Coney Island

In the sixteen years I’ve lived in New York, I went to Coney Island perhaps half a dozen times; for all of that, it held quite a strong place in my memories. It was at Coney Island that I realized the marriage we’d been planning for several months wouldn’t work; when Stanley Kubrick died, I went to Coney Island, on a blustery March day, and spent the day with the sand and the waves. I remember clambering out onto a jetty with a sperm whale tooth I’d purchased at a junk sale, and releasing it into the water. Last night, I went one last time; as the sun began to set, I was on the Wonder Wheel, watching the orange light upon the water; not a bad way to say goodbye.

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My foot is worse today; I've bought a cane. Vicodin supplies are running low; it's probably a good thing I have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday.