When heās old enough, he wonders why he had been born so unlovable.
Neglected by God that he has no choice but to foster ambitions in the revival of pity and compassion earned. Itās a sad thing, a real sad thing. A boy who has to worry about things that children shouldnāt have to live their lives fearing. He asks himself what could he have possibly done in a past life to acquire the sufferings he has now. When the only things he shouldāve been concerned growing upāthe kinds of toys heāll land in his next Happy Meal, whether or not itās his sisterās turn to take out the dog, remembering to hand off his birthday wishlist to auntie Euijeong; not the premises of living immunocompromised. And he knows, he knows. A lot of things, he knows.
He knows heās an ugly thing to look at. With mottled eyebrows and hair in places that refuse to grow back months at a time. His cheeks raw and red. He knows heās a real, real, ugly little boy with legs too long for his body and arms too willowy to match. He begins to wonder if it had been better for everyone to die at stillbirth. Quietly, unmoving, without pain. Nobody would remember a single thing and neither would he. Maybe grief, a feeling only time could repair.
He is left to make up for it, bypassing all front-lining despair. To boys that will grow into men, the world is immediately given and he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. Itās always been the system his predecessors have dug up from beneath the Earth, and he knows. Heās only got one life in this aching body that threatens to endure, and endure, and persist. Heās here one day and could be gone the next.
This is a love letter to Noah Schroder.
/
Itās a lackluster onset thatāll cut the first turf for whatās to come.
He starts with piano. Underpinned with suggestions to better his disciplinary management, father subscribes to lessons straightaway. At the bench by the side of a local composer and musical therapist, he learns all the scales needed for rudimentary knowledge and takes home the chords to Blue in Green by Miles Davis, but nothing else.
As time stretches and monotony coexists between lessons, itās up to stagnancy to do the heavy lifting that curiosity can mildly provide.
The drives up to the music therapistās house is no longer. Whatever three year attachment and scattered piano charts left astray on the asphalts of Anchorage, tucked in black binders now living as beginnerās footnotes to be remembered. These will be the things heāll later be grateful to know and become built upon.
A preoccupied middle school advisor with gum clicking to her teeth obliges, āthereās a few seats left in string orchestra if you want to fulfill your elective requirement.ā
In a wool beanie that covers where Noahās eyebrows should be, he nods.
Nowhere boy sits in the fourth row at the edge all by himself where nobody will care to find. Nowhere boy arrives early to tune his violin and rosin his bow before class begins. Nowhere boy sits in the fourth row until heās in the third, then second, then first row beneath Mrs. Sandovalās elbow. Nowhere boy practices during lunch in a booth because he lives a pathetically lonely life theft of honest companionship.
Never meant to fit anywhere, with anybody. That poor, ugly thing who looks half-done, underdeveloped, unfinishedāthis sick alien-faced boy.
As if his eyes were just bearishly slit into his face when he was a womb. God couldnāt decide to make him look more like his father or mother but took the equally, barely redeeming and less misshapen parts of both.
Nowhere boy realizes heās scarcely worth tolerance and empathy at the extension of self-production.
Without, nowhere boy would be nothing.
/
Nowhere boy crawls out of the little hub of Alaska. He only needs a few things: his guitar and following equipment, his phone on his familyās plan, wallet, and clothes.
By the time Berklee entertains his acceptance, he no longer calls himself a violinist. āItās just something I know, and had fun with,ā heād say. āThe pianoāthatās usually everybodyās choice of a foundational instrument, right?ā
He taught himself in his little room, mortgage paid by two state attorneys of the house. Both that claimed to have fallen in love during Boston Collegeās law program when they had met, very predictable (not so much excited about āloveā in recent years, yet remained together for the two children in their lives). Once bought a beat up guitar on momās card with hopes of paying her back. Nothing fancy, itās not Fenderās new model. An old, yet painstakingly reliable six string Stratocaster in a fiery red body coatāchipping with age. Gig bags, wires and amps all included.
Noah makes several friends away from home. He learns thereās more to offer than his hometown where the majority of his graduating class stayed behind. The feeling of belonging nestles deep from within, beneath the heart.
They agreed to stay in touch, through friendly group chats when timezones donāt interfere.
All because Noah booked it to Seoul, sabotaged his chances of available space in a NYC based alt-rock band. Itās been forever since his last visit; the last time he had seen his extended family gone forgotten. His mother says itād be good for him, to disconnect from here for awhile and go back, maybe even visit auntie Euijeong in Namwon for Chuseok. Itād be the right thing to do, since itās been forever and a half ago.
Because running Protools in a studio offers decent pay for their trivial faith in assistants, but itās enough for a studio apartment and more. But thatās not where the real chase is. Itās in the lofty seats of a record labelās lobby, the seats in the bookerās room, the contract beyond the readings in fine printāthatās where the money is. Gigging around town and filling in for so-and-soās act until a guy slips his card in, talking about āI know some peopleā only for The Here and Now to begin their steadily free-flowing journey.
Now?
Heās just gotta act the part. The part where thereās no label backing them up.
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TW / parental death, bullying, suicide, drug and alcohol use, infidelity.
I.
she remembers spending long mornings at the dining room table separating seeds that were shaken off the sansuyu trees; the tips of her front teeth weakening and loosening due to the activity sheās learned to love. her grandmother used to supervise her all the while, ensuring that her little oneās doing a proper job and keeping her vivid imagination at bay. its had a vice grip on mido since she was old enough to form memories, and while her thoughts have done well by creating a girl with a sense of whimsy and a passion for mysticism, its also had a hand in how accident prone she is. after all, according to her, itās hard to talk to fairies in the woods and keep track of the placement of her limbs all at once. so, it goes without saying that, because of this supposed āquirkā of hers, her guardians had to keep a close eye on her at all times.
when she wasnāt assisting her grandparents with the festival season, she was a constant front-row occupant at their pansori performances; all three of them piling into their beat-up old car to travel from their home in gurye to namwon on show nights. sheāll never, ever forget watching the two of them on-stage. her grandmotherās voice alone carried so much magic in it, and the beat of her grandfatherās drum reminded her of the pitter-patter that hearts make. the stories told always captured her, no matter how many times sheād heard them in the past, and it was in those moments that she earned an admiration for those who choose to entertain others. over time, she decided that she wanted to do the same thing.
by the time she was eight years old, her grandparents taught her all they knew about singing and musicāacting not only as parental figures, but also mentors; nurturing these interests as best they could. money was never abundant, so they couldnāt afford proper instruction for her, but they did their best with what they had, and it only made the three of them grow closer.
however, despite how happy her childhood seemed, mido often noticed how people looked at her. sheād recognize the sadness and hurt in the eyes of family members, and even some passersby in town, whenever she was around. no matter how many times she would ask what was wrong, no one would ever be honest with her. it didnāt stop there, though. inquisitive as ever, whenever she would inquire about a certain mystery woman thatās present in old photographs, she would also be rejected. that bothered her more than anything else because, even though she had no idea who she was, she bore a striking resemblance to her, and in some way, felt a connection with her that she couldnāt exactly explain back then. kept in the dark, she learned not to ask about her anymore... but the curiosity never fully dissipated.
II.
on the cusp of her entrance into middle school, her family was visited by a sullen-faced man. he wore disheveled clothing, had wild hair, and despite arriving in hopes of seeing mido, he wasnāt allowed to. she watched from the kitchen window as he spoke with her grandfather outside, and when he turned and happened to catch a glimpse of her observing them, he offered a smileāleaving a few gifts behind for her before walking away. after inspection from her grandparents, they were handed over to her, and in truth, the contents left her a bit gobsmacked. not only was a gorgeous ( and clearly well-loved ) six-string acoustic guitar sitting in its case, but there was a collection of cassette tapes, too. what she didnāt get to possess yet was a polaroid of a couple bathed in the neon lights of the city and a handwritten letter providing insight on what all of this meant. sadly, her family remained tightlipped in regards to all her queries despite her older age, and at that point, she was beginning to accept the mystery as merely that, and nothing else.
with fresh equipment and large sources of inspiration, she began to work hard at learning the ins and outs of her new instrument; opting to be her own instructor. it took her an entire summer of practice, but little-by-little, she was making improvements; pairing the strum of the strings with the silken voice her grandmother helped craft. much like her elders, music still alighted a deep passion inside of her, and she didnāt know it then, but itās also something that moved both her mother and her father, too. however, the discovery of that didnāt come sweetly, nor did it occur in a manner that her guardians were anticipating. instead, it happened at school.
turns out, kids stop being kind as they get older, and the instant that she was transitioning from childhood to adolescence, there was a target imprinted onto her back; one that her peers loved to strike with petty judgments, lame rumors, and derogatory monikers. most commonly, theyād refer to her as a witch or a demon. she was the type of person that would twirl her way through campus sparking conversations with others in somewhat peculiar fashionsāasking nonsensical questions, offering whimsical comments, and laughing at seemingly nothing. not only that, but around this time frame, she developed an interest in divination. sheād bring knapsacks full of crystals sheād collect, tarot cards sheād practice readings with, and it wasnāt unlike her to offer to read strangersā palms for more experience. at first, she thought that may have been the only reason as to why sheās received such a negative reaction from them all of the sudden.
the songs she wrote became sadder, and the loneliness she felt swallowed her whole. she felt betrayed and exposed; violated even. at once, she was facing all of the symptoms of grief head on, despite the fact that she doesnāt remember her mother at all. with everything broadcast, her family finally unveiled the truth, but it seemed like it was all coming too late. she spent all of her time in high school feeling so resentful towards them. it took her a long while to feel better, and music became her only distraction from the chaos. she poured herself into her craft; writing and creating a sloppy catalogue of tunes that she felt proud of. she didnāt have a great set up, nor access to a studio, but slowly, mido gained enough confidence to showcase her best material on soundcloud, and there, she was introduced to a brand new community of people that truly opened their arms to her. for the first time in years, she felt like she belonged somewhere.
with that said, she knew that she couldnāt stay living in gurye for much longer, and as soon as she was able to, she took up a part-time job to save money. she told her grandparents that she needed cash to buy a new set-up for better recording, but in truth, she needed it to fund her getaway plan. pals online had convinced her that running away to the city would benefit her in more ways than one, and being as easily-swayed as ever, she wholeheartedly agreed. itās not like she had anything tethering her to her hometown anymore. those days had long passed.
a few weeks after her nineteenth birthday, she ensured her bank account was where it needed to be, and in the dead of night, she leftāguitar strapped to her back, her luggage hauled over to the train station by hand, and the photo of her parents stowed away in her handbag. school wasnāt important enough for her to complete, she left a note behind for her grandparents, and started life as a starving artistāwhich she personally believed was a romantic concept in itself. according to her, all the best musicians were dirt poor and homeless before their careers took off. all this makes sense for her, though. being that her world has sort of turned into the mess it is now, midoās become addicted to the melancholia; the blueness feeling safe and familiar.
IV.
sleeping in bathhouses, offering curbside tarot and palm readings, and busking on busy street corners was how she made things work. it was arduous, but she truly enjoyed learning about the lives of the people who utilized her services. the capital city offered a wide array of colorful personalities, their lives full to the brim with constant motion and modest confusion. she felt important in that they came to her for spiritual guidance. sheās always been able to sympathize with others easilyāhell, sometimes even a little too much. then, in the midst of all this, she met an intriguing someone who took her under their wing; who introduced her to the wild nightlife and indie music scenes in places like hongdae and itaewon; who helped her out when she had nothing. not used to being so doted upon, mido dissolved into them; eliminating any boundaries effortlessly in a way that wasnāt helpful or healthy. for the remainder of her youth, they became her world, and allowed her to be wholly herself.
she became a wayward soul that did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. at twenty, she started to frequent the variegated bars and clubs in order to better infuse herself into the community she desperately wanted to be apart of. for the first time, she felt a sense of freedom that she didnāt have back in gurye; one that she wanted to explore fully. she accepted any drink or substance offered to herāindulging in the sweet highs and finding solace in the bitter lows; using the crashes as sources of inspiration to create melodies. becoming a musician was still the end goal, after all, even if it was harder for her to record given the circumstances. however, at age twenty-one, the tragic end of the most important relationship she had in seoul occurred, but this time, she wasnāt the victim of misfortune. instead, her capriciousness and her fierce need to be accepted led to her infidelity.
she became a ghost in seoul until the dawn of 2020. she remained quiet, focused on her music ( as thatās the sole reason she relocated to the city anyway ), and felt like things were slowly, but surely, falling into place. lots of changes had to be made in order for her to pick herself up from the cold ground, and it was hard for her not to fall into self-deprecative spirals, but she made it through somehow. of everything, her signature sound, sonically, is what experienced the most dramatic makeover. she bought a used synthesizer and upgraded her online software to give herself a more diversified edge, and the result is something that captures all the best parts of her. itās dreamy, soft, and heartfelt; comprised of simplistic melodies and poetic lyrics. sheāll dabble in quirkiness once in awhile, but for the most part, it exudes a lightness; an easiness. that in mind, she decided to give herself a stage name, luce, the italian word for ālight,ā as she felt it matched her work in an honest way.
in the beginning, midoās modest following was mostly found in cyberspace. those on instagram and soundcloud warmed up to her nicely, and though she wanted to try and book herself a few gigs, she was a little nervous given her past in hongdae. she had no idea who was still around, and above all, she didnāt want to make anyone uncomfortableāincluding herself. she laid low and did her own thing for awhile, and in doing so, amassed 35k followers on social media. itās something sheās still proud of to this day, especially since she considered herself a nobody and still does. however, in the spring of 2021, she released her first mixtapeāone chronicling her life since arriving in seoul. with a whopping eighteen self-produced, self-written tracks, it created buzz in the indie scene; lauded for its honesty and intimacy, as well as its vintage pop concept. the ripples were enough to almost force her into performing live, and when she eventually did, she was terrified, and still is even now, but sheās adamant on swallowing her anxieties and reaching her goals; no matter what.
bit-by-bit, sheās getting back into the swing of things, and while it feels like life is finally giving her some wins, all of them may end up slipping through her fingers. being back in the clubs feels like home in a way, and like before, sheās tempted to say fuck it and give into her vicesāthe work she put into herself at risk of vanishing even though sheās only just getting started. mido still doesnāt know what she wants to do, but one thingās for sure: drugs, sex, and alcohol are all around her, and being that sheās never been the type of person to say no to simple pleasures, things arenāt looking very promising.
mom is still in school when she marries dad, a hotshot songwriter. they have their first kid together, a son, six months into their marriage. she becomes a pediatrics nurse; itās smooth sailing for the hyun family, until eight years later, when dad is exposed, or framed, or whatever he feels like calling it, for plagiarism.
another three years, and hyun woorim is born into a broken family. his brother speaks of the good old days, reminiscing their parentsā sappy romance and movie-like love story, but woorim doesnāt know of any. all heās seen is his dad, always drunk, always bitter, and his mom, working her ass off at the hospital, always tired, always lonely. the concept of family dinners and rosy reunions is unfamiliar to him; heās only learned to follow woohyunās trail like a lost puppy, wide-eyed and wary of another fight brewing. avoidance, thatās what woorim knows best.
his dad isnāt the physically aggressive type of alcoholic, but more brooding, sulking, sleepless, trivial. his mom isnāt the workaholic type, and rather makes time, squeezes it out of her hellish schedule, to send woorim to school and be a part of his life. she adores him, her second son whoās a damn eleven years younger than her first. youāre so much like me, she claims, pushing back black locks and pinching pale cheeks. these eyes, these ears, this brain. she puts on a LP, holds him in his arms. and so much like your father. these hands and their eagerness to create.
she tries to filter music into his bright mind, to encourage him to love it as much as she had when she had first met the love of her life, but her efforts are futile. woorim already hates the hint of melody. he hates notes, chords, harmonies. and the little guy hates his own hands.
he hates them more when he loses his mom to breast cancer in high school. it takes his momās prolonged death, his brother leaving the house for a life of his own, and a beating by furious fists for his dad to finally separate the rim of a liquor bottle from his lips. but recovery is not as rewarding as support groups promise it to be. in fact, sobriety has never been so bleak.
it takes two years of poverty for his dad to clean up and get a job. woorimās graduated by then and gets accepted to hongik university, which his brother, newly married and working at a conglomerate tech company, pays for. heās never been much of a student and is in it for some random major, korean language and history, but makes do with what he has. mostly because heād promised his mom that heād, at least, go to college, and heād rather be out, listening to the drag of professors than clean up after his remaining family.
podcasts had been the only noise streaming through his earphones on his way to his first semester of classes and his many part-time jobs. at age twenty, he still couldnāt stand listening to lyrics sung by unknown faces to a familiar tune. then he comes back from the army at age twenty-two and meets the first person who makes a bitter song taste sweet.
sheās a musician, so she labels herself. he hates music, he tells her. she laughs, as if the idea is so ridiculous, it can never be taken seriously. sheās never heard such a bizarre thing in her life.
woorim-ah, she pushes back black locks, no one ever hates music.
he learns to love to listen, then to translate that into sentences, paragraphs, big titles. heās a terrible student that skips classes, gets into fights, stays out late and never goes home, but heās a good writer. the magazine starts small, first selectively featuring her and her band, then later expands as woorim steps foot onto the hongdae scene; free printing on campus is used to manufacture his amateur articles and friends are persuaded (coerced) into handing them out on streets, at shows, in bars. security at clubs are paid off to allow him to slip in and increase his exposure to as many different types of music as he can; spare time is spent burrowing into rehearsing musicality. his grades plummet with the unexpected break-up but he manages, and by the time heās put his hands on a degree at twenty-six, woorim has more pressing matters to deal with: RiTZ magazine, the hot place to look for news about music, fashion, and young culture. the rising and solidified online star, right at peopleās fingertips.
heartbreak burned him, but the magazine rose from its ashes. and woorim couldnāt be happier.
Grief has a tendency for overstaying. It seeps into the smallest of things: the outline of a frame on the living room wall, the vacant chair at the dining table that suddenly feels too big for their home. Constant reminders of how an ending can be as easy as leaving your set of keys at the table, a note accompanying it like an afterthought.
Still, her father canāt bear to throw it away. She canāt find it in herself to blame him.
Itās the finality of it all that hurts the most. As a rule, breaks are never clean Ā ā theirs is no exception. To watch the death of a marriage in real-time is less fire and conflict and more waking up in the morning to an empty bed, the other side cold and unslept in. Anger is only ever at the beginning, at the part where the cracks are still salvageable. At the end, the only thing that remains is apathy and a gaping black hole. Living through the latter is more bitter, she finds.
ā
On a Wednesday morning, a few weeks before she turns twelve, her mother decides to not come home.
Itās never the same after that.
ā
The aftermath is a blur. November into August into November again. She wants to say: wait for me, world. Slow down and let me cry into my hands. My heart is soft and tender and rotting like fruit left out too long. I am hurt, I am mourning. I need time.
In actuality, the world moves on without her. Silly of her to think otherwise.
ā
The house is always cold, even in the heat of summer. She tells herself itās a house with old bones, because the alternative is unthinkable. Some months the bills are paid on time, and she learns who to call when they arenāt; keeps a list tacked onto the fridge long after theyāve been printed into her brain. Her father is the picture of surrender ā spine perpetually bent, shoulders heavy with regret. Itās pitiful until itās her cross to bear, the sentiment souring on her tongue. She picks up the pieces anyway, because she has to. Who else will?
Sheās such a sweet girl, so dependable for her age; they say it to her face, behind her back. No point in differentiating between the sympathetic and the condescending ā their gazes sting the same way.
Sheās not one for semantics: to survive, she had to grow up.
Itās not about how the pain eats at you ā itās how you move forward despite it.
ā
Time passes, and it gets better.
Or maybe it doesnāt. It just starts to fit better instead. This hole she has to live with. This hole that lives in her.
ā
A brief interlude:
The room her father uses as an office is the product of his mind: stacks of vinyls piled on top of each other, curtains pulled shut, the only light coming from the flicker of his screen. And of course, it was all perfectly in place, so nothing was to be touched. Everything in balance Ā ā or the semblance of it.
He teaches her how to play the piano when she is five, fingers gentle over her own as he recounts muscle memory. My hands are too small, she remembers having said. Theyāll change with time, he had replied.
Itās not as if she believes him, per se; more like she wants it to happen, so she makes it so. Practice, practice, perfect; in time, itās not about the end goal, but the pursuit.
It just makes her happy.
Thatās enough.
ā
Time passes, again.
Absence is silent and thunderous in equal halves. She grapples both with the same (lack of) finesse, channeling her signature spirit: try, and try, and try. At some point, the illusion of succeeding is a good enough replacement for the real thing. Step by step, she learns what itās like to live.
There are mistakes: the smoking habit she picks up at fourteen, for one; lying next to a boy she had given everything to, but who gave nothing back, another. Then there are growing pains: when her mother calls her on her birthday, or sets a date to meet up, she becomes familiar with perfunctory responses: thanks, mom; sure, mom; no problem, maybe next time, mom.
But there are the good moments, too.
Hours spent in the dead night going over this lyric, that note. The piano is her first love, a boy her second, writing her third. The rush of standing front row, center stage; the clarity of oh, this is it through the double-vision. Standing front and center on the other side of the fence with people singing her songs. Finding a place to call home.
She holds this feeling tight in her hands until her knuckles turn white. Good things are so rare to find these days; might as well keep them close until the warmth turns cold.
Sheās selfish that way.
ā
She should know better by now. That to open your heart is to invite grief. The same grief that stays after the love leaves.
bae yunjinās life is pretty comfortable. upper middle class, only child, academically inclined without being socially inept. all the makings of a cushy existence.
it helps that sheās a cute kid. pretty, smiley, so on and so forth. makes herself heard, but doesnāt overstepā and given how meek her parents are, itās quite the exercise in restraint for a little leo.
the early years go by in a sort of blur: middle school drama, shedding tears over exam prep, and late nights at the academyā itās all mostly uninteresting as far as yunjin is concerned. the issue is that she canāt think of anything fun to do, until her parents suggest picking up an instrument as a hobby. itās a bit unexpected, but itāll do.
she first gets into her dadās hidden stash of vinyls when sheās 12, finding a hidden treasure trove of punk, alt rock, and grunge classics. itās the furthest imaginable leap from the image she has constructed of who her father is, but definitely an interesting discovery. it seems there can be more to the people you might think you know.
everyoneās rather disconcerted by the fact that she chooses to stick with drums. maybe itās the incessant need to prove herself, Ā a desperate bid to go against expectations. and she does just love the noise.
picture perfect high schooler by day, aspiring punk rocker by night. the idea of having a hidden life is so endlessly appealing. itās like no one can ever see the full picture of who she really is; Ā her social standing perfectly balance on a knifeās edge. Ā
her parents catch on earlier than she realizes (in hindsight, she wasnāt even really hiding.) but it becomes impossible to ignore once the university entrance exams draw near. her father, potentially more enamored by the idea of having a rock star daughter than heās willing to admit, proposes the following deal: she can pursue her interests freely as long as she finishes school. at least a bachelorā yunjin, please.
said and done, she sets off to university with every intention of keeping her word; balancing her very much not-lucrative career as a drummer in an all-female alternative rock band with the maintenance of her mid-level gpa is a chore at best. she hates how it all feels like work, but itās a formative experience nonetheless.
itās a miracle that she lasts through the degree. the dues have been paid, and sheās finally off the hook of her parents expectations, and on square fucking zero of life now that her little darling project group has caved to the pressure of the adult world. so what now?
ctrl is the answer to that question. a fever dream of late nights and making it up as they go, a worthy sample size of success.
it still doesnāt feel like her life though. maybe it never will, or perhaps sheās just internalised years of critique and accusations that sheās a glorified party girl who happens to be able to play the back beat. on a good day sheād contend that sheās keith moon reincarnated, in the flesh for one more night, just wait and see. other days, it hits a little too close to home.
some nights yunjin imagines a levon helm future for herself, taking the center of the stage and staying on the road into old age. other times she wonders if itās time to retire the whole performance, pull back the curtains and see whatās even left back there, just collecting dust and memories.
quarter life crisis aside though, bae yunjinās life is pretty fucking great at the moment.
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Name: Im Hyunwoo
Pseudonym: ASH
Pronouns: He/him
Age: 26
Occupation: Part-time at Streetwear Boutique
Canon: SOLO_03
Freeform:
there comes a point when song devolves into sound, and sound into oblivion. when lyrics become meaningless because he can't help but to slur his words, let alone sing them. his eyes are fiercely reddened, though it's unclear whether that's by way of overwhelming emotion, too many hours boring into the monitor, or the devilish toxin coursing through his blood now. itās evident that heās well into losing his voice, and he wonder if itās possible to lose it forever. maybe that would take him out of his misery. the last ten takes all sound exactly the same, by the way; the same utter shit.
im hyunwoo has no clue how to really write good songs. they say the best songs are written of love or something like that. he's not sure that's true but doesn't have much of a way of knowing. he's not the best acquainted with love, in whatever shade in comes in. he's born to a mother whoās too young and too strained with the bitters of reality to really love a child, and he doesnāt have a father around who could even try.
he doesnāt love his friends growing up. they share nothing in common, minus the way other people veer away when walking by on the street, sneaking in looks of disdain with the slightest dash of fear. that, and the fact that theyāre all good for nothing ā a similarity if it counts for anything. itās almost as if petty crimes and communal substance abuse donāt do too much in fostering true affection or trust. his friends donāt know that he increasingly sneaks away to do the only thing he really finds fulfilling: music. they only know that im hyunwoo is pretty neat at karaoke; kind of how heās also neat at finding girls to take home. they joke that itās all really only thanks to his face, and thatās not a real talent.
one of these friends asks him one day: 'damn, did you write this?' hyunwoo regrets inviting the bum over, more deeply regrets not putting a password on his laptop. he rushes over to turn it off and ends up slamming it shut altogether when he struggles to find the pause button. and so he responds as any self-proclaimed musician would after devoting the last six months on his first mixtape.
'oh, hell no.'
but he did. he doesn't know why he so adamantly said no then, doesn't know why it was such an easy lie to tell or where the accompanying scoff came from. maybe he found it embarrassing to be āsoftā like this. maybe he felt some actual shame for once, for being such a hypocrite. crooning about love and heartbreak when he stopped saying āi love youā in real life as soon as he realized he didnāt have to in order to get others to say it to him.
---
for years, he doesnāt think much of it. occasional pangs of shame and cowardice when he recalls the fleeting interaction, but thatās not new. he falls out of touch with this āfriend,ā much like he falls out of touch with most everything in life minus his music. but he never thought heād ever make it this far. sure, maybe he hasnāt made it that far, but itās far enough where he starts to wonder how the rumors have spread so wide. you'd hope people would learn to remember the things you actually want them to remember and not the things you don't. unfortunately life never worked that way.
sometimes it pisses him off. sometimes it strokes his ego. mostly heās bewildered by why people even cared. nobody used to care.
āyeah, i saw him play last weekend. heās okay. but did you hear he doesnāt really write his own shit anyway?ā
āfine, i guess heās kind of cute. i think he hooked up with my friend or something. yeah, i'd say sheās pretty hot. why do you ask?ā
āokay, but i heard he used to be in a gang. yes, i know heās skinny as fuck. you think i could take him in a fight?ā
he meets with agents from record labels a couple of times. mostly out of novelty, partially because perhaps an extra buck or two couldnāt hurt in the long term. each meeting goes down the same way. polite nods and smiles from a corporate puppet across the table, a half-hearted āyes, weāre very interested in your musicā before they eventually wind up at what they really wanted to get to. ābut we have heard a few things about you that are a bit moreā¦ personal.ā
maybe the thin smile pressed onto his lips tips them off that heās not willing to apologize, nor does he intend to sit and make up excuses for himself. āoh, of course weāre not concerned or anything! i mean all buzz is good buzz. for someone like you looking to break out of the underground, it really is. we can work on cleaning up the rest together.ā
funny how they think thatās the motive here. he gets up and leaves, take a business card because they insist. he doesnāt call them back.
Itās not perfect. Her parents never fall in love. She shows up at the wrong time, in the middle of lives meant to go in different directions.
Itās Amanda who ruins everything.
Amanda that changes the trajectories of everyoneās lives.
And thatās just the way life goes.
Mom says it could be worse, she could be a lonely little girl who no one in the world loves. She couldāve been given up for adoption, left to wait for people who are looking for little pug-faced girls to bring home.
But she wasnāt given up for adoption.
Sheās raised by Erica and Nozomu until they get divorced and Nozomu gets replaced by Steven who doesnāt like kids especially not little girls name Amanda.
And then Nozomu comes back and Erica and Steven go away and nothingās ever constant.
āItās not your fault,ā Nozomu tells her, ājust unlucky and born in the middle of wrong lives.ā
Later when sheās older she finds out itās called being a victim of circumstance.
---
JÅETSU
Thereās something about being othered.
Sheās not Japanese enough for the girls at school. Her accent is funny, and she stands out awkward and gawky amongst her schoolmates. One of the girls tell her if she made more of an effort maybe theyād like her more.
Then again, maybe not.
Even when she tries her hardest she still sits just on the outside, always looking in never quite included in.
Dad says being popular in high school doesnāt really matter anyways, not at least in the grand scheme of things. There are things Amanda has that the girls at school donāt. Smart to a nearly prodigious degree, sheās got talent where it really matters. People later in life will get her, he promises.
But promises of the future donāt change the present. She rides her bike home alone, sits in her room alone, and buries her head in the pillow and listens to the same handful of songs on repeat. Repeats it ad nauseum.
Itās easier to exist in a daydream. To press her head to the speaker and get lost in something other than herself, and at some points she decides to make her own soundtracks. Posts remixes of songs sheās made when she ought to be busy enjoying her youth under a name as nameless as she feels.
Turns out people like it too. The irony of people loving KAONASHI more thanĀ Amanda Shibasaki doesnāt escape her.
---
SEOUL
Hereās the part not mentioned. She gets into Waseda not because she wants to but because everyone else wants her too. Sheād break her own back for a crumb of approval.
Itās pathetic really.
But she gets into Waseda even though she doesnāt want to go and spends another year out of place (for the most part) stuck in a major she hates at a school she doesnāt care for.
And then, because she can and because sheās bored (and maybe because sheās looking for a reason to self-destruct) she takes a chance at a year abroad in Korea. Nevermind the fact sheās never had any desire to go to Seoul, nevermind the fact that she doesnāt even know a lick of Korean. Itās the act of running away she wants. Feet hitting the pavement and moving as fast as she can.
And then it falls apart.
She does the same shit she does in Tokyo. Nights run too long, bleed into days, she wastes time in clubs, smoking, drinking, always listening for something that sets her alight. But Baachan and Dad are a country away and Mom might as well be a world away. No one asks anything of her, no one expects anything of her.
Her grades fall first. Or maybe she stops showing up to classes first. She canāt remember, itās not important either way. Whatās important is she convinces some band in her shitty little Korean that sheās an actual producer and not some stupid girl just playing at something and they give her a shot and they make a song thatās fucking good. Whatās important is some of the local clubs take her on as a DJ, let her waste the night away spinning records and wasting time on childhood passions.
But mom calls and says sheās a ungrateful fucking idiot for wasting everything on little pipe dreams. Fuck the scholarship. Fuck the degree. Fuck the perceived promise of a secure future in a job sheāll inevitably hate. But sheās the idiot for throwing it away.
Dadās disappointed too, even though he doesnāt say it. He says he worries about the future, asks her to come home. The music industryās never been known for job security. He worries maybe he indulged her too much growing up, filled her head with too many fairytales and not enough reality. He sends her a plane ticket and tells her to comeback, heāll be there to pick her up when she gets there.
āDonāt worry about it,ā she tells him over the phone, āIām a happy idiot here. Iāll be alright.ā
The gesture; itās rooted in the dreams that [now, today] endures as ghosts of pitied āwhat ifsā. The fruitful nothings, a life in his late thirties defeated by modern-day burdens weighing economy-driven productivity over personal ambitions, deeply intimate, cultivated close to the heart, nurtured and loved. Humiliating a spirit that once lived for more. The usual cautionary tales that warn against the uncertainty of pursuit. Often told by rubbernecks too comfortable in their shiftless lives, living to work and die without a penchant of honest, passion-riddled momentums. If only time hadnāt been a merit of expiration. If only, if only, if only.
Father names him after someone who he wished he had met, or had become. If he cannot fulfill neither, heāll succumb to disinherit any leftover faith dissolving somewhere in his consciousness. Better yet, instill his son as the vessel of his missed opportunities, lost hope, and channelled futures. Itās what selfishness owes to the hard-bitten love of fathers who relentlessly, and quietly, mourn all to themselves.
/
The faultless family portrait comes apart. Slowly, then all at once. The nuance of forever was never in the cards.
Though they loved intensely. The language of their marriage was introduced with impractical desires. Intimacy that was never short of nothing: a blend of carnations in a pearly vase, days on end made to keep excitement afloat in their relationship, his careful hand resting on the small of her back. Her mother tells her before the monument falls, your husband is a man that you should be in love with, he takes care of you, he loves your child, he can always come afoot into my home and provides as what men ought to do. His affections are accessorized to a pretend, and idealized vision of his wife that he clung to on his demise. She is no longer the young woman swaying on the indecisiveness and rapid romance of her twenties. She is no longer the young woman whose naivety was the only consequence of her youth. Together, they had met though a sum of mutual friends in Strasbourg as university students. Unimpressive, perhaps dulled without a punchline meant to stun their couple origin story, but it is one where timing was loyal to their side.
Their ruins lied in their inability to provide expectations for one another. Whatever she needed or wanted, he couldnāt compromise to bring forth in support of it completely. Had he wanted something too, seldom, it was issued. It was a love meant to collapse when they were given a chance to part ways, maybe amicably. To have each other, whole, somebody as an extension to oneās made-up joy to keep going in the world. Truth is, an unmarried woman who became pregnant would suffer the most. A man will always have options, whether built-in escape routes or abandonment on the horizon. A marriage molded by truths, that in hindsight, shadowed a divorce with separate homes.
Jaco is thirteen. Heās only been to Japan for vacation, until a tiny apartment in Osaka with tatami flooring becomes his home. His mother with a promising telecommunications position with a pay rate thatāll eventually get them to move out, and for awhile itās solely been them. He runs, tumbles, breaks some bones, climbs rock walls, kicks a soccer ball across the field, laughs and cries like many young boys with infinite energy and iron fists to rule. With his fatherās upright bass in his room, he scraps enough for a previously used electric from all the hours spent ringing up meat, poultry, and vegetables.
It is the most beautiful thing he owns.
/
A man breaks his heart and he wonders if a heartbreak is supposed to hurt so much that he canāt even force himself to eat. Time wasted and gorged until memories of them burn in him an anger so deep, so pronounced, slow brewing and grim. He doesnāt know where to place his grief as itāll all accumulate into the fire. Then, ashes.
His mother, now remarried, refuses to return his calls. Jaco wonders if his father knows, too. He wonders if his father knows that his only son loves as intensely as he does, yearns and pines for men with terribly forgettable faces and strong hands gnarled from woodworking stresses. He wonders when and how has a love lost its innocence and integrity, when not with a woman. He wonders what his father thinks of him, itās something that heād contemplate rather than to know the truth of. Jaco thinks about a plethora of things, ones that make him lose sleep with a crutch of betrayal.
He canāt sit and feel sorry for himself for too long. The Earthās still on orbit and the seasons will change.
A full ride to Yonsei announces itself of no use. A statistical number in an overly concentrated major, itās all that Jaco is anyways. The degree will manage itself shelved up like a trophy without any real substantial commitment. Other things is waiting for him, visa under his name and all. The spring of his to-be graduation is when he leaves a musical collective on matters of becoming crowd pleasing to predictable r&b hooks.
Among other things, a newly built apartment in Jongno-gu with enough square feet to haul in amps and synthesizers signs him off on a friendly lease. Yonseiās grounds will be without his idle presence, and all heās got is his useless music and useless charts and useless Stanley Clarke inspired techniques. Itās all useless but itās all the things he loves. The only thing heās been sure and serious about all his life. At the cost of an early childhood hijacked by one manās secondhand quest to live through his sonās beginnings.
Then, Strawberry Paris. Situated on a couple of nonchalant shrugs and semi-assuring āwhy notsā of a bunch that figured academia wasnāt the sole cheat code to life. They got together and made themselves a little group. Acquired a taste for some sounds, dwelling into the 90s for some āahaā moments. An aerial map for their trial and errors thatāll later catapult them to a few known successes if steadily dedicated. Who knows, who knows. Theyāre bandwagoning on some good intent, steadfast more than anything.
Jaco is a believer. They wonāt get it for the first time.
