eugenelin's Xanga

Stitched Up.

Sat, 15 Mar 2008 13:27:31 GMT

The End is The Beginning is The End

Mon, 24 Dec 2007 23:07:49 GMT

Sorry.

I feel like I own an apology / explanation to everyone who freaked out at the last posting, half a year ago. I just stopped communication with almost everyone since that incident, because I really felt, and do still feel that when I died. The most pressing question anyone would have asked of me at the time would have been ow are you?!?!?but I wouldn have been able to answer that then, and still do not know how to answer that now. After all, what do the dead know about the burden of the future?

eath?is the 13^th card of the Tarot deck, commonly containing a picture of a skeleton riding a horse. Surrounding it are the dead and dying from all classes--kings, bishops, and commoners. In its hand it carries a black standard with a white flower on it. The frequent interpretations of the card are:

Ending of a cycle ----- Loss ----- Conclusion ----- Sadness

Transition into a new state ----- Psychological transformation

Finishing up ----- Regeneration ----- Elimination of old patterns

Being caught in the inescapable ----- Good-byes ----- Deep change

And what a year it has been.

My life basically shattered to smithereens the day of the press show shortlist announcement, and it has never been the same. How could it or can it ever, when things are so broken, even god can fix it. There, I said it. Ha! To think that I spent so much of my life believing in some sort of divinity that could deliver anything more than pipe dreams. Maybe that the part that stings the most - all that wasted time. (Someone sing R.E.M. osing My Religion?/i> now if you must.) Since then there has been so much frustration and questioning that has all ebbed away into just a profound sense of anger, and possibly hate towards od?

I attended church service on Sunday the 23^rd of Dec, probably because I didn want my folks nagging about what a pagan Ie become. After a full year without a proper service (a one off hardcore 17^th century Baptist service in Edinburgh notwithstanding, it was with my parents again) I suppose I was waiting for that familiar sense of elcome home?which never came. Somehow Ie been numb to everything since my eath? and I really wish I didn go for it (aside from the fact that I received a nice present from Maddy, thank you!) The Pastor just had to bring up the whole gay issue for some reason or another, but frankly his reasoning doesn hold any water. He preaches that omosexuality is a sin because in a homosexual act, there is no fruit of the seed.?This relates to the fundamental argument that heterosexual sex is orrect?because it is procreative, whereas homosexual sex is not. A-duh, no brainer there.

But hang on a second; this is not a Catholic church which is against contraception within marriage. And if oral sex between a husband and a wife is procreative, youe seriously doing it the wrong way. An no, I so do not believe that heterosexual couples do not have sex for the pleasure of it. Anyone who makes contrary claims is either a virgin or just in a profound state of denial. Then there was the od made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve? pun line which is about as stale as the manna from the Old Testament. (Oh yes, but it makes the audience laugh every time doesn it, milking their humor as a sense of self-assurance). But the "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" interpretative approach rises or falls on the plausibility of the claim that complementarily of the sexes is built into the structure of creation by God in a way that mandates exclusive heterosexual monogamy as the sole moral expression of sexual relationships. The thing is there are so many Bible study sessions by the church expounding the historical, Greek, Hebrew traditions but as soon as homosexuality comes into the picture, it is suddenly such a taboo to even look into it. Well for those who care to, here a link that shows both sides of the argument in historical and Greek contexts : http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1G1-153025992.html

Then there was the tradition of asking God for 3 things at the end of this year-end service. Nothing wrong with tradition, and I all for people faiths if that what they want. But hindsight has a way of being a mirror of how things are instead of all the colourful hopes that are so easy to project as the uture? I remember 2006 was supposed to be he year of acceleration?and 2007 was he year of new beginnings? I still remember quite a few of the things I asked god for those years, and none of them came to pass. Absolutely none. In fact 2005 for me turned out to be he year of Heartache? 2006 was he year of uncertainty? and 2007 is most definitely he year of great disappointment? Well, if Tarot cards are anything to be believed, I suppose the card of eath?also signifies ew beginnings? Whatever, I didn bother asking for anything this year. No point asking for something that won happen anyway. Once, bitten, thrice shy.

I wish I had never sat under such teaching, all those youth services where they used to preach how same-sex love is abhorrent, wrong, something to be ashamed of. I cannot blame myself for sitting there, because I did not know better at the time. But I also ask myself if it makes any sense, or if it even makes things easier for me to blame the church for all their brain washing. The answer, logically, is no, but I will not deny that there is a deep sense of resentment towards it. Why? Because back when I met the love of my life I was so adamant, so deeply ingrained in the belief that I was somehow afflicted by this roblem?(as the pastor so generously called it on Sunday) that everything I did was an attempt to elieve right? I honestly believed that I was orn?heterosexual, that true love and intimacy annot?exist between two men, that god was going to ave? me from myself. I never fit in with any group / crowd / circle in church, and I always knew I was different, but I kept hoping / praying / believing that n time?god would make things change. I never wanted to be a gay man, not even admit that I was (after all ight believing equates right living? no?) so just for those of you who have been there since that time, that was why I went for all those services, those camps, those eliverance sessions? All they ever did was to build up the lies in me.

And that is why when the love of my life asked me to choose between staying in Singapore with him, and continuing my studies in London, it was not even a mental choice. Why should I stay and ive a lie? as the church would put it, when god was going to make me a istory maker? And every single day since I lost him, when the weather falls to winter and the nights are long, when the wind blows sharp and when the hours drag on and I toiling, I kept telling myself that I did the right thing. I kept telling myself that god has a plan for me, plans to prosper me, that it would all pay off, that I would be right in the end. Just finish my degree and get on with life. How could I possibly fail? In my mind I kept replaying the verses that ope does not disappoint?

Well, tough.

Can anyone even begin to understand now, how much was lost, on that day. Even if god can understand he can fix it. Like my therapist said,  can give you pills and more sessions but I can give the Press Show back to you, there nothing that can be done to turn back time.?That was when it really hit home: there is nothing anyone can do. This really is something god cannot even begin to fix. What can he do? Turn back time? So many chances and sacrifices, and all for nothing.

So what happened next in London? Well I was started on a course of anti-depressants, saw therapists, buried my life in my new pattern cutting course. When I went home I just stay up all night because I didn want to fall asleep and wake up the next day to the disappointment ?I had so many dreams and times I woke up thinking it was the day I go down and see my name on that list. Fatigue finally claimed me. On the weekends I go out with a few friends to the bars, the clubs sometime, but all I ever wanted was the Love I had lost all those years ago. I saw George Michael, the first concert played at the new Wembley Arena, and teared when he performed esus To A Child? the song he and I once shared.

Sometime in July my brother who lives in Sydney gave me a call, which went to voice mail and I received on a Sunday morning. It told me to call home. One thing I absolutely fear and dread (and I believe I right to say anyone who lives overseas from their families would experience this) is the Call. See, I had an uncle, my mum brother who was about 70+ years old and lived by himself as sort of a hermit. And every Sunday my mum and my aunt (her sister) would visit him and bring him groceries, spend some time with him just to see how he is. That Sunday afternoon they went by his place and nobody opened the door when they knocked. They also noticed that the windows to the corridor were open, which is something he doesn normally do when he home. Long story short, they manage to open the door and there was a 3 day old corpse, black from semi-decomposition lying in the room covered with blood.

Not something 2 women in their late 50 would call a walk in the park on a Sunday.

Turns out he had gotten out of the shower, fallen over and basically bled to death because nobody was there to help him. Even the neighbours didn notice the putrid smell from 3 days of decomposition. Suddenly there are so many thought that just shoot through one brain when you hear of things like this, mortality being amongst the prime issues but also the sense of complete helplessness living 11,000+ kilometers from home and further separated by 9 hours of time difference. Really made me sit up and think to myself: What am I doing here, why am I here, and where am I going? I used to know the answers to those questions but I don think theye anything more than rhetoricals now.

And as the new academic year started I watched people from my B(A) course come back with scholarships, from Armani, the British Fashion Council, their respective countries, to start the prestigious M(A) course in fashion. I obviously couldn apply for any of these, being an international student and the fucking Singapore government isn willing to give a proper sponsorship even to its own. But hey, what do I read in the news? A certain Versace member who coasted her way through the Marketing course (it wasn even the highly sought-after womenswear course, I like to make it clear, and she didn cut or sew a single fucking stitch on her sad excuse for a graduate collection, which was all made for her in Italy, no less) is suddenly having her debut label designed, manufactured and distributed by none of than the Link, here in Singapore. I so sick of this pathetic little island self-inflicted inferiority complex that makes them lick the shit hole of every famous foreigner.

Furthermore I had to put on a brave mask every time I stepped into college. h how come youe not doing the M(A)?? id you hear so-and-so got a job at <big design house name here>? hy don you apply for sponsorship?? ave you found a job yet??Let face the hard facts: Nobody is rushing out to hire a B(A) design graduate when there are so many better trained M(A) graduates out there, and even when they did pick B(A) ones to hire for proper design jobs, they all came from the list that made the Press Show. Tough, but that reality, not some fucked-up pipe dream that somehow things are going to get rosier. After a while, I became really good and even had a mental FAQ sounding like one of those automated machines. Didn really matter since I was becoming number with every passing day.

On Sunday night I went to St. James Powerhouse for the ABULOUS?party. I don do drugs or smoke and rarely even drink but hell did I dance. I had so much fun dancing both by myself and with my friends, all the hot sexy Asian men, all the cute army boys, the fantastic music. Someone will sneer that I just trying to drown my sorrows and tell myself I happy in places like that but honestly I asked myself, am I having fun being true to myself and the answer is a resounding yes. I over trying to pretend to fit into the church, pretending who I am, making useless prayers. Still don know where I going from this limbo or what is going to happen but for the first time in my life I find that somehow liberating: the indifference, the fact that I no longer give a damn. I don know if Il update this weblog anymore, as all it seems to do now is serve as a reminder of what a religious fool I used to be. But I felt like I owed the few people who read it an explanation of sorts.

So here is the end of a chapter of my life.

The End.

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 23:06:08 GMT

I wake up every afternoon wanting to die.

Every;

Single;

Second;

I;

Just;

Want;

To;

Die.

I so tired.

I so fucking tired of never feeling good enough. Half my life is already gone and I feel 65, waking up and wishing I could go back in time and re-live, re-choose, anything to go back.

Almost 4 years of painful isolation I have slaved away from family, friends, the familiar. The phone never rings. E-mails go unanswered. Promises broken like cheap lies.I might as well be in fucking Afghanistan.

Every day just brings fresh rain, new reasons to be depressed. The visa is running out, so is money and time, and nobody important seems to be interested in my work while the people who got into the press show are receiving business cards.

Did I honestly even believe I was good enough for anything.

There is nothing left to believe in, nothing left at all.

I don even believe in God anymore.

I just want to end it all.

A Thousand Beautiful Things

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 20:17:47 GMT

A Thousand Beautiful Things ?Annie Lennox

Every day I write the list of reasons why I still believe they do exist
(A thousand beautiful things)
And even though it's hard to see the glass is full and not half empty
(A thousand beautiful things)
So... light me up like the sun
To cool down with your rain
I never want to close my eyes again
Never close my eyes
Never close my eyes

I thank You for the air to breathe; the heart to beat
The eyes to see again
(A thousand beautiful things)
And all the things that's been and done
The battle's won; the good and bad in everyone
(this is mine to remember)
So ?here I go again
Singin' by your window
Pickin' up the pieces of what's left to find

The world was meant for you and me to figure out our destiny
(A thousand beautiful things)
To live
To die
To breathe
To sleep
To try to make your life complete
(yes yes)

So ...light me up like the sun
To cool down with your rain
I never want to close my eyes again
Never close my eyes
never close my eyes ...
That is everything I have to say
(that's all I have to say)

ashion is consumption. A boxing match with winners and losers. Or to put it better: fashion is like cornflakes in the supermarket. A whole shelf full. And which brand do you choose? ? Even if I think my collection a disaster, like the one last Spring. You start work on a fashion show six months before the day of the show, and you start out with a well-defined idea. In that case it was lightness. In the end I found the show too light, and I could have know that beforehand, because that was my starting-point. Ie got to ask the people around me to keep calm. Although I readily admit that I do care about the responses I get afterwards. Good and bad. Sometimes I am misunderstood. But there are thousands of reasons for not finding a collection good at any given moment.?

?Olivier Theyskens.

My eyes are so tired from the insomnia that plagues me from the late nights and afternoon-mornings. I still wake up in this numb daze like everything is a nightmare. I sleep so late because I wait for fatigue to claim me, because the disappointment of reality when I open my eyes the next afternoon is starting to become too much to bear. I don really think I can feel anything anymore.

I trying, trying very, very hard to pick up the pieces slowly. Not sure if there anything left to salvage as everything I touch crumbles even more. I entered the illustration competition where the top prize was a thousand pounds.

Didn win anything.

Waited around for a chance to be interviewed by the External Examiners.

Didn happen.

I drag my tired bones to the library to do research for my new course that starts on the 18^th (I in serious need of a holiday but after paying the massive bills that came with the collection, I happy to be able to have money to eat) and look at the notice board by the door. Theye updated it with all the press from The Guardian, the Daily Telegraph, Vogue.com, Womenswear Daily from all the people at the press show.

The articles will be there for a whole year, like some sick joke taunting me every time I go to the library.

I cut my hair off. The tail gone, cut it off myself. Funny, I thought it would be the most liberating experience ever in celebration of my graduation (I always promised myself I cute it when I finished my B(A) ) but it still feels the same inside. Bought myself a new Westwood shirt to try and cheer myself up, saying birthdays come once a year after all. Didn really any different after either.

Honestly, is there anything left to pick up?

I want to believe that I can go on, that there something worth living for, fighting for, that there still beauty in this world and that I somehow part of it. But I can believe it, the cut has really gone so deep this time I don know if time can even begin to make it stop bleeding. Slowly, picking up the shards, the grains, only for it to be blown away by disappointment every single time. I don know how much more of this I can take. I have no faith left.

The college exhibition will be open from 18^th June till 21^st June to the public. Hopefully Il get some response then, but people tend to recognize and go for students whose work has been in the Press, that theye seen either in photos or at the show. That why the Press Show was so important. Well, none of my family was present at the internal show, and none of them are coming for the exhibition either. 2 out of the 7 people I invited showed up for the Internal show, and Il probably give away the 3 guest passes Il be given to the private viewing of the exhibition.

I guess Ie reached the point of wondering why and for whom do I do all this for. It forces itself upon you when even your supposedly closest people aren there.

For those of you who have been reading this tragic weblog and have waited, I think the time has come. It was supposed to be a joyous launch but now its just... well; I don even know if there are words for it. It just is I suppose. It been a long time coming these 4 years, and I would have been proud of it all but shame is all I have these days. For what its worth, you can view my graduate collection and selections from my college years here.

But what is one to do when your world totally falls apart, when the dream dies and there no way back?

I wish to God I knew the answer.

Just When I Thought.

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 13:55:33 GMT

Just found out that I was not put forward to ecret?interviews for job positions in Louis Vuitton and Dior.

God, it just keeps raining.

Just Another Day.

Mon, 28 May 2007 12:59:41 GMT

What so special about someone birthday, honestly?

As we grow up we were celebrated with such joy and enthusiasm of becoming older. I personally have only one memory of a good one in all my 25 years, my 21^st birthday. Everything else has been incredibly disappointing and painful, and this year is no different.

My parents sent me an email telling me how this day is special to them, funny because I never saw it that way before. They said it marked the day that I had entered the world, and more importantly their world to them and made them so happy. I guess after year after year of painful memories and disappointments I stopped looking forward to my birthdays, to a point where I not believe theye special only to the few around me. It means nothing to me at all.

It been raining for the last 3 days this bank holiday weekend. It was supposed to be one of the highlights of my whole year, no, my whole uni life. Finishing the collection and portfolio, celebrating that and the fact that I 25 now today and then the Press Show the next day, which will be followed by another after-show party. I would launch my official website as well. But life always has THE way of never turning out as one planned.

Today I woke up at 1pm after staying up till 4 because I couldn sleep. Ha, I still think this is all some nightmare, really. I went swimming, in the rain, and tried to find a place to go to for lunch but everywhere that wasn selling fucking cold sandwiches was full, at 3 pm on a rainy Monday. So I decided to buy my favourite magazine and try to get a coffee. Walking around Old Compton in the rain, the Starbucks was full, so was Caf?Nero and another Starbucks. So I just took the bus home and ironed the laundry. There nothing special about birthdays at all at the end of the day. It just another rainy day in London.

When I was growing up I used to think cake was really special. I only had it on my birthdays or if someone else in the family had birthdays (or weddings). I wasn raised with a silver spoon in my mouth and so cake was sort a luxury item of sorts. Irony is that I don even want to think of tasting cake on my birthday. I haven done so ever since I moved to London.

I watched he Devil Wears Prada?on DVD the other night, it the first DVD Ie ever bought for myself. Cheesy, I know. I feel like I becoming more and more like Miranda Priestly character: someone?who given up so much sacrifice that she can feel anything anymore. That not to say I not appreciative of the comments left by you readers of this tragic weblog, but there just no hope in anything left. Statistically most fashion students only ever produce one collection in their entire lifetime. I don have the resources or the money to do another one. In fact (I don know if I mentioned this before) I even thought of taking another year out this year, ie delaying my graduation by another year because I was so unhappy with the response the collection received in the first line up.

But therein lies another illusion: it a cop out on either end. If I went through with it, I would never forgive myself if I didn get into the press show (and look how that turned out) and if I did, I could never live down the fact that it would never be the same because it would be like re-starting. And I fucking hate re-starting things because its like losing already, its like doing that stupid orrections?page in your exercise book back in Primary school all over again, like playing catch-up. I always want to get it right the first time but obviously I never was going to. Even if I do get a first for my degree I already feel like Ie failed.

Why am I so hard on myself.

There nothing appy?in birthdays. There never was, there never will be.

Its just another day.

All Four Nothing.

Sat, 26 May 2007 17:36:33 GMT

Would any of you out there know what its like to work for 4 years only to be a failure?

Before you rush to answer that, think through it carefully.

Very carefully.

I suppose to begin distilling this sensation would begin with notes of anger, disappointment, fear, frustration, essentially everything that Ie been slaving so hard to avoid. Or perhaps it is the slaving that did bring about this fatal situation.

When I saw the list on Monday I couldn believe my eyes.

I blinked.

Looked again.

Blinked.

Re-read the list to make sure I hadn skipped my own name.

Blinked.

Hoped to God this was the point in the nightmare where I wake up, like so many of the nightmares of the exact situation I have physically had of this moment over the last four years.

Blinked.

No nightmare.

Fucking hell.

Fucking.

Hell.

Right there and then, it was as if 4 years hadn even happened. I was back to my first year, the White Project show everyone made 1 garment out of white felt and or white cotton and we had a little internal show at Christmas. I remember working so hard to come up with what was then a triumph considering I had no prior experience to making any real clothes. I remember presenting it to the tutors. I remember the tutors being unimpressed. I remember feeling like a fucking failure.

4 years later. D嶴?vu.

I really can believe this has happened. I really believed I stood a chance at getting into the Press show, but obviously I just not good enough. Someone will come along somewhere and say comforting shit like ts not the destination it the journey?and ou know it doesn affect the final results, its just the press exposure?

Sure hun. Tell that to the fucking Lreal judging team.

If you get into the Press show, you stand a 1 in 28 chance of winning that top prize, or 2^nd and 3^rd place. Now there more chance of George Bush going to heaven than there is in ever getting even that chance. All I wanted was a chance. And all that evaporated that morning. The show would be on the 29^th of May, a day after my birthday and I had prayed so hard and so long for it, all I ever wanted, for this last 4 years was that chance. There were hints and signs that I should have been in but what is the point of even talking or thinking about them, fact is I not, and it a black or white world we live in when it comes to success or failure. And I have failed.

There will be no birthday this year.

There will be no celebration.

Nobody celebrates fucking failures.

My friend who works at Westwood who sewed the collection for me called me up today after his 2 week holiday. He had been looking forward to the Press Show and so was I, I was going to send tickets to almost all the staff at Westwood.

He thought I was joking when I said I didn get in.

I wish to God I was, I pray and hope and wish Il wake up from this nightmare every time I close my eyes. And in the dead of the night when its cold and quiet, it gets really difficult to stop looking back and wishing things were different, but how can they ever be? Not that the nights weren cold or quiet or hard before, but those were still lit by the faint flicker of hope at the end that was swiftly and curtly put out that day. There is no warmth now, nothing to look forward to, just fading away into fashion oblivion like so many other uncelebrated Saint Martins students before. The press will love the guys in the Press Show, I can guarantee you theyl give more than an eye opener and just rightly so. People will remember McQueen, McCartney, Galliano, Kokosalaki, Smith?all the big names. Nobody will even know the name of a has-been who missed his shot after Tuesday, let alone months from now.

So what now, return to Singapore as a failure? Some might point out how far Ie gone and how that in itself is a big achievement but Ie always lived life by an all-or-nothing motto and as far as this is concerned, its an absolute disgrace. Even the thought of just having to move back to Singapore scares the hell out of me, the total lack of serious fashion or even respect for it on any level, how can I immerse myself back into that kind of environment after living in a fashion capital for the last 4 years? For love, perhaps I would. I sick of having to spend half my time validating my ethnicity here (Asian men aren popular here in the UK at all) and kicking the fucking rice-queens away.

And in times like that I am but human myself, who wouldn want to turn to a pair of loving warm arms, someone to just say its alright, or maybe not say anything at all but just the one you love to hold you to let you know theye still there by you? Oh that right, I fucking blew that in my 2^nd year with Gary because I was chasing this motherfucking waste of a fucked up dream. It was a gamble then as it was now, only that the hand has been revealed and Ie lost on both counts. Still the weight of the world keeps piling on. My iPod is dead, so is my watch, Ie got big bills to pay for the photoshoot, the next course is about to start in less than a month. I tired, broke, fed up of it all. A far cry from the ashion?life people think I living. And I want to cry but I can, there no point. There no fucking point in anything at all anymore.

Can anyone even begin to understand how any of this feels?

(It a rhetorical.)

It wasn worth it in the end.

n life, we can easily pay for something. Let say that whatever the result, even if it awful, you have to struggle on by yourself. That the important thing.??Talking To Myself, Yohji Yamamoto.

The End.

Mon, 21 May 2007 09:18:54 GMT

I did not get selected for the press show.

Wish.

Thu, 17 May 2007 12:20:05 GMT

I presented my graduate collection this afternoon.

I just wish you were there.

The Colour of Beauty.

Wed, 16 May 2007 18:23:20 GMT