I have no idea if this is a real picture or some kind of artsy-fartsy drawing. but I chose it anyway, for no other reason than, as bizarre as it looks, it is probably the happiest picture you will ever see anywhere of Edgar Allen Poe, who was born on January 19th, 200 years ago. This year is the bi-centennial of his birth. Look at how big his head is. You can almost see all of his strange, twisted ideas and characters swimming around inside there, knocking against the inside of his skull demanding release.
What better year than for a tornado to hit the city of his birth or where he lived most of his adult life. Though technically the tornado hit Baltimore County, a separate though adjoining area of the city of Baltimore, it is notable not so much because of Poe as it is due to the close proximity to the Summer Solstice.
I notice things like that, and sometimes, it makes my head hurt. I think too much, just like Poe. Come to think of it, I based my novel in Baltimore due mainly to it being his home town.
Here's to you, Poe. If you were alive you'd probably write some fucked up spell-binder about somebody being whisked off by the tornado, never to be seen again, and I have no doubt it would be somebody you were madly in love with.
Makes you wonder.
