God is Love but the Devil is his Mistress




Sitting at my favorite bar at my mentally reserved seat, drinking happy hour beers brings out the best in me; especially because I am alone and well on my way to intoxication. Vesuvios in San Francisco, due to its Beat-Nick history, helps to inspire a person who needs his spirit filled up with the souls of the past like a fuel station tank that doesn't deny any searching automobile it's gas. I feel as if I should have my own place, my own bar to create a new history, however, in contradiction I don't feel any place should stand still in reservation for fifty years solely for remembrance. For now I siphon the ghosts of Kerouac and Burroughs with every stroke of my pen.
My goal, to be timeless: Capture eternity in mind and soul through infinite artistic expression. Here's a story I need to get out of my head before I explode in frustration and fear of failure.

Living in the basement of a San Francisco liquor store is not exactly a cohesive environment for a corporate businessman, alcoholic in training, who takes daily dosages of anti-depressant happy pills, but is exactly where I found myself wanting to be in the depths of my depression. In life we always find our brothers when we least expect it. The forty-three year old French Vietnamese ex-under cover agent, who spent three years of his life infiltrating the Vietnamese mafia in Los Angeles, is one such brother I have found. The first time I walked into the store to buy a bottle of Jack and a pack of cigarettes he told me he could sense my suffering. Was it that apparent? We headed outside for a smoke. I hadn't had a good conversation with anyone in months and despite being a smidge fucked up already and barely understanding his accent, he provided a spark I definitely needed. After two hours of smoking, sneaking back into the store for a pull off the bottle and serving the local yuppies their weekday doses of convenience items, I found myself listening to him a lot and finishing his sentences often. That's how it went for weeks. Slipping down to my new haven on the corner, drinking, smoking and filling my self up with life after a boring days work or solitude. Many times the conversations would last deep into the night after the store was closed to the public and we retreated to the dark deciles basement in order to keep the night and each other alive through mental stimulation. There were other interesting characters as well. Milosh, a writer from Czechoslovakia whom I was both intrigued by and hated for his ignorant views on anti-semantics' and overall dislike for everyone except those who kept his penguin like figure filled with expensive beers and cigarettes. Most of the time I think he even disliked himself, which allowed some of his demeanor to be overlooked. Kozel also from Czechoslovakia, lived with Milosh and was a fifty-year-old, hippie sporting dreadlocks and worked as a pipe and glass street artist on the Embarcadero. He usually was just there to drink beer, and occasionally mention his hatred for America, despite constantly contradicting his views by repeating he never wished to leave. These were the friends I had made and one night at the liquor store, friends who watched me have a gun held to my head awaiting the verdict of life or death.
As the Stella Artois flows through me now, I remember the decisive words the roach said that brought me from innocent bystander to a Pit bull searching for the jugular. The crowd grows at Vesuvios, as the blood in my veins did the night when I faced a confrontation that lives with me till this day.

"I believe all people from the Midwest should be carpet bombed", the roach said loudly while making wild hand motions.
I ejaculated from my distant seat inside of the store and walked out to the entrance to listen intently. Sometimes I'm a rather impatient listener.
"You ignorant fuck, I'm from the Midwest and your including my entire family in your opinion", I countered.
"Yeah I am, what the fuck are you going to do about it!" He spouted while pushing me and moving me slightly from my stance.
Crack! There goes his nose and his opinion.
Life changes in moments. As I fumed in anger hovering over my bloody victim I felt both rage and compassion. After a devastating crack to his nose he was broken and helpless beneath the neon lights that flashed liquor and I attacked my prey in a moment of sub-conscious hypnotism brought about by mild drunkenness and the love for where I come from. I'm not a racist, but a realist and if there are niggers, white trash, poseurs or cockroaches in this world, this childish fuck wore a demeanor that represented the accumulation of all things fucked up. I had seen him before, his stripping girlfriend was a woman I had conversations with often. Neither the owner or I wanted anything from her, however, she was a neighbor and as lost in this world as anyone whom sought to be apart of weird conversations in front of a liquor store. The first time I met the roach it was cordial but this time was different because chemicals had crawled up his nose and grabbed hold of his already unbalanced system. He was white, but believed he was black, petite but believed he was a giant, opinionated but ignorant and his mouth got the best of my temper.


All Depression has its roots in self-pity, and all self-pity is rooted in people taking themselves to seriously. -Tom Robbins- Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates

The world is a war of spirits and only the chosen survive to reach its serenity and have their souls spread through the battlefield and into eternity. We reach moments of despair, isolation as our minds reach into the till of our existence for our last dollars of hope, yet the faith in our sense and our compassion for life is all we need for this time of passing through. I remember this as I heighten my buzz to a stiff drink from my favorite companions Jack and Coke and thin; Its love and fear that drive me to drinking, when we'll I ever have the means of thanking them.

I attacked him again as he lay in his bloody daze on the corner of Pine and Webster and choked him nearly out of breath, at which point my compassion for life, even in it's ugliest of forms, overcame my rage. I loosened my rear naked choke, kicked him in the ass to the curb and returned to my familiar milk-crate seat to light a cigarette.
At that point in any engagement you have a choice whether to relinquish or pursue, to put out the fire or allow it to suck in air and grow, to live with destruction or die due to compassion. I should have killed the roach, but I allowed him to gain strength and suffer again. A decision I do not regret but something I will remember as a valuable lesson in the future.

One experience leads to the next. I am completely loaded right now, and have thirty-five cents in my pocket yet I've gained a gig as a photographer at Vesuvios for a promotional night in the spirit of Brazil's independence day. There is no pay but I'll receive a free dinner and a few drinks keeping me going well into the night. Oh the life of a free mans spirit.

When the roach crawled at me again, he was embarrassed and confused. His girlfriend stared at him with disgust in her eyes and a flame between her legs, and I'm sure it fueled his insecurities.
"Mother Fucker you just dug yourself a grave", he whimpered with blood dripping from his nose.
"It doesn't appear to be that way to me", I retorted from my milk crate as I blew a stream of smoke into his face. Most people say that is an invitation for sex but I solely wanted his heart on an urban street platter.
The Roach walked away as he flipped open his phone and called in reinforcements. None of my so-called friends had moved an inch from their stunned stadium seat safe distances. I laughed in confusion as the roach formulated his plan to gain back his respect.
"Mother fucker, send Martha to Pine and Webster, I have someone that needs taken care of. Don't ask why, just send him this boy needs to be buried." He looked at me and continued his rant. "Your going to die tonight fucker, you don't know who you just fucked with!"
"Eminem on Crack?" I questioned.
"You think your tough because you chill at a liquor store, smoke cigarettes in your pink shoes, well you need a lesson, and your going to die tonight" He stated as he went to the stripper.

I just stepped outside for a smoke and a bum asked me for a cig. I just watched the guy in front of me turn him down. "It's my last one," he said. Why do people need to lie? Why doesn't anyone have the balls to say no? Do they have no compassion or do they find guilt in telling the truth? People are so lost but feel they are so found. Is it the promise of security that drives good people to the insanity that is comfort?

Minutes passed as the roach paced back and forth in front of the store, staring at me as he dabbed at his gushing nose with a rag that he received from the stripper. I didn't know what was coming but I had a feeling it wasn't going to be all shits and giggles. The owner of the store had disappeared and Milosh and Kozel were huddled far away from my one-man island.
They appeared across the street. Two white dirt bags in loosely fit clothing and evil looks in their eyes. But did they know how crazy I could be when faced with conformity?
"Alright fucker, you're going for a walk with us", said the roach. I guessed my new name was fucker.
After a long drag that seemed to suck my nuts into my throat, I said, "Are we going to go grab a drink? I'm thirsty and you can buy."
The thugs huddled around me as the roach explained his bloody nose. I started to stand up and said, "Listen fellas you look like reasonable guys."
"Sit the fuck down," thug number one said while he lifted up his waste band revealing a gun of the Berretta variety.
"Alright buddy how about we make a deal. I'll get down on my knees with my hands behind my back and you can throw a punch. Would that make you feel tough? I have no pride here, but I'm not fucking going anywhere with you!" Desperation squealed from my voice.
"That's not fucking good enough", the roach said as he looked at the other two thugs.
"Seems pretty fair to me! How about you big guy?" I questioned as I slapped him on the back with a smile on my face.
"Don't touch me," said the larger of the two enforcers.
"Come on man, one shot then I'll buy you guys a beer", I proposed as I got up again and proceeded to kneel on the curb and place my arms loosely behind my back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the pistol packer pull his gun and aim it at my head. Where were my friends now, my brothers I had met in destiny? Where was all their talk of hatred and their pushes for revolt against the cockroaches that run our society? Why did I have to be here alone, afraid, isolated against a world that was darker then my spirit tolerated? They went to find comfort. They sought the asylum of freedoms one by greater men. Our friendships would never be the same, or perhaps never existed.
The punch came before I could react and the blood began to gush down my face due to a rather large ring that was being worn by the roach. The blood made me crazy.

Conformity is not a choice made by man, rather ones soul weakening, secreting from the inner core of his intellect and being. Escaping to the bliss of the masses and the demise of the uncommon man. The moment a man leaves on a journey, whether it be to "search for his soul", or allow his soul search for him, his skin slowly peels back with each step he walks from his comfort zone. Comfort and originality never have and never will meet in lust, but in constant confliction for the affection of a man's heart. I say to the devil that reverts to comfortable surroundings and easy answers continue walking that jagged narrowing path that only lightens when it can become no darker. This is when your soul can put the fear of God into the all-abiding conforming man and turn your skin into an armor of leather. I need my unmarked destiny to feel alive, like the sun to a sprouting flower. I believe this as I stare at a Brazilian beauty dancing provocatively in all white. She wants to fuck me, I'm sure of it. But what will her boyfriend who plays lead guitar in the band sing about that. I should just drink my drink and keep her fuck me eyes as a remembrance of appreciation.

They all froze and I rushed the roach with all my soul, grabbing him by his throat and knocked him to the ground. No shots rang out, no words were spoken, only the sound of souls squaring off in the spirit of survival. Then I ran, ran into the store as the thugs picked up their defused time bomb of a friend and left the liquor store forever. The stripper stayed. What made them flinch? Were they the poseurs, the beings that needed ammunition in reality to make their blank lives feel real, that I have often seen. Perhaps some people in life represent craziness in their actions when they know they have more to live for then fear! I pretend now to want more, but am glad to have lived through less.
I went to the back of the liquor store treated myself to a beer from the fridge, lit a cigarette, and cried like a baby.
God is Love, but the devil is his mistress and it is obscure at this point that I relate with more. I am completely aware of self and that the devil roams inside of me; but in the tug-of-war for my spirituality, God always prevails. I am depressed and mad; insecure about my passions in my life, yet I believe this only prevents me from an existence of normality, not happiness. I believe heaven is a choice of dream over convenience, perhaps a few special moments in life can be found to justify the choice of one over the other. Eternity however, is rewarded to those that can live in hell with the devil solely as his mistress and create something beautiful for the non-willing sacrifices to feast upon.

The future son sleeps, he's breathing quietly as he grows. The soon to be spouse prays as she waits, and I the father and fiancée search for the success to satisfy all fears. The tears tell me it's time to become a writer or perhaps face the fear of failing as one. I request another drink from the homely waitress and put my pen to rest with the spirits of the past.