#cwk // ursa

[cwkrp]

have a little imagination, will you?

INTRODUCING   son sujin, she/her, 17/12/95 COURSING   ba in applied arts, second year AFFILIATION   ursa ANNOTATIONS   n/a

a note from the past.

TOKEN.

slender fingers combed through freshly dyed hair, a smile aimed at her from behind the barber chair.

“you look so beautiful, my love.”

it’s a compliment, so eight year old son sujin smiles back through the mirror. after all, a compliment is such a rare thing from her mother. she’ll take what she can get, even if it only comes after everything about her has been modified. if that’s what it takes, then maybe the change was needed.

heels clicking with every step and sneakers slapping against linoleum, a little girl trying desperately to keep up with her mother. she looks out of place next to her, a clumsy child with rubber bracelets and scabbed knees to accent her school uniform while the woman is anything but. she’s all elegance and curves accentuated by a tight red dress and red lips to match. they’re a site to see as son mirae guides her child into an expensive shop, littered with mothers and daughters who looked to be in the same boat.

“try this on,” she suggests, holding out a simple white dress to the schoolgirl. sujin takes it, albeit reluctantly, and lets herself be shown to a changing room. that’s where it begins. she exchanges her bland school uniform for something more glamorous and before she can even show her mother, more dresses are being handed to her through the curtain. galactic shades of blue and purple, oranges and yellows that could put the sun to shame. she’s made into a doll, so she might as well play dress-up.

“what is all of this for, mama?” she asks as they exist the store, now wearing a soft yellow dress and white wedges. she doesn’t quite like it and she’s found that walking feels weird when she isn’t wearing sneakers, but she doesn’t say that. how can she, when her mom is smiling so widely at her, radiating happiness? how can she ruin that?

she learns that it’s for a pageant. she’ll get to dress up like a princess. it will be fun. she’ll be the envy of all the other little girls. that’s what mirae tells her, anyway, and sujin still doesn’t say anything because that doesn’t sound very fun to her but she was never taught how to say no. even if she had, something told her it would be a losing fight.

one pageant turns into two, and then the number multiplies. she can’t eat her favorite foods anymore because she has to stay skinny. “it’s only until the next pageant,” her mother tells her, but the pageants never end and neither does the diet.

she blinks and she’s sixteen, a petite teenager in high heels and a pink dress, short in the front and long in the back—but it’s a little too short in the front, so she keeps tugging the hem down, but it just inches up more every time. in the end, she gives up and just smiles as she’s awarded with a crown, a sash and a bouquet of flowers.

“give it up for the beauty queen, son sujin!”

it’s a title that fits her, almost. it fits her soft smile and softer features, her pink lips and doe eyes. but it’s not who she wants to be. she’d rather be at home in sweats and a t-shirt, an easel in front of her and a paintbrush in hand. she’d rather be creating beauty than being judged for her own.

she doesn’t say anything, though, because no one had ever taught her how to speak up for herself.

STEREOTYPE.

she’s trying to study for the csat. she’s in her bedroom with the door closed, a compilation of edith piaf’s best hits spinning on her record player. she doesn’t mind studying, not really—it’s relaxing to her, in a way. it’s much more simple than anything else she could be doing.

but her peace doesn’t last for long. the music is drowned out by an incoming phone call and the ringtone is a stark contrast to edith piaf’s relaxing voice, so sujin answers as soon as possible just to get the person off her back. “what is it?” she asks, her voice tired. defeated, almost, although the conversation hasn’t even started yet.

“there’s a party tonight, sujin. go with us.” it’s one of her best friends and she can hear her other friends in the background, laughing among each other. no doubt getting ready for the party. “i don’t know, i’m studying for the…” she tries to explain, but she can’t even finish her sentence before her friend is speaking over her. “c'mon, it’ll be fun. don’t be a wet blanket. can’t you meet us at hyeri’s place?”

sujin says yes, but she means no and she meets them there at seven o’ clock sharp so they can all get ready together. after all, that’s what they want.

the party is loud and crowded, filled with people that she doesn’t know and people she wishes she didn’t. there’s a distinct stench of marijuana in the air and she tries to ignore it but it’s difficult when it’s in every corner, every crevice of the house. she resorts to standing near the dance floor, an unimpressed look on her face because her friends are nowhere to be found now and she doesn’t know what else to do. she isn’t a party girl. she never has been.

there’s a boy standing near her, his gaze lingering on her. predatory. he’s tall, dressed in leather and dark denim; a complete opposite to the petite girl in white. maybe that’s what gets his attention. he approaches her with a cup in each hand, filled with some mixture of alcohol that she’d never want to taste but when he looks at her with those deep eyes and asks if she wants a drink, she says yes even though she means no.

she takes one sip, and he takes a sip of his, and he asks her if it’s good. she says yes because she knows that’s what he wants to hear, and she’s right; he smiles then, and he tells her to drink up. she does, even though she hates the taste and it takes all the willpower she has not to spit it back out.

that’s how sujin’s story goes. every chapter is a series of “yes, yes, yes” even when she so desperately wants to say “no, no, no”. it’s the tale of a marionette and the strings which keep her bound, always grasped in someone’s hands other than her own, even when the puppeteer is unaware of the power they have over her.

a color for the present.

GREEN.

every time they pass the playground, sujin looks the other way. she’s tired of seeing mothers pushing their daughters on the swings and the merry-go-round, tired of seeing children playing on the jungle gym together. the worst part is that when they fall, they don’t frown; they just keep smiling, dust the dirt off of their knees, and get back to climbing. she knows it’s petty to be angry over such a thing, but it feels like she’s the only elementary school kid on the planet who isn’t allowed to play and she can’t help but turn green with envy when she sees them having so much fun.

when she’s in middle school, the father-daughter dance rolls around. it’s all her friends talk about and she wants so badly to go, to feel like she’s part of something, but she lacks one thing; a father. of course, her mother’s man of the month offers to go with her, but there’s something not quite genuine about it and she’s not dumb. he doesn’t want to go. he only wants to earn brownie points with her mother so maybe she’ll keep him around longer than the other men that she lets into her bed. sujin knows that, so she politely declines and he doesn’t push it.

then she’s in high school and she’s in her bedroom, watching some new drama on her television. it’s cute and she almost thinks it might be worth watching until it cuts to a scene of a family on vacation. there’s a mother and a father who appear to be so madly in love despite their three kids bickering in the backseat of the car. it instills a heaviness in her heart so strong that she reaches for the remote and turns the tv off.

as far back as she can remember, she’s always craved a family. maybe if she had a father, there would be someone to control her mother’s reckless spending, her mistreatment of sujin. maybe if she had siblings, she wouldn’t feel so much pressure to be the perfect daughter. maybe there would be someone that she could share her thoughts with, someone that could understand her.

and she knows that family isn’t perfect. she knows that there would be pointless arguments and misunderstandings would arise along the way, but if anything, that only makes her wish she could experience it more. after all, it has to be a step up from the lonely life she’s been given.

RED.

she’s a dreamer. it’s one thing that no one can take away from her—not because she’s fiercely determined, but because she’s quiet about her wishes. she keeps her daydreams under lock and key because she knows herself well enough to know that if someone tells her she can’t do it, she’ll give up.

but when she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see darkness. she sees paintings hung neatly on pristine white walls, floors so clean that the whole place seems to shine. she sees families, couples, kids, critics and everyone in between walking from artwork to artwork, observing. understanding. appreciating.

there’s one painting that sticks out to her, although it’s blurrier than the rest. she can’t quite see the contents and she can never seem to remember the colors, but there’s one part that’s crystal clear—her signature in the bottom right corner. it’s a new painting, freshly unveiled, and that fact doesn’t change no matter how many times she lets her mind drift away to this safe place. there are people crowded around this painting, voicing words of praise and admiration for the new artist.

for someone who doubts herself so much, this dream is one thing that she’s trying desperately to hold on to. trying to believe in. because if she lets herself have one goal for the future, then even the worst days don’t seem so bad. and almost, almost, her black and white world turns to color.

[cwkrp]

have a little imagination, will you?

INTRODUCING   han haejin, he/him, 30/03/95 COURSING   ba in dance performance, second year AFFILIATION   ursa ANNOTATIONS   n/a

a note from the past.

TOKEN.

haejin’s hands tremble where they rest, tight fists upon his knees, with barely contained fury. his eyes stay downcast, disbelieving, lips pursed tight and heart thundering in his chest. the arguing around him sails over his head, becoming distant and muffled until he can barely register it, his own mind making no sense, as if words were something he never quite grasped, despite how stumbles and stutters had been trained out of him in his elementary years.

bile pools at the base of his throat, poisoning him slowly as he breathes one breath at a time, counting them out to remain calm. he’s always had a temper. more now, during the angst of his teens than anything else. his therapist tells him its normal, makes him practice his calming techniques anyway. ‘to make you a healthy adult,’ they say. he thinks adulthood is far enough off, wonders if other fifteen year olds have to deal with this, wonder what it would be like to be normal – not the son of a chaebol.

–except he’s not that either, is he?

he raises his eyes to look at his mother, unable to recognize her, the torment on her face clashing with the stubborn set of her jaw. she softens, but only barely, when they make eye contact. his grandmother still rages, pulling herself up at the head of the table, their matriarch small but so large and intimidating when she gets this way. standing at the other end is his uncle. not a real uncle, but someone the family had practically adopted.

someone who, under their noses, had snaked his way around their precious daughter-in-law, tempted her with sin. haejin’s skin crawls, he wonders if the poison isn’t in his throat, but in his blood, clotting and killing him quicker than he can blink.

it was an affair. they had an affair. for sixteen years.

haejin wasn’t his father’s. he wasn’t this family’s. his grandmother’s eyes turn on him and he can see it plain as day.

bastard.

STEREOTYPE.

[ hidden heart of gold ]

haejin doesn’t get much say in the han household. doesn’t care for it. he’s there for appearances, anyway. as much shame as he purposefully attempts to bring to their name, the mistake that he embodies can never leak. outside of the walls of their house, he’s a firecracker, the heir that goes astray far too often; but within–he’s as good as a ghost.

still, sometimes he can finagle a favor or two. push some sway from distant memories of cherubic cheeks and loving gestures. it might take a bribe or a promise, an offering to keep himself out of trouble, even, but he manages.

it’s just that you have to be real fuckin’ important for him to give enough of a damn.

there have been three times in haejin’s life, since everything changed, that he’s put himself out on a limb for someone. when one of their maids is threatened with her job, though, he doesn’t think twice. she has kind hands, and smiling eyes, folds and creases along her mouth that haejin remembers from his childhood, and haejin thinks he loves her like he would family. it doesn’t matter to him that she stole from them, doesn’t even ask why, just begs and puts his pride aside, for once, to ensure she stays in their home. comes up with an alibi, an excuse, and with anger in his voice, presents his own predicament.

he succeeds and that’s a surprise in itself. when the woman gentles a hand against his jaw, tells him thank you, far too earnestly, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his gaze clear. haejin throws a flippant comment, tells her to not get caught again with a wink, then makes himself scarce. a specialty of his.

a color for the present.

GREEN.

in the grand scheme of things, haejin probably lives a good life. better than the average man, though he always wonders, what it must be like. if he’d be happier that way, without his name tying him down, rooting him to where he is, unwilling.

it’s too bad, that the grand scheme isn’t in focus that often. it’s the blurry details, the smudges of monet’s brush against his nose, unintelligible, that cloud his vision. bitterness wraps cold fingers around his chest where he sits, against the sticky back of a pleather booth, a dull ache behind his eyes from the flashing lights and the bass thumping all around him. he takes a sip of his drink, quelling the downturn of his lips, reveling in the way it bites as he watches the picture before him. his dear friend, having the time of his life. he’s the star, the heart of the party, celebrating another year of life – fawned over and adored.

haejin wants and wants, to be so implicitly accepted, to belong, to have the world at his feet. some might think he does, but they’re only looking at a different blurry detail from him. both unable to grasp the true meaning of– of anything at all.

he locks eyes with a stranger across the way. he can’t have the adoration of everyone, can’t be so wholly carefree in life, but maybe for one night with one person. it doesn’t hurt to give it a try.

no one said you can’t have fun living a shit life.

RED.

moving is in haejin’s nature. fidgeting, bouncing, spinning, dancing. it’s the only time he feels right in his skin. he breathes deep, letting it out slow, his entire body relaxing, deflating, even if to the outsider’s perspective it looks like he’s being filled with tension, reacting to the swell of music. in haejin’s mind, he’s just letting go.

he wants this, is all he thinks as he lets his body move with trained ease. the choreography he dances practiced until his muscles remember it even when his brain doesn’t. the music is his conductor, letting his consciousness fade away as his programming takes over. he wants this so badly.

haejin never lets it show – a dancer is as much an actor when in front of an audience, after all. the desperation he feels for every big role, for the main parts, to want to be put on display, to have success in the forms of shock and awe and applause, he keeps it locked down tight, close to the vest. he cares about this more than most things. his passion, his outlet, his ticket out.

his arms extend, the movement flowing until the last moment, down to the tips of his fingers before he’s swinging into the next arc, the next spin and tumble and jump, breath never quite caught and dreams just beyond the threshold. he dances like his life depends on it rather than just the solo in their next production.

[cwkrp]

have a little imagination, will you?

INTRODUCING   ganokpon phanthumeta (kan), he/him, 14/05/97 COURSING   ba in dance performance, second year AFFILIATION   ursa ANNOTATIONS   n/a

a note from the past.

TOKEN.

There are clothes everywhere; pairs of his otherwise perfectly pressed jeans, jackets, socks hanging from the chairs and shirts scattered all across the floor, the bags he had so neatly packed that very morning wrinkled and violated on one of the corners of the room. Suddenly, the overwhelming desire to cry hits him again. And he can't—no, she’s watching, he can tell by the damned stench of that cigarette, and he wants to slap it away from her mouth so bad.

She says something; a question. It sounds corrosive, laced with her usual knowing tone, but he doesn’t hear. He can’t. A loud ringing noise clouds his mind, and all Kan does before rushing through the door is furiously shove all of his clothes inside the bags again and smack the tobacco away from her chapped lips. It lands on the ground, still lit; with a stomp of his dirtied sneakers the fire is extinguished, and so is whatever line that connected both of them before. She looks outraged, almost scandalized, Kan recalls, but he runs off before she could get to him again. That’s the last time he’s seen his mother, a day before he took his flight to Seoul even against all of the odds, her reprimands, and threats.

That was probably the last time he’ll see her in a long while, as well.

GROWTH.

Now, he loathes being idle. It’s during times like these, when he’s not exhausted enough to simply curl into a ball and sleep, or that motivated to keep pushing himself until he can’t take it anymore, when he’s empty, numb, that he sits back and stares at the ceiling. It all comes crashing down, then. The guilt, the shame, the tickling in his skin that obliges him to scratch at his palms, as if they were dirty. If he misses home, he can’t tell; if home misses him, the answer is probably negative. He was a horrible son, a horrible brother—selfish, egoistic, how could he think of pursuing his own ambitions, and leave them behind like that? How could he betray the ones who fed, housed him, paid for his useless and leeching waste of a life and infantile dreams?

Right. She’d called it that. How could he want to leave an utterly suffocating environment, how could he seek something better for himself? How could he dare raise his voice towards them?

Perhaps, a long time ago, if the fifteen years old Kan could look at himself now, he’d argue that’s not him. The Kan from before would not open his mouth to deride a criminal, would not raise his hand to swat away the biggest of flies. He would swallow any threat, any malicious word, for the sake of being good. If it was out of fear or lack of self-respect, he can’t pinpoint now. Fifteen years old Kan was meek, docile and a true people pleaser.

The good thing is, he’s gone. And so is whatever twenty years old Kan has left back in Bangkok.

a color for the present.

GREEN.

His unrestrained attitude is what both earns him friends and makes them leave, he’s noticed. Kan’s a great person to those who are great to him, unattached to the indifferent ones and a complete hellion to those who cross him. Somehow, he knows he had always been like that, biting his own tongue and whispering menaces even back when he was still prim and proper—which had gotten him into quite some trouble, although not nearly as much as his capricious nature does now.

He wishes he could be less sensitive, less sharp with his emotions. The years might have made him seem unshakable and adamant to everything, his usual confident and borderline stuck up attitude enough for people regard him as a force to be reckoned with. He falls, he gets up, brushes the dust off his shoulders. Setbacks are but minor distractions.

Until they are not. Kan’s simply at good at masking his emotions—had been doing that for as long as he can remember. He plays it nonchalantly, stores whatever disappointment occurred in a special silver box in his head and only opens it again when he’s about to sleep—and that’s when he lets himself break his own character again, either screaming against the pillow or crying it out until he has to get up again without anyone noticing just to retrieve some painkillers for a headache.

On a second thought, perhaps he should wish for a smaller ego instead.

RED.

He wants to dance. Always wanted to; perhaps his mother’s biggest mistake had been enrolling him into dance classes still as a small child. From there on, it became an obsession; for the shy and quiet Kan from the past, dance was a means of being able to escape his problems and let himself go; for the brazen and showy Kan from now, though, dance is where he can be himself and express his inner persona. When he’s on stage, and everyone’s eyes are set on him, both amazed and enthralled, that’s when he feels in his element.

Kan has changed a lot, should one know him from five to six years ago till now. Perhaps, he had always had this raw side to him held back, or perhaps it has surfaced to counterattack all of the stress he’s been under for so long, but either way—he is glad. He still retains his serious and pragmatic approach to his ambitions, namely dancing, but Kan is undoubtedly a lot more open and outgoing nowadays; not to mention more unrestrained as well. At the end of the day, the core aspect of his that has not changed is his love for the art of movements, and his desire to pursue it above everything else.

It has changed his life for the better, so, perhaps, it could change other lives as well. He will find a way to assure it does.