I have been happier than usual with a joy that has never been so potent, so lucid, and so convincing. I feel as though I am one of the luckiest human beings in the planet. Being able to do and have the things I desire, and being given the time, opportunity, and resources to further deepen and strengthen my art practice. I find it is still quite a melange of sorts, kind of like primordial pond scum but in a cute and optimistic way like flubber haha but the intention to evolve, to expand is there. I am confident that I will find my way nonetheless at my own perfect time. I have been investigating the notion of happiness. This began in Manila, after staging some acts of healing and reconciliation between myself and the figures of my past: family, friends, Cebu. I am unearthing insights on this subject from my experience with religion and fanaticism through a new work in progress. It's called "Church B" for now.

I've been having a consistent urge to perform but what? how? have been the frustrating questions. I'm a bit saturated with my performance techniques, even my themes. How does one transform? How does one find new impetus, new stimuli, perhaps even a new muse. I am happy and for now, the closest thing I have to an intention is to share this joy. How to do this without being patronising or didactic?

3:19 am Manhattan, New York

Missing Beuys

So here we are again. I'm back in Dusseldorf. I actually had a very good day experiencing good (and bad) art through the Skulptur Projekte in Munster. 

Without these grand distractions though, I am once again confronted with myself. I'm more and more becoming conscious of the reader in this secret blog. I had imagined I would share this with one friend, just one. The primary candidate is Carlos. Why, I don't know. Maybe, perhaps, he seems to have the most accurate grasp of my nuances despite being unfamiliar with my experience as a member of the lower class (which is something I carry with me until now).

My cat is missing. Beuys, please come back. Yesterday, while I was getting weary of worrying about money, the cold, and pretty much the usual internal isolation amidst over-extended company, I began to meow at strangers discreetly. Every time I would pass by someone, I would meow. Beuys had just gone missing then–back in Manila.

I'd like to think this is the main source of my anxiety today, having had an admittedly and refreshingly exhilarating and enriching day of art.

I started watching Haneke's The Seventh Continent until finally giving in to my restlessness. I'm just going to have to wait for Ea to give her notes on her piece.

I'm taking life a day at a time, an hour at a time when it gets bad. Sleep helps a lot.

Still, there is much to be thankful for. I am in Europe and I managed to catch a city-wide art festival that only happens once in ten years. I'm 32 years old, I have a partner, I live in a gorgeous apartment with the perfect housemate. And I have a beautiful cat, who is right now probably on the way home. 

I love you, Beuys. Be quick about it. I'll be home soon too.

Talking in my sleep

I had the most beautiful dream.

There was a concert in Iceland. Or a protest. Or both. A few children were on stage singing "You've been flirting again".

The focus shifted to the last solo.

The child was trembling but still sang beautifully:

"Some things you never should owe."

I want to live in Iceland.

Today

Choose to feel anyway.

Hermit Talk

My body is sore. Such is always the case when I enter into Eisa Jocson's process. Princess is showing tonight. I feel more confident about it now. Perhaps I should direct all my energies–all of them into this. There is no point responding to my mother's messages saying "God put him(Duterte) there to clean this world" and telling me again and again to return to Jesus. Fuck that shit.

I did my daily soak in the tub. I couldn't sit still. However, I did manage to stay in the tub for a good 40 minutes, exactly as I had planned. I thought perhaps it would be better to take a walk instead. Walking around a foreign country has so far yet to afford me a sense of safety. Or perhaps, Dusseldorf is just not that great of a city. It might even really suck. Yesterday I tried to imagine I was just walking down the streets of Cebu. We were on our way to another Japanese restaurant. Surprisingly, I was in the mood for conversation. Until I too got fairly annoyed by my own excess of speech. I had a beer and some cold tofu with nato, a pleasant surprise.

These days I'm beginning to really think about my death in a more practical manner, something that is  bound to happen, maybe sooner, maybe later. It doesn't matter. What matters is I am ready and also I am really not so fond of this world as of late. I'm hoping it's just that. It would be too unfortunate to miss out on things. But yes, this is how I feel. I have to acknowledge this. Sometimes, a clear escape is all so enticing. I'm going to get more books. I really don't mind being a hermit. I really don't.

Romancing Madness

Yesterday, I found myself sitting in a table by the sidewalk. We were eating at this famous ramen place along the main Japanese street here in Dusseldorf. I began to feel uneasy around my companions, the people around me, and the rest of the world. I am not sure if this is what Sartre was referring to with "nausea". All night, I had to fight this profound feeling of contempt for every human being, especially and including myself.

On the plane, on my way here, I finished Eugene Ionesco's The Hermit. It felt like reading through my own diary. It was a lot of fun until I realised the protagonist's ending could also be my own.

The last line of the book reads:

"I took it as a sign."