Supernatural Bureaucracy

Bureaucracy is a subject near and dear to me. For a brief and fascinatingly bizarre piece on bureaucracy, check out Checkpoints by Ji Yun (1724-1805) Translated by Yi Izzy Yu and John Yu Branscum . The straightforward tone and approach to the supernatural consequences of missing paperwork after death is a great instance of the “strange story.”

These strange stories have quite a tradition in China. In “Strange Tales Indeed: A close look at Pu Songling’s short stories,” Carlos Ottery writes,  “It turns out that years of  education, coupled with a harsh spoonful of bitter failure and ample free time, are a recipe for authorial success. Chinese literature is so littered with failed mandarins that it sometimes feels like flunking the imperial exam is a pre-requisite.”

In the case of Ji Yun, such failure was not necessary. He had an impressive career and also produced strange stories.

The way in which life is made impossible by problems with paperwork has troubled me, in ways large and small, forever. With a full legal name too complicated (apparently) to say, file taxes online in the early days of online filing, or print in its entirety on a boarding pass, I have had many problems with paperwork, ranging from brief annoyances to multi-year battles with motor vehicle departments. I have at least one protracted discussion about my name and identity when I go vote. Every. Single. Time. I have been advised by the local board of elections not to attempt to do anything to “fix” this problem but to instead request that instead of attempting to check me in digitally, I should ask to be looked up manually. For the curious, this strategy does not work at neighborhood precincts.  I could go on, but my tales of bureaucratic woe is far less entertaining than Ji Yun’s. 

What he learns is that the way in which paperwork mediates and shapes and comes to constitute reality is so intractable that even death itself is no escape.

• I’m in no way an expert on this subject but have tried to verify the linked items. I’m open to corrections!

What Day is this?

I know I’m not alone in finding my relationship to time altered in recent days. Or weeks. Or is it months?

This week, I’m trying a new way to mark the days of the week: each day, I’m reading a poem related to that day of the week.

On Sunday, I read Sunday Morning by Bonnie St. Andrews.

That got the song Sunday Morning (Nico with the Velvet Underground) in my head. For the entire day. Which meant that I definitely knew it was Sunday. The problem is that the song is still in my head, and it’s Monday. I’m more or less back where I started.

Time of Day

Time of day matters. And 2:30 pm is not the time. Afternoon is just a lull, a dip, and 2:30 is peak afternoon lull.

It is not the right time for anything, except maybe the last caffeine drink—or decaf that you’re half pretending has caffeine—of the day. In fact, that is exactly what it is the time for: a coffee! A cappuccino! You can do hot or iced. You can add a flavor or a sprinkle, or not. Your choice.

2:30 is not the time to take on a creative or complex project. It is not even the time to try to have a thoughtful conversation. A plan, an idea, a question with the power to inspire as late as 1 pm will have had its potential and significance mysteriously drained away by 2:30. There is no away around it, so you might as well lean in. If you can’t schedule a nap at 2:30, try to schedule your most pointless meeting for 2:30. Or use that time to do a simple, repetitive task like laundry or responding to surveys.

Set yourself up for success by matching up low energy times of day with tasks that require minimal output. 2:30 is where time management and energy management meet.

Efficiency vs Savoring Transitions

Efficiency experts tend to ignore transitions. The reality is that one doesn’t toggle instantly from being asleep to being at work, even if work is the kitchen table mere steps away. An efficient good morning looks like this:

1. 5:30 am wake up (efficient people get up really early)

2. 5:31 brush teeth and throw on workout gear (efficient people work out early on the morning)

3. 5:30 (running or yoga)

4. 6:30 (great workout! Showering now)

5. 6:40 (get dressed and have breakfast)

6. 6:50 (hard at work, or at least on your commute and doing something productive)

An actual good morning is literally over an hour of transitions. Getting out of bed. Checking the weather: there are a few raindrops clinging to the window, but it’s not raining now. Making coffee. Staring at the wall wondering about painting it a different color. Reading parts of several newspaper articles. 

This is all significant transition work. One doesn’t simply become awake. One spends some time trying to come to terms with the fact of the day ahead. Getting a grip on reality. 

Even if you’re a morning exerciser who thrives on rushing through this significant transition, there are other transitions throughout a day, and they deserve to be taken seriously, savored, rather than being eliminated in the name of getting things done. 

The transition is the liminal space, the time in between. It is after and before; it is a time of possibility. Things become visible, or nearly so, that would at other times be obscured in the darkness or overwhelmed by the light. Transitions are times to be valued, not eliminated.