The Pythoness of Fells Point

There are visionary encounters in the world, when we look for them.

I was exploring a neighborhood that was entirely new to me. Usually when feeling out of sorts I find myself gravitating, like Ishmael, towards the water. I was in a knocking-people’s-hats-off mood, but with no whaling vessel to escape to I instead took refuge in a neighborhood of Baltimore with cobblestone streets, an old-style covered market, row houses with black shutters, and the country’s first Black-owned shipyard. I had my hood up against the drizzle, and I walked with my hands in my pockets. I stopped into a record store, something I hadn’t done since probably my thirties. While considering a clear vinyl Faust reissue, I spent some time standing inside a vanished version of myself.

[By Augustus Burnham Shute - Moby-Dick edition - C. H. Simonds Co, Public Domain]

I have an architectural imagination, and so I explore new places by imagining what it would be like to live there. How much does it cost, to live in an early nineteenth century rowhouse that is 750 square feet? How does this side street feel? What about this one, which incredibly has its own slip on the Patapsco River, just the right size for a 22 foot sailboat? I loitered in a bricked courtyard, looking at Zillow on my phone. I was absorbed, and water was beading on my screen, making windows open and close at random.

So I was surprised when she spoke to me.

“Excuse me,” said a woman who had materialized out of the mist by my elbow.

I looked up, expecting to be asked for directions. I am the kind of person who is often asked for directions, usually in places where I am a stranger. Like Fells Point.

The woman was hard to read. She could have been my age, or younger, or older. She had painted her face, with heavy black eyebrows drawn on in triangles and chalk-white skin like Pierrot. I think there was a streak of purple in her ragged braid. She gave off the weird energy of someone who has a perhaps variable relationship with reality, and so upon seeing her face I prepared myself to explain that unfortunately I didn’t have any money.

“Do you know where I could go to ask for a room?” she said to me. Her eyes were pale and vague under the painted eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure. I’m a tourist.”

Her gaze grew piercing, and she stepped closer. I prepared myself to get away, if I needed to, but instead she said, “You can live anywhere.” Spoken like an affirmation rather than an accusation, which it could have been.

“Thank you,” I said, confused.

“You can be,” she groped for a moment before finishing, “….K….Karen Hammond, you can live anywhere,” she said.

“I….”

“You smell like…. books. Like books. You can live in a bookstore. You can live… You can live in a record store.”

“Thank you,” I said again, stunned.

“You can live anywhere. You are clear.” She waved a hand, like she was turning a large dial. “You are cleared. Ed. Ed.”

Then she walked away muttering. The sole pythoness of ancient Fells Point. The Moll Pitcher of Baltimore.

Mary Beth Norton once remarked to me that the longer you study witchcraft, the more superstitious you will become. Which is probably why I am still thinking about the Pythoness, days later. I can be Karen Hammond (KH?). I can live anywhere. I smell like books. I can live in a bookstore. I can live in a record store. I am clear. I am cleared.

So what’s next?

Good question. I guess we are about to find out.

The only things I know for sure are, I start teaching Lit Hum at Columbia next week. I’m three chapters in on the new novel. I am ready to knock off some hats to get it done.

Onward, into a new year, as clear as the pythoness says we can be.

I hope she found where to ask for her room.