Arrhythmia
On a winter Thursday morning, I struggle to get out of bed at 6:30 AM. As I somehow manage to swing my legs over the frame of my bed, the fibers in my leg and arm muscles ache. The desire to just close my eyes guides me to a state of warm bliss for a few seconds, but I suddenly expel it after pondering the consequences of being late to today’s exam, the last of four assessments this week.
Every night this week has consisted of less than four hours of sleep. In this state of deep sleep deprivation, I have no appetite. So, I skip breakfast and somehow waddle down the stairs to exit my apartment building in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Once I step outdoors, the cold January air stings my lungs, which wakes me up for the next minute or so. The streets of this lower-Brooklyn neighborhood are vacant, and the only visible lives around me are the sparrows gracefully chirping. On a weekend, I would be delighted to listen to them. On weekdays however, their melodies instill in me a deep sense of relaxation; but because of my long commute to my school, which is located on the Upper East Side, running a few minutes late on my walk can translate to being up to twenty minutes late to school. So, I block out their sounds and continue to fight my drowsiness, trying to half-walk and half-sprint to the train station where my commute begins.
As I stand on the elevated station waiting for the D train, I can see the storefronts on 86th Street, my neighborhood’s primetime shopping street. Looking down through the gaps of the tracks, I can count the number of people on the sidewalk on one hand. I look up, hoping to spend the time watching the clouds, but I only see a flock of birds against the clear blue sky. I dart my eyes behind me at the rest of the station, but the few people I see are the same people who board the train at this time. Bored out of my mind, too cold to take my phone out of my pocket, and too tired to stand up straight, I lean against a metal pole to get a few seconds of rest as I wait for my train to arrive. Once the D train arrives, I walk in and am greeted with a pleasant sight: many empty seats. Since my stop is only minutes away from Coney Island, where the train line ends, most days are usually like this.
Getting into the empty train, I immediately sit down on my favorite of the available seats: the window seat. For the first thirty seconds, I feel the cold, hard plastic seat slowly drain the heat out of my hamstrings. Once this process subsides though, I can finally relax. I look out the window and watch the rooftops of short buildings move by as the train exits the station. When the train pulls into the next station and opens its doors, I hear the rustling of passengers rushing inside. With each stop that passes by, the rustling gets louder and I drift a bit deeper into slumber.
Before I know it, I jolt up awake on the Manhattan bridge with the glistening East River taking up more than half of my view. On my left is a busy highway and a few sparkling skyscrapers; on my right, a serene shore with a few bike lanes followed by a row of apartment buildings. As I pull out my phone, I realize that I had not even set an alarm. There also was not anything or anyone particularly loud on my train cart. Yet, I seem to consistently wake up at this point in my commute every day.
One stop later and I’m at Broadway-Lafayette Street. I get off here to transfer to the 6 train at the same station with an alternate name, Bleecker Street. Walking down the platform to the escalator, I sense an F train arriving on the other side of the platform. The sensation does not come directly from any one of the five senses; rather, it’s a combination of what feels like my bones slightly vibrating and a tingling feeling that lasts no longer than a few seconds. Moments later, my intuition is confirmed: I hear the distant sound of train wheels screeching along the rails and the train horn blaring throughout the tunnel. Then, a beam of light from the train appears on the wall and gradually makes its way further down the platform. Once the light is bright enough, a giant, powerful gust of warm air rushes out of the tunnel right before the first train cart peeks into view. The air in the underground tunnel is stale, so I hold my breath and squint my eyes until the train is right about to stop.
I sense a 6 train approaching above me and adrenaline rushes through my blood. Usually I would use the escalator, but in situations like these the fastest approach is to run up the stairs at the very back of the platform. After leaping over two stairs at a time, I make it with no time to spare: my backpack is still outside the train as the two distinct “DUN-DON” sounds play and the subway doors come out of hiding. I look around, and one passenger gives me the slightest nod and smile―an acknowledgement along the lines of “Yeah, that’s an achievement right there buddy, good job.”
Being in Lower Manhattan during prime morning rush hour, there are no available seats. Fortunately, I am not in such dire need of a seat as I was back in Brooklyn because after waking up on the bridge, I am not as exhausted. It is almost as if entering Manhattan had rejuvenated me. Of course, the naps I took on the D train certainly helped, but they were too short to grant me this much of an energy boost. Not only do I feel physically able, but my drowsiness has also disappeared, and my brain is sharp again. As the train pulls up to 14th Street Union Square, one seat frees up and I take it, bracing myself for the crowds of people about to pack into the train.
When you are sleep deprived, your life feels like you are watching a screening of a screening of a movie. No longer exhausted, I become interested in my surroundings instead of just trying to get myself from Point A to Point B, which was my sleep-deprived zombie self’s only concern back in Brooklyn. Now comes my favorite part of my commute: I look around at my fellow New Yorkers. One is reading a book on cardiovascular health, and another is looking up at the advertisements. My eyes follow theirs and I rest them upon a heart medication ad with delicate doodles of hearts. Then, I sweep my vision left and right to look at the rest of the ads.
Subway ads are fascinating things: unlike art, you can go your entire day without really noticing them. Yet, like art, you can still get something out of viewing an ad multiple times. For example, this is the third time that I see a New York State Government-sponsored ad regarding a government program that portrays at least twenty New Yorkers, with each person illustrated in a minimalist style. The collection of illustrated figures is extremely diverse, spanning gender, race, age, ethnicity, and religion. Last time I saw this ad, I read through the English and Spanish details of the program that was being advertised. This time, I notice that each figure has their own distinct facial expression, each conveying their own variation of joy.
As the train pulls into Grand Central Station, I notice that I can process the world faster. The speed of things that I would have perceived to be normal are now too slow for me. It is like having caffeine jitters but without the added anxiety. Opening the message app on my phone? Takes too long! Flipping to the next page of an e-book? Why is there such a delay? My train’s progress on the dashboard showing all the subway stops? Too Slow! It is as if my brain just clicked into a higher frequency, like how a radio can go from playing static to beautiful music with the twist of a knob; as if my baseline heart rate has increased and the whole world has stayed the same. I search for ways to utilize this increased capacity to process information faster.
I turn my focus to the passengers inside the train, as well as the new ones who enter. With every person that comes in, there is a new story: How was their morning? Where are they headed? What will they be doing later today? Then, there is the bigger picture: Where are they from? Who are their friends? What do they like to do for fun? The mystery surrounding this information excites me. I start observing and deducing as much as I can from each passenger. Do they have a watch on their right hand? Well then, they are almost certainly left-handed. Are there any inscriptions on their bags or satchels? Those will probably tell you where they work or where they went to school. Do they type on their phone keyboard with one finger or several fingers? Several fingers usually indicate technological proficiency, which combined with an older age can mean that their job involves administrative office work. Usually, with dozens of passengers on a train cart, the variety of “subjects” to analyze is more than enough.
Though once that passenger leaves, it is almost certain that their existence will vanish from the fabric of your current perception, as well as what your perception could ever be. In a city of eight million people, one would be hard-pressed to meet the same person twice by pure coincidence. In the vast amount of raw information that this small, moving container in space that we call the subway cart carries, every passenger is another crucial and fragile addition. The thought of capturing and analyzing even a glimpse of it all is exhilarating. Then with the clock ticking every time the train opens and closes its doors, this search becomes that much more thrilling.
Eventually, this journey must come to an end. I exit at 96th Street on the Upper East Side and ascend the staircase from the underground station. Since the air underground tends to be warmer, the cold air stings my lungs again. As I walk up the inclined block to get to my school, a wave of fatigue settles over me again, though not as powerful as what it was in Brooklyn. The hyperenergetic attitude that I had just half an hour ago has now faded. My heart beats slower, at a rate that is now consistent with the serene, residential area of Carnegie Hill. Since I have time to spare, I sit down on the benches near my school and listen to the chirping sounds of the birds. I glance over to the Halal cart, where the owner is operating at a mesmerizing speed to fulfill everyone’s order.
The scenery instills within me a deep peace. Yet, I feel that this state of mind cannot represent my being in its entirety. Much like how the natural order for a pendulum is to swing and alternate between two separate heights, I know that later that same day, I will have to exit this state of peace in favor of the energetic spirit that I had known just thirty minutes ago on the train. But for now, that jolt of energy will have to wait until the end of the school day.
***
I wake up late on a Saturday morning and slowly unwind at home after a busy week. A few hours later, I find myself in the monotonous cycle again, getting a head start on my work for the following week. Although I slept well, I notice that I struggle to maintain my focus. I feel lethargic and unproductive. The same thought is racing through my mind: something is missing. I feel like a drug addict suffering withdrawal because I missed a dose for the day.
I look out the window of my room and stare at the wall of a short apartment building. Below it, a small portion of the sidewalk is in my view. I watch for two minutes, expecting to see a couple pedestrians; but I only count two cars that pass by. My silent and peaceful environment is beginning to feel more foreign by the hour. I try to cherish the valuable free time that I have left. Yet, I long for that therapeutic switch, which tunes me to the higher frequency of the city. Although this paradox of my desires, which has risen out of my need for overachievement, has dictated my life throughout high school, at least I can rest easy knowing that I am in the right place. For there is no city that I would rather be sleep deprived in than New York City.
By Danyil Blyschak
Photographs done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Kezia Velista for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/