By Nous

                        November 03, 2003


Chapter One:
	The Coming of Sloth and John

I felt like a puddle of jizz on the floor.  This day was not turning
out to be what I had hoped, though to be fair, I lived in a constant
fantasy with books and stories and quasi-adventures which all led to
disillusionment no matter what happened. I should not have hoped for
so much, but what could I do?  If I did not hope consciously, then I
hoped unconsciously.
I felt like a mess, but then my mother reminded me that it was time,
once again, for Conan - light of my life, fire of my loins - and so,
sighing, I plopped myself on the couch.  Or perhaps 'collapsed' is a
better word.  The question you're looking for is, "Who cares?"
Having seen the episode of Conan the previous night, I knew it was a
good one, so I began recording it from the beginning.  But after the
monologue and during commercial break Sloth and John did unexpected-
ly arrive. I say unexpectedly only because I thought they might show
up a few hours later.  We had plans to go to John's concert and John
would be our ride.
I was a mess, but I got ready and we departed.

Chapter Two:
	Jason Takes Cigarettes

Lately, I've been strange, and while I can explain most things about
myself, this I could not.  On the way to pick Jason up - as he would
be going with us - I was very quiet, despite the fact that I no more
felt like cum on the living room couch.  What the Hell is wrong with
me, I wondered.  I leaned my head back on the seat and felt the air,
cool and smoothe, rushing over my hair. I felt as if I couldn't talk
at all.  Everything I say in real life, I regret.  Everything I say,
when with people, is clumsy and awkward, incorrect and inadequate. I
can't speak without feeling terrible about myself.
We picked Jason up and headed to Wal-Mart. Jason had something to do
before we could leave for wherever it was we were going. Before long
we were at Shaun's house - John's bandmate. And Jason was asking one
of us whether or not someone had been messing with his jacket.   His
cigarettes were missing.
We loaded up the jeeps - or Shaun, John, and that other guy in their
band did.  I stood around kicking trees and wishing for something. I
don't know what, but I wished for something, I think.  I felt out of
place, so I breathed in the air as I stood there watching Jason look
at the ground, casually smoking his cigarette.
I became aware that I sort of liked the smell of cigarette smoke.  I
wondered why, since I had always thought I hated it. I saw the wisps
of smoke dance away and disappear.

Chapter Three:
	I Am Satan

We were zooming down the freeway and I was in some sort of trance. I
think I was summoning the devil, and when I opened my eyes Sloth was
looking at me from the front seat, saying, "Nous!" or something.  He
turned around and I looked at my shadow on the back of his seat.  My
head was there, but only the bottom half.  Where the top should have
been was the top of Sloth's head with his devil horns.  He was Satan
for Halloween.
So was I, I think.

Chapter Four:
	Sitting With Pumpkins

We had arrived at the house where John would be playing soon, and we
waited for the party to start sitting on some chairs by a fence with
a little platform that held tiny pumpkins with candles inside. Jason
smoked, I inhaled, Sloth and John exchanged words, repeat.
I don't know how long we sat there, but we eventually left to go eat
some pizza and change our environment.

Chapter Five:
	'Hamburger' and Giving to the Poor

"He says it all like one word," laughed Jason.  Sloth was not amused
and replied, "It is all one word."
Or maybe he didn't quite say that, because I was not anywhere around
mentally for much of the night, nor had I been, and so my memory was
catching only certain phrases. The point is that we were speaking of
the correct way to say the word hamburger - or Jason and Sloth were.
I was their guinea pig.
I was thrice urged to say the word hamburger, while Jason and Sloth,
fixed intently on me, listened on.
Conversations such as those stayed with me, while images and moments
seemed to float around briefly before fading to soft de ja vu, later
recalled as I washed dishes trying to listen to the TV or as I mowed
the lawn, closing my eyes against the sting of sweat.
We were heading back after eating our pizzas to the house where John
would be playing, back to the party, but a black man who seemed like
he was having trouble keeping his eyes open stopped us at the corner
of the street where the house resided.  Even what he said is no very
hazy, but I remember he had a sort of rough voice and seemed to move
his arms around quite a bit, painting in the air some picture to fit
the story he was telling.  I remember him mentioning robots or some-
thing and then asking for money, which I was not planning on giving
him; but, then my cell phone rang and I was sure my excuse of having
no money would not work.  I gave him two dollars I think and we were
eventually led to some nearby club by Shaun and John's OTHER bandmate
whose name I still don't know (even though I could check the CD that
John gave me, on which are printed the names of everybody in Yuma -
the name of the band John is in).

Chapter Six:
	Red Rum

So we enter the place, called the Proletariat, and I feel like James
Dean or something.  The place gives me that feel of watching Dean in
Rebel Without A Cause (I have been reminded of this movie many times
in the recent past) and Jason, John, Sloth and I walk to the back, I
guess, where there is a stage set for karaoke.  The place seems red,
and I am reminded of Dahmer -  the movie, not the serial killer him-
self.
One night while watching Dahmer on the DVD player in the living room
my brother walked in and served himself some tea.  I knew it was tea
because I had just made a new pitcher of it, and I could hear him as
he plopped the ice cubes in a glass. A moment later, as Dahmer drags
a body - a victim of his - to his red room, made red by one light, I
hear my brother say, "Hey, come here!"  in an excited whisper.  So I
pause the DVD and leave the living room glowing in red as I traipse,
quietly, to the kitchen where my brother is standing by a door which
leads to our backyard, looking out a window, sipping tea. He points.
Outside, near the barbecue pit, is a possum.  I opened the door very
suddenly in hopes of scaring it away, but it merely turned its head,
looked at me momentarily, and continued walking around.
I remember the feel of the night and the look of the kitchen, tinted
red from the TV screen which overflowed from the living room.  And I
remembered then that god damn possum with it's fucking eyes, totally
indifferent to me.  And I remember now seeing a large man singing to
some song on a karaoke machine, urging others to get up and sing as
well.  I remembered then voices bubbling.
The god damn possum.

Chapter Seven:
	The Night Fades

I don't know if I can go on remembering the night, partly because it
is something to be recalled in another atmosphere different from the
one in my room, and partly because I don't remember much, aside from
the soft faded moments that mean nothing. Shaun suddenly filled with
energy when he learned that there was more beer downstairs.  A girl,
covered in fake blood, as Sloth laughed on.  A man with goggles, or
something on his head screaming drunkenly about cover art and demos.
The smell of weed.
Much of the night fades, and already it is lost, because only writ-
ing it down will make it real in the future, and I can't remember a
single thing that means anything.

Chapter Eight:
	Communication

I write this the Monday after that Friday Halloween.  I mentioned to
Jason on Saturday, while we were getting lost with Sloth, that moths
communicate by smell, and that, when a moth chooses another moth for
a mate, they recognize each other by their scent; and so, naturally,
the wrong words are impossible.  I said this because, as I mentioned
before, I can only speak the wrong words.  Or, I can sometimes speak
the correct words, but in such a way as to muddle up the meaning.
Even now the meaning of what I say is unclear.  My words are hidden,
stolen away and cloaked behind these sinister letters.