Past Imperfect — a nostalgia for a time as flawed as our own but without the awareness that tarnishes the now. The wish to be dumb to the follies of society without acknowledging the persistent presence of folly throughout time.
For me, Coney Island is memory. I was born and raised at the nadir of its existence but still among the memories of what had been, not all that long ago. Parents and their friends remember the parachute drop with a fondness that could only have been cured when stored properly alongside the freedoms of being a teenager with money from a weekend job burning a hole in your pocket.
It was only long after my leaving that change came together. And, as opposed to most of New York that bulldozes its past, for whatever reason, Coney Island restored itself. The old forms enlivened, only becoming new where regulations from the likes of OSHA created hard barriers to restoration.
So, my Brooklyn does still exist. Albeit within a mile or so of the Coney Island beaches. When I am homesick, this is the world that I am longing for. These are the sounds and smells that waft within my mind.