홍대, 2021

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

When he’s 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. It’s a sad thing, a real sad thing. A boy who has to worry about things that children shouldn’t 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 should’ve been concerned growing up—the kinds of toys he’ll land in his next Happy Meal, whether or not it’s his sister’s 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 he’s 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 he’s 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. It’s always been the system his predecessors have dug up from beneath the Earth, and he knows. He’s only got one life in this aching body that threatens to endure, and endure, and persist. He’s here one day and could be gone the next.

This is a love letter to Noah Schroder.

/

It’s a lackluster onset that’ll cut the first turf for what’s 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, it’s up to stagnancy to do the heavy lifting that curiosity can mildly provide.

The drives up to the music therapist’s 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 beginner’s footnotes to be remembered. These will be the things he’ll later be grateful to know and become built upon.

A preoccupied middle school advisor with gum clicking to her teeth obliges, “there’s a few seats left in string orchestra if you want to fulfill your elective requirement.”

In a wool beanie that covers where Noah’s 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 he’s in the third, then second, then first row beneath Mrs. Sandoval’s 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, unfinished—this sick alien-faced boy.

As if his eyes were just bearishly slit into his face when he was a womb. God couldn’t 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 he’s 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 family’s plan, wallet, and clothes.

By the time Berklee entertains his acceptance, he no longer calls himself a violinist. “It’s just something I know, and had fun with,” he’d say. “The piano—that’s usually everybody’s choice of a foundational instrument, right?”

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 College’s law program when they had met, very predictable (not so much excited about “love” in recent years, yet remained together for the two children in their lives). Once bought a beat up guitar on mom’s card with hopes of paying her back. Nothing fancy, it’s not Fender’s new model. An old, yet painstakingly reliable six string Stratocaster in a fiery red body coat—chipping with age. Gig bags, wires and amps all included.

Noah makes several friends away from home. He learns there’s 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 don’t interfere.

All because Noah booked it to Seoul, sabotaged his chances of available space in a NYC based alt-rock band. It’s been forever since his last visit; the last time he had seen his extended family gone forgotten. His mother says it’d be good for him, to disconnect from here for awhile and go back, maybe even visit auntie Euijeong in Namwon for Chuseok. It’d be the right thing to do, since it’s been forever and a half ago.

Because running Protools in a studio offers decent pay for their trivial faith in assistants, but it’s enough for a studio apartment and more. But that’s not where the real chase is. It’s in the lofty seats of a record label’s lobby, the seats in the booker’s room, the contract beyond the readings in fine print—that’s where the money is. Gigging around town and filling in for so-and-so’s act until a guy slips his card in, talking about ‘I know some people’ only for The Here and Now to begin their steadily free-flowing journey.

Now?

Name: Hwang Mido Pseudonym: Luce Pronouns:  She/her Age: 24 Occupation: Fortune Teller Canon: SOLO_04

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 she’s learned to love. her grandmother used to supervise her all the while, ensuring that her little one’s 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, it’s 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 “quirk” of hers, her guardians had to keep a close eye on her at all times.

when she wasn’t 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. she’ll never, ever forget watching the two of them on-stage. her grandmother’s voice alone carried so much magic in it, and the beat of her grandfather’s drum reminded her of the pitter-patter that hearts make. the stories told always captured her, no matter how many times she’d 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 music—acting not only as parental figures, but also mentors; nurturing these interests as best they could. money was never abundant, so they couldn’t 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. she’d 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 didn’t stop there, though. inquisitive as ever, whenever she would inquire about a certain mystery woman that’s 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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t 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 smile—leaving 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 didn’t 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 didn’t know it then, but it’s also something that moved both her mother and her father, too. however, the discovery of that didn’t 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, they’d 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 fashions—asking nonsensical questions, offering whimsical comments, and laughing at seemingly nothing. not only that, but around this time frame, she developed an interest in divination. she’d bring knapsacks full of crystals she’d collect, tarot cards she’d practice readings with, and it wasn’t unlike her to offer to read strangers’ palms for more experience. at first, she thought that may have been the only reason as to why she’s received such a negative reaction from them all of the sudden.

however, without anyone’s knowledge, a schoolmate’s mom ( one who the hwang family ) let it slip that mido’s mother suffered a mental break postpartum, and it sadly only took a couple of months before she ended her time in this dimension, in search of the next. when all of this got whispered around school, everyone was dumbly convinced that she was a cursed person, so they mocked and alienated her. friends had already been hard to come by due to her eccentric flare, but now, it was even worse. when word inevitably got around to her, she suffered her first ever heartbreak—one that began to mar the naïveté she’s forever possessed; one that was at the hands of her own household. maybe if she had been able to take the much-needed time to digest it she would’ve handled it better. she was stripped of that, and now, the biggest enigma in her life became her worst nightmare.

III.

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 doesn’t 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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. it’s 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 left—guitar 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 wasn’t important enough for her to complete, she left a note behind for her grandparents, and started life as a starving artist—which 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, mido’s 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. she’s always been able to sympathize with others easily—hell, 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t have back in gurye; one that she wanted to explore fully. she accepted any drink or substance offered to her—indulging 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 wasn’t the victim of misfortune. instead, her capriciousness and her fierce need to be accepted led to her infidelity.

to her, saying yes is dramatically simpler than saying no, and when the vibe is right and all feels magical, she’s quick to give into temptation; unearthing layers of herself that she’s never seen before; sides that veer uglier than the others. when everything came crashing down, mido was beside herself. she caused all of these problems and had no on else to blame. she made her bed and now she has to lie in it, and it was harder because her lover’s friends had become her friends, and because of what happened, no one fucked with her anymore. it was like high school all over again, but this time, she deserved to be “targeted.” it’s like she missed the feeling of being alienated and made the choice to inflict it on herself again. deciding to take a step back, she accepted a job offer at a saju café to be a fortune teller. she spent the next few years writing, composing, and working; investing all her time and money into paying rent, buying equipment, and making improvements—both musically and personally.

V.

she became a ghost in seoul until the dawn of 2020. she remained quiet, focused on her music ( as that’s 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. it’s dreamy, soft, and heartfelt; comprised of simplistic melodies and poetic lyrics. she’ll 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 “light,” as she felt it matched her work in an honest way.

in the beginning, mido’s 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 didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable—including herself. she laid low and did her own thing for awhile, and in doing so, amassed 35k followers on social media. it’s something she’s 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 mixtape—one 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 she’s adamant on swallowing her anxieties and reaching her goals; no matter what.

Name: Hyun Woorim Pronouns: He/Him Age: 30 Occupation: Staff Writer at RiTZ Magazine Canon: RITZ_01

banghwa-dong, gangseo-gu.

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; it’s 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 parents’ sappy romance and movie-like love story, but woorim doesn’t know of any. all he’s 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; he’s only learned to follow woohyun’s trail like a lost puppy, wide-eyed and wary of another fight brewing. avoidance, that’s what woorim knows best.

his dad isn’t the physically aggressive type of alcoholic, but more brooding, sulking, sleepless, trivial. his mom isn’t 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 who’s a damn eleven years younger than her first. you’re 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 mom’s 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. woorim’s graduated by then and gets accepted to hongik university, which his brother, newly married and working at a conglomerate tech company, pays for. he’s 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 he’d promised his mom that he’d, at least, go to college, and he’d 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 couldn’t 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.

she’s 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. she’s 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. he’s a terrible student that skips classes, gets into fights, stays out late and never goes home, but he’s 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 he’s 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 people’s fingertips.