This weekend, I found myself on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island, despite having been pretty apprehensive the last time
. (I have no answers; I just suddenly appeared on the Wonder Wheel again, like it was a dream and I was escaping a chemistry test by flapping my arms really fast and that's just what happened.)
At night, Coney Island is packed and filthy and loud. (I would say it changed how I feel about Coney Island, but anyone who reads "And the Next, and the Next" in the Living Dead 2
is going to get an idea of how I feel about Coney Island.)
However, from the Wonder Wheel, there's something very melancholy about it:
The blackness isn't just my questionable camera; it really is a blaze of lights and then the huge, sapping darkness.
I walked across the empty beach and into the water, which was so dark that when the waves came in over my knees, it looked like tar. (I guess it still might, soon.)
The next day was the Natural History Museum, which has one of my favorite things in the world, the Wall of Completely Overwhelming BioDiversity:
And speaking of overwhelming, the IMAX Hubble movie talked casually about the 90-trillion-mile-wide Orion nebula, which is a birthplace for stars and galaxies:
It confirmed two things: the universe is an amazing place, and I am completely unprepared for Launchpad next week. (I did, however, pick up a lot of fun facts about marine life, so we'll see if that comes in handy at any point.)
There's no outward connection between the two days, but somehow I feel as if there was; as if I was reminded how lonely the world is, before I was reminded how teeming it is, before I was reminded how insignificant it is.
(And, oddly, how much the universe looks like Coney Island at night.)