By Nous

                         March 2, 2004

N[ou]...S

I saw this old Nintendo system at the thrift store many weeks ago
and decided to buy it.  Many a day I left it out in the open so as
to have easy access to it whenever I wished to play it; but about
a week after buying it, my little cousin, who lives on a neighboring
street, saw it and started asking about it - what it does, how it
works, could he play it, etcetera.  I told him it didn't work so
he would stop bugging me, but also because if he played it once
he would want to play it again and I did not want my space intruded
upon constantly.  My room is a sacred place.
Then I realized that I don't do much anyway.
Soon thereafter (or five weeks later, take your pick) I decided
old Nintedo games were what my cousin needed, as he was being
bombarded by Saturday morning animated garbage and so-real-it's-
like-doing-it graphics on games.  My cousin, I decided, needed
a good old-fashioned Super Mario 3 ass-beating.
It was pretty funny.
I beat each level with ease as he struggled to jump over turtles;
I stole his shit by sucking him into the battles; I robbed him
of Toad's gifts and took the prizes you get for beating the
castles.  I was the Christ and Nintendo was my passion.  James
Caviezel would have been shamed by my performance.


NIGHT RIDER

But lately I've been tired of kicking ass, and when my cousin
arrived to play, I accompanied my father to the dollar store
instead.  He was looking for small screwdrivers and we had to
go to various stores before he decided that Big Lots would
probably have them.  I didn't mind that it took so long; I was
just wasting time.
Big Lots had bottled soda which was cool, and I bought some and
you should, too.  I saw the people who worked there and remembered
how boring working was, and how terribly annoying it was to work
with people, and all sorts of other stuff, too, I guess.  One
thing for sure is that these two guys working there were dumb
and that was cool.  Working with serious people sucks.  On the
flip side, working with black people is cool because they are
black.
Once outside, bag in hand, the feeling that hit me earlier that
night at Dollar General returned.  I said to myself, "Sometimes
it seems that this town is the last free place on earth."
The way to tell that a place is free is when people can commit
murder and at least some of them get away.  Or when people do
things they know they shouldn't and they know nobody except the
police might try to stop them.  Where the police don't mind
that a few minors are buying cigarettes or alcohol.  People
like alcohol, they say to one another, and who are we to stop
them from enjoying themselves a bit?
A place where you can get alcohol and a gun in less than fifteen
minutes.  Or pilfer some gum just for fun.  Or where you can
hang out in a store all day and no one assumes you're a criminal.
Indeed, where no one assumes anything about you.  Who you are
is irrelevant; what you're doing is none of their business. But
they'll say hello to you with a smile. 
Yes, where people are polite in order to conceal that they're
all criminal in some way.  We all know it and it's fine.  The
world needs criminals and crime.
Let people argue with cops and sue the government.  Let them
stock up on water and ammo.  Let them all live in obscurity,
but don't forget your manners.  Criminals are people too.
"Behold, I am coming quickly!  Hold fast what you have, that
no one may take your crown.  He who overcomes, I will make
him a pillar in the temple of My God..."

WASTING TIME:  PART DUCKS

Returning home from H.E.B (they are paying me to mention them)
I saw in the parking lot of the flea market a little carnival
thing being set up, and wanted badly to go and enjoy the rides.
But onward Christian soldiers, and my little daydream was at
once gone.  It seems all I do now is sit at home and wish for
things to happen.  All I ever do now, it seems, is waste time
and yearn for something - anything - more [copyright Nous 2004].
My mother and I stopped at Subway to buy some sandwiches for
ourselves (we have this awesome book of coupons for nearly
every restaurant around) and there, sitting in the corner, was
Mike the mailman chatting with a fellow mailperson.  Mike was
such a great guy that just being there ordering a sandwich
was cooler than usual because of his presence.  As we were
paying, Mike got up to throw his trash away and said, with
his great big awesome smile, "You got here too late.  I would
have bought you lunch."  My mother laughed, but I think Mike
was serious because he got this look, and I think my mom saw
it too.  "That's okay," she said quickly.  Mike smiled and
walked away.  The guy at the register thought it was all
rather amusing and I was not sure why.
On the way home, my mother drove like an Asian person and nearly
killed us ALL!  By all I mean me and her.  Bye all!  I mean,
me and her!
That's me.  I don't make sense and do things to amuse myself.
Get used to it or abandon me, please.
Don't ever abandon me OR get used to me.  Let me rephrase that.
Reverse the last two sentences, ignore this one except for the
sake of understanding what was said, and we're set.
Prodigal Summer, The Wheel of Fortune, A Pillar of Iron, and
Secrets of the Temple:  How the Federal Reserve Runs the Country
(a book that's probably too huge for me, in the literal sense)
are a few books I'm reading, and you should read them, too,
except I like to think that they're all my own.  My secrets.
When my mother and I arrived safely at our home, we got only
the stuff that would spoil (we went to H.E.B. which no doubt
you've forgotten by now) and hurried inside to devour our
sandwiches.
An hour later, I went back to the Suburban (I call it the
Yellow Sub despite the fact that it's not yellow) to retrieve
the rest of the groceries and noticed that a good deal of the
sugar had spilled under the back seat.  There was just a little
pile there, though it was relatively a lot of sugar lost.
I was suddenly saddened and realized that it was one of those
moments that angered me immensely - an anger I would not show.
It was a strong sadness and I then realized that it would not
be very long until my next explosion.
That's how I work.  Little by little I store my anger and
frustration, letting it out rarely, but when I do, it's sort
of a terrifying thing, which I'm sure my family would tell
you were they not so adept at doing it themselves.
At least they talk to people about it, and by doing so, are
able to get past it.  I share a sickness of the mind with a
cousin I shall not mention, and we're wells of boiling water
that no one ever sees.
But there it was, the sugar pile under the seat that so brilliant-
ly enapsulated my life.  I think I sighed, and I picked up the
sugar to take inside.  Speaking in false spanish, I told my
mom that, "El sugar-o es spill-o."  She gasped for some reason
and got a bit angry, but said she'd clean it.  I laughed.
Maybe ignoring stuff is harder on the brain, like you're build-
ing a wall around a huge body of water.  Maybe my brain will
inflame and I'll die of encephalitis.
God, I hope so.

AFTERTHOUGHT

There's my mom lying on the couch, and she looks so fucking
tired and bummed out.
What the Hell was her day like?