[ CONTāD... ]
Name: Noah Schroder-Lee Pronouns: He/Him Age: 23 Occupation: Composer Tech Canon: THAN_03
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.
