Writing Marathon

I recently attended the Baltimore Writing Marathon, hosted by the Maryland Writing Project and even though I am not a teacher, I went last year with a friend who works at Towson University. I am on their mailing list, and consider myself a "Friend of the Maryland Writing Project" which is fine because all are welcome to attend -- it's interesting the number of non-teachers that were present this years as a opposed to last year.

The idea, roughly is to go in small groups from place to place in an environment, and pause to write, then share and socialize. It should be called the Maryland Eating Marathon since the best places to socialize involve sampling the food and drink in the area. This year the weather was absolutely beautiful and actually my group did not make it back to the regrouping as we got distracted and continued on our own, my friend Erica and I until the end of the day.

Next year, I will attend again and I think I would like to travel with people I don't know as well, the ideas and mind-workings of unfamiliar people are sometimes the most inspiring. I did not write nearly as much as I would like to -- it was a bit awkward at times, we moved at a slower pace than I would have liked. However the day in and of itself was wonderful.

I'll post my ramblings on Moontown as I did last year. I'll expand them a bit here.

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We walk through the city streets; a motley group of writers seeking inspiration. Today is one of those glorious spring days where anything brown and growing appears to have been sprayed with green flocking and every tree that can bloom has done so as if to thumb it's nose at the last dregs of winter. It has been my experience that it is unwise to look around too much when immersed in a city, but today the draw of a creamy blue sky and sun that drapes the world in cloth-of-gold overides my normal savvy cynicism. I allow myself the luxury of looking around and taking on the aspect of a tourist.

In the city, tourists, like fleshy sunflowers bob their heads up and down, looking around looking at everything. They nod in the draft of intrigue. Like sunflowers, they are out of place in this concrete garden but still a thing of beauty with their bright clothes and voices; their open curiosity. Sheltered in some way by a window box of ignorance, they don't see where the worm has eaten the roots or the aphids have wreaked havoc. In contrast, the locals walk eyes down, eyes forward, purse cross-breasted and pinned under one arm -- more intent on their destination than the everydayness of the journey.

....and I think I like this tourism thing.

As we exit Canton towards Fell's Point, the tuberous spires of an orthodox church tempt me from the distance. I have only ever seen it by car with my face pressed against the glass, craning up to see more. But, they are hungry and anxious to start off with something to eat so we head over to Timothy's. As we round the corner onto Broadway, I am expecting an open concrete area littered with pigeons and people warming their faces from park benches. Instead, I am amazed at the hurdy-gurdy sight of a flea market and it is all my companions can do to keep me directed towards the food. Drawn like a bower bird to the colored glass and old jewelry, I am convincing enough to have them allow me a brief stroll through.

At Timothy's we are advised it will be a twenty minute wait for a seat out in the sun. We first cross paths with another group of marathoners with the same idea. However, they opt not to wait and head inside we decide to make use of the bar and our twenty minutes for our first writing session. It feels very 'Hemingway' to sit at the bar with my ciggarette and cold beer while I write. I remember something I wrote about the fellow who was there last year, Richard, and how I wrote that he seemed like the kind of guy I'd like to share a beer with and talk. I lost my internet service soon after he emailed me and never did get to buy him that beer. I purchase a Diet Coke for my friend instead.

One of my companions shares a story he's working on over our lunch. Something about a scruffy old man, carrying around his wife's ashes as he walks through a flea market and I am inspired by the idea of flea market memories -- each item layered with the memories of the previous owner. Somehow that is the draw of items purchased there, I think there is something of the Velveteen Rabbit in it, how things are so much more 'real' after they have been loved -- something of the previous owners have been distilled into the best treasures.

We wait for the Water Taxi in order to cross over to the Inner Harbor, watching the bikers as the sun on chrome blinds us a bit. Every person that walks by is a story. One woman walks by, she is perhaps in her late fifties/early sixties. She is thin, severe with cropped, spiked grey hair, straight leg jeans and a jacket with motif of the skull and crossbones. Something in her face tells me that she perhaps, is an entire novel.

We notice the time, to our dismay, there is not much left before we regroup in Canton. So we forgo the Water Taxi and it's on to the much touted Vaccaro's in Little Italy for a treat. Enroute we get a bit sidetracked, this time by the quiet neighborhood of Little Italy and pause for another quick session of writing each of us in the shade of blossoming tree. The sun is rather strong and bleeds through the blossoms, I feel it crisping my skin a bit. I would love to sit here longer looking up through the downy flowers but the smell of hot tar somehow mars the view -- every brain cell screams that there is something 'off' there -- akin to the idea of biting into a strawberry and tasting a bran muffin instead.

We're not sure on the exact location of Vaccaro's but after some searching we locate it and lo' there are the same folks we met up with a Timothy's. Apparently word gets around. At first glance, the piles of confections and waft of coffee are overwhelming. I was a bit concerned about the quality of the desserts due to the fact that all the serving staff were suprisingly thin. My answer soon came in how busy they stay serving the constant stream of people that stop in for a tasty treat. Since we were just getting our desserts when the other marathoners were leaving, they told us they would pass the word along that we were still busy being inspired. Everything looked wonderful and my canoli was amazing, rich, creamy, not-to-sweet filling barely contained within it's shell. Inspired indeed!

By the time we'd left and headed back, we'd decided that by the time we got to Canton everyone would have most likely left. I was a bit disappointed not to get to regroup, really, I would have loved to have more time. So in the spirit of continuing the marathon.... okay, so I hit the flea market again. This time I got to linger over the baubles and even contemplate an old washstand/cabinet -- which I decided against since the idea of lugging heavy furniture back to my car was at the very least, distastefull, not to mention that my fiance would be less than thrilled. Two of my companions at this time decided to head home. My friend Erica and I decided to make a day of it, wandering the streets at our more rapid pace popping in and out of shops, people watching, and chattering.

We decide at this point that we are going to go find that church again. After a bit of zigzagging, chasing one spire through the streets like a willow-the-wisp, we make our way to Patterson Park which affords us a grassy place to rest our weary feet and gaze at the St. Michael the Archangel Ukrainian Catholic Church from a moderate distance. It's gold and white spires are sleek against the azure afternoon and it rises from behind the park trees like a sultan's castle. For a moment, I even consider the merits of conversion. But before get to comfortable we rememer to think about dinner and I remember that there is yummy Greek food on Eastern Avenue, not far, I say from where we are.

After about 15 blocks, we're a bit weary, Erica has decided I am insane and I am sure if we turn back, I will find that the Greek food is one block from where we turned around. Perhaps I have read entirely too many French short stories. Lingering over a fresh limeade at the Austin Grill an hour later as the sun sets and the air gets chilly, I'm glad we came back. Every time I have to walk, my muscles remind me that I've taxed them far more than they're used to. In a way, I've stimulated most of my senses more than they're used to on this day, as well as my imagination. My notes and memory have definately got enough fodder to keep me writing for weeks and I can't wait for next year.

...and we did pass the Greek places on the way home, just as I'd described them to Erica -- only ten blocks from where we turned around!