Back in 2012, I funded Cesar Kuriyama’s project “1 Second Everyday”, an app he built and named after his TED talk of the same name. When the app was first released, I used it diligently, but over the course of several months I forgot, with increasing frequency, to record my one second of video each day, eventually stopping altogether. I had only recently purchased an iPhone, and while its video capability was comparable in quality to the digital camera I’d used previously, I wasn’t accustomed to casually shooting video.
In March, while I was in Sydney on a three-day layover, I spent what to some would seem an inordinate amount of time reading in coffee shops for a first-time visitor to the city. Don’t worry, I did some fun things while there, but what I love most about traveling is the opportunity to experience living there. In San Francisco I spend a great deal of time in cafés. They are comfortable, anonymous and lovely, postage-stamp-sized microcosms of the cities they occupy. And so I sat.
When I started writing every day at the beginning of this year, I did so with the sole intention of simply writing anything at all. I didn’t have topics or burning passions lined up to riff on. My pieces to date have been written on the spur of a moment, often fueled by a passing thought captured at the exact moment I sat down to write. For such ill planning, I’m pleased with some of the things I’ve written.
The things she owned were red. All shades, pastel to fiery and deep maroons. The front door opened on a room painted white, accented solely by these things. Entering this room gives one an altogether overwhelming sense of having lost their ability to see colors, save for red.
That card, that fucking card, was still on the counter. The light above the oven cast grim shadows on the counter, which was littered with receipts and invitations, a hundred restaurants in New York that had prepared food for her or that desperately wished to. The card lay by itself, made visible by its color, a wash of purple and pink balloons, glitter strewn about the edges. She’d scribbled “Eliza” on it and began a halfhearted message, “so proud to be your”, but couldn’t move past that next word. The word. That was three weeks ago. It sat just as she left it, hurrying out the door for dinner in SoHo followed by a date at the opera. Not that kind of date. Just the kind that you track in your planner. If she had a planner. She moved heavily toward the fridge to hunt for leftovers, dragging her hand over the counter. The card slid noiselessly off the edge, landing with a slap in the trash can below.