Cover photo: Brian Michael Barbeito.

An episodic, epistolary sequence from the metropolitan fairgrounds — coffee and a cardinal, a train from green to grey, a remembrance among the crowds, and the Ferris wheel turning at night.

Prose and photographs by Brian Michael Barbeito

For Tara, M.H., and The Crew (Joshua, Kate, Raquel, Amaan, Diane, and Carley)

Coffee and Cardinal

There was a garden. Large. Evergreens just beyond. ‘There is a cardinal there,’ said the woman, and I looked and couldn’t see it for the flurry of trees dancing in the wind. The bees were still in the tall purple light flowers and the clouds played before the sun as the day decided to be sunny then overcast and then sunny so a mix. I watched the yellow flowers and the raspberries.

‘I can’t see it. You are good with birds. They see you. I have though, been seeing a cardinal here and back home the last few weeks. About eight times all told I think…’

And I drank my coffee. The barista had gotten the order mixed up and made Ride or Die Virgo’s medium and mine large but I drank away anyhow and watched and thought and besides, maybe I had said the order wrong and it was on me.

Soon enough we would be with our friend and drive to trains and leave to head south to see the metropolitan world and the carnival. The cardinal would go its own way, and the evergreens and bees though nice enough, weren’t really of our world as much as we were, and had their own things to do.

Trains and Green to Grey

We went to the top level of the train. It was an interesting mix of people all around, extra eclectic as there were different events happening in the city. There were people dressed in colourful costume attire that were attending some exposition. I didn’t know that culture whatsoever exactly it was but I admired the work they put into their dress. There seemed to be everything from fairy tale characters to vampires to elves and gnomes and trees and witches.

But there was also a professional baseball game happening. Those folks were just as many, probably more, and wore jerseys and t shirts and hats that were only really a little different. I thought, ‘Now here are two groups that a sociological study or some paper of some sort could have a field day with, because they are sharing some of the same public spaces but are about as different as you could get.’ This country being what it is, overall still friendly and safe,- everyone got along and was even on the side of happy, enthusiastic; especially since they were with friends and family and on way to a chosen social sports entertainment artistic event.

I watched out the window first the verdant fields so wild and free; and then some old brick warehouses many abandoned, began to appear. Soon enough, the city proper with impossibly shiny and tall buildings. I mentioned to my friend, ‘I know it sounds silly, child like even, so I don’t say it much, but I always thought, going around, “The world is a humongous place!”’ She laughed and replied, ‘That it is!’

The Cook, the Dancer, and the Ghost

In the midst of the large fairgrounds there was everything. Bells music rides food eateries hundreds if not thousands of people, and so forth. But the dearly departed one used to sit for a bit on one of the buildings and watch the cooking demonstration, a new chef each time with his or her headset and explaining how to prepare this meal or that desert. In honour of all this and the soul, I went to sit where she sat. If even for a little while.

But there was a big crowd and hardly any seats. There was no cook. There was some music and dancing show and a lady that I’m sure was great danced and sang, but I felt no affinity for any of it. It was supposed to be a light crowd and a cook speaking. I felt saddened by this. I found a seat and sat anyways and did feel a moment of calm and remembrance anyhow. Wait, I thought, maybe the other times it was earlier in the day and that’s when the cooks were there. I was late. What did this mean, that I was late, that I’d missed how things were supposed to have been? I wasn’t sure.

The lady danced and danced and the crowd looked on but I liked it less and less, sitting there in that crowd. I soon got up after only five minutes to leave. But the intention had been there. I internally told the spirit, if she could hear, ‘I went there and sat there in remembrance of you. Other people if they even knew, which I don’t think they did, that you liked to sit there, would not really remember now. But I did. But the chefs have gone away, and as you can see there was some dancers and singers and hardly anywhere to sit. But I tried.’

I walked through crystal kiosks and all manner of diet and exercise; health food and also decadent food treat places, necklaces and bracelets and rings, statues, stacks of blankets and rows of clothing, this and that and this and that,- and eventually entered the outside world when the sky was a stranger blue-white and the dusk had been born and borne, settled around the lights and the soon entering the nocturnal fairground world.

Dusk, Lights, Night

I had to make my way whist taking some street photography of colours and rides, prizes and central carnival signs and lights; to my group, the great and cool and reliable crew. Now who were they? The ones that were there at that time were Tara, Diane, Joshua, Kate, Raquel, Amaan, and Carley! And I found them. Sitting in at a big table like we had at the lunch,- Kate having got everybody huge delicious remarkable sandwiches fries and drinks!- Having fun food and drinks and snacks again!

It had been a good day.

When we left I looked back one more time and could see the lights green red orange blue purple yellow. I remembered all the times before. So many walks and sights and sounds and friendships and memories. That big Ferris wheel still turned in the nocturnal firmament mystical. Everyone that went there at least glanced at it. Symbolic of so much. The wheel of fortune. The dharma wheel. The evolution of mechanical engineering. Simple fun. Cycles. The turning of time and seasons. Maybe someone was happy to get on. Another content to get the heck off. Perhaps somebody fell in love there. And maybe another realized they were loved no longer as unfortunate as that would be.

The wheel itself had surely seen everything.

And everybody has their story, don’t they?

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Artist’s note

Carnival Three is the third instalment of writings about the metropolitan fairgrounds. The first is called Carnival, and appears at Lit Break Magazine. The second is called Making Pancakes and is featured at Dark Winter Lit Magazine. All three include street photography by the writer.

About the author

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer residing in the Southern Ontario area.