| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia

On the last page, you'll notice Heather playing tambourine as Kyle sings a cover of - well, actually - I don't remember which U2 song they were all covering. The same one Kyle recorded on his CD. Great song - but...

well, the photo of her playing tambourine is for her Dad. He'll be very, very proud.

We struck back out into the snow at around 12.30am, drove up the hill, quietly crept into the house, and promptly fell asleep, dreaming of the way Nebraska blanketed us with dirty grey gauze. One of the last images in my head last night was the flaming orange caldera that slowly vanished into the tunnel of snow and sleeting cloud. It was incredible.

This morning, Gail even made us breakfast - eggs and bacon and cinnamon rolls. We stayed till 10am, swapping stories about cars in the Living room with Gail and Kyle


and their youngest son.

Remind us to tell you about the purple car, or the flaming Winnebago. The oral tradition of storytelling is alive and well in Omaha.

December 7th, 2003.
Travelling at 70 down I-80 at 6. The moon's nothing more than an amorphous stain, high in the sky, and the sun itself has vanished into a multi-coloured strip, fading quickly into the black of the Indiana sky.

There are moments when I'm so happy with this Life. Car concerns, weather concerns, any fears of money and success vanish. I'm comfortable with the heat of a laptop on my thighs, the hypnotic flashing of road-side reflecters. There's a wave of Love for Heather, singing along to the Bare Naked Ladies on the radio. Wandering through a mix of albums and mix CDs - wondering what the random setting will present to us next. Brak and Zorak express affection beautifully.

We're heading to Pittsburgh, and I can't be bothered to call ahead. We're passing 18 wheelers and watching for deer. Trees are nothing but traceries to the sides of the blurring road, and I know the Great Lakes are supposed to be just to our North, but for the moment, nothing exists but us and our voices and the dark and the road. And the goal, of course.
Pittsburgh by midnight by moonlight by morning.

December 8th, 2003.
Watching the map, it's almost painful to see Maryland scrolling a mere inch below our chosen route. We're edging in on the mountain roads of Pennsylvania, sitting tucked in between guard-rails and 18-wheelers. Out of the states we've visited, I think Pennsylvania (despite my mom's beliefs) stays one of my favourites. It has moments of mountains and plains and rivers - just about anything tehre is to be desired out of other parts of the country can be found in this square state.

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