time—in the city that has slowly become home. Some friendships travel across years and borders without ever losing their shape. They simply wait for the right place to bloom again.
We met in the early morning, before the city had fully awakened, and wandered wherever our feet carried us. There was no destination, only the joy of sharing the day together. The cherry blossoms drifted through the air like passing thoughts, covering familiar streets in a softness that made everything feel new again.
Their visit lasted only two days, yet those days seemed to exist outside of time. We walked, talked, laughed, and allowed the city to reveal itself at its own pace. Seeing Tokyo through their eyes reminded me that wonder is never lost—it simply waits to be shared.
I found myself reaching for my camera often, not to document the trip, but to preserve the quiet poetry unfolding before me. The way Malcolm looked toward the blossoms. The gentle conversations between him and Anya. Hands intertwined. Shared smiles. Fleeting moments that would have disappeared with the wind had they not been noticed.
Living far from where I grew up has taught me that home is not a fixed place on a map. It is something we carry within us, something that appears in the company of people who know us deeply. To welcome dear friends into the life we've built here felt like watching two worlds gently meet.
For a brief moment, beneath the falling sakura, the distance between past and present disappeared. New York, Tokyo, memory, and now—all of it seemed to exist in the same breath.
Some visits end when the train departs or the plane takes off.
The best ones never really leave. They become another season we carry with us, blooming quietly whenever we remember them.
my breathe, my flute
There is something deeply personal about a handcrafted flute. Every curve, every grain of wood, every imperfect mark carries the hands of the person who shaped it, and in return asks the player to bring their own breath, presence, and intention.
When I play, I'm reminded that music begins long before sound. It begins with breath. The same breath that grounds us, calms us, and quietly connects us to the living world around us. The flute has become a way of returning to that place—a place where I don't feel the need to perform or explain, only to listen.
Each flute I own has its own voice and spirit. Together they have accompanied me through moments of joy, stillness, uncertainty, and gratitude. They have become trusted companions, inviting me to slow down and remember that peace is often found in the simplest acts: breathing deeply, standing barefoot on the earth, and allowing sound to move freely through the body.
More than instruments, these flutes are reminders to stay connected—to nature, to breath, and to the quiet parts of myself that words can never quite reach.
Naeme Farm
I had the joy of spending a day at Naeme Farm, where time seemed to move with the rhythm of the land.
We planted rice, learned about herbs and the quiet wisdom of agriculture, shared a meal grown from the very soil beneath our feet, and ended the day creating a tea blend called ホドホド alongside Naeme's wonderful herb specialists.
What stayed with me most wasn't only what we did, but how we did it—slowly, with care, surrounded by kind people, fresh air, children's laughter, and a deep respect for the earth.
I left with a gentle reminder that a meaningful life is often found in the simplest moments: tending the soil, sharing food, listening well, and living in harmony with nature.
Thank you, Naeme Farm, for opening your hearts and reminding me of the beauty of slowing down.
Aso
Sometimes we spend years searching for something we don't yet have words for.
My wife and I had been looking for a place where our souls could settle—a place that asked nothing of us except that we be present. We didn't know exactly what we were searching for, only that we would recognize it when we found it.
That place became Aso.
It was our dear friend Shingo-san who first brought us there. Though he now lives in Tokyo, Aso had long been a home to him, and through his eyes we were introduced to a way of life rooted in patience, simplicity, and deep respect for the land. In many ways, he wasn't just taking us somewhere new—he was inviting us into a place that had already shaped his own heart.
There we met Hiro-san and his family.
From the moment we arrived, there was no need to perform or explain ourselves. We were welcomed with a generosity that felt effortless, as if we had been expected all along. Time slowed. The days became measured not by schedules but by the changing light, shared meals, quiet conversations, the sound of the wind through the fields, and the presence of Mount Aso watching over everything.
Coming from Tokyo, where life moves with such relentless momentum, Aso reminded us of another rhythm—one that had always existed beneath the noise. It became a place where we could hear ourselves again.
The songs that would become Hajimari were not written only in rooms with instruments. They were written in long walks, in silence, in the kindness of strangers who became family, in mornings that began with birdsong, and in evenings filled with gratitude. They were written in the feeling of finally arriving somewhere our hearts had already known.
I often think that we went to Aso looking for a place to rest, only to discover that peace had been waiting for us there all along—in the landscape, in Hiro-san and his family, and in the friendships that led us there.
No matter where life takes us, Aso will always feel like home. It is a place that quietly changed the course of our lives, and a part of its spirit continues to live within every note of Hajimari.
Hands of Clay
Clay has a way of teaching patience. It yields only to gentle hands, asking you to slow down and pay attention. Sitting beside my wife, shaping something from the earth, I realized that love asks for much of the same.
We spent the day turning earth into something that could be held. The pieces weren't perfect, but neither was the process, and somehow that made them even more beautiful.
They became little reminders that the best things in life are shaped slowly, together.
The Quiet Language of Horses
There is something deeply comforting about stepping away from the noise of everyday life and into a place where the mountains, the trees, and the animals quietly remind you what truly matters.
This day, my wife and I spent time learning not only how to ride horses, but how to care for them—how to approach them with patience, earn their trust, brush them, and understand their gentle nature. It wasn't about becoming skilled riders. It was about slowing down enough to listen.
Horses have a way of asking you to be fully present. They respond to calmness more than control, to kindness more than force. Being around them felt like another lesson in living with intention.
Surrounded by fresh mountain air, birdsong, and the steady rhythm of nature, I was reminded how important these moments are for us. We both find so much peace in places like this—among animals, forests, and open skies. They help us return to ourselves, to remember that we are not separate from nature but a small part of it.
Some of life's richest experiences ask for nothing more than your presence. Today was one of those days, and I'm grateful we shared it together.
more*
Some years ago in Studio City, California, I had the quiet privilege of watching my friends Malcolm and Kane record some of the very first songs for what would become more*.
At the time, none of us could have known where those sessions would lead. There was no roadmap, no certainty—just two friends following something they believed in. The room was filled with curiosity, patience, and the kind of excitement that only exists when something is being made for the very first time.
Looking back now, it's incredible to see how those early moments grew into such a beautiful body of work. more* has become something truly special, but these photographs remind me that every story begins in a much smaller room, with a handful of ideas, a willingness to experiment, and the courage to start.
These images don't just document a recording session—they preserve the first pages of a beautiful story. I'm grateful I was there to witness the beginning.
Wind & Percussion
There are nights that seem to exist outside of time.
One of those nights found me in New York, gathered in a small space overflowing with beautiful people—artists, musicians, dancers, and kind souls all sharing the same breath for a few fleeting hours. The room felt alive before a single note was played, as if everyone had quietly agreed to leave the outside world at the door.
The evening was devoted to wind and percussion. I had the honor of playing the flute that Jeff Slatnick so generously gifted to me, an instrument that carries more than sound. Every breath through it feels like a conversation with those who came before me, and that night it felt especially alive. The melodies floated through the room, weaving between the rhythms of drums and the gentle movement of bodies swaying together.
There was an undeniable vibrancy in the air. People danced without self-consciousness, smiling at strangers who somehow already felt like friends. It wasn't a performance as much as it was a gathering—a reminder that music is one of the oldest ways we know how to care for one another.
Before we began, I lit palo santo and let its fragrant smoke drift through the room. As it curled into the air, I quietly offered gratitude and blessed the space with sound, smoke, and intention. It felt less like a ritual and more like an invitation—for peace, for openness, for everyone present to simply be.
Looking around, I realized how rare evenings like this truly are. No rush, no expectations, no need to impress. Just people listening deeply, moving freely, and sharing something impossible to recreate once it had passed.
New York has always had a way of bringing together souls who might never have crossed paths otherwise. That night reminded me that even in a city known for its noise, there are still quiet sanctuaries where music becomes prayer, strangers become community, and a simple room becomes sacred.
Kapital Kountry
These photographs hold more than moments—they hold people. Friends, family, and the incredible staff who have shaped the spirit of Kapital through their warmth, craftsmanship, and quiet dedication.
Spending time around the Kapital family gave me a deeper appreciation for what exists beyond the garments themselves. Every conversation, every shared meal, every smile reminded me that the heart of the brand has always been its people. It was a privilege to witness even a small part of that world and to document it through my lens.
I carry a deep respect for Kiro Hirata and the way he continues to honor the foundation laid by his father. There is a rare sincerity in preserving a legacy while allowing it to grow naturally, and you can feel that care in everyone who contributes to it each day.
These images are a small thank you to the people who welcomed me so generously. More than a fashion house, Kapital feels like a living family story—one stitched together by creativity, kindness, and generations of shared purpose.
