Junior Assistant (Creative Production Dept)
ENT·Jan 2020 – Mar 2020
Seoul, South Korea
Supported the artist management teams. Conducted research, coordinated studio schedules, and assisted during live recording sessions.
Studio Assistant / Intern
Pisces Recording Studio·Feb 2019 – Dec 2019
Los Angeles, CA
Assisted engineers and producers in studio operations. Managed session preparation, artist support, and basic post-production tasks.
Every day, I walked the same route to the office that I now worked at since leavingThe Loopand joining the team at Frequency magazine. It was an easy twenty minute stroll thatjust so happened to take me past my favourite coffee shop, and a K-Mart. The first time I’d walked past this K-Mart, I’d screeched to a halt so violently that I’d spilled coffee onto my shoes. What had stopped me was a two-meter tall, slightly faded poster of… him. It was an old ad from a sunscreen promotion he’d done before I’d moved to Seoul.
The first couple of times I’d walked past that poster, I had considered switching routes. But then I weighed the outcome of losing my coffee stop against my momentary discomfort, and I chose coffee. It was a conscious decision not to be cowed from a poster. Or of the knowledge that the picture – and I’d really had to choose peace with this knowledge – had been taken during the time we’d been together. The man in that poster… he’d been my boyfriend.
Now he was just a faded advert in a shop window.
May 2022
“Knock, knock.”
The voice at the office door startled me awake from where I had, admittedly been dozing at my desk.
Earlier today, I’d been tagged in a post about Ji–him. Someone had commented on one of his old posts – a photo he’d taken while sat out on his balcony in the apartment he’d shared - still shared? I didn’t know – with the Seoul skyline behind him. A fairly innocuous post, but it apparently looked so similar to a picture I’d shared of that same skyline from our balcony of theapartment. No surprise, really, seeing as the apartment had been on the same side of the same building, just a few floors down. Still, it was mind-blowing to me that anyone might pick up on that.
The person who had tagged me had asked if I’d lived in the same building. I hadn’t replied. Obviously.
But it had put me in a funk for hours, having the knock on effect of putting me behind on what I was actually getting paid to do.
The little, neon clock on my computer displayed 19:22. Bugger. I really hadn’t meant to stay late.
I raised my eyes to the door and smiled at the man who’d knocked.
“Patrick, hey. What’s up?”
“Maybe I should ask you. You actually have a bed, Thompson?”
I pretended to think about it, leaning back in my chair. This was a familiar refrain for us. I had a bad habit of staying late.
“I think so.” I tapped a finger on my chin. “Although I can’t remember what it looks like.”
He laughed, a gruff sort of sound that always made me feel a bit giddy. Like he was the popular boy at school, and I’d gotten his attention, though I internally hated the comparison. I was a proper, grown up professional journalist.
He was a colleague. A very nice, good looking colleague who remembered my coffee order and sometimes walked me to the tube station with an umbrella when it rained.
Patrick shoved his hands into his pockets, shuffling his feet in an uncharacteristic display of discomfort.
