Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow
—  Jack Kerouac, Big Sur
2

Last night I drove down to Kenosha, spent hours with my best friend. We sat by the windows in her kitchen, drank and talked, watched teenage boys ride by on bicycles and light off whistling fireworks as they rode.

This morning my honey and the little one and I drove up the lakeshore 40 minutes north of Milwaukee (an hour and 15 minutes north of Racine). In South Milwaukee, saw cheerleaders in starspangled outfits jumping and chanting, saw a boy riding a tall unicycle; north of Milwaukee saw sad faded farmhouses, red barns caved in, stone silos grown over with vines, saw rolling fields and the lake shimmering hazy grey-blue across the fields; in Belgium, WI, saw a restaurant called Hobo’s Korner Kitchen, which looks like an Alpine chalet but has an enormous statue of a hobo on the roof. We looped back south and had lunch in Port Washington, a cute little town about 30 minutes north of Milwaukee. I had a sandwich and fried pickles.

Since getting home: we did garden work, racked and bottled one of our homebrews (a basil and white pepper pale ale). D played in the yard. I’m wearing my On The Road shirt and rereading Visions of Cody, because when I think of America I think of Kerouac (I dig like you did, I dig jazz, a 1000 things in America…), and because I’ve been having memory-dreams of the West recently (Colorado, Utah, Nevada, California). I’m listening to Born in the USA, because when I think of America I think of Springsteen. We’re grilling dinner, D is eating watermelon.

Life is hard and the world is terrible, but being alive can also be really sweet. I try to hold on to that.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
The only people who interest me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…
—  On the Road - Jack Kerouac