Down on the strip, it's all Bintang wife bashers,¹ street drinking and the allure of another peak in the endless cycle of revelry. In a heady mix of exhaust fumes, bass leakage from nightclubs and constellations of illuminated brand names, two helmetless half-dressed chickiebabes on a scooter shriek with excitement at a near miss as they wobble their way through the river of traffic toward their date with the dancefloor... or a hospital.

It's Saturday night in Kuta.

It's been forever, but we've finally completed our sentence in the sky cell.

"When will come that time that I will have my happiness?
It will be when the clock chimes that hour: when my country has lived up to its ideals.
For now I am blessed within my family whom I love."

Or something like that...¹

The message is etched in a pitted window pane, in a bare room where dust motes drift in watery sunlight. The thinning panes of the window distort the view of a long-dry fountain outside, beyond which lies a ruined pier that would have so often been the focus of attention of the message's author, a former controleur in the Dutch colonial administration of the Banda Islands.

These former offices, an adjacent mansion and the walled garden in between form the Istana Mini or Little Palace, the island group's administrative center during the years prior to, and for a while after, Indonesia's independence. Built in the early 1820s, the imported glazed stone tiles of the floors, the wide collonaded verandahs and decorated high timber ceilings hint at former grandeur, but near total emptiness, the thick patina of dust on the scored floor tiles and the creeping mould that forces the paint from the walls create a despondent, abandoned air today.

Not an Idle Dreamer

(A discourse on the hard labour involved in a life of frivolity and grand plans revealed)

It's been ages since I've posted to the dreaming track. I've been leaving all the blog work up to poor Doug, who does a much better job at blogging things anyway. I have been keeping myself honestly busy in other ways, though I have a great deal of trouble getting anyone to believe it :)

The only two people who do know how much work I put into dreaming up schemes are Doug and my mother (both of whom seem to think I have a touch of the old OCD). I feel compelled to defend myself against frequent accusations of idle hedonism from those who don't (I am only a hedonist on odd days) and I want to tell you all about the exciting plans we've been cooking up.