Seeing The Spot for What It Is

Thursday, March 05, 2009 | comments (4)
Sometimes this spot—the one on my glasses, the right lens—sometimes, it doesn't bother me that much. But sometimes, like right now, it's all I can see. And I have to cock my head back in an abnormal way in order to get it out of my line of sight. It's not a spot that I can just rub out, either. So maybe spot is a bad word for it. Because spot might imply something akin to gunk or a smudge. Like the sort from a greasy finger that's been dipping into the chunks of rotisserie chicken treats in a coat pocket. (Canine motivation.) Or spots, plural, might indicate the things you get from a fine mist or drizzle. And it's not like either of those things, really. It's more like a chink in the lens. Like the lens connected with something hard and sharp and it just put...well, a goddamned chink in it, you know? Or a dent. Maybe that's the word. Either way, it's not a spot. I shouldn't have called it that.

Look, I'm sorry for saying spot.

I hope you know, I don't go around using words like that all willy-nilly. I should have thought about it more carefully.

I was just sitting here thinking about that and looking out over Baltimore Harbor at the smokestacks. Just thinking about what a glorious shithole this town is, and listening to the strung-out woman across the street screaming at the hard-candy mess stuck to her shoe, an unlit cigarette butt glued to her dry, brown lips. Her hair, an elaborate straw roost for all matter of the hinky.

And just screaming, brother. Screaming with an anger and a crazy. Screaming the bloody murder bellow of a sanity shredded and tossed to the fire.

This is Charm City, and there are demons here. Believe. In the neighborhood corner bars. The cobblestone streets of Fells Point. The pink flamingos of Hampden. And I've come two-hundred miles just to commune. Because despite the gangrenous streets filled with the feet filth frenzy, something about this place seems right and holy. And if you put your ear to the ground you can hear it. You can smell it. Among the brick scum and the shit. An inspiration. These are the right demons, brother. These are the demons Poe knew.

"When there's a spot on your conscience, everything else is clouded by it," I say. "And it doesn't go away, no matter how much you scream at it."

"It's not a spot," says Moses. "It's a chink. It's not supposed to go away. Dig?"

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Comments

1. Out, damn spot!
2. Chink is not the preferred nomenclature.
3. Why are thou in Baltimore? I need to catch up on my blog-reading.

Posted by KateR on Mar 05, 2009 at 11:19:40 AM
1) I thought about that for a title, but seemed too easy.
2) It isn't? You prefer "chip" maybe? Probably more accurate. But I like "chink" better. It's much more fun to say. And, clearly, it's more controversial.
3) On a certain timeline, I'm always in Baltimore.

Posted by rothko on Mar 05, 2009 at 1:02:15 PM
I was just talking about Baltimore yesterday and my relationship to it. So complicated.

Posted by ma on Mar 05, 2009 at 8:19:49 PM
My relationship to it is pretty uncomplicated, actually. But it's a good city to visit. Or live in for six months or so.

Posted by rothko on Mar 06, 2009 at 8:10:03 AM

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