Chicago's weather hit a pitch-perfect tone over the last few days, leaving us with warm memories to hold when the on-slaught of the Midwestern winter piles over us in the near future. The days have been blue and crisp and a last cool caress. And not soon enough, as today was day light savings and darkness has just now, as I write this, hit early. As I write this I become aware of how the early darkness can affect me, but as I continue writing, I feel the self-regard that writing requires, protect me from the routine autumn melancholy. I'm comfortable in my skin. I put in some Gordon's "Southern Fried" frozen fish fillets in my condo kitchen, and I feel lucky, safe, warm. The Circle Jerks, The Black Crowes, and Peter, Björn, and John sing through my stereo system and alternately rock and cradle my soul. All these modern comforts make me feel privileged. Yet something is missing, somethings been missing. A person, somebody special (although I certainly have met and spent time with special people, even recently), a plan, some sense of narrative to hold my life together. Kids?...

I drove through the Chicago streets these past days under a haze of headcold. Sickness makes us reflective, free from the treadmill of life, does it not? Of course it does, and this weekend allowed me to feel perspective on my current plans—to move to Sweden. Over the past weeks, I'd felt held down, by work mostly, and this made my dreams of a life in Sweden like a far off mere possibility—an impractical one at that. And if my parents forced anything down my throat, it was being practical. (Damn Swedish pragmatism could womp an any dreamy American pragmatism in half a second, flat.) Yet dream as I do, I want back to Sweden. I want a family, a warm partner. I want my parents to come play nanny for weeks at a time. I want my sister, and parents and niece? nephew? and Butch and Angela and friends from the USA (!) (Chicago, MPLS, SF) and cousins from the US and Sweden to sing snaps- and Jul- visor around the Xmas tree. I want to cycle the streets of Stockholm in four seasons. I want to publish books, back in America, like a good ex-pat. I want a special friend and his wife to come visit his Swedish-American English-teacher friend in Stockholm. I want to never forgo an opportunity to love again but keep in mind that love is not whimsy.

Whoa... I got carried away there. But with good purpose. Good practical purpose. So I was saying... I drove through the Chicago streets, going about the tasks of the day, and getting caught up in the beauty of the day. Had a good conversation with a friend and sold some CDs as part of my plans to RIPP and liquidate most of my collection. I made my way to an old favorite location, Latizia's, a place that was once cheap and quaint and comfortable, but has gone expensive, crowded and full of neuvo hip and despite it's new face, found comfort with co-workers as we graded. Yet despite all this, I also could no longer feel this city to be mine. I'm not sad about this. It simply is. Either I've changed or the city never was what I thought it was, but there's nothing tragic or depressing here. It's OK. I wish it the best, and I want to see how's it has changed. Maybe I'll love it more from a distance.