Chapter 1 

For a brief moment I lived on a rambling old Victorian off of Telegraph Avenue with a guy and this sculptor named Ismael who was from East Oakland. He made exquisite sculpures of African warriors with shield and spear, sometimes a female with huge bresasts and buttocks. Small and ugly he still attracted women. His sponsor was a wealthy white woman who was his lover, her family had been wiped out at Jonestown and she was very possessive of Ismael. He rarely talked about this woman and I never met her but my impression was that he was embarrassed by it and knew he only satisfied her to get the support. Rather, he had taken on a girlfriend, an artist, more his age and temperment. I met her one afternoon as I came home from some undefined moment among the books and bums of Williard Park. When I arrived Ismael was on his back as his consort glided above him in the motions of love. He looked up at me. "Hey man, it's only love." They continued for a while and then he slapped her rear end and rolled her off and introduced her. A pretty thing, an art student at Cal who began to tell me the story of how she had been eased out of her apartment on Telegraph Avenue. "See, I met these guys at an art happening and they said they were new in town and were going to open a free food clinic but needed a place to stay. I said come stay with me and that was the worst mistake of my life. These guys were White Panthers and good at first, I mean there weren't any problems but then they made me sign a paper of some sort and before I knew it they took it over and wouldn't let me back in; said that I had violated a lease of some sort. I was so depressed Ismael had to get some guys he knew and go up there and talk to these White Panthers and, I guess, after awhile the White Panthers left." "We showed them the nature of justice," Ismael said.

David Eide
January 24, 2014