The Old Places and the Dreamer

Cover photo: Brian Michael Barbeito.

Ravines, a key on a shoelace, and the strange things seen on the walk home — a return to the old places, where the magic has gone and the spirits have moved on.

Prose and photograph by Brian Michael Barbeito

We used to ride our bikes for hours and go to the ends of ravines. Not so much the ends, but even we had our limits and had to go back once we got to say, the place where the overpass was, the big cement bridge. Besides, we let it remain a mystery what was beyond. Probably just more ravines though. In the school year the bus dropped us off at a road up on top of a hill that led down to the ravine. That was not a bad walk, quite short, down the hill and then along about ten minutes beside the ravine, past my house oddly enough, which was the first one before the ravine began, and then up a little hill to my street to approach my house from the front. Key on shoelace as necklace. Open door and that’s the school day over.

It was uneventful save for a few times. Once there was some kids that wanted to fight and they were doing these martial arts moves. But I somehow talked them out of it. There were two of us and three of them. My walking partner had begun throwing parts of a city fence, wooden parts, at them, which was so stupid. I mean, Why? I had no grouse with those guys. Luckily they backed off. He was the instigator. They were just responding.

Another time at the first house off the bus there were people that looked like they moved like aliens from another world, aliens trying to appear human. It was in autumn as I remember. Seemed from another world. Either that or they were an actual circus group practicing. They gave off the strangest vibe you had ever witnessed, whoever or whatever they were. Their leader, a guy with curly dark hair, turned and looked at me, as if we connected psychically and said mentally, ‘Hello.’ I said nothing. He seemed to see somehow right at my thoughts or being. I just kept going. There had never been anyone in that backyard in all those years before or after. Just that day. Strangest thing ever.

Another time I was alone, and to my left I noticed some movement. I looked up; felt drawn to look up. There were two really scraggly raggedy looking men with a rifle. They were pointing it at me and laughing, hanging outside a window. One would hold the rifle and aim, as if he was going to shoot, and then the other would do the same. He would hand it back to the other. He would then aim and they’d laugh again after. I tried walking faster but didn’t run. I don’t know why. I was too frightened to run perhaps, to get going, which sounds counter-intuitive but that’s how it happened. I’m not a psychologist.

Now, I was too young to stay alone at that point and it was before the key on the shoelace or hockey skate lace. So a lady was watching me. I’d go to her house. I remembered because she used to watch Little House on the Prairie and sometimes cry if there was something sad in it. I guess I’d just do my homework or sit there. She was a nice lady, kind. I should have told her. And she would have called the police I guess. Maybe they could determine which floor and condominium across the way the men with the rifle were in. That is what SHOULD have happened.

Instead, I said NOTHING to anybody because I didn’t really have a voice and was too scared. But I remember I was frantic inside. She didn’t pick up on this. Maybe she was concentrating on The Little House on the Prairie. I looked out the second-floor window and could see across the way but not extremely well. There were trees. Which place had it been? Would they do it again? I wasn’t sure. I was sure it happened though.

Years later when visiting I’d take a walk along the old places. But though strange things happened before, there was overall still a shine, newness, and deepness. I could sense more smell more, and felt very alive in the old places and days and nights. The trees the clouds the buildings and also it’s as if the spirit world was very close though I couldn’t prove it. I knew this somehow. But then, having grown up, the place seemed non/magical. So ordinary. I felt like a stranger there. Anyone I knew was gone. Even my house was there, but inside the house did not have any mystery or magic. I’d seen a ghost there, but nobody believed me. I’d heard the spirit world. But nobody believed me, just made fun of me.

My old trophy case had some medals and trophies from soccer and mostly hockey. The area rug was even still there. The one in the shape of an oval. And the cork board with that newspaper clipping of Borje Salming, the great number 21 defenceman, a hero to me and many others. Plus, a personally signed postcard picture that said, Best Wishes. But even Borje Salming, the strongest and toughest athlete ever, eventually passed away. I tried to fix my old GI Joe poster, but it somehow ripped again. Nothing was the same. Nothing psychically worked. I didn’t belong there. I think even the spirits had left, or maybe there were new spirits that didn’t talk to me because they didn’t know me. Everything seemed dull, lacking. I don’t think they even sell GI Joe figures anymore. I think they were discontinued a long time ago.

Yes, the past was gone.

‘Let it go,’ they say, ‘you are such a dreamer, let it go…’