C ome springtime I'm always walking. Anywhere. I'll pick up a bottle of beer and wander aimlessly for hours. I've lived in my neighborhood long enough to have a store of memories for specific locales-- houses I used to visit where I had a friend or lover, corners where I used to cop, buildings I watched burn, now rehabilitated and bustling with people moving in. A street can lead me back over my past, then jolt me back to the present, so it seems I can round a corner and as I step off the curb seven years of living have passed before me.
Springtime brings something else-- for some reason, perhaps a spring fever change in hormones, it's the time of year when, if I have one, I'll have an epileptic seizure. A seizure breaks up the hard logic of the urban landscape. Sites where I've had a seizure exist outside
the rest of my experience; they're imbued with an almost sacred significance. These are the places where the linearity of my consciousness has come to an abrupt and violent halt. They're the spatial coordinates of the little black holes I've fallen into.
