Half-full moon out tonight, but I don't know if it's waxing or waning. Monday, you bastard, you feel like a Sunday.
Bon Iver on the record player. Tomato soup for dinner tonight, made from the last pale fruits from sailorsausage's plants. The stem to one broke off in my hand and I smelled it for a good minute, inhaling deeply and saying farewell to summer.
The leaves are red along the highway: Welcome to Michigan. Great Lakes, great times.
I spent a lot of this morning sitting in Chicago rush hour traffic. At one point I passed Six Flags and checked out an inflatable gorilla climbing a tower. I wanted it to be a real gorilla.
On the stereo: new Ben Folds, new Ani. My old artists all have new songs.
We were up and out the door by five-forty-five this morning. I drove US 12 in the dark for an hour before first light over the barns.
Last night I dreamt of Ron Howard. Before that? Culver's for dinner. We have them in Michigan, just like we did in Minnesota, but I only want to eat there when it's Wisconsin.
Sunday: the B's reading. It went beautifully. Everything on the square glowed faintly in the rain, and the cars driving by hissed. The bookstore was warm. We came from a bar where we had Bailey's and hot chocolate. We had brunch, woke up to rain.
Saturday was a night of beer sipped from tiny, fancy stemware. I learned how to play quarters. We joined the packs of red and white at the Echo Tap--drunk alum, football players, pitchers of beer. Cilantro and beef. It was a bright afternoon: herds of fans headed to Camp Randall. You could smell the lake at the end of Jess and Mike's street, two blocks north. Driving in from the country, the barns were sharp against the brilliant Midwest blue sky. Before that: coffee and pigs in a blanket.
Friday: to bed early. I shopped. I read a play. I didn't check my e-mail. I bought jeans. We ate Mexican food for lunch. Around us, undergrads were gearing up for another fall Friday: pony kegs, football games, parents in tow for family weekend.
The dog and I walked in the woods Friday morning and watched the leaves fall. Last time we went through those woods we were driven out by mosquitoes. Not this time.
I got in late, fell asleep mid-sentence. I've missed that bed.
There is nothing like driving to Chicago at night: up up on the skyway, the city in the distance. The lights to one office building spelled out GO SOX. There was traffic downtown. There always is. I rolled down the windows and truck drivers and cabbies waved at the dog and his ears.
It felt good to hit the road on Thursday night: coffee, new music, handwritten directions. Aim the car into the sunset.
I don't know why I want to tell this story backwards, but I'm going to.
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