That’s all I wrote. And I didn’t post again for months. I had a voracious appetite for reading and I was writing books, but they were years from publication. David, meanwhile, had brought forth his voice, a mighty—anything but barbaric—yawp across the rooftops.
I only now close the loop on Heaven Is Coming Home:
…David’s richly textured writing reads like romantic poetry. Yet there is a clarity to the telling born of steady revelation in sign and image. The narrator, like an expert kite handler, works his string in concert with the wind to lead the colors of his craft across our minds’ eye.
There are readers to whom this book beckons. They are the wonderers, the artists, the visionaries, the stakeholders of a future where peace descends to fold us in its wings. They are the fanatics of the past, the ones who flee in speeding cars across long dark roads into the unknown, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty chasing an unforeseeable future of blissful dreams.
In Heaven Is Coming Home playwright Rovin directs—or is directed by—angels Drianelle and Raoul on the Austin set of his new play. Of course Rovin falls for the beautiful Drianelle! But will this be a love story, or the beginning of apocalypse brought on by the Magi, the very opening to the gates of heaven?
Rovin narrates communion on earth and with the universe beyond in a long, lost walk through the streets of old DF: “The sky was dark purple; the clouds were painted violet, reflecting the lights all up and down this mad valley corrupted by the Aztecs. The clouds were also echoing the booming sounds of the city, but in a murmur, embracing us, and for a minute even Chet Baker sang somewhere. Neither of us said a word. The street, forlorn and beat up, still looked lovely with its cracked concrete and broken glass.”
Have you not yet visited the heart of D.F.? Come tour it here: it will move the earth beneath your feet. David writes with heart and imagination, and his readers will find both as they follow this supernatural journey to its final destination.