by KUBOA
I fall in love with the concept of a city. I fall in love with parts of a city. I claim a street or a few blocks as my own. I let my imagination move freely around the place.
I live in the Mount Vernon area of Baltimore, a few blocks north of the original Washington Monument. Six or seven blocks from the Station North neighborhood, with its bars and theaters and hipsters. Mount Vernon was once home to the richest people in the city. Now the four- or five-story Victorian houses that line its streets have been gutted to make room for apartments. Anne and I live in one of those buildings. We stay a couple of blocks from the house where Gertrude Stein once lived. There’s no other area like it in the city.
I’ve grown attached to this place. I’ve staked my claim. I’ve dug my trench.
I’ve never felt any serious need to know everything about a city. It’s an impossible task, anyway. Better to know a small area well. Get to know it thoroughly, from the guts out.
It’s impossible to get a real grasp on the totality of a city. Spend your entire life in a city and you’re still just one person, limited in your experiences. It’s all so immense.
And so I’m content in my small part of a city, to know it as best I can. I let the thing embrace me for a while. But soon, the idea of home collapses onto itself, and I’m left with nothing again.
A Haunting