Timeline

September 27, 2024

By Tracy Dimond 

On a humid, late-summer night in Baltimore, about a dozen literature lovers gathered in Ned Sparrow’s Station North Books for an evening curated by Rafael Alvarez. When Rafael asks you to read, you don’t say no. You say yes, then ask questions. The most important element to understand is that he taps into his decades of storytelling experience to bring people together.

Although her ceilings in Paris were surely much higher, walking into Station North Books felt like a Gertrude Stein-style salon with a more impressive, if haphazard, collection of books. The introvert in me wanted to browse the shelves all night, perhaps finding a rare Stein as another way to feel close to her work. We are living in a political landscape just as, maybe even more, absurd than post-World War I. And we can all watch it in real-time on our smartphones.

As folks ducked inside, we settled into a circular arrangement. Through introductory conversations, the readers looked at each other knowingly, as if we could telepathically share that tonight we would draw each other in. Then we agreed, out loud, that we’d tell stories. Conversation, rather than performance.

Gregg Wilhelm started the night with a braided essay that reflected on sobriety with humor and grace. A television writer by trade, Mick Betancourt had us on the edge of our seats with a real-life Chicago story of impossible coincidence. You think you may have ruined someone’s life, but then you learn they would have made the same decision in any other circumstance. 

Rafael opened with a story he had never shared before, but not before his long-time friend, Tyrone “Mister 49%” Crawley took us on a journey about their time at the Social Security Administration together during the Ford Administration. Time wasn’t an issue. What really mattered was feeling the love he had for one of his oldest friends.

As Tyrone often says of their friendship, “One noose, two necks …”

I read after Gregg. Much of my writing is about the discomfort of being in a room full of men, but there we were. The conversation would be our connection point. That’s more breath than I’m used to. I have a hard time letting my writing breathe.

 Rafael has referred to my writing as concentrated orange juice – add three cups of water and watch it expand – and I agree. Especially in my collection EMOTION INDUSTRY, I am hitting the reader with a bat. Want to feel the daily pummel of chronic illness? Whack. Want to feel what it’s like to be followed in public? Whack. Want to internalize the message that women are only as useful as their fertility? Whack. Whack. Just put my poetic bat next to Babe Ruth’s 44-ounce club.

My patience and kindness is reserved for people, not systems & expectations. One of the underlying themes in EMOTION INDUSTRY is my frustration with the medical system. 

I went for a decade with undiagnosed endometriosis, & this collection was all written while I was seeking care for unbearable symptoms, but told by multiple healthcare professionals that I was a picture of health.

I don’t know anyone who has had a severe illness who says they had a smooth time receiving the care they need. I remind myself of that, then dive into reading my absurdist, rage-filled poems & wait to see how folks respond. I have been surprised, saddened, elated all at once to see how much they resonate across demographics.

After some excited, lingering conversation, we parted ways. I drove back to my home in Waverly – not far from the spot where Memorial Stadium once stood, buoyed by the connections of the evening, grateful all of our storytelling exists.

Next stop: CRABTOWN USA 

By Craig Bowman

I’d been hauling cargo across the U.S. for the Ukrainians—a strange stretch of my life where truck stops and highways felt more like home than anywhere else. My world was gas stations, and asphalt, and the deep purr of a diesel engine keeping me company through endless miles.

By chance—or maybe something more—I ended up in Baltimore.

The fog off Chesapeake Bay rolled in thick, and swallowing the skyline. The air smelled like salt and sailors, tugboats and iron. Women stood on the docks, waving goodbye to men who might never come back—a scene that felt frozen in time.

Baltimore greeted me like an old sailor too tough to quit—worn down, weathered, but still here. I could appreciate that. In the historic districts, neighbors sat out on their stoops, chatting like they’d been there forever. You could almost hear horse hooves clicking on cobblestone or imagine Poe himself pacing those narrow streets.

March turned the landscape brittle—gray and hard like steel. At night, I’d sit in my van at some forgotten truck stop, wrapped in blankets with Don Quixote on my dash and a spit cup stuffed with napkins beside me. Through the glow of streetlights, I’d watch the city breathe—buzzing with an energy that felt like it was rising from the pavement itself. Somehow, it felt right. Maybe this was what it meant to be a middle-aged American—living quiet nights alone in some city’s shadow, finding peace in the stillness.

Baltimore felt familiar. My past had been sweat, blood, and broken bones. I carried that with me—the same tired look I saw on the faces of the men who built this place. Dock workers who came home stinking of crab and grease, men who spent their lives grinding it out because they had no choice. They built these red brick buildings with their own hands—now abandoned, scarred with graffiti, claimed by bandana gangs drifting off through the siren-filled streets.

There’s a danger here—something exciting and uneasy. But if you listen closely, there’s calm beneath it—a quiet hum that feels like the past still lingering, like the ghosts of Baltimore haven’t quite moved on.

Lying there under the glow of city lights, I found myself grateful—for the dust, the gum pressed under bus stop benches, and even the homeless woman bathing in a sea of trash along the highway brush. There’s something distinct about this place—a pulse that crackles through the streets, spilling out from D.C. and running north to New York. Baltimore wears that energy like a second skin.

I knew I stood out. My brown flannel reeked worse with every mile, and my face carried the look of a man who’d been to five cities in a week. That unsettled look—like I’d be leaving any minute.

And just like that, the Ukrainians found me a load, and I was back on the road.