Two Figures in the Shadow of the Cyclone
Nita Padavil - kajalnoire.tumblr.com
When travelling, whether its by car watching the trees sprint by or by train, sitting in worn in leather seats, I can’t help but think of two blips on a screen. Two flashing dots moving closer and closer to the same final destination, something that is so much more complex than the red blue green pixels but a microcosm of the world: Coney Island. Koh-knee-Eye-Land. Tacky like that sixty something peroxide blonde bumbling down the walk in her bright pink tracksuit and wrap around stunna shades but quaint like bubble gum roller skates and an old walkman gliding down the same dilapidated boardwalk. We owe Coney, she who opens up her arms of splintered wood garlanded by flashing carnival lights to let us into her safe haven: The anonymity of kiddie coasters and carousels, masquerade masks 10 cents each holding the promise of excitement and wonder, promises that are kept. And then there’s the calm, of walking along her murky coast, blending into the mass of couples that trek up and down these shores.
Cotton candy clouds and mists of djarum smoke with a dash of seawater and the sweet tang of mermaid piss, courtesy of Coney Island. Back alley of a dilapidated roller coaster with tawdry murals of clowns and provocative sideshow freaks. Eyes closed, blind reaching, grasping, holding, making up for lost time. Typical teenagers stumbling out of an alley, guilt and mischief gliding across faces, a salty taste left on your lips.
Sometimes a photo is not enough. A photo can’t capture the essence of a place, the rough texture between your fingers, the heavy feel of the air settling into your skin, enveloping you and making you a part of this scene, the smell of the air salt, sugar, sea gulls, the warmth of someone sitting next to you, the way his hand feels massaging your legs, looking out into the sound and not only seeing but feeling the vastness and the possibilities that lie in front of you.
