| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia

SO they are hacking their way through the bowels of a fifty-year-old theatre and creating as they go. Nicolas and not much help. They hunt for grants and time and help and treasure. They are connected underground to an adjoining disused jewelery shop, complete with massive steel vault - we are lead through darkened spaces and into hidden furnished rooms.

One of these rooms contains a true treasure. There will probably be few readers that can appreciate the true magnitude of what they are about to read... but Nicolas has an original Zentraedi Officer's Battle Pod!

I just about fainted.

Heather just thought I was a dork for even recognizing it.


And then we spent the night with some guy I met on the internet.

We listened to one of Kyle Knapp's CDs while leaving his house this morning. It kept us company off and on through Nebraska and then through the first fleeting glimpses of Colorado... an intense folk album of music about freedom and the holocaust and people left behind. His guitar playing is exquisite, and his voice is a delicious blend of mid-west chocolate and some sort of honey. It has depth and a hint of gravel.

A couple of days ago I'd been hunting for singer/songwriters in the Omaha, Nebraska area - looking for information on open mics, venues, places to play. I ran across Kyle's website, emailed him, and in a lengthy response he not only detailed open mics and places to play, but he offered up his own home as a place to stay.

A touring musician as well, he's been playing music for 30 years, with recent tours dragging a son along to help him sell CDs and cassettes. Another son, Joe Knapp, heads up a band called Son, Ambulance, on the Saddle Creek label - and is receiving


national acclaim for his songwriting. He definately gets it from his father.

A beautiful house, a beautiful yard, and some of that kindness that I suppose the midwest is supposed to be known for. We stayed up through the midnight hour telling stories of tours and snow storms and parents and grandparents.

This morning, Nebraska was subjecting us to vicious 50 mile per hour winds, and we followed Kyle out on to the highway after a delicious breakfast of eggs and cheese and sausage and stuff. Kyle Knapp is good people.

Tonight, I'm filling in the Journal in between turns of Scrabble. Heather and Jennie are struggling to consume my literate dust. Poor beasts. I reign supreme! (Until we go to Texas and play against my brother - I'm putting that off for a bit).

Time for me to finish the reaming.

November 14, 2003.
The fly has found us. Don't ask me how it did it. It must have hunted long and hard, but the fly has found us.

Yesterday we woke leisurely with our heads and hearts not quite wrapped around the two hour time difference. I mean, really, we sort of raced out here to Colorado, with three days to become adjusted. It's not quite jet lag (or whatever the word is when you go the other direction) but our bodies are waking us up at 8.30am or so, which is just bloody unnatural.

The drive was monstrous. And Heather drove all of it. I'm incapable of amusing myself with the road for long stretches. My attention wanders, I get distracted by trees and litter and women in passing cars. Heather meanwhile, seems to Love it. Long, straight highways that stretch on to forever - she's fascinated with the jet black soil of Illinois, and the windswept plains of Nebraska, and the huge skies and the blue on the grey and the sweeps of sun - and she just keeps driving. She's a machine.

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