Interlude (in other words, "time out!")

First and foremost, I'd like to say:

Happy Chinese New Year to all of my friends (Chinese and non-Chinese alike)!! May, errr... this year brings you, err...

Yea, I'm not good at these things. This is always the case whenever I tell someone "Happy something-or-other!" 'cause you know, there's like an unwritten rule that says something like:

"After thou sayeth 'Happy something-or-other,'thou shalt add in some other sentences so that thou wilt looketh like thou really meant what thy said."

Or something like that, I don't know.

But, fucking-lame jokes aside (goddamn I should really stop cursing), I am sorry that I haven't been able to post the second chapter (or scene) to Visage of Lies (for those of you who reads it). I've been... distracted... by another project (but of course the actual thing doesn't warrant such big a word like 'project,' but I'm just being humble here, so play along).

It has occurred to me, of late, that I have never talked about that particular play, even though I have discussed (or mentioned) my other, er... 'works' in this blog of mine. That's because I have a feeling that if I were to try to explain that play, a lot of you folks will be confused, because I know my explanation will make no sense whatsoever (unless you can decode my somewhat cryptic language, but again, I'm just being humble so play along).

Which is just another way of saying, I don't even know what the play is really all about.

And quite truthfully, I'm glad of the fact that I don't know what the play is really all about.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that I hate that play. No, I love it. I love it to death. I know it's an achievement that I will be proud of until the day I breathe my last breath. It's not Broadway stuff, true. It's not a proper play, technically speaking, true. But I don't give a flying fuck, because I did what I set out to do the moment I sat down on my chair and double-clicked on that icon that says 'Word' in my laptop.

I set out to tell a story of a painter who can see through lies, and I think I did just that.

Stories are wonderful, I think. Especially fiction.

"How is it wonderful?" you may ask.

Sometimes you read a story about something, only to realize in the end that the story is telling you something else entirely. That happens to writers, too. Sometimes when you try to write a story about a fictional character trapped in a fictional world, going through fictional circumstances (and along the way, acquire a fictional spouse or two), and getting a fictional ending, only to realize that you have actually written about yourself, trapped in a real world, going through real circumstances (but you may not acquire a real spouse or two), and you also realize that the fictional ending is what you want your ending to be.

Confused yet? Good, I've done good job if you are.

"So what's the point, Bagus?" you may ask. That's the beauty of it. There's no point in it at all. But you're still reading it right? There you go. That's because in between those seemingly random thoughts that I just wrote down, there really is a point. It's only a matter of perspective.

The beauty of writing, and reading: both the writer and the reader will be invariably surprised in the end.

So, you surprised yet? Good, because I just explained what my play (A Visage of Lies, in case you forgot) is all about.

And with that somewhat cryptic post, I bid you

Good night

Sleep

tight.

(And if you're still confused, drink a cup of coffee, mixed with some mandrake roots. For an extra "kick," put dragon's blood in it. Works like a charm.)

Midnight Theater: A Visage of Lies

Here it is folks, the play that I wrote last year in short story form. This is the prologue, and since I'm a bit lazy to edit it, this is more like a draft of a short story; it's short and straight to the point. I'm working on the later chapters as of today.



Prologue: Who Is It?

“Perhaps, my dear, you would like to take some rest?” said the painter, looking up from the canvas.

“Why yes, I could use a cup of tea right now. Is the painting finished?” she asked, her back stiff and uncomfortable.

“No, but a couple more hours should do it.”

“May I see it now?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

And so Gladys rose from her chair, her glowing white skin basked under the sun. Her black hair was flowing with the autumn breeze coming from the open window, and her green eyes sparkled. As she spoke her lips parted in such a way that only an artist can truly appreciate its beauty.

Such lips are meant for a lover’s kiss, the painter thought.

The painter stood up and ran a paint-stained hand over his brow, wiping the sweat. His hair was all grey, and his shoulder drooped down. One can deduce from these traits alone that life has been none too pleasant for him. However, one look from his eyes and one will see that, although his countenance was showing age, those blue orbs speak of nothing but passion and energy, such that no amount of time can wear them down.

The young lady walked to the artist, and as her eyes fell on the canvas, her breathing stopped, her cheeks blushed, and she smiled delightfully. She said,

“Oh, Albert, you flatter me! Surely this lovely lady is not yours truly?”

“Yes, indeed it is you, young lady. Although I must confess that the picture does not even come close to justifying your true beauty,” the painter said with a tired smile. Gladys laughed, and beamed at him.

“I can’t wait for you to finish it,” she said.

“Neither can I,” Albert said, “However, I fear that I have left some rough edges on your beautiful dress in the painting, and I must insist that I correct them before I dare take a rest, lest my memory fails me later. Would you mind terribly if I take a moment to do it?”

“Of course not, Albert,” Gladys said with that oh-so delightful smile.

Albert smiled, and he once again took his seat. As he began stroking his brush on the canvas, Gladys strolled about in the room in which this particular event was happening.

It was not a terribly big room. However, given the sparse furniture, it was plenty spacious. The room gave her a sense of peace, and old though it maybe, it was well taken care of. The singularly pleasant aspect of the room was that the window was facing a lovely garden, and this window she inspected with great interest. The frames were made of oak, and the carvings adorning it were of a very detailed craftsmanship. It stood as a stark contrast to an otherwise empty and undecorated room.

As per mentioned, there were scant any furniture in the room, save for the two chairs that the painter and Gladys was using, and a table where the artist put his paints. There was however, a rather large object which looks like a veiled painting, lying by the wall at the far corner of the room. This piqued the young lady’s interest, and she strolled there to pick it up. The painter did not notice this, as his concentration was focused on the painting he was working on.

The veil dropped to the floor when the lady picked it up. At the sight of what was on the canvas, the young lady gasped.

It was an oil painting set on an old white canvas. The wooden frame was old and fragile, and she felt that were her grip was a little bit stronger, the frames may have crumbled in her hand. This confused Gladys, for although the frame was aged, the colours of the painting looked as if it was still brand new.

However, what startled her most was the painting itself; it was a portrait of a young lady, standing on what seemed to be a porch overlooking a river. She was beautiful, the most beautiful lady she has ever seen in her life. No words can ever describe her beauty. It was not because of the lady’s physical traits – a pair of hazel eyes set on a round face, a fair skin, jet-black hair, and lips so full and seductive – but rather, it was how the painting depicted this lady. One look and Gladys could tell that the portrait was painted by someone who loved the lady deeply. The effect was such that made Gladys felt like she was falling in love with the woman in the picture.

She inspected the painting further. The colour and the texture was an example of perfect and strong brush strokes that sets the mood for the entire painting. The colours were somewhat gloomy and cold, and out of all the colours, red seemed to dominate the entire scene. Yet it was these details that disturbed Gladys. It was as though the lady in the painting was alive. Gladys even felt that she could see the individual veins behind that picturesque face. It was gorgeous and repulsive at the same time.

“What do you think of that painting?”

Gladys turned around, and found that the painter was standing next to her, looking at her with grave eyes.

“I’m sorry Albert, but I couldn’t help myself. Who made this painting?” she asked. “It’s…. beautiful.”

“Beautiful on the outside, at least,” Albert said. He gazed at the painting with empty eyes. “But I see you hesitated when you said that it was beautiful. Tell me, dear Gladys, what do you truly feel about this painting?”

Gladys fumbled for a proper word in her mind, only to find that there was none that were fit enough to describe it. Instead, she said “I must admit that I can’t find any defects in this painting…”

“But?” Albert’s face was emotionless, and he was still gazing at the picture.

“But I know that there is something terribly wrong about this painting. The colours…. They’re just not right, somehow.”

Albert sighed at this. He took the painting carefully from her hands, and he set them on the table. He took the chairs and put them on the opposite ends of the table, and motioned for Gladys to take a seat.

“You have keen eyes, young lady. You noticed the only thing that’s wrong with it and, by doing so, you have noticed the singular thing that made this painting as beautiful as it is.” Albert sat down on the opposite chair, his eyes still fixed on the portrait.

“Red,” Gladys said.

“Aye, red.”

“Who painted this, Albert? And who is the lady in the picture?” asked Gladys.

Albert fixed his eyes on Gladys. He said, “Do you really want to know, my dear?”

To which Gladys replied, “I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“But the answer brought it back.”

Albert smiled at her reply. “Then I suppose there is no harm in telling you the truth behind this painting then.”

He took a deep breath, and he spoke, in manner of a grandfather telling his grandchild a bedtime story.

“There is, by chance, a love story that accompanies this painting you’re looking at now. A most unpleasant and peculiar love story, but it is a love story nonetheless.”

Gladys leaned forward on her chair.

“Listen closely.”

"Where" - a poem

This is a poem that was made by a fellow writer (who also happens to be the main actor in my play, A Visage of Lies) who goes by the name Cyren (at least, that's what I call him). This poem was written for me, and I liked it so much I asked his permission to post it in my blog (and he gave them). If you know me in person, you'd probably see why I like it. Here it is:

Where

Where do you fly,
when the wind blows strong,
when the rain howls down,
and the nights are long?

Where do you hide,
when the tempest comes swift,
when zephyrus awakens,
and in the sky tears a rift?

Where do you run to,
when the sun scalds the ground,
when the road melts from the heat,
and not a cloud is around?

Where you are now,
I guess I'll never know.
But the question that's killing me is;
Why, oh why, did you go?

But,

Suppose somethings in life,
were never meant to be conveyed,
so I let out a sigh,
and take my first step, away.

There you go. Pretty darn impressive, I'm telling you, especially because it's so true (he understands that aspect of me better than anyone else, methinks). If you want to look at his other works, go here. And with that, I bid you

Good night.

Sleep

Tight.

This World's Got Me Smoking

I know, it's a lame excuse for me to keep fucking up my lungs. But what can I say?

So far I've uttered the sentence "I'm quitting smoking" hundreds of times already, even though I meant those words every single goddamn time too. Last year (that's 2008), I almost quit for good. But we all know how THAT turned out, yea?

Like what Jackie-boy said in Sin City: "Smokers never quit... Smokers smoke when their chips are down... And YOUR chips are down..."

And yes, my chips are still down. But I'm fightin'. Hell, I might even put "1. Quit smoking for good, don't fuck it up this time," in my New Year Resolutions list.

I mean, goddamn folks, cigarettes are 9 bucks a pack nowadays. I'm afraid I might have to start sucking some dicks for cigarettes soon, if I don't stop. And I'm sure as shoot don't want THAT shit to happen, do you? Hell no.

But Bagus, you might be asking, what about your other New Year Resolutions?

Which I'll probably answer like so:

Errr... Can I get back to you on that?

No, actually I do have one more thing to add (that makes two, two New Year Resolutions so far). And that would be:

"2. Stop cursing all the time."

Yea, that sounds good right? Cool.

And I should probably get out more, and exercise a bit, but I seriously doubt that would happen, so let's just skip that part. For now, at least.

So, late though it may be, I would like to say "Happy New Year," and, err... "Merry Christmas?" to all of you guys out there.

Let's kick some rear end, shall we?

And with that, I bid you

Good night.

Sleep

Tight.

Yogyakarta

This is the lyrics to a song that I think sums up what Yogyakarta is all about. It's not about the tall buildings (of which Jogja has none, so far as I'm concerned), it's not about the shopping malls (Jogja only has 3 big ones, and they're quite small to begin with), and it's not about the clubs. It's about the soul. Translation is also included, for those who can't speak Indonesian.

Yogyakarta, by Kla Project.

Pulang ke kotamu
Ada setangkup haru dalam rindu
Masih seperti dulu
Tiap sudut menyapaku bersahabat, penuh selaksa makna
Terhanyut aku akan nostalgi
Saat kita sering luangkan waktu
Nikmati bersama
Suasana Jogja

Di persimpangan langkahku terhenti
Ramai kaki lima
Menjajakan sajian khas berselera
Orang duduk bersila
Musisi jalanan mulai beraksi
Seiring laraku kehilanganmu
Merintih sendiri
Ditelan deru kotamu …

Walau kini kau t’lah tiada tak kembali
Namun kotamu hadirkan senyummu abadi
Ijinkanlah aku untuk s’lalu pulang lagi
Bila hati mulai sepi tanpa terobati

And it's roughly translated to:

Going home to your town
I'm caught by the stir of my longing
Still the same as before
Every corner is a friendly greeting
Fully satiated with meaning
Lost in the sensation of nostalgia
Of the moments when we were spending time
And enjoying Jogja's ambiance together

At the crossroad my steps stand still
Bustling portable food stands
Peddling various delectable cuisines
People sit cross-legged
And the street musicians begin to play
In rhythm with my sorrow of losing you
Alone in my moans
Engulfed by your city's roar

Although you're no longer here, and will never come back
But your city provides your eternal smile
Please allow me to always return
If the heart embarks on loneliness without comfort...


You can watch the video here.

And with that, I bid you

Good night

Sleep

Tight.