#the visa allows them to come for 90 days and they are staying the fucking 90 days

[chocolaytte]

밤 (night) - i

[mytruthandbeauty]

30 June 2023

So I have another hurdle to jump if I’m going to even apply for residency in Ecuador. It is one partially of my own making, but also due to the ridiculous travel laws of Ecuador.

To make it simple I’ve over stayed my tourist visa in Mexico primarily because I couldn’t go back to Ecuador because they only allow you to visit 90 days and then you have to exit and are not allowed to return until after 12 months has passed, so I’ll have to wait until shortly before I depart to have the government here do a background check, which I would need to apply for the residency visa for Ecuador. You might ask, why don’t I just apply for residency in Mexico, well the simple answer to that is my income isn’t high enough for me to qualify. Astonishingly enough, Mexico requires that you have at least $2,400.00 a month income whether you’re working or retired. It doesn’t matter. To me this makes no sense, because I’ve been able to live well on less than $1,000.00 each month my entire time here. And on top of all this I’m able to save every month several hundred dollars. I’ve also traveled to three other countries and visited two other cities in Mexico since leaving the states. I don’t have any other income just my social security and I’ve only had the cost of living increases as additional money. I haven’t been homeless, ever, nor have I gone hungry or without my medicine. When I have an electric bill that I’m responsible for I have paid it with no problem and I keep my mobile phone working all the time. I even occasionally eat out. As for Ecuador apparently, the people who facilitate your residency application there can’t request a background check for Mexico. They can do it for the US, but not Mexico.

I’m really getting fed up with all these silly laws that countries have regarding who they will permit to enter and remain in their countries and who they won’t. In my mind you should be able to come and go as you please, so long as you aren’t breaking any laws or hurting anyone and these arbitrary border laws are just a problem from my perspective. There should be a worldwide database in which every one is registered identifying them, showing whether they have a criminal record or not and that’s all. We live on this one planet together and we should all be allowed to share it equally.

I understand why some, not many, do not bother with visas they just travel from country to country stay as long as they are permitted and then move on. I’ve considered this approach to living before and I just might do it this time. My one genuine consideration with this is where can I go as a woman of transgender experience be safe and still purchase my hormones over the counter. That is a concern most people don’t have. To me this shows how fucked up this world is and one reason I can’t stand it and humans.

[piracytheorist]

A Kiss for Good Luck (7/15)

Summary: So this is the story of one born lucky, and one born unlucky. Fate will keep making them cross paths, but is it to bring them together, or to test them? Captain Swan AU.

Rating: T (make sure you’re okay with the warnings on AO3) Warnings: This chapter contains mentions of character death and descriptions of past child and domestic abuse.

Word count for this chapter: 4.9k (48k in total) AO3

Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

~

Chapter 7: Emma Swan, October 19th 2011 – October 24th 2015

Emma's senses register very slowly. She first realizes the guy is tasting like rum, and then that he's already pushed her, gently, back.

"I thought it would be a quick kiss," he says and looks slowly up at her. "I have a girlfriend."

"Shit. Sorry."

"'Salright. Go pee."

"Yes. That. Thank you again."

Relieving her bladder and splashing cool water on her face bring her a bit back to Earth. Did she just try to make out with a stranger – one who apparently is taken – because he gave her his turn to the bathroom?

She looks at herself in the mirror. Somehow, though she splashed water on her face while completely forgetting she has make-up on, it has stayed intact, not even a single smudge from running mascara.

She may be drunk off her ass, but she's a good-looking drunk. She smiles at her reflection.

She straightens her back and prepares to unlock the bathroom door when a loud, sharp BANG erupts from outside. The music is still loud inside the club, but Emma can hear people screaming.

Her hand freezes over the key. A shooting?

Some long seconds pass by before a second BANG is heard – and with that, a man screaming. She looks at the window. It's too high to see outside, but it still carries the sounds pretty clear. The people inside are screaming in fear. The man outside is screaming in pain.

Finding some composure, Emma takes her hand away. There's a mop in the corner, and she takes it in her hands. It's not much of a weapon in this situation, but it's better than nothing.

Eventually, the screaming calms down and Emma hears ambulance sirens. By now some people have gotten out, so it's too loud to hear if the probably injured man is still there, or even alive.

A loud bang on the bathroom door and it's Emma's time to scream.

"NYPD! Are you alright in there?"

Emma unlocks the door and opens it. An officer with a bulletproof vest on is looking at her, gun at the holster.

Her alibi provided by locking herself in the bathroom – and the two surprisingly sober people who were waiting outside – is solid, so she's the very first to be allowed to leave. She learns that someone shot a woman in the chest, killing her almost instantly, then shot a man in the hand. She's advised to be careful and not stay alone, but it's not as if she has someone to accompany her.

However, she immediately finds a cab, having a smooth ride to her hostel.

She hears about the shooting on the news the next day, when she gets back to Boston. There are no leads about the killer, though they say he didn't act alone. The injured man is in no danger, but he was a couple with the deceased woman.

The guy she kissed... he mentioned having a girlfriend. And she didn't see him anywhere around after the shots – though she doesn't really have a perfectly clear memory of how he looked like.

Tears fill Emma's eyes. She wants to blame them on the thought that the chance of losing people she loves just like that is another reason why she isn't opening up to anyone, but it just doesn't feel a good enough justification for her crying.

She doesn't want to be cooped up in her apartment for her twenty-eighth birthday, but without any company her main choice is clubbing, and the memories of hearing the shots and the man screaming in pain are too raw, so she contents herself with blowing a candle on a single cupcake with the audacious wish to not be alone.

Tired from a busy workday, she lies in bed, checking her phone one last time. She sees Ingrid has contacted her on Facebook, and she stares at her phone for three minutes straight, having a hard time believing it.

Ingrid says she has been trying to get a visa for years now, but her criminal record especially regarding entering the country had been a big hindrance. A few days ago, her application for a 90-days visa was accepted, and she's asking Emma if it's okay to come see her.

Emma all but bursts out in sobs. She only decided to make a Facebook account a week ago, but Ingrid has been trying to get in contact with her for years, even though she knew there was a chance she may never be allowed in the country again.

She realizes she's too emotional to answer her now, and there's still a part of her that may regret the elated "Yes!" she wants to send back. She turns her phone off and sleeps on that thought.

Her emotions are still reeling from the possibility of seeing Ingrid again, finding out why she'd immigrated illegally in the first place, how she's been doing all this time... how much she's been thinking of Emma. But she still tells her yes, providing Ingrid stays in a hotel and not with Emma. At least not yet.

Ingrid arrives only a week later. Half of Emma wants to meet her at their designated rendezvous the next afternoon; the other half wants to greet her at the airport, perhaps even give her a lift to her hotel. It's the same half that feels guilty she didn't offer her to stay at her place.

The second half wins this round. From the distance, Ingrid looks exhausted and much older than Emma had expected her to look, but when she spots Emma her whole face lights up and she nearly drops her bags.

Fuck it. Who cares anymore. Emma runs to her and hugs her tight, and at once she's eleven and has just learned that that wonderful person is adopting her and giving her a forever, loving home.

"I'm so sorry, Emma. I'm so sorry for everything."

Emma is already crying, and so is Ingrid. Even in the arrivals section that's full of people reuniting, they look out of place. Emma feels a surge of cold when Ingrid pulls back a little, but Ingrid just places her hands on the sides of Emma's face and stares at her.

"Emma, Emma." Her voice is shaking. "You're all grown up. And I wasn't there for it."

"Shut up." Emma hugs her again, knowing that people are starting to stare now, but she doesn't care.

"I should have been more careful... you shouldn't have been left alone like that."

"It was because of my lost passport, wasn't it?" Emma pulls back, but she's not angry, and she's careful to not let Ingrid misunderstand. "When we contacted the embassy in England, to get me new papers so that I could travel back, they looked into your case."

Ingrid nods. "It's not your fault, honey. I should have... I..." She sighs. "I've got so much I want to tell you, and I can't get it out!"

"It's okay. It's okay. How long are you staying?"

Ingrid sniffles, wiping away her tears. "I haven't bought return tickets – yet. I can stay eighty more days, though, as long as my ESTA lasts. That's why I contacted you right as I got it, and why I came so soon. I didn't want to miss any day I could have spent here."

Eighty days. But then she'll have to go back. "Then there's enough time. Come. I'll drive you home."

"Home? Emma-"

"Nope. Forget the hotel. You're staying with me."

The next day, after Ingrid has had her rest and Emma has made them hot cocoa – her mug with cinnamon, Ingrid's neat – Ingrid begins her story.

"At first it was five of us. My parents, me, and my two younger sisters, Helga and Gerda. I might have been the oldest, but my love for my father had blinded me. I thought it was normal to get a beating for every little mistake we made. For every time the food wasn't tasty enough, for every time the house wasn't clean enough. He never did any housework himself, but he demanded it was kept pristine. Otherwise, he would hit us.

"My mother was an only child, her parents died before we were born. Our extended family was all on my father's side, and of course, most of them were just like him. It took me years to even consider that what was happening to me wasn't normal, or okay. Both of my father's brothers were policemen. Both their wives were miserable and distant, in every family gathering I can remember them at. Both of them disappeared at some point. I later learned that the one was dead, probably by her husband's hand. The other one had escaped him and fled the country.

"I got that idea myself before I even learned about her. I thought that, when I would turn eighteen, I'd have enough pull to take my mother and my sisters away, and somehow keep us safe."

Her face turns pensive.

"I didn't get the chance. My mother died one month before I turned eighteen. I panicked, I knew for sure that it was my father, making sure we'd never leave, and I was right, and his plan worked. I blacked out, got depressed. And he got worse. With three women to burst out on instead of four, the beatings got more often, and more serious. I ended up in the hospital three times. Helga and Gerda, once each. And every time, the cop who would ask us if our father ever acted on any 'suspicious' behaviour would be a friend of one of our uncles. We couldn't say anything.

"Until I woke up. That time is... hard." She sighs, the memory clearly upsetting her. "I don't remember much of it. I just remember father beating Gerda badly. She was only sixteen." She shakes her head.

Emma wants to tell her that details aren't necessary, but she knows Ingrid needs to let some of that out.

"I grabbed an old radio and hit him in the head. At the time, I thought I'd killed him. Me and Helga picked up Gerda and ran. We managed to hide for a few days, taking care of Gerda's wounds until she could walk and run, and then we tried to cross to Sweden. They found us... we had been wanted for assault and murder attempt. Murder attempt! We were running, and Helga tripped. Gerda wanted to go back for her, but Helga screamed for us to run. And then they shot."

She covers her face with her hand, and Emma's tears fall.

After a long silence, Ingrid continues. "I knew Gerda was running with me, but I barely felt her presence there. We managed to cross the border, but none of us felt any relief. For three months we were in the streets, pick-pocketing, eating off of garbage, shoplifting a few times..."

Emma looks away. Like mother, like daughter?

"Then we found someone who promised us fake passports. He promised us safe passage to the United States. At the time, it was like a gift from God, Emma. But I made Gerda swear not to follow me if they caught me. But I passed over safely. It was Gerda who was caught."

Emma's jaw drops.

Ingrid smiles. "She was okay. She was deported back to Sweden, and I don't know how she made it, but she did. She got married and had two beautiful girls, her Elsa and Anna. But all those years, until I was deported to Norway, I had no idea..."

"Your father?"

"He died four years after we left. I didn't even care to find out how. I've mostly been in Sweden all this time, reconnecting with Gerda."

"I'm so glad you found her."

Ingrid nods. "When I came here, my contact actually managed to find me a job and someone to teach me English, good enough to pass for a local. I worked hard, stayed in horrible apartments... but you know, it was the '80s. The more time passed, the better it got. I supported fundraisers for domestic abuse victims. I let victims stay in my tiny apartments until they found a safe space. And never... I could never share my full story." Her voice breaks. She sniffles, recovers, and continues. "But I wanted more. I wanted to help someone, and see for myself that they did well. Emma... you were not an experiment, I want you to know. I loved you, and I still do. I wanted you to be happy, I wanted you to have what I didn't have." Her voice breaks again. "And I messed that up. I left you alone, you had nothing, no-one... I failed you."

Emma shakes her head, more tears falling. "You tried. And yes, it sucked. But you changed my life. You have no idea how big it was, how better you made my life because you were there for me. I don't know where I would be if it weren't for you."

They're both crying now, and Emma is the first to hug her.

It takes time. Emma isn't ready to share everything that's happened to her, but she's still glad to have Ingrid back and know she had a very good reason for the things that eventually led to Emma being alone. And, after all, she did search for her. That's huge.

"My aunt, the one who had 'disappeared', found me a little after I was brought back and helped me. We didn't even know each other that well, but we knew each other's pain. A little more than a year after that I located Gerda. With my father and most of the side of his family dead, at least the older ones who shared his stance, it was easier to search around. I couldn't leave the country yet, so Gerda took her family and visited me in Norway." Her eyes tear up again.

What could it have been like, to not have heard from her in nearly twenty years, not knowing if she was dead or alive...

"It was... okay. But I still thought of you. I didn't know what I could do, I was nearly broke for years after I went back. It's only the past four years that I managed to make some money, and all of them were being saved for this exact trip. I will come visit you again, Emma. I don't know how soon I'll be allowed back, but I'll try my hardest. I know you don't need me anymore-"

"I do. I missed you. You have no idea how much."

She smiles sadly. "Perhaps I've got a clue."

She does stay eighty days, which go by way too fast, even with Emma using up her sick and vacation days to spend time with her.

It's the first time since Ingrid was deported that Emma has someone to spend Christmas and New Year's Eve with. It's even bigger for her, considering that Ingrid chose Emma and didn't go back to celebrate with her family.

January goes by too fast, and then Ingrid has to leave.

"I'll visit you in Norway first chance I get. I want to meet your family, too."

"The rest of my family," Ingrid says. "I will wait for you. I'm not perfect with Facebook, but I'll try to keep contact every day."

"Ask Elsa, or maybe even Anna, to teach you next time you meet. They're teenagers, they'll know."

And then she has to say goodbye, and it's too soon, but for the very, very first time, it's a goodbye she gets to say. And it's amazing, how less painful it is, now that it's out there with the promise of a reunion.

The next morning she takes an early walk before work and finds a ten dollar bill on the street.

She looks at it dumbfounded. It's the first time in probably ten years this has happened, and when she walks into her favourite coffee shop, she's still staring at the bill in her hand.

She has a coffee and a big piece of cake, courtesy of the found bill. As she's enjoying her treat, a young woman with bright red streaks in her brown hair sits on the chair across from Emma as if she was just invited to do so.

"Hi," she says all too casually. "Don't freak out, there's just this guy I'm trying to catch and it'll look less suspicious if I pretend to sit with company here." Her tone, facial expressions and hand movements are full in the game.

"What do you mean, 'catch'?"

The woman leans forward. "I'm a bail bond agent. There's a guy I'm trying to catch, and I got word that he comes into this coffee shop quite often. I'm just trying to- speak of the devil." Without changing her expression a bit, she tells Emma, "Don't turn around. He just got in."

"Is he dangerous?" Emma shivers.

"No, no, he was just arrested for some tax fraud." The woman's expression turns serious. "Are you alright?"

Emma's hands are shaking, and the question is out before she can consider it. "Is he gonna be armed?"

"I don't think so. In any case, stay down."

That's it, Emma thinks. The shooting in New York City. Emma lowers her head and leans it a little to the side, managing to get one small glimpse of someone walking towards them.

"Is that him?" Emma says.

"Yes!" the woman says excitedly, exaggerating for cover.

Then the man is right next to her.

"Excuse me," he says, and Emma bites her lip as she looks up at him. "I don't remember seeing you around here. Are you a new customer?"

Emma holds back her surprise. Is he trying to hit on her?

She just shrugs.

The man offers his hand. "My name's Walsh," he says.

"Damn right it is," the other woman says, and with a swift movement of her hand, a handcuff is placed around his wrist.

Walsh looks at them both like an idiot.

"Thanks for making my job so much easier," the woman tells him. "And thank you, too." She winks at Emma, then takes a handcuffed Walsh outside.

Emma sighs, staring at her coffee and half-eaten cake as her heartbeat returns to normal. She knows that this very reaction is different from her panic at first. She turns to see the woman push Walsh into the backseat of a car.

Emma smiles. That was actually exciting.

Her boss is lost in thought all day, so Emma's shift goes pretty smoothly, as boring as retail is. On her way home from work, she walks past a police station and runs into the woman from that morning.

"Oh," the woman says, smiling wide at Emma. "My good luck charm!"

"Your what?"

"You have no idea how long I've been trying to catch that Walsh guy. He may not have any serious felonies under his belt, but he's elusive as hell. And I got a pretty good bonus for him too."

"Oh. Sounds good."

"And it's all thanks to you! Come on, would you like a drink?"

Emma stares at her.

"Oh, no, not in that way," she says and laughs. "Just as a thank you for your help." Her smile is earnest now.

"I didn't do anything."

"You brought me luck. That's worthy enough of at least one beer. And you behaved very bravely at the sight of a potentially dangerous criminal. I think you deserve a relaxing night out."

Normally, Emma can't afford such relaxing nights out. And the woman seems nice. "Okay," she says.

"Great! My name's Ruby, by the way. I know a place around with the best homemade onion rings."

Emma's mouth waters. Ruby has no idea what she just unleashed. She only hopes she can restrain herself in front of her favourite snack.

Ruby is really fun and kind. She doesn't ask any too deep questions that might provoke painful answers, and Emma has one of the best nights out in a while.

She realizes that, not counting her little time with Ingrid the past three months, she hasn't actually had a girls' night out. Not as an adult, at least.

"I'm not kidding, though, when I say you were pretty brave with Walsh. Some people freak out completely. Not that that's bad, but..." she says and looks at Emma, raising her eyebrows.

"But?"

"You know, there are never enough bail bond agents out there. Especially in a city as big as this."

Emma lies in bed that night, mind too full of thoughts to sleep. Ruby went through all the details of her work, and Emma absorbed it all. But, she has done time – not that she felt ready to confess this to Ruby.

She may have the guts to do that job, but probably not the ideal past for it.

Two weeks later, she's outside that same police station waiting to go with Ruby for drinks. Perhaps it's time to talk to her about whether her past would pose a problem to her becoming a bail bond agent.

She thinks she sees it too late; a car, losing control and going straight for the pregnant woman a few steps away from her.

Emma doesn't think; she runs forward, somehow manages to gently push the pregnant woman aside and then jump onto the running car's hood, rolling over the roof and down onto the street.

People are running to them. A man is shouting someone's name, worried. Then Ruby kneels down next to Emma.

"Emma! Are you alright?"

She is. She didn't even scrape her palms while falling down. She stands up, moving every limb and checking for any pains.

"Is it the adrenaline?" Emma says. "I feel fine!"

"You must be the luckiest chick on Earth," the car's driver says, also checking her for any injuries.

"You... you pushed my wife aside," a man says, coming closer to her, side-hugging the apparently unharmed pregnant woman.

"I- I did that."

The woman steps forward and hugs Emma tight. Then suddenly, people around them are clapping. Clapping at her.

She does go into a bit of a shock; David Nolan, the expectant father, takes her to the hospital to check her out for any internal injuries. Mary Margaret Nolan, the expectant mother, sits next to her on the back seat, holds her hand, and can't stop thanking Emma again and again.

Ruby is in the passenger's seat, talking to David, and it's only then that Emma realizes they're in a police cruiser, siren on and all.

After a full examination Emma turns out to be fine – not a single bruise. Once again, hearing the good news, Mary Margaret pulls her into a squeezing hug.

Encouraged by her unusually good luck, Emma tells Ruby about having done time. Ruby just tells her that David owes her big.

And by a week later, she's a bail bond agent.

Next month, she's staring at her bank balance, unable to comprehend having so much money available to spend however she likes.

At this rate, she'll be able to afford a trip to Norway in less than three months. And she does. She sees Ingrid, meets her sister and nieces, and for the first time since Neal left her she allows herself to just relax and enjoy the moment.

It's still not easy. Gerda's English isn't the best, and more than a few times Emma assumes Gerda doesn't like her, and her heart nearly breaks. It takes a lot of reassurance from Ingrid, but by the time Emma has to get back, she's already friends on Facebook with Elsa – Gerda says that Anna will get an account after turning eighteen as well – and they all promise each other that they will meet like that again.

On her flight back Emma gets a window seat facing north and gets a stunning view of the aurora. She hears the flight attendants say how they've never had sighting of it in the very few hours of dark the north gets in the middle of summer.

Emma can hardly believe it. How did luck decide to be so nice to her?

She can't even imagine something sullying her trip, but as she thinks that, she starts worrying that her bad luck will strike again.

It doesn't. Her job goes well, she gets a better apartment with a much kinder landlady, Ruby becomes her first friend in years and David and Mary Margaret invite her for dinner every Sunday, despite having a very loud and time-consuming infant.

The baby is always sleeping soundly every time Emma visits, and when he does wake up he's  calm, surprisingly so according to his parents.

Emma lies in her new bed, on her brand new anatomical mattress, and thinks how it all started because she found that ten dollar bill on the street – the first of many that came later, if she's honest – and decided to treat herself that morning.

As luck would have it. Perhaps it was all a matter of positive thinking.

She grows closer to Ruby and the Nolans and, combined with Ingrid's surprise visit, her twenty-ninth birthday is the first in twelve years that she doesn't celebrate alone.

She starts crying when they sing her the Happy Birthday song. Against all odds, her wish from last year actually came true, in the most unexpectedly heart-warming way.

From that point on, it's only better and better apartments and all holidays spent with either friends in the States or family in Norway.

During one more return trip, she realizes how she can actually afford all these trips now; a dream she couldn't even imagine before.

Her thirtieth birthday is celebrated in Norway; her thirty-first, back in the States, and for her thirty-second, she decides to gift herself and Ingrid something they'll both love; tickets to the Scorpions' 50th Anniversary Tour in Maidstone, England.

Ingrid tries to stop Emma from paying both their plane tickets, but Emma is not having it.

A small part of her remembers what happened after their first and last trip to England, but it's too small a part to stop her from organizing the whole trip.

If Emma is honest, it's one hundred percent Ingrid's fault that Emma loves the band so much. It's one of the things she passed on to her without even trying.

The concert is amazing; even though they have first row tickets, they have lots of space to dance and jump and enjoy the whole concert.

After the concert is over, Emma is waiting for Ingrid a bit farther away from the portable toilets, when she hears someone humming the melody of No One Like You next to her.

"Catchy tune, huh?" she tells him.

"Oh, which one isn't?" he answers. "What a night."

Emma nods. He's definitely a local. "Did you have fun?"

He makes a grimace. "A lot of people stepped on me, I got groped, pick-pocketed, and I got in a fight with my... friend, but you know what?" He shrugs. "Bloody worth it."

"Oh, sorry that you were mugged."

"Ah, it was like, twenty quid. I've known better than to carry credit cards where hands can easily reach."

Emma realizes she had almost everything on her, including her passport. But everything in her belt bag is intact.

"Do you have a ride back home?"

He looks at her, and his expression turns shocked for a moment. "Bollocks. I overshared, didn't I?"

"I mean, I have a car, and space for two... how many of you are there?"

He seems to recoil a bit, raising his hand to scratch behind his ear before putting it back inside his jacket pocket. "Don't worry. We've got a car. And we going right back to Brighton, anyway."

"Oh." Emma pauses. "I don't even know where that is."

The man smiles. "Figured so. From your accent."

Emma smiles back. "I'm Emma," she says, extending her hand.

"Killian," he says, getting his hand out of the pocket and shaking hers. She barely notices that his other hand stays in the other pocket even after his right hand drops to his side. "So... you know that they're actually having a few concerts in the States for this tour, right? How come you decided to fly all over to here?"

"Well, today... or more like, yesterday," she says, checking her watch, "was my birthday. This was more like a birthday gift to me, and of course I'm going to see them in- What?"

He is staring at her with his jaw dropped. "You're not kidding? Tomorrow- or, today, is my birthday."

"Wow. Happy birthday, then."

"Happy birthday to you too. Seems it was a great one."

Emma sighs happily, looking back at the now empty stage. "I'd say one of the best ones." She then turns to him. "Does your birthday seem promising?"

He looks at her; his eyes and his smile soften. And she actually feels butterflies in her stomach.

Wow. It's not like she's been denying herself much, but this look... she takes a step forward before she realizes it.

And he leans towards her.

"It seems that way, aye," he says, still smiling.

Oh, damn him. They both close the distance between them, and his lips are on hers.

~

(A/N: It has happened! They have officially met! Rejoice! But prepare for the next chapter; you know what's coming. Emma spent those four years being lucky, so Killian... >:)

Also, Scorpions did have a concert in Maidstone in 2015 as part of their 50th Anniversary Tour. It took place in July, but I took some creative liberties with the date for this story ;)  )

[dreameskye]

❀ *ﾟ kim taehyung. demiboy. he/they. ⇝ hey, isn’t that junsu “skyler” seo ? i think that the twenty-three year old from seoul, south korea works as a host boyfriend, but outside of that they spend a lot of time at caesar’s palace. i hear they are combative + melancholy, but they are also known to be dedicated + empathic. consider giving them a visit at their home in el patio inn and get to know why they’re called the barbie doll. ( gi, 21, she/her, est + 01/14/1996 )

TW: ABUSE,  ALCOHOLISM, CAR ACCIDENT 

heyo, i’m gi, this is my bby junsu/skye, and clearly i watch a little bit too much of 90 day fiance. this is a lot to read i am so sorry

• junsu came to america from south korea when he was twenty years old. he’d met somebody rich and well off just like him through a dating app and together he knew they’d be the unstoppable power couple

 • for a while everything was like one big fairy-tale. junsu was hopelessly in love with his fiancé, their families had already met and planned to become business partners once they tied the knot, one of the most expensive chapels in la was booked for their wedding. everything was going to be perfect, obviously.

 • except junsu was so caught up in his fantasy for a while that he missed several red flags. his english was not the greatest when he’d first arrived in the states and his fiancé took advantage of it.

• first, it was the prenups, which were poorly explained and he was told to sign it as it was just “part of the wedding process.” then it was the various calls and texts from men and women all day long that his fiancé dismissed as “coworkers or business partners or distant family”

 • at first, junsu was too in love with his perfect fantasy to admit to himself that his fiancé was cheating on him and playing him for a fool.

 • he kept quiet for a long time, constantly changing things about himself, about his looks, anything so he could try to be what his fiancé desired.

• the serious trouble didn’t come until after junsu turned 21. his k-1 visa did not allow him to work and the walls of their luxurious home began to feel more like a prison, so he turned to alcohol for comfort.

• with liquid courage, he was able to voice how unhappy he was and how he deserved more respect from his fiancé. however, things only got worse from there though and that’s when the physical abuse started.

• this was the lowest point of his life, and he had nobody to talk to about it. his family was much too ecstatic about the upcoming wedding and it was too exhausting to try and cover up all the bruises or to even fake happiness for a ten minute phone call.

• the final straw came when junsu, having waaaay too many drinks beforehand, got so upset after his fiancé had laid a hand on him once again that he took off in one of their most expensive cars and totaled it.

• needless to say, the engagement was called off after that night. however, things only seemed to get worse for him.

• while he was in the hospital recovering, his ex had told his parents a big fabricated story about junsu being a raging alcoholic, that that was the cause of all their fights, and the reason their relationship had fallen apart.

• his parents, angry with his behavior and that they’d lost their business venture with his ex decided to cut him off completely. 

 • to make matters worse, he was forced to pay for all the damages caused in the car accident, his hospital bills, and anything else his ex had decided was an inconvenience.

•  junsu was in serious debt by the time he arrived in las vegas. he was so desperate to get away from his old life that he took whatever under the table jobs he could find, sometimes even resorting to prostitution. still, there were several nights he was stuck sleeping out on the streets or in abandoned motels.

• through doing several illegal jobs and a couple lucky rounds of blackjack, junsu was able to scrounge up enough cash to afford a room at el patio inn.

• currently, he’s working as a host boyfriend or basically a boyfriend for hire. he dresses nice, goes on “dates” with his customers, tells them exactly what they want to hear, or sometimes just keeps people company or gets them out of sticky situations. basically like a lower budget escort. it’s fucked up but it’s also a bit of a coping mechanism for him, and it’s a business that he’s trying to get to take off in vegas.

 • while living here he’s also started to go by the name skyler, out of fear of his ex finding him and to give him and his clients a bit of a fantasy and detachment from his real self. only those closest to him would know that his name is junsu, most know him by skye.

 • junsu is often miserable that this is the way his life turned out. but in true capricorn fashion, he keeps it all bottled up inside.

 • instead, he focuses all his attention on his outwards appearance, to make it seem like he has it all together while on the inside he’s screaming.

• always one of the best dressed. this is why he’s known as the barbie doll. also king of buying expensive things that he can’t afford and returning them two days later. 

 • his past experiences have made him believe that everyone and everything is out to get him. he’s very paranoid, and will fight you if you look at him the wrong way. how do i say, he is terrified of people yet surrounds himself with them because he is also terrified of being alone at the same time. he’s very complex. 

 • has a soft spot for people he can tell have been done wrong or are victims of domestic violence, though. yes, he will comfort the person left crying after a nasty fight and even offer to let them stay at his place if it’s that bad.

• doesn’t really drink or party much despite living here. he either ends up crying for three hours straight or gets absolutely crazy when he’s drunk there’s no in between. (what a mood) usually, he ends up being the mom friend to total strangers who are so drunk they’re a danger to themselves.

• he’s got a very hardened exterior, but deep down he is actually afraid of everything. doesn’t always come off as the nicest person, but he’s working on it. honestly is a whole ass trainwreck but his bag is fendi so who cares? 

spare plots? 🥺👐

• distant relatives/cousins

• someone who knew him or his ex before he came here, just knows how much of a trashbag his ex is and what he went through

• neighbors (will fight you if you tell ppl that’s where he lives though)

• clients (for his bf for hire business lmao)

 • ex-clients (ppl he slept with when he was prostituting, ugh give me all the awkward scenarios!)

• the tea (somebody who knows his secret, could just know it or could be blackmailing him, etc.) 

• mom friend (either acquaintances or just complete strangers he’s helped take care of when they were completely shit faced)

 • someone who keeps stealing  or has stolen his clothes and other fancy things from him before lmao

• beef ( maybe someone whose ass he kicked during a game of poker or smth. round 2?) 

• friends. he has none. he needs these. desperately.

[clemency-for-the-heathen]

‘To know and not to act is not to know.’ - Wang Yangmin

I’ll try not to repeat myself. I forced myself asleep as soon as I sat down on the plane to China Wednesday night, to banish the pulsing headache that was making me retch, and when I woke up we were about to land and it was 3 p.m. the next day. I was meant to be going to Tianjin, but that’s not where we landed. It turned out I had to transfer. It wasn’t specified during the booking process, it didn’t say on the ticket, the scarlet-nailed thick-as-a-pig-shit fake-tan bitch who checked me in at Gatwick didn’t tell me, and the stewardesses didn’t know whether I had to collect my luggage and re-check-in. It was then that I met a 21 year-old Chinese girl who’d been in London for a month and whose name I couldn’t pronounce, also bound for Tianjin, and she sorted out everything. Before our next flight she spent 3 hours teaching me Chinese. Explaining the 3 characters that comprise ‘airport terminal’ took about twenty minutes in itself. Why was I learning about arable farming in school instead of this? Out on the runway, the dusk was rose and dust, the land flat past the mind’s eye. When I got to Tianjin it was 9 p.m. and I had a sleepless 11 hour wait in the deserted airport without food. I read and thought and watched the night disappear hour by hour. China is a scary place and no one ever talks about it. Three times I had to stand around and wait whilst they called the airline to check I was really traveling on to Korea. Mate, why would I be trying to sneak into your shithole country? When I landed at Incheon, it was approaching midday on Friday and the sky was powder blue. 

 One of those big luxury purple buses took me back to Bundang - Jeongja specifically, right on the river, an affluent area I’d rarely frequented in the past. Sarah was waiting at the bus stop, a merry and porky South Carolinian in her early thirties who’d been responsible for hiring me. She took me to our nearby apartment complex. My room was on the 10th and top floor, freezing from vacancy but decent - wouldn’t have mattered much anyway, for the mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. She let me stay in her cramped place all day sucking up wifi, watching Netflix and eating junk until showing up again at 8 with her 10 month-old baby and her husband, Tom, who was from Taunton. They’d actually both been to Portishead last year to get fingerprints done for visa applications at the Police HQ. Tom spent an hour telling me about his trip to North Korea a few years back and I spent an hour asking him questions relating to it. That’s my next destination, without a doubt, one hundred percent (to visit, not to live). Sarah stuffed an air-mattress, blankets, and a a plastic basket full of cutlery, detergent, and household cleaning products into my arms, and I went up to bed. 

 The next day I had burgers with them and Anthony, a giant body-building black guy (coworker, just like Tom and Sarah) who’d thrown his back out deadlifting stupidly heavy weights and could barely walk. If anyone had any beef with him, then was the time to strike. All three of them spoke less Korean than Chris, who’s been here three times for an aggregate total of about a month, which disgusted me, but they were all so funny and friendly and interesting and I was thinking, Don’t give me more grey areas, life, please. Their baby was eating macaroni cheese; the sight was revolting and cut down the half of my appetite that the jetlag hadn’t. 

 After lunch, in a fugue state from that very same horrendous jetlag, I walked down the river to Seohyeon, where the language exchange centre I first learned Korean at is, for one of my six goals this year is to sort my Korean out by studying with a man. The centre was beset by gloom what with all its East-facing windows, and empty but for one Korean man in his twenties sat studying alone. He introduced himself as Tony, and said that he was also looking for a language exchange partner. Oh serendipity, you little cunt, only showing up when you’re not prayed for, like football miracles and cool funny women with eyes so pretty I could kill myself. Just one thing: Don’t fuck me, Tony; don’t you ever try to fuck me, I successfully resisted the urge to say. 

 I don’t remember how I spent the Sunday, but all of last week I had training, which meant sitting in on Sarah’s classes and teaching parts of them. All you have to do is follow the syllabus, standing beside the interactive screen, having the children perform videos in front of a separate green screen at the culmination of each chapter (weekly or fortnightly). The marking is time consuming but effortless. I met the boss, Minnie, a scrawny women presumably named after her round protruding ears, who had that strange empty affability that suits labour camp leaders just as well as it does businessmen. I ended up going to immigration three times in five days, a nauseating Eastern Blocesque abomination 90 minutes away on the subway staffed by utter utter cunts (I know I say cunt too much, but if there ever were a bunch of cunts, it’s at Omogkyo immigration) thanks to her fuck ups, first not booking an appointment, and secondly booking the wrong one. It became apparent that Sarah was the actual boss, had hired me, was training me, had worked in other academies connected to this in China, Japan, and Malaysia, spoke to Minnie with the freedom of a Shakespearean Fool. For instance, Minnie came into the room and asked Sarah to finish some reports by the end of the day. Sarah replied, ‘Nah I don’t think I’ll be doing that.’ Minnie’s face went blank with seething consternation for a good two seconds before she clocked that Sarah was joking, at which point Sarah broke into her Southern cackle. 

 A man came with a bed and constructed it for me; a man came with wifi and installed it for me. I’m borrowing a bike off of Anthony for six weeks until the girl he’s already sold it to comes back to Korea. I bought a TV in order to use my Mac from an American girl for thirty dollars thanks to a Facebook group called Bundang Buy and Sell, which I’d never been able to use before, as I’ve never technically lived in Bundang. She’d told me to meet her at Seohyeon station, and that she might be a bit late. She was an hour late. Her apartment was 800 or so yards from the station. The TV was huge and weighed about five kilos, the transformer I needed in order to use it that she hadn’t mentioned weighed about ten. Encumbered to an infuriating degree, I waddled back to the station like a gullible cunt, sweating through my jacket and swearing through my teeth a serpentine hiss of fuck, fuck . . for fuck’s sake … for the love of fucking Christ. Why? Why? What did I expect for thirty dollars. However, her apartment was small and filthy, and I felt staggeringly fortunate by comparison, and not only because the attractive woman in the apartment across from me walks around naked every morning with the shades drawn up. I noticed by chance, but what am I supposed to do now that I’ve noticed, not look? Come now. She must know what she’s doing. She must know. 

 Got shouted to halt by a policeman who caught me jaywalking. I was so annoyed at Korea having adopted the stupidest of American offences that when he came up to me I belligerently said, ‘What?’ He pointed to the traffic light and said, ‘What colour is that?’ like a patronising school teacher with a hard-on for authority. ‘Red.’ ‘So don’t cross.’ ‘But I’m late.’ ‘Don’t be late.’ Yes sir, sorry sir. Next time I’ll make sure you’re not looking, sir. 

 I met Tony last weekend for our first language exchange session - an hour of Korean, an hour of English. His English is already fluent so there isn’t a lot I can do except help him to sound more natural. He’s been going to the language exchange centre for 4 years and somehow we’d never met, though as it happens my friend Brian who’s back in America right now knows him. He’d helped Brian get a suit fitted last year. I told Tony that Brian had described him as a ‘playa’, at which point he held up his left hand to show me an engagement ring. I asked him why he’d stopped ‘playing’ and he told me that it was because he’d met a girl who likes to get up early and exercise every day. I thought, Jesus Christ, yeh, that’ll do it. So he’s two days older than me, already engaged, has some lucrative job to do with clinical trials in Gangnam, and dresses immaculately as a gay - in short, puts me to shame, even though that’s not the life for me. He confessed that actually he thought I might be gay, seeing as when I first met him I’d specified I wanted to study with a man. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I said, ‘But even if I were, why would I have presumed that you were gay too?’ He said, ‘Good point.’ With regard to my Korean ability, he thought it was really ok, better by a mile than most foreigners he’d met, but said that lots of bad habits have been allowed to get engrained from studying by myself for so long. As a consequence, we spend most of the time working on my pronunciation and the cadence of my speech, which is a horribly humbling process but only because its happening three years later than it should have. 

 My confidence is being boosted, on the other hand, by all the things I have to do alone, not having a girlfriend to thoroughly administrate my life anymore. I had to go into the phone shop and explain my situation and get my phone reconnected; I had to instruct the moron wifi installation guy on where to install it in the room and why; I had to go back to my old climbing gym today and rejoin as a member. They remembered me and asked where my girlfriend was. I explained that we’d broken up before traveling. They recognised me as a man no longer suffering GBH of the ear’ole and it seemed like we could have a fresh start, having never really been in the mood to make friends with them before. On top of all this, my ego was tested at the hagwon when I was advised by Sarah to pretend not to speak any Korean, because if Minnie cottoned on to me being even halfway decent, she’d try to make me do phone conferences with the mums. 

 Korean tutor - found; climbing gym - rejoined; hapkido - impossible, at least for the time being, since Master Kim no longer teaches past 9 p.m.; football - found and joined a team of ex-pats and Koreans that trains 25 minutes south of me on the Bundang subway line. My stint in Korea was put in perspective when I found out the ginger guy from Sheffield who’s captain and his Irish best mate have lived here for 9 years and one of them’s got a car. Considering I’ve not played with anything close to regularity since my teens, and laden with clunky running shoes, training went alright. Out of the twelve there, I’d say I was probably the fourth best overall. Twenty people showed up to the first game this weekend, though the captain told me that’ll fast shrink down to the low teens. Half the starting lineup are Korean, and none of them were at training in the week, nor apparently ever come. I think it showed, but the other team were so shit we won 5-0 anyway. I was quite abysmal for the duration of my 30 minute runout in borrowed boots at left wing forward, but I think I’ll soon shake the rustiness off. I also think there’s a place up for grabs in the midfield trio alongside the reliable captain and this short fat Korean guy who no one forces to lose weight or stop smoking cigarettes at half time because he’s got the first touch, vision, and intelligence of Zinedine Zidane.  

 Working on my novel and a sub 1 hour 20 half marathon - these pursuits are reserved for the mornings, my droogies. I’m getting up as early as I can and staring at the naked Korean woman for as short a time as possible, and then I get cracking. With all my stress and resentment channeled into my job, which really isn’t bad (one class was a nightmare, conducted by four wild rude arrogant boys, but Anthony came to my rescue, having suffered at their hands during his first month a few months back. I was to stare at the rudest one for as long as it took for him to stop grinning and mouthing off and eventually cry, and that would break all four of them. ‘You’ve gotta nip this in the bud now, man, or you’ll be suffering for a year,’ Anthony said. God was he right. From this day forward, I will be someone who nips things in the bud.), the hopelessness, depression, regret, and lack of appetite that have marked my last twelve months or so is really starting to drain. The sky is frequently blue and the food is oh so tasty, but that can’t be presumed to be enough. To keep them away, I’ve written five rules on five post-it notes and stuck them to my fridge: 

1: Do not concern yourself with that which you cannot change and/or does not matter.

2: Exercise every day.

3: Write for at least two hours every day; read for at least one.

4: Do not dwell on regret. If you learned from it, then that’s enough.

5: Do your best to make that which is not enjoyable as enjoyable as possible. 

 I look at them every morning. This might be considered a pretty cliched thing to do, but then again one of the important points David Foster Wallace was making with his titanic Infinite Jest is that Postmodernism has a lot of orphans to answer for, that its irony and chaos and catatonic realism are redundant, that saying, ‘Oh how banal,’ to anything remotely sentimental or ‘cliched’ in an emotional sense no longer gets us anywhere and perhaps never it. That’s why I eventually decided to also affix on post-it notes to the wall by my bed the story of the two wolves: 

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. ‘A fight is going on inside me,’ he said to the boy. ‘It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.’ He continued, ‘The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.’

 The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, ‘Which wolf will win?’

 The old Cherokee simply replied, ‘The one you feed.’

 If you’re wondering why this blog is called Clemency for the Heathen, it comes from one of my favourite speeches in all literature, delivered by the Judge to the kid in Blood Meridian: ‘There’s a flawed place in the fabric of your heart. Do you think I could not know? You alone were mutinous. You alone reserved in your soul some corner of clemency for the heathen.’ The more I think about this book, the higher the regard I hold it in. It’s up there with the best of the best of the best, sir, with honours. The heathen in question are threefold, as far as I can surmise, but what’s most amazing is that to my mind the line could be levelled at any human being (you have to read Blood Meridian, have to have to fucking have to). Anyway, Clemency for the Heathen has been the title of the novel I’m completely rewriting ever since luscious Nicaragua. 

[profound-boning]

I have not. I haven't been out of the US. I've only been out of my state once and I barely leave my town. It sucks. I hate it. I'm terrified I won't be able to leave. So I'm just really hoping that England is good and better than the US. Can I ask you where you are moving? I'm guessing it's terribly expensive to move and I want to get an idea of how much it's going to be. I'm going to start saving up after I buy a new phone.

It’s okay that you haven’t done lots of traveling already. It’s something that not everyone is able to do, but anyone can think about it or prepare for it if their situation allows it.

There are going to be positives and negatives about any place you’d like to live. Positives: Nowhere else has a President as fucking stupid as ours. Negatives: Other places do have poor leadership, or laws that are not progressive or welcoming to all humans. Some places are theocracies, where religion and law are intertwined; or still don’t recognize the rights of pregnant people, trans people, etc. Some places ask their citizens to pay higher taxes than others. Everything is a balance! Research and listening to what people who live there say about a country’s conditions are your best resources for thinking about if another country is the right fit for you.

So the funny thing is we might move to England! Or to Costa Rica. Both of these places have pros and cons for us for specific reasons. At this point we’ll go to England if I can be sponsored for my own work visa by a school who wants to hire me to teach and I feel excited about that job. But we can only go if I get sponsored, so if that doesn’t happen we’ll go to CR. CR is great because I’m bilingual and Boyfriend is an English teacher ready to walk into a teaching job, plus we’d be living with family at first. The downside is there’s basically zero chance to get work visas because CR is v protective of them, so we’ll have to make 90 day visas work for who knows how long. We’re planning to leave and stay gone for the next 3-5 years.

Good idea to start saving money! Here’s what you’ll be spending money on: actual plane ticket, cost to bring your belongings with you, visa application fees. It’s not completely out of your reach, but it is something you’ll have to start thinking about. You told me that you’re 17. Any chance you’d be interested in attending university? As in enrolling at a university in England? Because that would get you a student visa and an amazing opportunity for a global education. You could also look for volunteer abroad opportunities, but those will come with a different set of expenses and expectations.

Don’t give up, nonny. You can have the future that you want but you have to fight for it. Fight for it.

[dontouchmyraf]

In Conversation with David Casavant

INSIDE THE RAF SIMONS ARCHIVES

We live in a time when vintage and designer archive pieces is the new cool, a treasure gem that we are all competitively racing be the first to get the rarest of rarest. With the emergence of specialised platforms like Depop, Ebay and Grailed, its unquestionable that we are all in someways hooked with the notion of scrolling infinitely on these platforms in hopes that a rare garment would somewhat magically appear.

However, when we think of an archive filled with the works of Raf Simons, the first person we knew who we wanted to talk to was David Casavant. This happened when we first found out about David in a three minute video titled ‘ David Casavant shows off his Raf Simons & Helmut Lang Archive ‘ that was filmed by Highsnobiety. We were obsessed with the video! 

Throughout the video, you could easily establish the fact that the scale of his business, the size of his team and his clienteles was as intimate as it could get. The real, genuine and humorous 30 minutes conversation we had with David Casavant covers topics on his admirable internship under Carine Roitfeld, on why he loved working with Kanye West to his first awkward meet-up with Raf Simons. 

Xia Yi : Let’s start the interview. I don’t want to go into the uninteresting stuff but I wanted to hear it straight from you, how did you started buying clothes to collect?

David Casavant : I started collecting when I was younger through E-bay, I was probably around 13 or 14 years old. When my dad would take care of me, he would always give me allowances to spend on food but I would save most of it and spend all my money on clothes instead of food. I was obsessed with buying clothes on Ebay, it was a whole new world that I was so fascinated by. It consumed me that I ended up doing it on a full time basis. 

Xia Yi : How was your experience like studying in Central Saint Martins? I am aware that you dropped out halfway?

David Casavant : Well, I moved to London to study Fashion Communications in Central Saint Martins around 2004. I think Hywel was still the head back then. Is he still the Head of the Fashion Programme now? 

Xia Yi : Yes, Hywel Davies still the current Head of the Fashion BA programme.

David Casavant : When I was in Central Saint Martins, I realized from an early stage that school wasn’t really for me because I was already working as a Fashion Assistant to Carine Roitfeld for CR Fashion Book. I just thought that I already had a job and I was earning money. I thought that I already had the ball rolling and I did not want to pay more money for school and to pay unnecessarily more to live in London. The thought of going back to school after working, only made me realized that I should just continue working. That’s when I decided to drop out.

Xia Yi : I read a few articles that mentioned how your collection only really expanded when you started working during your early days?

David Casavant : You could say so. While I was still an international student in London, I took advantage with the fact that I was in London. You know this, you actually can’t work as an international student due to visa and immigration restrictions. This was when I started interning with British Vogue, GQ Magazine, and AnOther Man for free to really just put myself out there. I think it was when I started working with Carine Roitfeld for CR Fashion Book as a fashion assistant, doing almost everything. I already had a growing collection of archive pieces then, I used to dress up in different pieces that I owned everyday to work and Carine Roitfeld would always compliment me. She loves it!

Xia Yi : It’s definitely the most flattering thing to hear especially when Carine Roitfeld compliments you. I guess what you really meant is that she opened your eyes to understand vintage clothing and made you become so aware about the resale market.

David Casavant : Definitely, she was the one that really pushed me to kickstart all of this. Knowing that vintage garments and the whole resale market was primarily meant for women, that gave me the idea that I could actually do it better with menswear. There wasn’t anyone really focusing on archiving menswear back then.

“ KNOWING THAT VINTAGE GARMENTS AND THE WHOLE RESALE MARKET WAS PRIMARILY MEANT FOR WOMEN, THAT GAVE ME THE IDEA THAT I COULD ACTUALLY DO IT BETTER WITH MENSWEAR. “

Xia Yi : You brought up a really good point, the first thing anyone thinks about when vintage or archive is mentioned will always be some sort of designer dress or handbag. It was never associated with menswear. I am curious to know now, what was it about Raf Simons that you love? 

David Casavant : I loved the whole movement that Raf brought into menswear. He gave menswear a brand new silhouette. I think what he did has never been done before in the world of menswear during the 90s, menswear was stagnant then. It was really when Raf brought street dressing and made it high fashion. He made it fashion, really.

Xia Yi : The significance the name, Raf Simons now carries is massively influential. We have probably reached a point where even ordinary consumers has become so aware about him with mass collaborations and the emergence of streetwear brands like Off-White by Virgil Abloh and Yeezy by Kanye West taking obvious inspiration from the works of Raf Simons. Do you think that Raf would still remain as relevant as how he is now to the future generation?

David Casavant : I think his clothing is more relevant than ever at this point. Like what you said, with streetwear brands like Off White and Yeezy taking direct inspiration from Raf Simons, it only proves how his designs were so ahead of his times. It’s an almost odd feeling, when I think about it. Its as if his clothing gave birth to these brands.

Xia Yi : It must be a weird to feel that way when you own so many of his pieces. Wait, how many Raf Simons pieces do you currently own, up-to-date?

David Casavant : I honestly don’t remember the exact number, I almost lost count but I think there is at least a thousand pieces.

Xia Yi : Your relationship with every single piece of your collection is obviously extremely personal, has that evolved over the years? Especially with how your business has turned into a full-blown operation, do you think that has affected it? 

David Casavant : You know I think it’s really funny when you asked me on how that has evolved, because when I first started out I was so obsessed with wanting to collect and archive each and every one of it but when all of this started to become an actual business, I saw it as merely just another fabric. Another piece of clothing with a label. It’s really just another fucking piece of clothing after all, if you think about it. I realized this pretty early on that I could not continue being this obsessive. I just thought that If I  am going to remain this obsessive and protective over it, I would never be able to loan it out. I just knew that I could not live with that sort of mentality anymore.

“ IT’S REALLY JUST ANOTHER FUCKING PIECE OF CLOTHING AFTER ALL, IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT. “

Xia Yi : In previous interviews you did mentioned specifically that you don’t collect clothes just to preserve them, you want it to be seen, you want it to stay alive and remain functional. Does this mean that you disagree that fashion is art?

David Casavant : No, I actually do agree that fashion is art because we grew up in a generation where the lines between art and fashion is continuously blurred. We have become so accustomed to seeing fashion photos uploaded right next to an art photo on Pinterest, Tumblr or any sort of platform on the internet. It’s something that fashion has taken so much of its influence from as well, so to say that Fashion is not Art is just untrue.

Xia Yi : You are known to work closely with Kanye West and he seems to be a huge fan of your collections. How different was it to work with him compared to other more well known celebrities? In an interview you had with Dazed, you mentioned how it was refreshing for once to be able to work with a celebrity who actually understands the history of fashion and to have someone who actually understands the context behind these archived garments.

David Casavant : It was really inspiring to be able to work together with him — he really knew his stuff. It was just rare because he was such a cultured individual and I found it really impressive that he genuinely understood the context behind each and every collection of Raf Simons. We eventually maintained a great relationship then, ever since we met for the first time. 

Xia Yi : Do you think Kanye is misrepresented in mainstream media?

David Casavant : Oh yes, for sure. He is greatly misrepresented in today’s media. He has always been represented as this insane person but in actual fact, he is a really nice and smart individual.

Xia Yi : Have you both worked together in any ways?

David Casavant : I do help him out for his Yeezy collections. I would usually help him out when it comes to the process of ideation and conceptualisation. I would sometimes bring in a few vintage pieces to show him and our discussions would just take off. 

Xia Yi : What about Raf Simons? Have you gotten the opportunity to meet him? Considering that you collect his clothes for a living.

David Casavant : We did meet once during summer. We did talked and had quite a conversation but I always found the relationship we had just weird. Yet, there are times when he would call in to loan his clothing from me.

“ WE DID TALKED AND HAD QUITE A CONVERSATION BUT I ALWAYS FOUND THE RELATIONSHIP WE HAD JUST WEIRD. BUT YET, THERE ARE TIMES WHEN HE WOULD CALL IN TO LOAN HIS CLOTHING FROM ME. “

Xia Yi : I find it quite amusing that Raf calls you once in a while to loan his clothes from you.

David Casavant : Its strange! It seems odds that he doesn’t document or properly archive each of his pieces especially when he has done so much throughout his careers.

Xia Yi : Was there any chance of working together with him?

David Casavant : Nope, not at all. But I like to think that it’s because he originated from a time when there  was a distinctive hierarchy in fashion. I mean, why would Raf want to work with someone like me who is just here to put on a pony show. He is right up there and I am just right here.    

Xia Yi : You never know what would eventually happened but lastly, thank you. That was the last question of the interview.

David Casavant : Alright, thank you!