Oh there, what a perfect opening for my first 2012 blog post. But what can I say?

At a time like this, I just want to get inside the Great Persky’s magic box, like what Professor Kugelmass did. He would get inside the cheap-looking Chinese cabinet, waiting for Persky to throw a book to him. Once the professor got the book and tapped it three times, he would find himself projected into that book. Professor Kugelmass ended up making love to Madame Bovary.

But I only want to meet Santiago, and sail the blue Havana ocean with him, at a time like this. I want the Great Persky to throw me Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.

Grab the image from here.

Tap tap tap.

It is still dark. Santiago, the old man, leads our way. We walk in silence. I could only see his back. He’s pretty tall and his shoulders seem powerful, although very old — just like what Manolin said in the book.

His posture and aura, they are exactly like what I have always imagined. He is a calm man, I tell myself. And you can feel this strange tranquil feeling when walking behind him.

“I had a bad day,” I inform him, to his absent reply.

He walks pretty fast for an old man. He is barefoot. I gaze at his old shirt — that had been patched so many times. I regret that I did not bring him some clean blankets.

I feel ashamed, I should have not wore this stupid Jamiroquai’s t-shirt, and shoes. Oh my God, why did I wear them? Yeah, my Converse shoes. I hate Converse. God, I look completely 2000s.

But that old, best fisherman, seems not to care about what I am wearing. It’s not surprising. His head must be filled with places he went and lions he saw, his wife, and the Yankees. He is crazy about them, Yankees that cannot lose.

Suddenly, he says something. He says he could feel the morning coming. I could, too, then I hear myself saying, “a chill in the air.”

Santiago keeps walking, but then stops, abruptly. He turns his face toward mine, examining, he might be looking at me in the eyes — I cannot really tell, dark still.

“What’s your name, again?” he asks, with his deep voice.

“Anita,” say I.

“You are Manolin’s friend?”

“Yes,” I lie.

Of course I lie, I must.

I must not meet Manolin. He is pretty obsessed with Santiago, I am sure he wouldn’t be so ecstatic to learn that Santiago is now having a new company on board — a girl, me.

But the old man is the kindhearted type. He would welcome anyone to his old boat, like he did to me just now. He has been sailing alone the Gulf Stream for forty four days, since Manolin left him for another boat just to please his parents.

“I haven’t taken a fish for eighty-four days. People said that I am definitely and finally salao. But today, we are going far out,” he tells me, I could hear optimism in his voice.

You know, salao, it’s the worst form of unlucky.

We get into the boat and start rowing. And Santiago tells me he could hear the trembling sound made by the flying fish, one of his favorites from the ocean.

We row steadily, he is so calm, and strangely I am too. We are drifted with the current. I feel peaceful. It seems there are only us; the old man, the sea, and I in this big ocean of Havana.

I lay down, impolitely, like a yacht-owner, with his captain Santiago drives the small boat in silence. But he seems to comprehend my “I had a bad day” situation. He smiles at me, understandingly. Then I make this thank-you-so-much face.

I could only hear the ocean’s streams, and some birds up there flying. Streams and birds are the music of the ocean, I tell myself. I am the ocean’s child.

Not long. The light starts to illuminate the big flat ocean. He warns me that the glare of the light might hurt my eyes, it did to his. He doesn’t have shades, of course. I am wearing glasses so it’s not so bad.

I tell Santiago I want to see some plankton.

“Soon,” he says. “We are down in the blue water at one hundred and one hundred and twenty-five fathoms.”

It is when you see the darker blue ocean, it is so dark you might think it is purple. Then, I rise. The light doesn’t hurt our eyes so badly anymore. I look up, there are man-of-war birds flying.

“Dolphin,” the old man says aloud. “Big dolphin.”

I gasp.

Knock knock knock.

“Anita, your time is up!” the Great Persky shouts from outside of… the cabinet, the sea.

Oh damn. Didn’t I tell you I had a bad day, Persky?

Sebab dia telah menyusun sebuah rencana
penting
bersama buyung dan upik
serta seplastik keripik

Untuk bertemu merak
dan rusa
atau unta yang menari merayu
memohon seikat kacang

Hari ini dia akan melupa
dengung sinis mesin-mesin,
atau ribuan kaleng sama rupa
yang harus dia menghitungnya

Hari ini bukan sekadar Ahad,
baginya

PS: you might want to check this.

Ini surat ke-206 yang kutulis
untukmu, tuan presiden
Mungkin salah satunya sudah tuan baca,
ibu tua ini merindu anaknya

Tiga belas tahun lalu dia pergi kuliah
Mencium tanganku dia berkata,
Ibu aku akan pulang segera
Tunggulah aku untuk makan bersama

Jika tuan sudah membaca,
surat-suratku jelas bercerita
Anakku tak pernah kembali pulang
Seorang aparat menembaknya sore itu

Sebutir peluru menembus dadanya
Bersarang ia menghabisi nafasnya,
merenggut semangat dan nyawanya
mencerabut jiwaku

Hingga kini, tuan presiden
aku tak bisa lupa
Wajah anakku dan kaus yang dia kenakan
di hari itu

Mungkin sebab aku ibunya,
yang rahimnya pernah hangat membungkusnya
Yang teteknya pernah puas dihisapnya
Yang tak terbatas jumlah kasihnya

Tuan presiden,
ini surat ke-206 yang kutulis
Dan tak berhenti surat pasti kukirim
Terus menerus akan kutunggu jawabmu

Jawaban tuan untuk seorang ibu tua,
yang merindu sungguh
anak lakinya, dan keadilan
Dan keadilan

Catatan: Terinspirasi dari seorang ibu luar biasa yang saya temui hari ini (9 Desember). Selamat hari Hak Asasi Manusia (HAM), adili mereka yang tangannya berdarah.

I went to the Tribute Night, was so glad that I made the decision to go. I copied his Salampah Laku form the committee’s files. I madly respect this man, especially after (because I did not have any idea who he was before the festival) knowing what he has done and his thoughts.

Here I share with you, enjoy!

Ida Pedande Made Sidemen held by one of his students. Photo’s taken from 2011 UWRF Committee

SALAMPAH LAKU

Ida Pedanda Made Sidemen

Behold,
A world swarmed with men
Useless men, indolent men
Who like the birds
Chirping continuously
About things above their heads

Behold,
How in the season of sadness
All take to the air
Abandoning  worldly miseries
Into sunya
Aspiring to be wiser

Back from my  journey
I know nothing
Without knowledge, without words
Ignorant of the divine
Darkness descends on my heart
Obscuring North and South
Lustful thoughts, vain words, injuring actions
Embrace me
I flee to the villages, begging for foods
Beseech for sanctuary
To be a cloud, completely

Then the beautiful lady speaks
My beloved man
I shall fulfill my heart’s promise
Forsaking my parents
Seeking the simplicity of the mind
Although death may be the price
If  I yield and turn back now
Nothing will be gained
Not even a single word
That’s why
A woman is called the great earth

I forget my duty
Because of that I mature unknowingly
On the tip of my clothing
I look at you with a strange feeling
But, I have already uttered that
I desire you
Withholding tears night after night
I long for you
And my tears become rain

Father, mother
Look at me now
I am in anguish
I am dead
In my next life
I want to be born in Sanur again
To serve and love you
Father, Mother
Like a king
With an ungrateful daughter

Ah, indeed I am a selfish person
Enslaved by my desire
A source of constant regret
In meditation, I see the earth below, the sky  above
Keeping me awake
For my mind is untamed
There is always something
To sadden me
Remembering many things
From the mundane to the exotic
Recalling events that were my past

Ah, my beloved woman
Have your heart been opened
To accept insults
Being pelted at outsiders
Like me and my mind
Only   words could purify
fit things to their destiny
Misery would not stand in the way
And your name shall be famous
Yet, it shall be tied with other names

I am with him
The great ascetic
The free soul in the flower garden
Learning by listening
Not by feeling
I kneel before Hyang Ummasruti
Lord of wadhu
Lord of the devout women

now prepare yourself
washing,  cleaning
to cleanse your body
to purify your soul
in the new moon, in the full moon
to recite His name on every night
to invoke the deities of Sanur
fragrant air
fragrant flowers
fragrant incenses
Five Goddesses and devotees of beauty

If I to be born again
I wish to be born in a rich family
With beautiful face
Equal to the royal ladies
A magnificent beauty
With the king as a husband
Engulfed with pleasure
That is the ideal
Famous
Victorious over all women

Like a young prince
Crowned as the grand duke
His feet never touches the ground
Carried here and there on a wooden sedan
My intention now
Leading a life of simplicity
Having no rice field to toil with
I shall cultivate the land within
Skills of the poor
will help many in the villages

I am not a fan of free market or privatization. I have never been. And I don’t think we should encourage those practices. Why? Because they simply won’t bring betterment. Not for the underdeveloped countries, at least. But you see, these kinda talks have always seen as “high” or “sophisticated” topics that everyone raising the very issues must be some “socialist” or “commie” or “playing-smart” or “boring!” dudes.

Thus, when Occupy Wall Street started to merge last month in the city that never sleeps, the New York, I was so happy. Finally, I got to see bunch of people, the laymen, talking and cursing capitalism.

And I did not have to wait for long for the movement to inspire people around the globe, including people here in Jakarta. Starting last week, Jakarta has its own movement: Occupy Jakarta.

I haven’t again checked it, but if they still manage to stay, everyone passes the Indonesia Stock Exchange (BEI) building in South Jakarta in the morning till afternoon now might see a group of [now still small] people gathering, ranting about how capitalism is entering its end.

God knows I couldn’t be happier seeing those people coming from various backgrounds telling each other their opinions about capitalism. I remember one protestor brought a poster says: “The 1% is making history, but the 99% is trying to change it.”

Surely, not everyone in the city supports the movement. Many said the movement won’t gather steam if they stuck on the abstract capitalism issues. Another said Occupy Jakarta supporters are childish followers, because why bother Indonesia’s economy, when now it is in its best shape since 1997? They suggest these childish people to fight for more concrete problems such as religious intolerance and violence, or corruption.

I am not saying these notions are wrong, or think that they are not significant matters worth struggle for. But I always believe economy, or prosperity to be exact, is the core of all problems. Even I believe the intolerance issues got to do with it.

Basically, if you have enough money and can send your children to good schools they will get good education, no? They’ll learn many things, including respecting others, no? And when you are content and happy, you surely will say no to an offer of joining a religious rally or attack for $3, no?

Certainly, our economy is blooming and might be in its best shape since the last crisis, based on statistic. Based on new BPS stats released on July, the poor now constitute 12.5 percent (30.02 million) of Indonesia’s population, down from 13.3 percent (31.02) last year (poverty line = Rp 233,740 ($27.35) per capita per month). And the government sees an accumulated $94.7 billion in foreign exchange reserves — the largest amount in Indonesian history. Further, the country is also targeting 6.4 percent of economic growth this year. What a compelling data!

But let me break the news again: statistic often deceits us. You think the 6.4 economic growth will send 20 (out of 50) million of Indonesian children to schools? Or homeless people under the bridges to some decent housing complexes? Help people in Papua’s villages find accesses to medical and education facilities? No and no and no.

Statistics don’t answer the real problems. They never have.

Why capitalism issues should be addressed? I agree with Nurkholis Hidayat, one of the supporters of Occupy Jakarta and the director of the Jakarta Legal Aid Foundation. He said capitalism (free market, privatization, liberalism) eats up the country. It involves corruption and collations. How? Look at Indonesian, or international, big corporations in Indonesia.

“They are colluding with the government, that’s how they make it even worse,” he said.

I met several Papuan journalists last month. They told me, among others, there is this oil and gas company that had signed a 90 year-contract of exploration with the local government.

Yes, nine-fucking-ty years. It happened under the government watch. The government lets private ownership to control properties. (And no, people around the area are not becoming rich whatsoever).

Middle Class people might not see this issue crucial (?) because they don’t make 50 cent per hour, facing abusive employer/supervisor, who will growl and slap them when he/she gets angry!

(By the way, I am not going to talk about free market again because I have told you my opinion about it in the previous post!).

I remember I asked Nurkholis a question, “So how the group will address this issue? How do you fight it? What’s the solution? Who is responsible for this mess?”

He answered: “Let’s not talk about how and who we’ll be addressing with this issue,” he said. “Let it go naturally. We just hope more people will support this movement, because our goal is to raise awareness among the 99, and we won’t stop.”

Indeed. The work that has to be done in Indonesia is not (yet) telling the 1% to stop abusing their power in cultivating the people’s land. But to utter a loud call to the 99% that, “Hey! Capitalism (free market, privatization, collusion, liberalism) creates gaps and inequality. The poor are getting poorer, and the rich are getting richer.”

How will we address it and clean up the mess are the next issues we should think of… when the 99% understand the importance of this talk. When they, we, are rock-solid.

Bali dancers by Ario Pratisto

IT WAS VERY UNFORTUNATE for Bali for having me in the time of rage (you know, rage is an uncontrollable anger). But then again Bali might never be so lucky, ultimately, because I am always mad (you know, mad is an adjective, and it means: insane).

I went to Ubud, Bali, last week from 4 to 10 October. I volunteered for the 2011 Ubud Writers and Readers Festival. A five-day writers festival, the biggest in Indonesia, and among the top six best literary festivals in the world — so the Harper Bazaar, UK, reported.

I didn’t really check the writers lineup. I only knew Junot Diaz was confirming to come (apparently he didn’t, but it’s not really surprising, no?).

But I wasn’t angry because Junot was ill and couldn’t keep his oath to visit Bali, the beautiful city (oh is it?), and Ubud the quite and peaceful place (it’s true!). I was in a temper because a week before I actually walked on Ubud streets for an hour to just reach the Volunteer Basecamp, I met a journalist from Bali.

We met in a national conference for female journalists in Jakarta. I was (am?) mad not because of the meeting, because I must admit it was a quite lovely meet up. I was mad cuz I learned that Bali is now growing old and sad, so my friend told me. Old like our grannies losing their youth and beauty, living with wrinkles and tasteless porridge because she suffers from diabetes (please, Anita!) and sad as in the old lady couldn’t even remember that she too was once young and pretty.

“People are now queuing for transmigration programs. It’s not easy to find jobs in Bali, 80 percent of properties in Bali are owned by Jakarta people or foreigners,” she told me.

I am not a stupid racist or a chauvinist pig. But I met a group of journalists from Papua several weeks before I eventually met that female Balinese journalist. I even wrote an article about them and their documentary writings on kampongs in Papua.

You know what they told me? That Papua too is not happy. Kampongs in Papua are all lack of basic facilities, such as schools, community health centers, bridges, water supplies. It is 2011 but many people in Papua still rely on rainwater for drink. It is indeed the year of intellectual celebration because we can prove that God is an insignificant element in the creation of universe, but do you know that a lot of high school students in Papua could hardly read? Do I? I thought I do, but maybe I simply don’t.

Dying of malaria and tuberculosis are not news there, because you need hours to reach nearest Puskesmas and should consider yourself lucky if you ever find a nurse or doctor in that small community health center.

Where do the Papua’s treasures go? I don’t think there’s another brainy machine can provide you the best answer but my Mr Lovely Google. But a short answer might hiss: it did not go to the Papuans.

So tell me, just tell me how could i not be mad seeing these?

But I went to Bali anyway, Ubud. And I attended one of the sessions where Stephen Lansing sat in front speaking about “The Cycle of Rice.”

He said Bali lost around 100 hectares each year for villas (are they owned by Jakarta bourgeois?). People are converting their fertile soil to damn villas (yeah, there when I just lost my grip).

Lansing is today fighting for UNESCO to acknowledge Subak as one of the world cultural heritages, thus Balinese must keep Subak. You know what Subak is? You can ask Mr Handsome Google, but in short it is an irrigation/water management system for farmers. Yes, keeping Subak means keeping farmers and their lands.

Mr Lansing, seriously, 100 hectares land per year are gone? Hell, you are probably right for I saw villas and villas and villas here and there in Ubud! I even stayed in one. So they are gone? Gone to the 80 percent Jakarta and foreign owners? Again, you can ask Mr Sexy Google. Do Google suicide rate in Bali as well, please.

I am not a Wonder Woman because I do not run around wearing only my underwear on the outside — you know real superheroes wear their costumes that way, and I simply can’t because I don’t have sexy legs — but did it ever occur to you that occupying someone else’s properties or… I don’t know how to put it, but things like that, is a form of injustice? Don’t you think there should be someone putting a stop the very practice? I don’t know, maybe the government if they don’t involve themselves in the game.

Can Bali just own by Balinese, like Papua should have been ruled by the Papuans? If you know what I mean. And I am not a stupid racist or a chauvinist pig or a primordial dinosaur. I am just an angry girl.

Maybe my Papuan journalist fellow was correct after all, “the problem is that despite the presence of the government, we don’t feel that it’s actually governing,” she said.

Sometimes I think… ah damn, I cannot tell you, I am not having the qualifications, yet, to write an Op-Ed. And yes you can try asking Mr Bald Google, but he probably won’t give you the answer anyway.

I sometimes am still mad. I need to cool off.

PS: I will get back to you with more sober materials on the festival. After I find my cool-off pills, of course!

But I have a problem now. And I think I need an analyst, or at least friends who can really tell what’s going on with me.

Believe it or not, I am worrying myself lately. Why? Because I have been fast forwarding films I watched — especially those with suspense in them. I also skipped scenes with blood and those where the main characters got humiliated. I just couldn’t help to not skip those kinda scenes.

Yes. Those things have indeed left me with a question: God, is there something wrong with me?

Because a friend borrowed these comic books of mine, and I told her easily, “Hey, Ms. X is going to marry Mr. Y in the end.” And she was all like, “What? Why did you tell me that!” And I was like, “What? I thought that that would make you even far more eager to read it by yourself.” Then she replied, “What? No!”

See, my today’s problem is: I am very much okay with spoilers.

I used to read reviews before watching a film. But they were only reviews! Not spoilers. These whole lot spoilers are more than reviews, I am afraid this state will somehow affect my psychological condition *serious face*

Actually, I have tried to find some helps. Thus, I tweeted this important question like days ago, and a friend, Caroline Damanik, replied. She said it was a syndrome of “instant generation.”

Am I one of those who believe in the instantaneousness? That could be true. I might be don’t have that enough patience, especially for just fictions!

But Freud would have said more than that. You cannot ignore fictions and how you react to them. Maybe, I am just tired of sad endings? But wait, I just have one or two sad endings in life, I got more happy endings. And no, my life’s good, not sucks. I mean, I am going to [hopefully] meet Junot Diaz this October in Ubud, how can you call that sucks?

The thing is, I could watch movies in a calmer state when I know that the endings would be the one I have anticipated/wanted or at least close to. I can bear all the sorrows as long as I know that in the end, the triumph is mine, ho ho ho. Damn. I didn’t behave like this before. Normally not.

Well, maybe, I just don’t have enough time. You see, the whole 15 series of the cheap drama will eat up my time, while I cannot wait to know the end — oh well, instantaneity, sigh. Or, maybe I am just getting old and less spontaneous? Either way, it’s SAD, no?

What am I gonna do?

Although I don’t know exactly what my problem is, I think I know what the solution is: deleting the fast forward button! Oh, how I wish Steve Jobs could do that for me. Too bad he’s also has his own health issues.

She told me that I must never sleep at… well, basically at around 6 a.m or even 7 a.m. My family is — well, we are practicing Muslims and all, so after we pray in the dawn, mother said we couldn’t go back to sleep — especially after 6 a.m when the sun is shining! My mother also told me that I must never go to sleep when the sun is almost set or around 5.30 p.m and so. And even if I am sleepy to the point that I think I could sleep standing up without batting an eyelash — I must hold it. Oh boy, that’s my mother. When she says something, she means it.

“You’ll have some funny dreams if you couldn’t hold it. Hold it for an hour, then you could go to sleep,” she said, suggesting me to just sleep after 6.30 p.m.

I am not living with my mother now. But I sure still remember what she said.

But yesterday, I accidentally broke that forbidden-hours-to-sleep rule. And I had this funny dream that drove me banana in my sleep.

Honest to blog, I am glad that I broke it. I miss my dreams, and to dream them. You know, the celebration of your true desires and all, so Mr Freud said. It is sad that these days, when I wake up in the morning, I forget all my dreams. Sometimes I even think that I do not dream at all, so scary!

Yesterday, I woke up like at 5 a.m, and then I read this book you wouldn’t careless what it was. But an hour later, I felt so sleepy and all, I couldn’t hold it. So I slept. And dreamt.

My dream was: I was in this building and there was a flood. I was with some people, they were my new friends, I just met them and all. So two weeks ago I helped AJI hosted a regional symposium to discuss about freedom of expression with participants from ASEAN countries etc — it looked at how bad/good is the freedom of expression in Southeast Asia countries plus India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka [that turned to be not good at all — no surprise]. So in my dream, I was with these people from that symposium. But strangely, they weren’t the same people I met in the real symposium, if you know what I mean. They were different people, but from that symposium two weeks ago.

AJI asked me to help them out, you know, if they ever needed something or just directions to go to some places. In that dream, I also did that job. The difference was, there was this massive flood in the end of the symposium. I helped participants carrying their luggage around and all. But it was a real crazy flood, soon enough all of the streets were covered with gray water, and there were crocodiles. Seriously, some crocodiles, I am not joking. They were swimming so fast, waiting for us to jump into some dry land/spaces and fail and would probably eat us. And indeed, we were forced by the flood to move to those safe spots.

This one might sound phony, but even in my dream I still felt the responsibility to make sure the participants — technically guests to this country — safe. So I helped them out jumping to some dry spaces, but we should pass these crazy crocodiles. I think I almost transported all of them safe, until there was this girl I couldn’t get my hand on her. And she got drowned and all, and I was screaming and all.

The grey water got stirred somehow until it made a whirlpool. And that girl, she was drowning toward the whirlpool. In a minute I couldn’t see her head, but in another minute her head was up and all so I finally could see her again — and I kept seeing that view: gone and up, gone and up, that girl’s head. And I was still screaming because I worried about the crocodiles and all, and I was too yellow to swim and I couldn’t even swim in the first place.

It was strange as hell really, because soon, they turned out to be not crocodiles at all, but one huge black gorilla! He also got stirred into the whirlpool along with that girl and, in fact, with some three other girls — I recognized one of them, she was my copyeditor at the office. And the black gorilla put his right palm on those girls’ foreheads — liked hypnotizing them or something, because second after he put his palm on the girls, they suddenly closed their eyes and looked so peaceful.

I didn’t know why, but somehow I stopped screaming and ran to another building. I was about to find my neighbors — that was crazy because suddenly I got this urge to save my neighbors as well. It was even crazier because my neighbors’ houses were all dry and all.

And suddenly, I did not know how I got into that situation, but when I was about to get into a random house, there was this monster chasing me.

He didn’t have that stink breath or a super ugly face or something — he was just a person, but a very very mean one, he could chew you alive — and that’s even scarier than a monster whose breath is stink. He was running faster than me, and I needed to get away.

Finally, I got into this house where I met my two neighbors whose faces look so much alike my mother and brother. And they showed me the way to their basement, and boy, did they get in their basement quick, hell it was so quick they slipped their bodies into this tiny hole in just a blink of an eye. I was pretty sure my neighbors have problems with their weights, but how come the hole to their basement was crazy small. Maybe they could turn themselves into liquid because while they did not find any difficulties in pushing their bodies inside, I got stuck in the hole.

I suddenly felt so fat and all — I hate it when I am thinking that I am fat, even in my dream, or especially my dream. So I couldn’t get myself inside the basement, I cried and all, and was pushing myself even harder to pass the hole, but the monster caught me. He gave me his evil smile when helping me got out of the hole.

I thought he was going to kill me, until there was this friend of mine — my good friend, was my junior in high school, and now she’s living in Jakarta with her cute baby boy and husband — she looked so pretty and got her long hair combed very neatly [in real life, she wears veil tho]. She was smiling in her Balinese costume and all — it’s also strange because she is a Javanese.

So she ran to me and put her hands around my neck and told me how she misses me. That evil guy did not do anything tho. He was pretending like he was just an ordinary good guy, like a friend of mine. Suddenly I felt like, he was just a monster to me, you know, that he only wanted to eat me instead of others. He wasn’t drooling or something over my friend and two neighbors.

So, very quietly, I told my friend that the evil guy smiling at me is wishing to kill and eat me. I told her to pretend not to know and I asked her to cover me, “I wanted to escape somewhere,” I told her. But suddenly, out of the blue, I just realized that I wore a pair of my high heels, I couldn’t even run.

But boy, that was fast, he was suddenly chasing me again and all, and left my friend yelling to me telling me to run fast.

Oh boy, what a dream! Yeah, it stopped there. I woke up and all, and the monster couldn’t catch me.

It was some dream, sure it was.

You know I used to look up at Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams to interpret my dreams and all. But today, I kinda forget about the dreams and on what pages they were written. Freud had some of his patients’ dreams analyzed and written in the book, certain dreams and all. But I kinda forget all the examples. Except, well, probably Irma’s dreams.

So, I better just sign off now. I wouldn’t go to sleep tho, the sun is almost set!

It’s kinda late to post this, but so what. Have you watched Julian Assange posing for a commercial? Uh huh.

Click here or just watch it below.

Twenty secure phones to assist in staying anonymous: $5,000.
Fighting legal cases across five countries: $1 million.
Upkeep of servers in over 40 countries: $200,000.
Donations lost due to banking blockade: $15 million.
Added cost due to house arrest: $500,000.
Watching the world change as a result of your work? Priceless.
There are some people that don’t like change. For everyone else, there’s WikiLeaks.

You know what the coolest part of the video? Yep. That Assange is using the exact same laptop as I am! Hahaha. I know, silly, silly, silly.

Like what @apathoni said: And those of millions of other people RT @freudian83: laptopku sama kayak laptopnya julian assange

Oh btw, are you the “everyone else”?

PS: the only thing bothers the video is the ads tagged along on it. And lo, Google, are you seriously doing this? Visa Platinum ad when Assange is, literally, cutting his credit card? Sweet!

Nobel Peace Prize Medal. Image is from here.

LENNON DESCRIBED HIMSELF and I perfectly right in his Imagine: we are dreamers.

My dreams are — oh you’re getting sick of reading this again and again — being a war correspondent and win a Nobel Peace Prize. I know those two seem somewhat contradictory, and they might not sound practical and realistic to many of you. But what can I say? I am a dreamer.

Even so, don’t worry, I’ve got a plan. You know, a dream without a plan is merely a wish, right. So this plan goes specifically for the Nobel Peace Prize ambition.

I’ve screened all Nobel Peace Prize winners from time to time to get a clearer picture of what these incredible people had done to deserve receiving one. Except for the 2009 winner, who was Barack Obama, and few others, I think all receivers had done tremendous works in bringing about peace, equality, and justice for the people at across the universe.

Look at the 14th Dalai Lama, Aung San Suu Kyi, Al Gore, Nelson Mandela, Jose Ramos-Horta, Kofi Annan, Yasser Arafat, Mother Teresa, and Liu Xiaobo. They are the people who made countless efforts helping people and making the world a better place to live. They are the extraordinary people.

With all due respects to all the names I have mentioned above — you all are heroes — I need to say that I should find a way to get one myself. So I think I need to know how to get it.

Without belittling the meaning of the Nobel itself, I think these are the formulas to win a Nobel Peace Prize: you are basically just “nobody” who do the humanitarian-and-related works with all your heart and soul, gain trust from the society, receive a lot of coverages in the media because of your hard work and dedication, win it, keep doing the work. Or, you have an important position in your country [let's say you're a statesman], work and get paid — because that’s basically your job, some coverages in the media, do the work well, get exposed again, win.

After considering a thing and some, I think I’ll take the second order to win, it looks easier. But I know that if I desire to take the second path, I need to become the President of Republic of Indonesia, or at least the Minister of Foreign Affairs or Minister of Manpower. So I might need some years to get elected as a president or appointed as a minister.

Here’s my idea, that I hope neither my President nor Foreign Affairs Minister would steal it to save the Nobel Peace Prize for themselves:

Do you know that there are bunch of things you could do in Indonesia to bring about peace and justice? The nation poverty rate [2010 stat] is 13 percent or around 31 million people. Unemployment reaches 7.41 percent or about 8.59 million people. Tens of thousands people lost their homes and hopes to Lapindo mud ‘disaster’ in Sidoarjo, East Java. And look at the recent stat: 303 Indonesian migrant workers are facing serious charges including death penalty overseas, especially in Saudi Arabia and Malaysia. Indonesian government cited recently that some 22 in Saudi Arabia are waiting to be executed in near future.

Just earlier this week, Indonesian people were in mourn and enraged for Ruyati binti Saputi, a migrant workers from Bekasi, who was beheaded by sword in the western province of Mecca without notifications. The s**p*d Indonesian government did not have any idea that one of its citizen worked in Saudi Arabia was dying alone — they soon blamed Saudi Arabia for not sent them a notification.

Whatever crime she might have done [that I believe caused by some reasons] like the one stated by this one top official that seemed to justify the beheading, “she murdered her female employer, stabbed her repeatedly in the head and neck with a kitchen knife,” I don’t think anyone deserves to die alone, beheading, in some foreign country.

I am against death penalty, well maybe except for terrorists and corruptors? Whatever the holy book says, whatever “an eye for an eye” means. Don’t all religions teach to forgive and forgiveness? Anyway, so if I were the president of the Republic of Indonesia, I would do everything to save my 303 migrant workers. I would ask them to come home, give them good jobs and salaries, and thank them for their foreign exchange. I would surely do it because it would be simply my responsibility, although a thought of getting a Nobel Peace Prize bonus might linger on my mind.

And if any of them could be saved under diyat or ‘blood money’, a compensation for the victim’s family, just like Darsem, I would pay it. Rp 4.6 billion ($533,000) is nothing for the country, because Indonesia is rich, it has thousands islands, charcoal, gold, silver, coconuts, and durian.

FYI, I would fire any of my staffers who argue, “But ma’am, they are murderers, we don’t need to save them. They stabbed their employers repeatedly on the head and neck, should we free them using tax payers money?”

I would like to see whether they still have same arguments if it were their mothers. None of Indonesians should have ended his/her life on a public beheading, buried somewhere none of his/her family knows. Put yourself in their shoes first, then you’ll be allowed to speak.

Not only saving them. As a president I would also set a better mechanism of migrant workers sending, you know, the Constitution protects people’s rights to find a job anywhere.

My administration, which would not be corrupted, would handle the Migrant Workers Placement Agency (PJTKI). The administration would not set the work under business mindset. Anyone who desires to go abroad doing domestic work would be trained for at least 600 hours. They all, both females and males, would have the skills they would need there, so they would be able to operate hi-tech equipments well, cook delicious food, and speak local languages well. Their employers would be so impressed they wouldn’t lay a hand on them, nor would they dare paying the salaries late. In addition to that, I also would make sure that there would be no more illegal sending.

I swear I would never be instead busy with building my empire or thinking of politics and my party, because I simply wouldn’t have the time to. You know, I would travel a lot for some times, including to Saudi Arabia, to directly meet the King to talk seriously about this issue. I would be a good diplomat, I am sure I would be able to convince him to sign a concrete agreement that will ensure his people to follow it. They would say that they would never violate regulations, I would assign it, too, myself, to ensure the same thing. Both of us would agree to put words into actions. No more sexual harassment, crazy employers iron or kill Indonesian workers overseas.

Surely time would then go by, and without even realizing it… I would have saved 303 Indonesian people overseas from swords, created jobs in my country offering good salaries, made people happy. By that point, I would have media adore me and expose me up to the international level.

I would almost forget about my dream of receiving a Nobel, but the Norwegian Nobel Committee would then give me a call.

“Miss president, the Norwegian Nobel Committee has decided to award the Nobel Peace Prize to you for your years of struggle to save hundreds of Indonesian migrant workers overseas, set new strong agreements with destination countries, give millions of Indonesian migrant workers the best protection they could ever get, create good jobs in homeland for millions, abolishing poverty, and put smiles on Indonesian faces. The committee has long believed that there is a close connection between human rights and peace. Such rights are a prerequisite for the ‘fraternity between nations’ of which Alfred Nobel wrote in his will. Congratulation, Miss President.”

Do you think my plan would work? If it would, then, since I made it public now, the current Indonesian President or Ministers would probably get to read and maybe steal this idea. But to be honest with you, I don’t have problem with people stealing my ideas, coz I am so creative I could come out with a better plan next time.

So, you president and ministers, if you’re reading this now, don’t be shy, you can copy my plan.

PS: Actually, my father is forcing you to steal this idea, really, Mister President, I could hear him screaming on the phone just now, “just do something NOW, Indonesian President!” he said. Tell ya what, what he meant by ’something’ is this plan of mine.