To grow up in the belle époque 1989-2001 was to come of age in one of history’s suburbs. Comfortable and safe, lacking other experience, we supposed it was the comfort and safety that we hated. We drew maps of imaginary neighborhoods and plotted getaways. We threw rocks at the picture windows.
Now and then a machine drove in from some other neighborhood, the past or future, did business unclear to us and went on its way. We never looked into those doings. There was always food in the stores and the stores were without interest, well lit and all alike.
There was someone on a gilded couch eating all the money, we knew that, but there was no way to get to him. He was like the weather and the weather never changed.
We hated the suburb because nothing ever happened and there was no way out. Nothing can change, we said over and over, nothing can ever change really; and that was the worst curse any place or time could land you with.
