howl o ween / milwaukee

I'm sleepy and snotty and sore, a little. It's nice when people stick around, when we sit at the kitchen table for hours and talk about pickles and kraut, draw on faces and pull on wigs and ride off slowly to far-off red glowing places, dark smoky soul dance parties where we'll polish off the whiskey and dance til the music is done.

What a strange time of year - the season is changing, but it can't make up its mind. It's snow one week and short sleeves the next, and all these beautiful bright trees shouting out colors into the fall. In Milwaukee, the streets are piled high with fallen leaves, the front porches are tall and inviting, and the houses are wooden and cozy, like Portland, or Carrboro. Nostalgia is a strange beast. Steep hills become novelties.

We slept a fitful sleep on thin mattresses in our tall van, dreamt of tow trucks and belltowers and ice on yr clothes. We biked around town on heavy cruisers with a James Brown tape playing from the milkcrate strapped to the front, and picnicked by a smelly lagoon by the lake, bought cheese curds and pickles from some aromatic market downtown. Cities feel so small after we adjust to Chicago.