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.