Carnivals and Magic

From the top of the ferris wheel, I can see over Lake St. Clair in one direction, and far past the confines of the carnival in any other; it’s a hazy, hot afternoon and up there, I get a little lurching feeling in the pit of my stomach if I brave the notion of looking down rather than out, over. I can hear the blings and blips of the midway below me, so much quieter up here than down on the ground, amidst the throngs. Up here, the wind is stronger, cooler, and I think I’ve actually stopped sweating (because I’ve cooled off enough, not because I’m dehydrated). The gondolas are old and smell slightly of urine and bleach and the smell of dead fish – or rather, dead fish flies - is as strong as the smell of malt vinegar on French fries, or the hot oil used to fry elephant ears and Belgian waffles.

In the down sweep, I come perilously close to the funhouse that’s set up right next to the ferris wheel – my older daughter is on the upstairs balcony of it, waving and yelling my name as each boat goes by her; when she actually sees me, her face lights up and I can’t help but smile.

On the way back up, I’m very careful to look at the lights, the bench across from me, the sky – anything that keeps me from realizing that instead of getting off, I’m going around again.

Ferris wheels are far more frightening than roller coasters, I think. They take longer, and unless you’re kissing (or doing other things, which I have) a significant other, it seems like you’re floating through the air on a flimsy bit of tin foil and cardboard for hours. Give me the significant other any day – but today, I’m alone. I don’t remember why.

Finally, the ride lurches to a stop (my stomach rises to my throat), and I’m about a third of the way through the down sweep. At least I’m not all the way at the top this time – it only takes a few minutes for my gondola to stutterstart to the bottom so I can get out and meet back up with my friends and children, to go play a game, or perhaps ride a different ride.

I can’t remember when I forgot how to believe in magic – the magic of the carnival, the magic of anything. I used to talk to the faeries, like my daughters do. I used to be able to see things that no one else could imagine. But today? Today, I’m hot and thirsty and my feet hurt, and the shouting of the barkers and the now louder blings and blips are giving me headaches.

Today, I just want to go home.