nearing the end of existential.

It was on our fourth night of cheap motels and gas station food that I threw my sandwich across the car and cried. I cried and cried, until the sobs became hiccups and finally subsided, and my father and I sat in silence in the parking lot of a Days Inn.

Out of the shadows along the sidewalk came a drunk Native American man. Barefoot, he danced and weaved, shouting incoherencies. He had a bottle in one hand and he swigged from it as he staggered and came to a propped position against the building.

A manager came out and pulled the Native American upright again, giving him a prod to be on his way. They had had this exchange before. The Native American yelled and waved the bottle but did as he was told, dancing and weaving away once more into the dark night.

"You know, you could have it a lot worse," was what my father finally said.

In Iowa City we stopped at a New Age bookstore and I bought "The Power of Now" by Eckhart Tulle. That night I stayed up late reading it and underlining passages and whispering affirmations to myself. I was trying to put off going to sleep, because I was scared of being alone with myself, and every night it got worse. There were horrible feelings that crept in when I did not have the guitar or affirming words to ward them off, and when I dreamt I dreamt about ghosts and demons, and not about pleasant things at all.

When I crawled into bed that night I thought of Eckhart Tulle loudly to drown out the other thoughts, and although it worked to get me to sleep I woke up many times throughout the night, thinking there was a ghost right outside the door.

During the days it was not so bad, because we were moving, albeit slowly. We spent a whole day driving through flat unending fields and I thought I might cry again but I held it in. My father was oblivious, driving 65 and bopping his hands happily against the steering wheel to the beats of Caribbean music. I slouched in the passenger seat repeating affirmations to myself as we got passed by one truck after another.

In the evening my father splurged on a Best Western and we got into conversation with the girl at the front desk. She was about my age, and horrified to learn that we were driving cross country.

"Just the two of you?" She asked. "Just.... driving? All the way from California to Maine?"

"New Hampshire," we told her. "And yes."

"I'd kill myself," she told us, before handing over the key.