John Gartland lived in Forest Hill where unlit streets crisscrossed dark wooded lots and the trees were always blowing wildly in the grainy fog lights. I showed up to Casteneda Street late and he was the only one there. An unrecognizable album played in another room from the dead of night until the soft quiet daybreak. “What’s that sound?” I asked. The ocean wind was speeding down the mountain in the summer night. When morning broke it was humid and mild. I went to the cathedral on the mount. I flew on my toes thinking: what’s done is done.