by Beverly Wilhelm

Created on: August 25, 2008

Beware of Baltimore on election day, unless you yearn for an otherworldly experience. I'd strolled Inner Harbor in the morning, spent almost an hour watching a stingray glide through aquarium waters. paused to look at a lacrosse display to tell my boyfriend about. A sailing ship was docked and had a line of tourists waiting to board, but it held no attraction for me. The thought of being cooped-up in such a tiny vessel with seasick shipmates was no adventure I wanted to dwell upon. I lunched on Maryland crabcakes and then swinging my camera, took an unguided walking tour of the city.

Buttoning my trenchcoat and turning up the collar didn't protect my head and face from the relentless drizzle but if I want warm and dry I stay home. I passed a number of goodly sized mansions,yet none seemed worthy of a photograph. Then in a shabbier part of town, I stopped at a two-story brick house with a plaque announcing that Edgar Allen Poe once lived there. I didn't want to go inside, I didn't want to see where he'd hunched over a desk drinking and writing out his agonies. But I snapped a photo of the building, it looked so normal considering what had been created inside.
Some blocks later I stood on a corner dominated by a church. I took no notice of the denomination it represented, or the style of the structure. I am not one to seek out old churches, too much emotion has been played out in them.
I noticed another plaque with Poe's name on it, attached to the cemetary fence adjoining the church grounds. Cemetaries don't bother me, the good and bad passions of inhabitants were played out when the population was laid to rest. The gate I tried was locked, so I followed the enclosure, peering in between bars.Poe's monument was near the fence, even in death he was at the edge of society. It was a tall, phallic stone, with a brass marker giving the pertinent information.
To get a picture of the marker, I had to lean over the fence. Just as I took a shot, a man, who the best of life had passed by, said "Watch ya doin'?".
"Sightseeing." I answered, hoping a brief reply would urge him on and turning from him to lean over again and take another photo.
He stood there unsteadily, for several minutes, then swigging from a paper bag, saluted me and went on his way.
The film lay in my camera for several weeks before I had it developed. There were snaps of the stingray, an encased exhibit of ancient lacrosse equipment and Poe's former dwelling and then two dark prints with a blazing white light at the center.

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