In the summer of 2014, I worked in Tribeca as a Creative Intern and lived in the Upper West side. My AC-less room was on the sixth floor, inside an apartment owned by a pious Christian woman from the Dominican Republic. She owned a pet parrot which was trained to pray aloud.
My room was covered in potpurri. The first nights there, before your aunt Ale arrived from Texas, I’d sit and stare at the picture frame of George W. Bush, which stood in the room’s only book shelf next to a giant teddy bear with a red bow on its head, and a copy of the Holy Bible.
To say the least, I’d take the local train whenever I needed to do my thinking. I found peace in the rails and the cramped comfort of the late night trains.
I’d sit in those carts and imagine that the automated female voice that announced the upcoming stops and the male voice that warned the public to “stand clear of the closing doors” were madly in love.
On the days where I’d opt out of carrying books—some people still carried the volume and weight at the time—I’d just sit and people watch.
Once, I noticed a woman taking out Vince Camuto jewelry from the bottom of her brasseire. Her wide eyes scanning the seats to see if anyone noticed her as she shoved it quickly inside her purse. Her toe nails were a perfect and endless deep blue. The young girl I was spent the rest of that train ride wondering how such a woman could afford a nice pedicure but not her own earrings. Another night, I saw a toddler push his father away as he walked to hold on to the “big people” pole. His desire for independence resonated within me.
I even picked up a habit of logging the most interesting thing I saw on the train each day on an app called Flava. Maybe you’ll find this data, maybe you’ll be curious and sift through the relics. Whatever you decide, I urge you to look around.
It was a beautiful summer. It was the summer I discovered my own two feet and how to stand on them.
will make the end of the road seem all the more rewarding.
So far I’ve considered pulling out my hair, contemplated staying home under the covers, and have eaten lunch in Chinatown all week.
I guess you can say I’ve handled things terribly awesome.
I’ve kept going. Gloria Gaynor spoke a piece when she promised “she’d survive”. She’s morphed into an anthem for this week. I keep telling d3 that as long as I know to how to love I know, I’ll be alive.
Really, the motivation for making this project in the first place—loving—has kept me going through the thousands of attemps at making data, plot driven.
I’ve always been a story teller, now my voice takes the stage online, and the medium is bits and bytes.
I lost my keys
I found my dream dress
I took a ferry
I coded a bar chart