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.)