bad religion

she seemed perfect from every point of view. she's no angel, but she's my religion.

[mournfulroses]

Erica Jong, from a poem titled "Dear Colette," featured in Loveroot: Poems, originally published in 1975

[dayfires]

LOVE IS A HOUSE

"I never wanted kids, actually." Maybe it was a stray thought between the madness in her daily routine. These are words from the same woman that raised him alone. But maybe that was the problem, she was alone for so much of it. Life had always been a little difficult and no sure sign that it could get better. "Is that why I'm an only child?" he jests.

IN AUTHENTICITY: Thanh laughs. "Em bé của mẹ (my baby)," she says. "Name after my small brother. He good and..." She contemplates. "Very tốt và có lòng tốt (He was good and had a kind heart/sense of self). Mẹ phải rời xa em của mẹ trong chiến tranh (I had to leave him during the war)." He hears the hurt in her voice.

She'd written her family letters everyday. In each envelope, she had stamps and stickers as gifts for her younger brother. After six months of no answers, they'd found out that mail workers were stealing their mail because it was embedded with the American stamps. The letters were kept and opened in hopes of finding something of value. When they do finally receive word, Duy had struggled with a virus and passed nearly as quickly as he'd fallen sick. Duy nods his head. "Dạ, con biết (Yes, I know). Hãy đến thăm cậu một ngày nào đó (Let's visit him [uncle] someday)." He’d gone to Vietnam on a trip with his mother around the time he started to walk. He remembers the tears and Thanh’s struggle to leave her childhood home. Duy found it funny how even good things could haunt the living.

Language is a beautiful thing and Duy is glad he grew up with his mother hounding her native tongue. To the foreign ear, everything is fast-paced. Its tonal nature made it hard to learn; the flat, rising, falling, and sharper sounds changed what the words meant. “Trời (*Directly translated to sky/heavens, can be read as ‘oh my God’),” Thanh would say each time she had to leave work early to pick him up from the principal’s office. Then there was a warmer “trời” when he’d clamor inside the house with stringed flowers over a mud pie. That eventually turns into an eye roll as he grew older, but the two always found a way to laugh about life.

HE UNDERSTANDS HER BEST: “I was afraid of being a bad mother. Then when I had you, I was afraid of losing motherhood. I struggled with what it meant to be a mother—especially being a single-parent in a culture that shamed a woman for standing alone.” Duy offers a smile and rests a sure hand on her shoulder. She’d grown thinner throughout the years—she even stopped dyeing her hair back to brown. Sometimes, he wonders if she might just break from the stress she’d held onto over the years.

“I think that you’re a wonderful mother. I hope that in another life, we could be family again. If I had you as my mother again, then I must’ve done something really great in this life.”

“You’re silly. On that topic—what about you? When will I get grandkids?” She’s only half joking, Duy knows that much. He’s at the age where even his grandparents are in a rush. "Ah, the urgency." He throws his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. " Most days I feel like a kid still." He feels his mother's hand brush his cheek. "You have all the time in the world to grow here. Love is a house."

[dayfires]

A LOVER IS A HOME

When the holidays near, Thanh does her best to overlook her differences with family. Duy's father was a questionable man but she felt a desperate need to give her son a "full" (that's how she'd describe it) life. This year, Duy seemed more resistant to showing up to the gathering. She insists that it would be nice to spend time with his cousins, but she could sense that despite sitting with the same people and talking about the same things, her boy found a way to outgrow it all.

Rylan "Duy" Bùi is in his early twenties. But he'd always be her baby. His face looks thinner now—all her homemade food had escaped him and she's all too aware that he's skipped a meal or two since living on his own. She always wondered how he managed to hold onto anything for so long; she was always afraid he's disappear into thin air. It feels like an overnight change. One day, she was cupping his face and the next, she'd watch his laugh lines take a part of his face's shape. He doesn't greet her the way he usually does when he arrives. He sits with his cousins and his face stays solemn until there's a light ding from his phone. Duy softens at whatever message he'd received and Thanh figures that it's about their recent disagreement. Their problem takes the form of a woman. It's one that has managed to wedge a greater barrier between her and her son. She had insisted that he didn't bring her as his plus one. Thanh led with the concern she had for the woman's child and how a mother had her responsibilities. She grimaces at the thought. What would their family think? What would they think of her as his mother? Did she teach him well? Amidst her anxieties, the knife that cut deeper was the distance between her and Duy. She approaches him with the intention of urging him to invite his partner, even if it was later into the evening. But just as she opens her mouth to speak, Duy stands up and grins in the direction of the entrance. Then comes the realization that in more ways than one, this woman acted as a sort of reflection of herself. Thanh greets her this time, with a warmer smile. She reaches for the other's hand and guides her to the seat next to her son. "I didn't mean to intrude but Rylan insisted and I really do want to make an effort to be present in his life as well." It's an explanation that Thanh didn't ask for but it was every confirmation she needed that maybe, just maybe, her boy was in safe hands. "Intrude?" her brows raise slightly, meshed with her sharper features. "You give him something I cannot. Love is a house, but a lover is a home." And she leaves Rylan with a plate of mandarins to share. "I'm happy you're here."

[stuckinapril]

[oddfrntzzz]

[dayfires]

LOVE IS A HOUSE

"I never wanted kids, actually." Maybe it was a stray thought between the madness in her daily routine. These are words from the same woman that raised him alone. But maybe that was the problem, she was alone for so much of it. Life had always been a little difficult and no sure sign that it could get better. "Is that why I'm an only child?" he jests.

IN AUTHENTICITY: Thanh laughs. "Em bé của mẹ (my baby)," she says. "Name after my small brother. He good and..." She contemplates. "Very tốt và có lòng tốt (He was good and had a kind heart/sense of self). Mẹ phải rời xa em của mẹ trong chiến tranh (I had to leave him during the war)." He hears the hurt in her voice.

She'd written her family letters everyday. In each envelope, she had stamps and stickers as gifts for her younger brother. After six months of no answers, they'd found out that mail workers were stealing their mail because it was embedded with the American stamps. The letters were kept and opened in hopes of finding something of value. When they do finally receive word, Duy had struggled with a virus and passed nearly as quickly as he'd fallen sick. Duy nods his head. "Dạ, con biết (Yes, I know). Hãy đến thăm cậu một ngày nào đó (Let's visit him [uncle] someday)." He’d gone to Vietnam on a trip with his mother around the time he started to walk. He remembers the tears and Thanh’s struggle to leave her childhood home. Duy found it funny how even good things could haunt the living.

Language is a beautiful thing and Duy is glad he grew up with his mother hounding her native tongue. To the foreign ear, everything is fast-paced. Its tonal nature made it hard to learn; the flat, rising, falling, and sharper sounds changed what the words meant. “Trời (*Directly translated to sky/heavens, can be read as ‘oh my God’),” Thanh would say each time she had to leave work early to pick him up from the principal’s office. Then there was a warmer “trời” when he’d clamor inside the house with stringed flowers over a mud pie. That eventually turns into an eye roll as he grew older, but the two always found a way to laugh about life.

HE UNDERSTANDS HER BEST: “I was afraid of being a bad mother. Then when I had you, I was afraid of losing motherhood. I struggled with what it meant to be a mother—especially being a single-parent in a culture that shamed a woman for standing alone.” Duy offers a smile and rests a sure hand on her shoulder. She’d grown thinner throughout the years—she even stopped dyeing her hair back to brown. Sometimes, he wonders if she might just break from the stress she’d held onto over the years.

“I think that you’re a wonderful mother. I hope that in another life, we could be family again. If I had you as my mother again, then I must’ve done something really great in this life.”

“Parenthood is difficult—what about you though? When will I get grandkids?” She’s only half joking, Duy knows that much. He’s at the age where even his grandparents are in a rush. "Ah, the urgency." He throws his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. " Most days I feel like a kid still." He feels his mother's hand brush his cheek. "You have all the time in the world to grow here. Love is a house."

[dayfires]

Background

By allegiance of his family, Hanbin’s views should have aligned themselves to sympathize with his father or those seeking to understand Hanjae's behavior. However, his relationship with his father was thwarted upon the strikes he passed to his mother. In attempt to to come to her aid, the boy was attacked as well. “I’m doing this because I love you,” Hanjae had told him. It became a daily reminder. Everything he did seemed to be because he “loved” Hanbin—though it seemed to rework itself into anger and confusion when his mother leaves home. In times of joy, the Choi family would be one of joy, but as soon as Hanjae put a hand on alcohol or simply grew agitated, porcelain would fly and skin would bruise. Worse happens when Yubin's divorce papers show up in the mail. Hanbin hated his father because he told him there was love when there wasn’t.

[finalset]

bite the hand

[dayfires]

Modern Myth

Are you hopeful? It's a recurring question since Jeongbin's death. Yang Hyein sits beside him on the piano stool (he makes room for her and extends his arm to reach the key at the beginning of the case). Though it's not like it's any good. Jeonghwan's fingers stutter over the ivory and his palm stiffens. He's a thing of tired bones but the bones in his hands are no longer his own.

Sometimes, when his exhaustion is a too loud to ignore, he thinks back to when he was a kid and his brother wouldn't stop shouting no matter what he did. Jeongbin was always a little too angry all the time. He’s exhausted like when his brother still left him despite all he did, and it was suddenly too quiet. He’s had hope before. It's like holding a light, but the thing with light is that it's not real. Not in any way that matters, at least. He tries his best to not treat it that way, tries his best to pretend it wouldn't slip out from between his fingers at any time. Breathing too hard feels like a grand mistake (and any mistake could send that light away).

Yang Hyein is as good as light is to Jeonghwan. He could barely look at her growing up, she glowed so much. The question stands: is he hopeful? Maybe if hope is meant to be the preacher's daughter from across town. Maybe, if hope is bounded by responsibilities and circumstances. The first time the Yang daughter kisses him, it's in secret. He clenched his fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms. Jeonghwan wondered if she would kiss him again. In that moment, he swears she's Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. There's nothing like the feminine agency and the way things work out for Hyein. The last time Hyein kissed him, it's still in secret. This time, Jeonghwan kisses her back. True judgement is passed with a clear mind. His eyes are shut when he feels her mouth to his because they were exchanging breaths the way they exchange words. And while he's been told it's polite to keep his eyes shut, Jeonghwan peeks through his lashes. In that moment, he thinks about Orpheus and Eurydice. He always wondered about Orpheus. How hard could it be not to look? Especially with so much at stake, Jeonghwan would think that a man would have more self-control. And then he looks at Hyein and she looks like she's made of sadness. Times like these, he understands. Jeonghwan looks and looks. It's hard to look away when he's the one that shows up at the station empty-handed. It's harder to feel sorry for himself despite the anguish that follows. Hyein doesn’t have to say anything for him to sense her disappointment. Her eyes tell. Orpheus watches his Hope leave for a second time.

[dayfires]

LA JAVANAISE ╱ Yang Hyein (...) entwining her fingers with his she looks up and gives jeonghwan a small smile, trying to put on a somewhat brave face despite her racing heart beat and uneasy smile giving here away. / "anything you want, i'll make it for you."

He'd leave as quietly as he came. They've been at this for awhile: the late night passing through. A part of Jeonghwan is sure he loved Yang Hyein before he even knew it. The Lee daughter sure knew. She never did tell anyone but maybe that wasn't the blessing he initially thought it was. Though as much as their families would prefer it, their affection was not unfounded. Mostly unspoken, yes, but he kept her words and secrets safest in his mind. Maybe he tucked it somewhere between his lungs to live and breathe her burdens alongside her. "I'll be good," he mumbles. 'I'll be good' because he really couldn't ever get rid of that schoolboy veneer—not when she’s as kind as she is to him. 'I'll be good' because leaving Hyein is never easy and he'd have to gather as much as he could of himself and find ways to leave behind the part of himself that he keeps with her. Jeonghwan knows Hyein (more than he thinks but not much as he'd like). She gives him suggestions, she holds him with what he hopes is love. Regardless, he smiles into her shirt because he’s grateful. So thankful that he doesn't have to dream of her, that he doesn't have to wish to be next to her because they were in fact, exchanging breaths between comfort and confessions. And Jeonghwan is in fact, counting the the rise and fall of each beat he feels from Hyein. He doesn't comment on it, he just presses a shy, airy kiss her shoulder and does his best to commit this moment to memory. He practically brushes past her. "Kimchi sounds good. Can I help?" His fingers rub at her knuckles and trace the lines on her palm. "… I'm going away for a little. My mother found a doctor in the city. Might be a moment before I'm useful again." ... "But it's not a big deal." He returns her sure smile. "You're braver than I am. I have to work harder, don't I?" ... "You're the bravest person I know." Giving credit where it’s due.

[kosmogrl]

[dayfires]

Gambling Mathematics: House Edge

Byungho takes a backseat in most of his interactions. Around most people his age, he acted as a mere shadow—some things were not worth his engagement. However, for those who are able to peak his interest, they find that he is effective, stealthy, precise—all traits that garner praise. Before rising to the occasion, he made the time to proceed with proper judgment. It left room for negotiation and strategy, which ultimately ensured that he would rarely ever be the one who carried out the punishment. Initially, Byungho felt displaced in Namgil’s company and pastime activities. He wondered how the two were friends to begin with; he was if anything, a stark contrast to the prodigal Jeon son. I’ll think about it. Because before he was his own man, he was his father’s. So when Namgil first drops into a casino with Byungho trailing behind, the Nam son considers the three common vices that Byungchul (his father) believed to be the potential downfall of any man: gambling, smoking, and women. It’s outdated.

He’s thought enough about it. Byungho sits in for the nth time, amongst strangers in a gentleman’s club. For Namgil. His wrist lies heavy on the table, forefinger tapping the half lit cigarette. The low light is almost too dim—except on the main table where he finds his friend. In the background, Byungho is masked by the red ambiance. He thinks to himself: he’s not entirely there. But he’s there, for Namgil. Posture corrected, polished cufflinks, and punctual certainty. It’s no coincidence that the boys are at a distance. Namgil was surrounded by familiar faces when he’s dealt his hand. Byungho sits as a stranger in the crowd. He’s accompanied by a random he met on the way in—all no later than an hour after the other’s arrival. Are you taking me dancing? “Well now I have to—we’ll dance plenty tonight.” Rushed banter and it’s enough to have her sitting pretty on his lap. He wouldn’t take her anywhere after; he’d thank her for her time and leave as quietly as he came. Byungho finds that he is an accomplished fabricator: his free hand strings her longer hair through his fingers and this paints a scene where he looks almost infatuated with her—most are when the night heightens their anonymity and someone is as lovely as she is. But there are greater glories for him. While the themes of the venue invoke a shamelessness in others, Byungho entertains a poison that kills just as easily as it is sweet: Namgil’s addiction and his own need for perfection. “What if I told you that I can make sure you win every single time?” A small smile. “And the only time you’d lose is when winning gets boring.” He strokes the other’s thrill-seeking ego. “Because it does, right?” Byungho himself isn’t even sure that he can make this guarantee. There is more than one ego being stroked.

This particular gentleman’s club was notorious for their house edge. It makes sense, it’s about business. Metrics follow where logic is nourished. The one certainty he has about gambling is that things are almost never left to chance. The recurring winner is the house—with enough gross profit that is projected from each game, the house decides that the longer someone plays, the higher their odds are to match the house edge. It is never before someone spends a generous amount that this opportunity presented. But it would. For Namgil.

[dayfires]

être rouge de colère et de tristesse

2012. Admiration is a selfish thing. It belongs to the observer, not the person who is looked at. When Park Jeonghwan thinks of everything that could have been, it feels like his time lamenting on events and people of the past is selfish. In many ways, it is. 

His own existence served as a sort of reminder.

He reminisces in private, to the point where his wine runs past the rim of the glass. the VCR scratches and recoils at the replay. There were times where he dusted off his violin case and played with the bridge of his violin. It starts as excuses: the string snapped, the tuner is struggling, and he’s always too distracted. 

There is not a single note from his strings. Red is the color of his passion for a future in music—red is also the color that marks the death of it. He’s red with wrath, red with hate, red with resentment. Red like the blood they can all recount when the missing children show up. full of fear and feeling—to the point of delusion. Did what happen, actually happen? 

Anything good is worn thin, anything worth admiring is a selfish act when done by Jeonghwan. When he adores something, he barely gets away with it. He’s red with obsession, where he’s sure he’s murdered a part of himself in those woods. It had to be him or the devil. Admiring the past, wondering about the past, liking it, loving it; this is all things done for his own benefit (and demise). When he remembers everything that could have been, he’s quieted. red is the color of the blaring silence.

This is not a praise to his achievements and entirely a fault of his. He takes peace in himself (old habits die hard) and he takes peace from himself. “You don’t get it,” accusatory but true. Jeonghwan feels a hand help him unravel the dust cover. His hand trembles without the guidance—his fingers fall over the wrong notes. They line the fabric’s corners up with the piano keys. “Rest,” is what he hears. “You are my living legacy.“ 

August 9-15, 2012. Jeonghwan doesn’t typically talk about the events in the forest—he made his statement and never touches it again. He blurs out the sick details with hard liquor and gains some semblance of temporary bliss through his frequent chain smoking. It’s a disturbing delusion, really. Everyone last heard from Jeongbin on the 9th and Jeonghwan sees his brother every single day. In the end, there’s a monster that he loved and the monster loved him back because in many ways he was an extension of it. But their town and their people had a tendency to punish those running on love.

Even if he saw what happened with his own eyes, if there was no body, there was hope.

Jeonghwan had yet to embrace the monster that his brother left behind. He slotted it somewhere between his lungs and it claws at his ribcage. Still, he accepted it as part of himself and uses it as an excuse to refuse any attempt at affection he might receive now.

Perhaps if Jeonghwan himself did not serve as a reminder of who his parents lost, he would have had not need an outlet for his darkness and violence. Maybe if he skipped town when Yang Hyein did, they would’ve made something good of it. Too many variables exist. Jeongbin is declared legally dead on January 15th, 2023.

Hope breeds abiding misery. When that hope has diminished, there is the red rage of the forsaken. Goero grips him cold.

[dayfires]

LA JAVANAISE ╱ Yang Hyein (...) he has all the sense his brother lacked. / dragging him along to the bathroom, she pauses just before they enter the confined space. / "you can stay the night if you'd like," she finally says, "i'd rather if you did honestly, just in case."

"No," he admits. It's meant to be a thought but truth leads in Hyein’s presence. It’s subconscious: his desire to seek her forgiveness for all of his brother’s wrongs. It’s not like he knows what to expect or how he’d even begin to repent for his brother. But he starts with bearing what he can of himself to the Yang daughter. That was the difference between him and Jeongbin—his other half was never afraid to take up space. He took up so much space that Jeonghwan practically disappeared. There’s nothing like living so far within oneself that they’ve managed to lay claim to the backseat of their own life.

Jeonghwan feels afraid to take anything from Hyein, even if she offers it. But hungry dogs are still dogs. The Park boy leans one cheek into her palm. In these moments, he wonder if Hyein’s care is from a place of sympathy or pity. He decides that the two can coexist—he is after all, a sorry example of a Park. The second son of the second son. He allows himself to linger at her touch. He'd likely die like that: devastated and in the palm of her hand.

“Would that be okay?” Which is interchangeably, ‘Are you not ashamed of me?’ Sometimes he thinks it’s all that Jeongbin left him: shame. And grief. The gnawing in his feet settles in and he feels the soles of his feet sting. "Can we make something warm to eat?" he asks this as he leans himself against the sink and feels the water run in between his fingers. The hand tremors are back—a fair reaction following the events in the forest. When he dries off his hands (on his button up), he uses Hyein's arms to steady himself enough to sit on the rim of her bath. "Sorry for showing up unannounced." Jeonghwan leans into her side and closes his eyes. "I must've startled you, I'm sorry."

[dayfires]

LA JAVANAISE ╱ Yang Hyein there are nicer ways to express concern, she’s sure, but they all escape her in the moment and fear gives way to irritation as she looks over him, “have you even been home yet? you look like you walked here straight from the forest.”

There’s something arguably vain about the way Jeonghwan hurts. He laments, people pity him. They use their self-control, he loses his self-control. Grace was something he felt entitled to. His lighter burns to the flick, flick from his thumb, and then he decides that Jeongbin’s laughter is hard to forget. It’s the most conscious thought he’s had since the funeral. Nam chunja’s death reminds him of many things. The loss of a loved one in particular, even if they weren’t all that close. He used to visit her estate to play music for her; she was enthusiastic about classical music and allowed him to dabble in jazz. Jeonghwan was now left with the lingering thought of: I owe everyone a little more. See, he came across a crumbled letter in the home office. It’s addressed to Jeonghwan of all people, requesting that he played for Chunja’s service. That explains his mother’s gruff demeanor that morning. He tries not to think much of it.

It’s not like he enjoys it but the liquor is lukewarm on his lips and trickles with a burning down his throat. It’s the one thing keeping him warm that night. Sometime past five in the morning, his stomach feels staked from the way it all settles. His flask is emptied and he chokes a bit. The alcohol overtake has a palm cup his nose. His reflexes depress and he wonders if he might die then and there. But he’s a Park and he's too stubborn to. “It’s been a long time,” Jeongbin says and it’s followed by laughter. Familiarity runs deep. It’s not difficult to remember someone’s posture and how it affects the way they walk. His brother’s echo in the forest is no different: Jeonghwan recognizes his voice but accepts that he’d forgotten his laughter. When he does see his brother, he finds that everyone in the group had taken off. He spent a little longer in the forest. Jeongbin, are you mad at me? / Let’s go home, we can talk about everything. / Why’d you leave me here? / Did I do something for you to leave me? There’s nothing like being left behind. Maybe that’s why he needed to see Hyein. He doesn’t call, because he can’t. Sometime between the string of missed calls from Miyoung and the doctor’s notes regarding Jeonghyuk’s condition kills his battery altogether. “Jeonghwan, what the fuck are you doing here?” is what he hears. The glass of water trembles in his hands. The sobering bit of it all was the look on her face. How terrifying must it have been for her to see Jeongbin’s face twice that day and every day that would follow (as long as she kept him around, she’d see Jeongbin). He began to feel the ache in the soles of his feet. There’s no hiding his guilt, Jeonghwan wears that face well. “I couldn’t be alone.” He wants to ask if she’s mad at him for showing up but he only puts his hand over his own heart (an attempt to steady it). His throat still feels dry. “I didn’t know where to go.” Jeongbin might as well have paid the crime forward. Maybe his face has thinned out over the last months. The bags under his eyes are apparent. The scratches along his cheeks are fresh from the forest. The tree branches cut through him—paper to flesh.

[dayfires]

"do you think i'm entitled?" darius' words are caught in her tresses. she doesn't answer—what did she really know about him? he whispers into the crook of her neck and it clings to her earlobe. she pours them back into the corner of his lips.

this is a conversation, this is how we talk

[ruhlare]

what they didn't tell you about love is that it will find its way back safely to you

[dayfires]

in my native language, the word for admiration also means 'to watch'. in both instances, it belongs to the person who looks, not the person who is looked at. when i think of you, it feels like i’m doing something selfish—i barely get away with it. admiring you, wondering about you, liking you; this is all something that's done for my own benefit. when i see you, i am quieted. this is less of a compliment to you and more a fault of mine. i take peace in you and i take peace from you (i'm sorry, i'll leave it all alone). it is a mercenary act.

there's a version of you that i do not have but did not lose