Baltimore Fugue

I went to Baltimore for four days. I lived there for about 12 years, all told, with a two year break in the middle where I lived in the East Village and tried to be a famous artist. My son was born in Baltimore; I was married and divorced there; I still have many close forever friends there. I moved away five years ago and I hardly ever go back - time, and money, and jesus, who wants to go to Baltimore in the summer anyway? Or any time - I miss the people but I have managed not to miss the city. Hearing my friends say, "well, we don't watch the fireworks from N's roof anymore because the random gunfire has gotten so out of control" and seeing the bloodstains on the sidewalk in front of N's house from a stabbing Friday night - well, Baltimore is just a bit much for me. I'm a wimp these days.

It was weird and lovely, both at the same time. I drove in through the harbor and went across Pratt Street to Butcher's Hill where most of my friends live and I got dizzy and felt high; a dream of brick rowhouses, an overwhelming sink of memory and time. I don't know if place hits other people this hard; I suspect it doesn't, but going anywhere I used to be throws me into this strange state. Smell and light and color and sound - it's almost overpowering and I begin to forget who I am. I get disoriented and a little lost in time as well as space. I think I root myself too much in places; comes from a peripatetic childhood.

So I was there and I saw a lot of old friends and a couple of ex lovers, which went mostly well. I got drunk the first night and subsequently had about the worst hangover of my life: embarrassing, throwing up all day in N's top floor - thank the gods for A & his handily installed toilet in the bedroom. I thought I was dying of heatstroke and hangover, but I survived. I took a lot of pictures from rooftops, which you can see by clicking on the friendly flickr link on the right hand side. I had a crab cake sub at the Sip N' Bite and mussels at John Stevens and a soft crab sandwich on thick terrifyingly white bread at J. Patricks. I bought a dress at Value Village in Highlandtown. I walked through Patterson Park. I drove by my old house. I walked around Fells Point. I saw a lot of my old art, and that was disorienting - my art is hanging in my friends' houses and every time I rounded a corner I was confronted with it, from paintings & drawings to coffee mugs I decorated, photos I took. I have forgotten that I used to be an artist. But I was, and there was proof all over the place.

Now I'm home. It's a 9 hour drive, up 26 to 81 to 70 to get there, reversing it on the way back with the half remembered shortcut through Leakin Park to get to 70. I am dizzy again and I'm not quite sure who or where I am. My house smells & is disgusting; I have to go to work in the morning; I have a dog to get rid of and a life to pick up. But it feels now like half of me is still in Baltimore; part of me hasn't caught up yet. Or maybe part of me is always there, the part that's an artist.