There are times when what you are writing is not ready yet.

So, even though someone has read it, had read it, you pull it back, mark it down to experience, and wait, and think.

What have I created? What has my imagination spawned? Is it too real? Is it not real enough?

Does the pain in my wrist mean I am writing too much?

Does the ache in my heart mean I have said enough? Not enough? Too much?


longest night

It is the longest night, this moment of winter’s birth, this day of eternal brevity, when the yule wheel turns and we remember to light a candle, only praying that after the coming months of chill and dark, spring will return with her flowers and blossom promise kiss for fruit to ripen and summer to lift up the earth into harvest.




ubi iste post phaselus antea fuit

comata silva nam Cytorio in iugo

loquente saepe sibilum edidit coma


where you later see a boat was once

wood forest tied to Cytorian mountains

speaking often in whistling leaf voices


Gaius Valerius Catullus: 4, x-xii.



It is an ancient tradition.

The artist goes to the capital.

Here, he or she will discover la raison d’etre, and a place in history.


Danial is strange.                Shall not go to New York.

He will fly overnight.                     To Washington, DC.

November 6-7, 1974.



“Welcome to the Nation’s Capital,” Jonas will say, two nights later, talking on the interrupting telephone to someone else, after he invites Dani home for dinner.

They met over peanuts in DuPont Circle.


I was desperately homesick my second afternoon in DC.

I stood on the public roof-deck at the State Department, gazing out over the Mall.

The chill of autumn was warning me about winter. Is coming. Soon.

My heart ached. I was alone.

Then, in my grief, I felt a voice. It told me: go to the fountain in DuPont Circle at five p.m. You will meet someone who will ease your pain.


Jonas and his partner Link ate Danial for desert. Twice.





His parents and uncle and aunt drove him to the airport. None of them understood why he was going, except they all knew he was running away again.

Only writing this will make that clear to him.


I flew all night from Diego to Dules, with a stop at Dallas. Didn’t have to change planes. At dawn we crossed the Blue Ridge, its rounded peaks brushed in scarlet pink sunrise, already reminding me of Cuyamaca – my childhood mountain, now abandoned for… what? A dream? Yes. A dream of living in the capital, suffering adventures and adversities, crossing lines and breaking p—

The plane touched down. A huge turtle would carry them to the terminal.

Aero Saarinen, his brain whispers.





And would it have been worth it, after all?

After the broken spark in my plot, after

The twists and turns of character and theme,

After the railroad auto-format that forces me to


Accept a capital letter with every new line I write?


Would it have been worthwhile, if one spy,

Cutting in upon my conversation, would then let loose

Her earthen mind, her sudden quake of skin and light brown

Hair along the back of that gentle arm,

And say