As usual; today was supposed to be a photo excursion in Balti. Instead it was driving around through the slums, seeing things we've never seen before and not daring to get out and photograph it, then pulling into the places we felt used to, and pulling out the cameras. It's a terrible habit to get into. There is so much of this city that goes unpublished here. So many parts of the concrete jungle that, had we gotten out of the car, we could have told stories about. Geoff remarked at the man laying on the porch in Curtis Bay, pulling a blanket up over him with his teeth. He got creeped out at dusk by the oil can with a fire burning it in the midst of a automobile graveyard where a man sat in his truck watching us drive slowly by. This city is easy to watch from your car window, like no other murder capital you've ever lived in. It's all safe from the car. You can even wave to the people walking on the street in the absolute worst parts of town and they wave back! Where are the days, Tadpole, of sitting down with people and talking to them and learning about their life and then taking their picture? And then handing them a New Testament, or an apple, or whatever the hell they thought was something they could get from us in exchange for being invited into their life for a half hour? I need a safe risk. From the screen of the car window I watch this city go by. And then, when it's easy, when there is no one around or when I'm in MY zone (a la Steve Bishop, Sr) I pull the camera out and I snap this:
After a long trip through East Balti-more, into Essex and Middle River, we went down Ponca St. to this old haunt, which is safely nestled under an overpass like you'd find in Shockoe Bottom, only this one is next to a huge factory where x, y, and z is produced or manufactured or destroyed and there are no bars or any signs of civilization other than a truck stop and an industrial wonderland built on chemicals and filth. In my mind I kept thinking, "What kind of wife works there? What kind of wife works there?"
As we pulled away Geoff plainly asked out loud, "What kind of wife works there?" and still nobody can answer that question other than to exchange the word "no" for the word "what".
After leaving there it wasn't more than 2 miles to this:
I remember thinking as you drove me through the wasteland that it didn't matter I'd forgotten my camera because no way I had the guts to be snapping pictures of this shit.
ReplyDeleteHeck,even in orthodox jewland I was too reticent to get a good pick of the walking men of the sabbath.
El Jefe is of the same sentiment, after talking to him about my gripe tonight. But seriously, there has to be someone who has the cajones to document that stuff. That is life for someone. They don't fear.
ReplyDeleteYou know nothing would probably happen to us if we took the pics. I mean we're in a moving car. What will they do, shoot us? According to your favorite website-yes, since they are the sole reason our crime stats are sorry. I've been clean of that crap for over two weeks now!
ReplyDeleteI don't think I get creeped out that easy, but that junkyard on the docks was weird. some parts of this city have both the creepy "you don't belong here" feel of a backwoods town in addition to the fear of getting mugged or robbed and that place had both. plus, even if you don't mean it, it might come off insulting to people to take pictures of their neighborhood; sort of jarvis cocker-like. and lets be fair, you were nervous about going into the curtis bay bar during the day, but it turned out to be sort of fun. how about instead of a new testament and an apple lets get more beers?
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