A marriage of heaven & hell

Greetings, beautiful people of New York, a voice said over some speakers, and for a second I mistook this for an official train announcement. I just want to remind you that Jesus loves you, she went on, voice crackling through what I realized was a megaphone, not the train speakers. I tried to follow her speech, curious about which techniques of persuasion will be deployed, but at the other end of the car, a man started playing a familiar tune on his oboe. I couldn't tell if he was busking, or playing for the fun of it, as his air felt strangely private, lacking the invitation or explicit solicitation of those who perform for gratuities. In between the preacher and the musician was a medley of commuters chatting in pairs, or gazing distantly with earphones on, or scrolling through their feed — as well as M— and myself, fresh off the airport, which is to say quite sticky from the long commute, our suitcases pressed against our knees as the train rolled along the subterranean tracks, the rhythmic sound of metal on metal the percussive heart of this brief, intimate scene welcoming us to the city.

What is New York if not a city of layers? Just to get to our hotel in Brooklyn, M— and I navigated a maze of stairs and escalators out of the airport, towards the metro, down into the subway, then finally back out onto Atlantic Avenue, along which stood shoulder-to-shoulder brick buildings with facades in various states of weathering. Throughout this commute, Frank Sinatra crooning It's up to you / New York, New York played on loop in my head over flashes of various clips of Subway Takes and Brooklyn Nine-Nine and those reels of Mamdani biking to work, all while I reconciled my real-time observations of Brooklyn with a myriad of narratives: its reputed cultural vibrance, its supposedly pretentious inhabitants, gentrified neighborhoods, my memories of it from my last visit nearly a decade ago. Cool, but not anymore. Expensive, but not as expensive as Manhattan. Some love it, some say it's gone to shit.

All this smacked me in the face like thick smoke as soon as I emerged from the station. As a tourist, I found neither gentleness nor hostility; simply a ceaseless stimulation of every sense, physical and non-physical, by everything happening at once. Several temporalities intersected in my mind as we crossed on red, following the locals who confidently strode across the street after quickly looking both ways. Everything I have ever known about New York from a distance, historic moments with global consequences and deeply personal stories both, lingered at the edge of my attention, refracting the immediate encounter. So much has happened here, and so much is happening still, futures built and dismantled in bedrooms and boardrooms, the way there always seems to be something under construction in every borough.

Maybe this is why poets and artists are so drawn to this beast of a city. Infinitely peelable, new facets revealed with every tilt of the head, New York never seems to tire of revealing new meanings.

Maybe it is also why the ambitious are drawn to its cacophony. In its density, everything seems possible. The ceiling for success is in the clouds, but rock bottom plunges down just as deep. "Without Contraries is no progression," a truth so obvious in this city charged with a million conflicting desires that relentlessly push it onward, onward, onward.

On the same night a sudden downpour soaked my black boots, M and I watched Hadestown at the Walter Kerr theater. A must-see according to every list we consulted, the show had a stunning production and an overflow of talent, though for the acclaim surrounding it, I found the writing surprisingly underwhelming. After the show, we walked through Times Square — the Thursday evening crowd probably triple the entire population of Johnson City — on our way to a wine bar in SoHo to grab drinks with some friends. Some corners would smell of mouthwatering lamb from halal carts with dazzling lights, others of wet, rotting garbage, and occasionally a woman would pass me by and leave a hypnotic trail of her perfume.

By the time we arrived at the dimly-lit bar shortly past 11, I felt cocooned in the city's elements. I was shiny with its grease, and while it felt like a welcome baptism, I needed a quick refresh. Ahead of me in the restroom line was a very affectionate couple who, once the door opened, proceeded to enter the restroom together. Lock click, shuffling of fabric, rhythmic thumping. This time I heard Carrie Bradshaw in my head as I patiently waited for them to finish whatever they were doing — it didn't take too long — so I could wash my hands, fluff my unkempt hair, and reapply some lip gloss.

What I naively imagined to be a two- or three-drink catch-up naturally stretched into a long night. There was much ground to cover: A— recovering from burnout from an unreasonably demanding job she just left, E—'s career as a sommelier in NYC and a fairly new fling with a girl from across the pond, our life in Texas. We took turns telling stories over three bottles of phenomenal wine, and when the bar closed at 1 o'clock, E— took us to another lounge where he kept all four of us watered with Guinness.

I woke up at 11 the next morning to texts and missed calls from a client I was supposed to meet in Manhattan at 9. Embarrassed and hungover, I found myself in my nightgown I don't remember changing into, the towel in the bathroom slightly damp from a shower I don't recall taking, and my eyes stinging from the contacts I neglected to remove before sleeping. I am so sorry, I texted back. Someone overslept in the big city...

Feeling like hell, M— and I climbed back onto the land of the living through dumplings and spoonfuls of hot soup at a noodle bar along Flatbush.

A big city is a big city, I often say. You've been to one, you've been to them all. In the past five years I hadn't imagined myself wanting to move back to one after leaving Manila. Hard to do so, now that I have been spoiled by the quiet and the dark skies of the small town I currently live in.

And yet, I can't deny feeling seduced as I listened to the triumphs of friends and family in the jungle of New York. It's obvious how difficult it is to thrive in that city of 8 million, and yet, here are these people, thriving against the odds. Making a living as an artist after years of toughing it out working part-time jobs and crappy gigs. Moving into a dream apartment with their partner and officially joining the ranks of the DINKs. Becoming one of the best in their field through exposure to competition, inspiration, opportunity. How would I fare here, I wondered. Under that light and pressure, who would I become?

At our tiny house in rural Texas, I know the new moon had just passed because when I look out the window it is a specific kind of dark. When I peek my head out the door, the rustle of the trees to the south remind me of waves crashing at the beach. Occasionally, I would hear the jet engine of a plane flying overhead, but beyond this, it is quiet outside. No sirens or laughter from sidewalks, no overheard arguments through thin walls.

In the Major Arcana, the Hermit is followed by the Wheel of Fortune. Luck, destiny, a turning point, up, down, back again. Expect poison from the standing water.

Essay title and some lines ("Without Contraries is no progression", "Expect poison from the standing water") are borrowed from William Blake, a visionary I keep coming back to lately.