Bullet Journal

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Taken by me

I don’t know why I still keep tangling my brain with the thoughts of organizing my life after all of the abandoned. To some degree, maybe I’m really that kind of person, a person who likes to make plans, to-do lists, goals and tends to do anything with intention and take advantage of everything.

Goofing around on the Internet in a day of boredom, once more time, the idea of reorganizing my life once again stirred my mind when I find out some articles and videos about a thing called bullet journal. People describe  it as a combination of diary and planner, so it’s obviously much more effective than ever.

Last night, I wrote out an outline for my  future bullet journal which I had my brother buy for me a few days ago. It’s kind of a perfect time to start this one but I am by no means sure because I know the expantancy of my bullet journal depends most on my self-discipline.

Lately, I’ve become more and more hestitant when buying everything but books. I’m afraid of abandoning them after a moment of madness. In terms of notebooks, clothings, or anything looking adorable at first, I just keep staring at them and convincing myself that I have nothing to do with them. Therefore, when my brother told me what I need to buy at that moment, I waited until a few days later to ask him to buy for me a dot grid book.

Yep, it would be a plain dot grid book, not a floral one like I thought before.

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When Days Are Through

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Hanging Laundry by Jeffrey T. Larson

Let me pick out for you
A day when you can see sun
Let me pick out for you
A dress looking obsolete
You no longer wear
On such a sunlit day
Everything is tempted into
Swathing in each other
Even the oldest blooms in diaphaneity
Of light, of veil, of our sombre souls.

Let me pick out for you
A line where you can hang your mildewy blues
Relentlessly elongating till the sun rises
Exposing them to the daylight
Let me pick out for you
A lingerie lingered with leftover sorrow
All night long
Just wait for sun
To be free from the solid colors
To sway along sparkling under the sun
Realizing the wind’s on your side.

Long Letter of Alazia

Dear Ch.,

I remember the day we sat in the shade of a tree during the PE lesson. At that time, we both bore in our minds countless sophisticated thoughts. When I call them “sophisticated”, I know it’s somewhat pretentious. But I also know that if you were here, you would tell me not to say about our own trouble like that, not to belittle them. Just call them “sophisticated” as I want. Fine, Ch..

You used to tenderly tell me you don’t want to experience any complications in the life, you want the simplicity allowing you to think straight, or even better, not to think much. And how platitudinous is what I answered then: If we refuse to reflect, we shall get to nowhere. For if we ignore our worries, they won’t disappear, they’re just buried, and we will have to encounter them sooner or late. For what I said, I am totally not an insightful or sensitive person like you suppose. I am surely not, I just don’t have the backbone to face the thoughtlessness existing in my brain. I’ve somewhat seen a piece of myself in the old man character in Gabriel Márquez’s book Memories of My Melancholy Whores who considers that:

“I discovered that my obsession for having each thing in the right place, each subject at the right time, each word in the right style, was not the well-deserved reward of an ordered mind but just the opposite: a complete system of pretense invented by me to hide the disorder of my nature. I discovered that I am not disciplined out of virtue but as a reaction to my negligence, that I appear generous in order to conceal my meanness, that I pass myself off as prudent because I am evil-minded, that I am conciliatory in order not to succumb to my repressed rage, that I am punctual only to hide how little I care about other people’s time.”

Though having tried to hide my abscene of consideration, I  cannot deny the truth that I’m dying for changing the current status of my life. But how can I do that if I’m overwhelmed with the satisfaction of it most of my time.  And a few days ago, you asked me whether it was too late for you to change. In a parallel universe, maybe I would burst into tears while replying to you. But I was not doing it, since there’s no need to dramaticze things.

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Woman Taking Tea by Jean-Baptiste

I have died everyday waiting for a whole change like a fixation. But you know what Alain de Botton talks when he talks about his favorite and inspirational artwork Woman Taking Tea painting. He says “we’re deeply ungrateful towards anything that is free or doesn’t cost very much”. I guess sometimes we just sit and enjoy ourselves, because once we change to be more productivity and do not have enough time and toughness to adapt to it, we soon lose our little old ego. Should I call that a fallacy? I just love Alain for something that has consoled me.

We both perceive our fear. A man called it Alazia. I don’t know what he based on to name it, but it is really a beautiful name. For our fear, for the conundrum we’re agonizing over everyday.

New New Year

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A scene in What Time Is It There?

Carlos Drummond wrote in his poem New Year’s Recipe:

“You don’t need
To make a list of good resolutions
To file in your bureau drawer.
You don’t need to cry with regret
Over foolish things you’ve already done
Or to half believe
That by the decree of hope
From January onward things will change
…”

Sometimes I feel like I’m floating in nothing, even time. Though at this period, time means so much for me. I count it, I perceive it, and try not to be excessively vulnerable in front of it. That’s why the poem has assuaged my conscience and consoled my guilty soul.

The poem reminded me of the fact that  people (including me) can’t resist being dependent on the numbers indicating elapsing time. Making a to-do list before going to bed, making resolution of the coming year, making a list of deeds on the verge of ending a year, or even waiting till the weekend to clean the house, they are all, actually, the indications of  defencelessness when facing to time. It’s like a person have to do things since it’s the right time. But why is it the right time? No clues, he just himself enjoys the thoughts of a fitting moment, just for him, or for every ordinary people, like the ones of a new year moment. To start trying to be a new “him”, a new “them”, or a new “me”.

I don’t want to start a year with any wishes or goals, a week or day with any solid lists of things to do. But if I don’t do such things, what can keep me from hopelessly floating! There’s one way I give away for myself, that is finding the meaning of everything I do, for not having to tranquilize myself with a list of deeds in the end of an abandoned year in some respects.

All of a sudden, I remember the man in What Time Is It There?, a Taiwan movie directed by Tsai Ming-liang. He is apparently obssessed with time, for after selling his own watch to a woman who is going to Paris, the man suffers from a hopeless desire to set every clock he comes across to Paris time.

Many things I have done vaguely stem from my fervor. But whether my fervor covers the fear of time.