[ncjeyun]

ncsangyeop‌:

@ncjeyun

[ squirt » 21:37 ] Is there any reason you look good today, Jeyun-ssi? [ squirt » 21:37 ] ^___^

( / taps on your shoulder in passing, hands retreating to himself in pretense of not having touched you at all. his phone’s shoved back into his pocket, no real urgency in needing to see your potential reply all nice and pretty on his lock screen. at the corner of his eye, the ceiling lamp flickers over your head, the latter sleek but not slick. it’s 9-something, yessir. close to 10. hoping you don’t mind that he’s only showing up now (smellin’ like a seven-course-meal haphazardly reduced to three-and-a-half merely due to survivors’ guilt, at that), he sighs and makes his way back to your side of the room, steps measured, careful, slow. ) 

( / smiles with the corners of his mouth pulled in, taking the liberty to perch himself on the edge of your workspace, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you in curiosity more than anything else, ^___^’ing out loud once he’s done giving you the nth once-over within the span of your ten minutes together. )

how goes everything?

(/Your thighs are buzzing, or is that just your phone. The words that light up on your face steel you against the phantom that swings by your shoulder. Or is that just Sangyeop again.) (/You consider replying to your text or feigning surprise. Just keeping your head down low as you diligently thumb in a response, Nothing in particular, but thank you as always. Or with mouth gaped, clutching your left pectoral, You scared me! Either would keep him humored. Instead you turn your head, eyes squeezing to a close as you smile and thank him in person as you do.)

Hello, Sangyeop. And thank you. If you’ll just give me a few minutes to finish this…

(/You swipe at your legs, one itching from residual vibrations and a ball of lint on the other. Maintain your posture when he encroaches on you, your tiny desk. Attend to the remaining figures one table at a time.) (/He doesn’t budge, of course. Bides idle time besides you until the doors swing open and the masses inevitably flood in and he dives in like a fish in water. Sometimes he lets you work unbothered but tonight smells like another kind of animal, cadeish and curious.) (/You exit out of your software and power down your computer and this is when something canine growls.)

Oh dear. (/You look down immediately.) Excuse me. I’ve been remiss with my meals today, so I’m a wee peckish. (/You finally let your shoulders drop and laugh.) I’ve just finished writing out this month’s payrolls. (/You are careful not to bombard him with too many other items. Just the essentials.) Have you eaten already?

[ncjeyun]

a family emergency came up so i will be out for the week—catch you all after sunday!

[ncjeyun]

hi, i’m back, thank you for the well wishes, my jet lag is on the decline, cracks my knuckles, it’s time to g

[ncjeyun]

a family emergency came up so i will be out for the week—catch you all after sunday!

[senshuk]

Visit Original Link

Lucid Fall - 레미제라블 Part 1

[ncliying-blog]

flight 22.

[ncjeyun]

ncliying‌:

liying meets his gaze, nodding in acknowledgement with her lips curled into a smile, before returning to her book. though, she doesn’t do much reading as much as she does drinking, despite how the supposed best wine they offered still leaves a strange taste on her tongue. the greek epic was starting to get rather boring anyways. 

instead, her thoughts are occupied, trying to place that strangely familiar face with something.

her glass is empty once again when he returns, this time standing by her seat instead of heading back to his own. she lifts her gaze from the page, a courteous smile on her face. at the mention of his name paired with the familiarity of his face, something in her brain clicks. what a coincidence. raising a brow, she shuts the book without bothering to bookmark the page.

“a terribly boring greek epic.” she answers in her mother tongue, letting out a short chuckle. then, she extends a well-manicured hand. “zhang liying.” she wonders if he’d recognise that name, like she recognises his. “it’s a pleasure to meet you, jeyun. is this the first time you’re flying to hong kong?”

“Ah,” his voice drops to a gentle simmer. “It can’t be that bad if it kept you immersed for as long as it did.” he offers, tone sympathetic. “Something that drew you to it if only initially, I’d hope.” But the way that she claps the book shut, the way her brows shoot, tell him that were that even the case it wouldn’t be worth either of their time.

As fate would have it Liying’s name provides Jeyun with much more context than he’d originally bargained for. Certainly more than his. At most she might recognize him to be the son of one of the gang’s key sponsors—a young lackey in the making, hopeful to take a seat in the council one day.

Jeyun nods, smile carefully trained. “It is. I’m afraid my Cantonese is lacking, so Mandarin it is. I’m told it won’t be an issue but,” and his lips downturn. “I’d like to be able to manage more than mgoi or mhai.” He rocks onto the back of his heels, holding a hand to the back of his neck. A stewardess attempts to squeeze her way past him (doesn’t shy away from sending him her most poisonous glare) and he flattens himself on the side of Liying’s seat, careful not to encroach into her own space. He sends the stewardess a bow of the head in apology. “And you, miss Zhang? I take it you’re very familiar with the island.”

[ncjeyun]

smerks

“Smirking won’t do you any good here, Miran-ssi. Let’s go through that B flat diminished one last time.”

[ncjeah]

✆, ☎, ø, ✘, @, &, %, ツ, $

✆ — A MORNING TEXT (PAST)

( TXT / Jeyun ) .image_attachment( TXT / Jeyun )  Caldo de castillo. Works miracles on hangovers apparently 😃( TXT / Jeyun ) What did you have for breakfast? 

Keep reading

[quotemadness]

Some conversations are not about what they’re about.

Anne Carson (via quotemadness)

[ncjeah]

reticent

[ncjeyun]

ncjeah‌:

ncjeyun‌:

(...)

“Come to think of it. What did mom say about us last year? I didn’t get a chance to see before she sent them all out. It couldn’t have been anything remotely interesting.”

The cup is held firm between her thumb and pointer, but she doesn’t raise it to taste yet. Under the light, the color of the brew is true to the namesake. From the aroma alone, she’s melting through the seasons quick: March frost receding for fresh, new pastures. Spring just can’t come soon enough. 

“Real funny, Jeyun.” He manages to coax an amused look out of her all the same. "Different themes, maybe? With a bit of practice and some sideburns, Dad could have the Scrooge look down to a tee.“ A step up from their usual fanfare: for as long as Jeah can remember, the cards have always came out nearly identical to the ones from the year before it. The same positioning before their ornament-studded Christmas tree, standing tall and poised in their long sleeve knee-length velvet dresses and chunky cashmere sweaters in variations of cardinal red and evergreen. They’re all smiling, or trying to, at least—the photo revealing various degrees of tight-lipped discomfort save for (of course), Mom. Everlasting it seems, in her serene, elegant glow.

"She’s going to do it for as long as she can.” Jeah finally holds up her tea with a sigh. “Upholding tradition and all.” There’s no pause to savor the notes—a turn of the head, and the cup returns to the tray empty. It’s a daunting, but irreversible thought: them growing older, their parents old. Briefly, she wonders if the third person gone without mention goes through the same morning ritual that she does. Waking up to look yourself dead in the eye, and in that slit of startling disconnect between slumber and clarity, you really aren’t you. 

But that’s a given in a way, isn’t it?

“Oh wow.” Some good news for a change. “After all that circling around each other, huh?” she chuckles. “There’s Soobin with her new baby too, but I only know that ‘cause Mom told me.” Pretending to know any more beyond that point is a lost cause, one Jeah certainly has no qualms over. Soon they will reach a point in their own lives where the family tree is no longer recognizable, with themselves as the two last branches dangling in the breeze, waiting for the fall. Gruesome. No wonder why Mom wouldn’t let her take on the job. 

She resorts to toying with the empty cup. As Jeyun carries on, she can’t help but pick up on the pattern in all of his examples. “You can't possibly be jealous.” A certain playfulness colors her tone, complete with the lifting of the corners of her mouth. Still the baby, ever the baby. The cup is set back down again. "Since you can’t remember, Mom wrote about how she was so happy to have you back home.“ Home: something that spells out another sort of promise. 

The sound of approaching footsteps signals the time: 15 minutes up, and this leg of their conversation folds to a close. 

Jeah straightens up, parallel to the back of the chair. She takes stock, and the number of heads she ends up with is not a pleasant discovery. 

“Hell of a night this’ll be.” She slowly stands to bow in greeting. 

Hell of a night indeed. 

Fin.

[ncjeyun]

make note

Student: Kim Miran (@ncmiran) Level: Intermediate

Franz Liszt: Technical Exercises (scales, arpeggios)

J.S. Bach: Intervention No. 4 in D Minor BWV 775 (for repertoire)

Franz Schubert: Scherzo in B-flat Major D593/1 (for repertoire)

Edward MacDowell: Nautilus, from Sea Pieces (for repertoire)

Bach

Are you using your metronome? :)

Left hand still rushing following opening sixteenth notes

Don’t exaggerate/hammer staccatos; should complement other hand as it runs through melodic phrases rather than overpower 

Good trills

Schubert

Pay attention to phrasing, differentiate your pianissimo from your piano

Loosen wrists (stressful week?)

Make more progress next week if possible to Trio

MacDowell

“A fairy sail and a fairy boat”

It’s tempting to take liberties with rhythm because of frequent changes in dynamics but please keep on beat for now

Left hand good

Practice right hand alone, chords sound robotic

Fantastic! [STICKER]

[ncjeah]

reticent

[ncjeyun]

ncjeah‌:

(...)

“Who would we send them to, anyway?”

The two acclimate quickly to their surroundings, shedding their coats and handing them off to the hunched proprietress, who murmurs demurely if the lady and sir will have anything to drink while they wait for the rest of their party to arrive. Any gyokuro will do please and thank you, Jeyun hums, and with a delicate shuffling of her feet she is gone as if never there.

Jeyun’s claims the seat across from his sister and at the opposite end of the table, slinging his scarf over the backing of the chair. Build your own presence instead of relying on the collective. Emanate it as far as it will go, until it permeates every corner of the room.

The woman returns with a sizable kettle, glazed shiboridashi, and two thinly thrown teacups on a tray. She pours silently, systematically, and slips out. The fountain just outside their window bubbles on, flow of water gliding down rocks smoothed by years both kind and unkind. Warm in his hands, he gives one of the thimble cups to his sister and gives it an unceremonious clink. The most intentional of cultural blunders to be sure, but no one else has to know.

He lifts the cup to his lips. The broth is pleasingly vibrant and sweet, like taking a stroll through a rainforest. “I thought you might look at it differently. Oh Jeah’s first foray into art direction. It’s only a matter of time.” She’d proved herself as the Oh’s representative visionary based on doodles from childhood. She’d upheld her status at her senior thesis show five years ago. Her decision to venture into law had been something of a curveball—whether she’d done it for herself or with the family in mind, he’d yet to home in on.

“Mom’s got a lock on her contact book. We’d have to pry it out of her own hands first.” He laughs. It’s on the tip of his tongue to list off uncles and aunties and their grandmother who is always the first to call once she’s received her card, gushing about Jeah’s beauty resplendent before she catches herself halfway and states—voice neutralizing to its original contralto—how she couldn’t help but notice Jeah isn’t getting any taller.

No, halmae. She’s twenty-seven this year. Even if her face, unblemished and skin stretched taut and firm, hardly betrays it, her time’s passed. Jeyun unconsciously places two fingers to the patch of skin beneath his left eye. The loose puffiness there is sobering. They’re trudging onward in other ways.

“I’m terrible.” Jeyun says instead. “I can’t think of anyone other than Kyunghoon and Jinwoo. And it’s only because they came to me this morning with news of their engagement. Which is finally a thing, by the way.” Everyone else is a convenient, gray-streaked blur. Lost in a soup of fortissimos, debts, and headcounts. 

“Still, I’m not sure anyone actually likes receiving them. At their core they’re just disguised opportunities for moms to boast about their kids, right? Be it in the quality of the photo or the content of the letter. This year our boy James graduated from middle school. He will be attending Daewon in the spring and we wish him all the success in the world! Congrats, James! Or, Chaerin is doing great in her acting career. She filmed in Peru in June and Prague in July! She’s becoming more well-traveled than this old dog!” He frowns. “Come to think of it. What did mom say about us last year? I didn’t get a chance to see before she sent them all out. It couldn’t have been anything remotely interesting.”

[ncjeyun]

reciprocal

Here he is. 

The first in an arc of trucks pulling into the driveway and onto the loading docks, headlights extending deep into the open garage. Old man Hong is already waiting by the rails with arms crossed and next to him, a sepulchral, looming figure at least two heads taller. He’s early, then. Even earlier than him. Jeyun clicks his tongue.

The work is difficult and repetitive but satisfying. His body works like a fine-tuned engine. By the time the magpies croak morning overhead it feels as if the machine has emptied out every last possible reserve. He squeezes out its last drops, pushes the last rickety cart back into storage before pressing a sooty thumb to identification. The unit locks and he knocks his head back and closes his eyes.

Old man Hong approaches with hands in pockets the way Jeyun hears them jingling loose change just behind his ears. He hears the other man approach too, Ferragamos against concrete. Barely scraping. Front edge of his heel rounded just so and he’ll never fix the habit. Jeyun opens his eyes.

“Mr. Hong,” he says with a bow. Then another to the other, “hyungnim.” It feels gritty like asphalt in his mouth and it’s not just dehydration talking. Mr. Hong hands him a bottle of water and Jeyun obliges with both hands and face half-turned and covered. “Thank you,” he clears his throat. “I’ll go ahead and double check inventory now to make sure everything has been delivered properly and that there haven’t been any missteps.”

The old man brushes him off with a wave of the hand. “Don’t hafta.” He says. “Kiyoon already took the liberty for ya while you were spreadin’ out blankets for the furniture.”

“Did he? Did you?”

Kiyoon’s expression is stolid as ever. Habits really do die hard. But Jeyun bows again and by the tug of tension stretching across his face he knows that the same applies for him because he’s smiling like he should. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re a lucky one, ya know.” Old man Hong fishes out of his pockets five ten-thousand won bills. Tips. They are crinkled and filthy from Old man Hong’s persistent fondling but Jeyun takes them with two-hands-palms-out like a good boy. “Not a lot of big bros lookin’ out for their kids like he does. Get him a drink sometime, ya hear?”

He hears.

[jjear]

[ncjeyun]

haze

[ncjeyun]

ncsoran‌:

(...)

“How about… you work on picking a song, and I will get this bottle open?“

He’s at least generous—more than Jeyun can say about the majority of folks he comes across, be it within the scope of his academic trajectory or in family-bound circles. Jeyun is reminded of the multiple occasions he’s found classmates bickering about song choices at university gatherings, or caught wind of Yuripa transactions turned sour because the other party wasn’t willing to go all-in. “I’ll take you up on that, then,” Jeyun replies cordially. “But only until we’ve both had our fill of Satie.” He watches as Soran thumbs through list upon list of tracks before eventually handing his phone to Jeyun.

“Oh?” He obliges, holding both hands open to receive. “We can give the old Gymnopédies a listen—” he starts, continuing to parse through the offerings lit a cool bright white by the screen. It’d fit well with the calm in the air, the offbeat circumstances by which the both of them found themselves in. Fitful. Contrarian. Fitfully contrarian?

“—or maybe. Instead of his furniture, we could go for some of his jokes?” Jeyun suggests, thumbs hovering. As much as the composer’s music was easy and effortless, it could be equally complex, cheeky. He presses down for the first (the third) in a series of three (actually seven). “I love these. They’re like two-minute long satirical jabs. You get a feel for Satie’s sense of humor.”

He looks out to the water again, glimmering blue long after its shores have turned black. The silence that settles between them, languid like the first movement’s opening passages, is shaken by a series of discordant rhythms. This, just as Soran figures out how to get the cork off the bottle. Jeyun’s lips upturn at both this and the staccatos that break an otherwise broodsome melodic line. “It’s like he’s painting a picture of a different lopsided fruit in a basket full of them.” He squints at the text marqueeing across the screen of Soran’s phone. Like a small jolt of lightning, they’re already onto the next movement. “But if I remember correctly, that’s what the French means. Shaped after a poire.” The word tumbles out clumsily, and he puts a hand over his face to mask an embarrassed chuckle.

He backtracks to some of Soran’s other genres. Humming low in the back of his throat, “Hmm… Soran-ssi, you’ve got a lot,” and then, “but it seems like you might have a thing for the unconventional?” Another chuckle slips when he halts at ‘M’. “Math rock. Well that certainly does it. Baroque might be the most mainstream genre I’ve scrolled past so far.”

[thequotejournals]

There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one.

Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go (via thequotejournals)

[ncliying-blog]

flight 22.

[ncjeyun]

ncliying‌:

(...)

“oh — get that young man a glass too, would you?”

Happy Valley for horse-racing, Lantau for hiking, Victoria Peak for taking in the cityscape, Central for high tea but be sure to steer clear away on Sunday, Tsuen Wan for dim sum but if the queues are too long a cha chan tang will do, too. What began in his head as a casual weekend solo getaway some months ago quickly spiraled into a full-fledged seventy-two itinerary on the island. Jeyun absorbs as much as he can from his little book of notes—collected from late-night research and a university acquaintance who’d given him no shortage of unsolicited travel tips—and inserts it back into his bag.

He’s signed his name off at the bottom of his arrival card when an attendant dips into view, red lips rounded into an ‘o’ punched out as if by an awl. In her hands is a thin tray and on the tray a glass of red wine. Jeyun raises a brow. But before he can object, the attendant steps aside to reveal the glass’ sender, who is sitting with legs crossed across the aisle. He bows his head and mouths his gratitude, then swirls his glass and takes one languid sip. An acidity slithers down his throat in a neat, thin trail. While not entirely unpleasant, airplane fare—business or otherwise—is what it is.

Still, the gesture isn’t lost on him. Jeyun paces every sip with the hand on his watch so he can squeeze in a formal, face-to-face thank you. He finishes the glass, calls for the attendant, makes a stop to the bathroom, washes his hands, rubs them down with a pea-sized glob of hand cream. Then he steps out to the other side of the cabin.

Now that he is up close it seems the woman is not Korean; his tongue shifts gears and he offers a nod, “I’m very sorry to interrupt,” he says, “My name is Jeyun. I just wanted to thank you for the glass just now before we landed and I missed my chance.” His eyes flit to the book on her lap. “May I ask what it is that you’re reading?”

[ncjeyun]

trial run

@ncjiwon

It is on a fateful Tuesday afternoon and after a particularly grueling music theory session that Jeyun discovers the great Mr. Baek of Quick N Clean has stepped down from his stage, the finest conductor or a small-scale operation he ever knew now bedridden and approaching death’s door. The jingle of the door echoes in his memory and Jeyun stands still, the ticking of the clock replacing the chimes’ ghostly absence, then blinks at the stranger beyond the counter. Fuzzy though the connection may be, he vaguely recognizes the stranger to be Mr. Baek’s faithful second-in-command, a man mostly relegated to the back of Mr. Baek’s shop, where he would organize labels and press the odd pair of pants or pleated skirt beyond a cloud of hot lemon verbena steam. Shrouded in mist and mystery—until today.

Now there is a face to the name. No, there was never even a name to begin with. Now there is simply a face and a name. Jeyun drops his gaze to the name embroidered in red thread on the breast pocket of the man’s shirt. JIWON, in neat script that looks much like Mr. Baek’s handwriting, Jeyun thinks as he retrieves the folded receipt from the breast pocket of his own shirt. The broad-stroked ㅈ is one and the same and though this amuses him greatly the news of Mr. Baek’s deteriorating health calls for absolute solemnity and perhaps a touch of skepticism.

“I had no idea… Mr. Baek looked to be in perfect health just a few months ago.” He hands his receipt over—in truth, his sister’s receipt, for two wool coats she had dropped off last week and asked him to pick up—and places a stack of dress shirts onto the countertop, his own. A part of him wonders if the man knows who Jeyun is, and if the savvy business-oriented Mr. Baek would bother with details of that nature. “I’m very sorry to hear it and that I hadn’t come earlier to see him. How long has Mr. Baek been gone?” If he’d been away for more than a week it’d have meant Jeah was remiss to pass the information along. But knowing their family’s long-standing relationship with Mr. Baek, it seems somewhat out of character. But then again, this could just be the world’s way of telling Jeyun to get with the program; to begin grasping, understanding, and forging relations on his own.

Diplomacy aside, Jeyun can’t recall ever catching this JIWON fellow press a man’s shirt—not as a tot clinging to his mother’s hand nor more recently as a young adult holding to his own. He is careful not to let hesitance show as he pushes the stack towards him. “I’m afraid I need them within twenty-four hours,” he says with a sheepish dip of the head. “I apologize for the short notice, but I’m hoping that expedited service is still available?”