In the past 2 days, I've passed through 5 states: from Washington, briefly through Idaho, in Montana, through a corner of Wyoming, and now into South Dakota. South Dakota's where I lived when I was three - in a little house in Huron - and where my mom took me, left my dad, and drove to Canada. South Dakota's also the name of the oldest song on my CD - I wrote it in University, originally as a poem, after I woke up from a dream of being back in the car with my Mom - while a relationship I was in was falling to pieces.

Some South Dakota facts:
- it's the geographical center of the United States.
- Mount Rushmore is here, and just south of it is Yellowstone park
- Famous South Dakotans: Tom Brokaw, Crazy Horse, Laura Ingles Wilder
- named after the Dacotah indians

My friend Remi wants to do a video for South Dakota - and while working on it I've recently started to think of the song on a bigger metaphorical scale. South Dakota as a place where we all retreat to, in the center of everything, when things go wrong. An unpaved, side-of-the-road diner that we've all passed through in times of loss. Or something like that.

Little do I know, I will soon be firing a gun, discussing religion with midwest Christians and taking pictures in a haunted barn.

...

I like the names of creeks coming into Sioux Falls. Crazy Woman creek. Wild horse creek. Dead horse creek. As night falls, with little to no city lights around, the stars come out and the big dipper glows beside me.

I get into Sioux Falls late, and hang around waiting to meet Jeremy, my next couch-surfing friend. Eventually we hook up on the edge of town and he drives me out into the darkness, towards his farmhouse. Couch surfing requires some trust - generally trust that person ahead of you is not leading you to the middle of nowhere to kill you. But Jeremy seems pretty cool.

We get to the farmhouse - there's so much room out of town and so many stars. I meet the farmouse hunting black lab (who I don't remember his name). Jeremy, a nice guy, lives with his parents here, with an apartment downstairs - a nice setup with wireless internet and awesome DVDs. I check email while we watch Three To Tango. Then I stay up too late reading A Short History of Nearly Everything. In Chapter 14, Bill Bryson details the current volcanic activity of the earth - suggesting that Yellowstone could go sky high at any minute, killing everything around it. A comforting thought to go to sleep to.

I dream that I have to quit my job and leave my home in order to take down an evil corporation. I am on the run from the law, sleeping wherever I can, and under constant stress.

I wake up to gun shots.

I haven't woken up to gun shots since New York, and even then I'm not sure. I hide in the basement for a bit, researching local media, then take a shower. Finally I decide to face the gang war outside.

Turns out it's Jeremy's dad and brother-in-law, a local deputy, gearing up for hunting season and doing target practice. They've set up a metal barrel with a washing machine box strapped to it and a paper plate as a target. They ask me if I want to try a shot. Now I am a city boy, raised by two hippy parents and have never fired a gun in my life. Still, I'm game for a new adventure.


They hand me an AK-47. Holy.

Jeremy's dad shows me how to hold it, cock it, and makes sure that I don't hold the trigger till I'm ready to shoot. I shoot. I wound the paper plate slightly, but take out the washing machine.


Then they hand me a Glock Pistol, which I am worse at. The washing machine is dead, but the paper plate is getting cocky. Jeremy's brother-in-law takes some pictures of me shooting, which confirms that I look stupid doing this - generally looking a bit terrified in every shot. My feeling that I should stick with guitar is confirmed when they take their turns - kicking the ass of the paper plate. Apparently local deputy's are good shots.

I thank them and they seem happy to have shared their love of shooting guns. They tell me that now I'll know how to fire one, "just in case." I tell them that first I'd need to find a gun to fire, but thank them anyway...

What a strange way to start the day.

I head into town and get the oil changed on the car (apparently one ought to change one's oil after 9000 km). I make phone calls, do some shopping and hang out. I change the string I broke at the last gig and resolve not to break anymore. I kick myself for forgetting my tape recorder - I wanted to record "South Dakota" in South Dakota.

Turns out I shouldn't have worried. I'm playing in a tiny coffeehouse called The Black Sheep, with no sound system - so I'm back to being a "crazy person in the corner of a store". There's only a couple people there, but I start. Some nice teenagers gather round and ask for requests (Jack Johnson, Dave Matthews). Finally others fill in and I get a good crowd. I play South Dakota and everyone seems to like it - wasn't sure if it would be wierd or not, but I sell out of the CDs on the counter, so something went well. I meet a nice guitar student who wants to be doing what I'm doing and I talk Canadian music with a Ron Sexsmith fan. All the teenagers decide to add me as a friend on myspace. All in all a good show.

I head back to the farm but get totally lost in the night. It's CREEPY driving around dirt roads by yourself. Dark demons resolve themselves into sleeping cows in my high beams. Finally I find the farm, after a phone call to Jeremy, waking him up.

I'm invited into the kitchen by Jeremy's dad and brother. We talk music and graphic design. They teach me how to clean the AK-47. His brother buys a CD. And then they bring up religion.

Maybe it's the overly polite Canuck in me, but I generally feel that discussing religion or politics with strangers is a bad plan. Most of the midwest as far as I know is conservative and Christian and I am democratic and agnostic. I also find though that midwest Christians seem to need to ask whether you are too - a plan which seems destined for an answer of either (A) yes, in which case there's not much to talk about or (B) no, in which case everything's suddenly awkward. Who knows? Maybe it's rude to bring up religion in a blog too?

I manage though to cobble together a description of my agnosticism: a belief in greater forces than we currently understand, with a healthy respect for many religious, including christian, texts as powerful lessons and amazing stories. I'm fortunately a somewhat well-read agnostic, so I can quote scripture and back up my beliefs. I've also attended both Catholic churches and Jewish temples, so I've got some experience. I'm still initially uncomfortable with discussing religion, especially with people I don't know well and with an AK-47 on the table.

But they're very nice and we have a pleasant conversation, explaining our disparate views. Despite our differences, I'm impressed with their strong conviction that the bible is the Word of God and that by following it you will go to heaven. As an agnostic, I generally am filled with more questions than convictions.

That's probably enough religion. I head back downstairs and am about to go to bed, when Irene phones. Afraid that I'll wake someone up I head out to the garage and close the door... locking myself out. I head outside in my socks and play with the black lab, who seems cold and lonely. That's one thing that I disagree with in our religious conversation - that humans are different from animals and that only we can go to heaven. You'd think that this good, friendly dog who helps with hunting would get rewarded by their religion somehow. Who knows though, maybe it messes up the "though shalt not kill" part of hunting.

Okay, that's definitely enough religion.

Jeremy's dad answers the doorbell and lets me back in. I head downstairs and fall asleep.

...

The next day I head out to find Huron, my old hometown. Between phone calls to both parents, I eventually track down 2212 Illinois Ave. - a little pink house that used to be red, used to have a fence, used to have apple trees (cut down after an ice storm) and used to look much bigger. I'm a bit dissapointed that I don't remember it so well, but (A) it's 27 years later, (B) I was three! and (C) it's really different. Plus this house was where many parental battles were fought, so it's no surprise that I might have blocked it out.

After skulking around for a while in my bright yellow rent-a-reck, the owners come out and introduce themselves. Turns out they're the people who bought the place from my folks 27 years ago - and they remember me - as a sassy little three year old. They invite me in, but the only thing I really remember is a bit of plaid red and black carpet in the basement.

I head out of Huron and rush towards De Smet, a town that I just saw a sign for - the homestead of Laura Ingles Wilder who Irene (and, as far as I can tell, every other woman on Earth) loves. Wilder wrote the Little House on the Prairie books, which I admit, I haven't read or seen - but I have learned something about her life from Irene. It sounds ridiculously difficult to build a home and farm in the badlands, endure cruel winters, raise many children and write approximately ten thousand books.

It's 6pm and I'm worried that the site will be closed - and it is - but thankfully it's closed for the winter season, so I don't feel bad about arriving late. A sign says that you're welcome to walk around, so I do, taking pictures and freezing. I come across a barn, wide open, with a warning sign that says something like "horses are dangerous". I suddenly feel very alone, walking around in an old world, in a snow covered field, in the dark... it feels haunted.

I leave town and head down to Omaha, Nebraska - finding a Best Western, I book in and fall asleep - dreaming, but not remembering.