In the middle of the open west, in the most open of the western states, the carnival brings me back to a place like home. If I forget that the background is mountain topped, if I squint a little when a cowboy (real life boots and spurs, just fell off the horse) walks down the rows of rides and attractions, I am reminded of not one place but anyplace. The carnival is its own community, self sustaining, traveling, pulsing entity. Once night falls, it is a world all on its own.
There is a strange energy, such an overwhelming, frequently changing mixture of things. Children run, gape, cry, full of cotton candy, merriment, and popcorn. Preteens chase each other, full of anxieties they can't understand. Adult children are reminded through the younger generation what it was like to have an imagination. Full of beer, melting iced cream, and funnel cake. What a pulse, what an energy, what a cosmic hole the carnival is in the middle of our lives.
There is an entirely separate but also meaningful pulse of the carnies, the operators, the vendors. There is a loss of imagination, a loss of cheer, a grim smirk behind the rest of the smiles and cheers. Their cheers are taxing, their way of life worn on the sleeve and in their skin, but also hidden well from the children and the happy customers. What masks we wear, what fun, what enjoyment, what a dichotomy! I am reminded of my home, so far away, Coney Island, and the place where the ocean meets the land. I dove in, headlong, imagining a different place, a small piece of home, a small piece of everywhere.
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