Coney Island. The light leaned low and golden, and after my friend had left to go home, I stood alone in front of a funnel cake stand and leaned myself against a metal barrier. The music lifted around me, a siren’s call, quite literally. I wanted to linger, after the sideshow, after the Cyclone, all the lights popping on, and the rides flashing and glittering. I had wandered by clam bars, hot dogs, the smell of trash and cotton candy rising in the air. The midway games. The boardwalk. The look of things, like carnival sprung up overnight, it believes in its own impermanence.
This will not be here, soon. This will all be gone, not just because the mayor has no sense of history, no sense of culture; no, this will be gone because it is heavy on the world. The garbage is mounded– it goes somewhere. The port-o-lets must be emptied in a place. The days of $1.50 gasoline are well over, and this cannot stay.
It rode through rounds of optimism though, like the spinning of the rides blasting music to clash with that which poured form the stage. There was a futurism that rested here, a trust that stretched forward for a promise of a better tomorrow. It never came. It never will… because we are here now, and all we have is this moment.
I savor this moment. The grime, the sound, the smells, the setting of the sun on a yellow-sand beach turned under with trash, this moment of childhood shrieks of delight and the constant badgering of the game barkers, the bells, the buzzers, the big stuffed animals, it is all here in this moment. And this moment is holy.