My project for course: Book Writing for Beginners: Develop Your Ideas on Paper

Synopsis

Title: The Subway Memoirs (or New York Subway Diaries)

Genre: Memoir, Non-fiction, and Autobiography
Gustav is a dedicated watcher — a seeker of order and meaning, of signs and poetical analogies as they relate to the inconspicuous. Whether contemplating the frisky flying of the birds and comparing them with the rigidity of the trains, chatting with a group of people with diametrically opposite points of view, or a chubby college professor reading a book as if it is the first meal after a month of fasting, the philosophical Gustav postmarks his commutes with a series of meditations at once bright with curiosity and burdened by the limits of human perception.
The Subway Memoir is a book that collects 24 observations, dramas, mediations, and comedies that unfold during the daily commute on the New York City subway. The book includes stories from vagabonds who live in the subway, transit employees, locals, students, and more.

Passage from the book:

One of the most exhilarating moments for a subway rider in New York is hearing the approaching train as they step onto the platform. It's a triumph of timing and fortune that feels like a well-deserved accomplishment. However, there's an even greater sense of satisfaction awaiting New Yorkers who step onto the train and find vacant seats – a touch of luxury that rivals the experience of flying first class. This innate New York spirit thrives on extracting the utmost from life, maximizing every opportunity, and embracing the city's unique offerings. After all, why choose New York if not for these experiences? Yet, it's the everyday pleasures that truly captivate them. Take my dad, for instance – he's never quite grasped the fervent rush to catch a train in the city. "There's always another one just around the corner," he'd say. Logically, he's right. But for New Yorkers, catching that train is akin to a silver medal; it's a good result, but the gold is what truly counts. Walking onto the platform as the train glides in, and securing an unoccupied seat upon boarding – these are the small yet indispensable victories that often elude those who solely rely on private transportation. The trend today is the transformation of public experiences into private moments, an evolution that our society has grown remarkably adept at. We immerse ourselves in personal music playlists and indulge in reading on our smartphones.

On the other hand, the worst when riding the subway is not, as you might think, having to wait for a train that is delayed when you are in a hurry or having to stand in a crowded train, but people who talk loud to nobody specifically, they are addressing everybody in the train. That is very annoying. It pulls you down and brings you back to the fact that you are commuting in public transportation. These people have an urge to express themselves. And people could not care less about what they have to say. Where else would they find an audience? They have to look for a place where people have nowhere to go, they can’t simply walk away. This is cruel, torture. No door to shut, no walking to the next room, basically you can’t escape.

As I set foot onto the sidewalk, it became apparent that this was no ordinary morning scene. The remnants of last night's culinary adventures painted a mosaic on the pavement. Avocado skins and pits, scattered grains of rice, to-go containers, paper bags, and plastic cups created an impromptu street art installation. There, on the corner of Broadway and 231st Street in the Bronx, I attempted to find order within the chaos. Perhaps, I thought, there was a hidden message waiting to be deciphered. An urban oracle, if you will. I was determined to shift my perspective, to seek beauty amidst the disarray.

Our typical reaction to litter is straightforward – it shouldn't be there, and someone ought to clean it up. Yet, on this particular morning, a different thought crossed my mind. What if there was a purpose behind this seeming disorder? Not a deliberate message crafted by human hands, but rather the work of an unseen, superhuman force. My imagination ran wild, and I felt an unexpected surge of inspiration. What could this message be? I wondered.

As I examined the arrangement of objects and their relationships to one another, I began to notice something intriguing. Certain items seemed to point toward others, like a complex dot-to-dot puzzle waiting to reveal its figure. Admittedly, such thoughts were influenced by my recent studies. I had been delving into the art of reading tarot cards with Enrique Enriquez, and my mind was primed to find meaning in the world around me. I pondered shapes that expanded and contracted, elements that heated up or cooled down, and the speed at which things moved. This time, I even drew parallels to ancient divination practices like the I-Ching, where sticks were cast to consult the Book of Changes, or the seers who read the future in tea leaves, or the Babylonians observing the liver of a dead animal for the purpose of practicing haruspices. It struck me that I was part of a rich tradition. My ideas, I realized, weren't as far-fetched as they might seem. After all, aren't we always trying to uncover meaning in every situation, in every word spoken?

Just then, my bus arrived, and the urgency of arriving at work on time, a fundamental part of my identity, took over. I boarded the bus, which turned north onto Bailey Avenue. With an empty seat and a sense of intrigue lingering, I opened a book, and I was happy to discover that I was able to effortlessly dive into its message, still believing that meaning, however elusive, could be found in the most unexpected places. Even when we have failed to do so.