Michael is a musical force in his own right, always was. The talent that made Von a sensation at 12 helped Michael stand out at 21.
Lincoln Park’s blues scene comes alive in a cool, thumping tantrum of Chicago sound. Belting voices, bottleneck guitars, the melancholy sirens wail all night long in the dives and doorways near DePaul.
It was just an experiment. It seemed more an imaginary test than anything I was doing in real life. But every two weeks, I’d drop another dose.
A gentle hush fell upon the apartment, one as quiet as the moment demanded. All I heard was the pounding of my heart telling me to do it.
Right away I knew. Of course, you never really know, do you? Not with epilepsy. But I knew. For the first time in eight years, no aura.
Dennis came in on a revolving door. It ushered him in. More than a year later, it escorted him out. After New York, I never saw him again.
Gazing onto East Seventh Street four stories below, people looked like figurines. Some walked their dogs, others carried packages. One couple, holding hands, stopped to steal a kiss.
More than 20 minutes into it — with my nose fully fragrant and recess over — it hit me. I hadn’t gotten flashing lights in two months. The dizziness was my new aura.
The dizzy spells came every month after that. They always lasted for 30 minutes to the second, it was weird. The blend of vertigo and pressure felt more significant than anything I’d experienced, and I couldn’t shake the notion that it meant something profound.
I wish I could remember where my mind was that April morning when the weirdness began in earnest. Because the day started like any other, with more sunshine.