Monthly Archives: November 2015

THE AUDIENCE IS RIGHT/WRITE

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1. THE AUDIENCE IS RIGHT/WRITE
 
 
2. THIS MEANS NOTHING’S REAL
 
 
 
innuendo

 
 
 

I told her she could leave. She stood up. But you paid for the hour, she said. That’s all right, I replied, the rest is on me. I watched her bend over to grab her bag. She had a nice bum but no tits so I couldn’t really get it up. She handed me my money back and smiled. Don’t give me my money back because you feel sorry for me, I said. I don’t feel sorry for you, she replied, I would like to come back and see you when I’ve finished tonight. She stood there and smiled and I felt sorry for her. I handed the money towards her. She took it and folded it into squares then bent over and pulled her pants up. I’m sorry, I said, but I’m busy tonight. She took the money in a fist turned and threw it at me. It hit me in the forehead and landed on my lap. Fuck you, she said as she turned and flung the door open. She leapt out of it with half her bum still showing and slammed it loudly behind her

I felt it in the head. The wave of vibrations in the room reminded me that I was alive and it had actually happened. (((((((( ) Having only just realised what blogging is I sighed as I started writing this. I thought it was a chance for artists to share ideas. It has nothing to do with that. It is a free chance for everyone sitting in front of the computer to become a critic. They sit waiting for their chance to be heard sharpening their knives. It was invented for them. All of the artists are covered in scars and now live in a tent behind the bus shelter on Bondi rd. The knives are too sharp. An artist creates within their mind so don’t handle criticism well. When the criticism is not constructive it leaves a jagged scar

I lost a friend yesterday. It was only an online friend so I don’t really mind. They were telling me off about what I write/right. Me myself, if I don’t like what I am reading I stop reading it. I pass no judgement. They have passed through fire and come out the other side. If they had told me off about the way I write/right I wouldn’t have cared, being criticised for content only makes me realise it is about them and is no longer about the story. If I don’t like what I am reading I stop reading it. They knew that they were right/write when they told me, you can’t generalise women! Not only can I but I do. These are just words on a page. The person who told me off was acting self-righteous. The same person once asked me if I could get them some powder. I said no. They wanted to escape reality. I escape with the pen

The world used to be divided into the haves and the have-nots. In no time at all it has divided into the righteous and the wicked. I always smile when I see yuppie couples standing at protests looking angry at the world. The only real anger that they posses comes from the ability to judge other people. Another friend once told me that they could never write/right something that they didn’t believe. The friend is also a lefty. I don’t know how these people were raised. I know how I was raised. I was raised laughing. John Cleese, Ronnie Barker and Stan Freberg raised me sarcastically. I was born condescending and arrogant in the thought that what I feel and think is right/write. With a pen in my hand I can escape reality with words sdrow. The bounds are trapped but the mind is still free. I am within a body while my mind is elsewhere. How dare somebody try to tell me that what I write/right isn’t right/write

I was told off for saying that I knew a woman was a lesbian just by looking at her. I was told that I couldn’t say that. Why not? I could tell she was a lesbian just by looking at her. I was not being anything but perceptive by saying this. I have gay and lesbian friends who are not offended by what I write/right. One person showed me on their phone that my number was saved Andy Wheelchair. As people we see everybody and instantly judge them. I am the most obvious for a judging. It is only the bleeding hearts that take offence. I think that they actually wait to be offended. Their indignation fuels them. My only crime is bad taste

It gets exhausting talking to an alcoholic. If you ever have trouble getting to sleep at night look up your local phonebook and find the nearest AA meeting. After listening to all of the stories you will sleep like a lamb. It is the same as a blog. We all clutch at eternity hoping that the voice will be heard. Everybody is talking but nobody is listening. Being friends with somebody like that was exhausting. It hurts the throat trying to shout with somebody on a pedestal. The only people who are offended are waiting to be offended. The more you talk about writing the less it means. So therefore, all of
 
 
 
this actually means nothing
 
 
 
3 THE DOORBELL RANG

 
 
 
 
it was her again. I opened the door
 
 
 
 

Andrew Stuart Buchanan Buchanan

PAH PAH BA GAH, A PAH GAG + HALF HER BUM ON A CHAIR

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PAH PAH BA GAH, A PAH GAG + HALF HER BUM ON A CHAIR

 

 

 

 
I had trained my brain to not love her. I couldn’t tell you the exact date when I fell for her but it was at first sight. Likewise I would not be able to tell you when I stopped loving her. I remember her words and the feeling I got though. She told me I would have to put up 250,000 dollars collateral to marry her. I deleted her number from my phone and deleted her as a friend on social media. I could have given her the money but my love cannot be quantified by a sum. If it could it would be worth a whole lot more than that. Who ever love’s that loves not at first sight?

She rang me the other day. I was out having a ciggie and saw I had missed a call when I got back in so I phoned it back. I hadn’t recognised the number. The message answered and told me who it was. She did not respond so I tried twice more later on the same day but was not able to reach her. I tried twice more the next day before I caught my reflection in the mirror. Idiot. She had told me once before that she likes to be chased. I decided that I didn’t have the inclination or desire to be ignored so I decided to stop calling. I love her and she excites me but not that much. My love is not strong enough to be made a fool out of (this is a lie, I have called her three times a day and will keep calling her forever ‘til I get through, I am not as cool as my character)

Time spent with her made me happy, horny and excited. Being with her made me want to be a better man. She told me that she loved me and it made me love her more. The love of a man is stronger. If you are a woman saying, bullshit, you simply don’t know. A woman is insane but only a man is mad. Cemeteries are full of men who have done something for a woman. Women can sit and play with themselves and be just as happy. I am scared of my love. I have been without it for almost a decade and my love could mean anything. I would suffocate her with it. She will be swimming in the blood from my heart. I am lonely for love but I don’t love myself……………… …………………………………………………………….I don’t feel thirsty but will have to drink to swallow the pills so I can go to sleep… s-l-e——-e-p-

…
…
…

Nghhhh
Nghhhh
Nghhhh
Nghhhh
Nghhhh

Nghhhh
Nghhhh
Nghhhh

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The pills didn’t stay in me. I woke and vomited them up. I am no longer a drunk. I am just disabled. I woke at about 3.30 am. I was lying on the wrong side of the bed (disabled). I didn’t smell good so I sent my right hand down the back of my pants. My bunghole felt sticky so I knew that it was only leftover enema leaking out of it. I turned to the right side and went back to sleep. I woke up a little over an hour later on the wrong side again. It smelt worse so my hand went searching again but found nothing. I told myself that they were just bad farts. In the dark I couldn’t see or be bothered so just rolled sides to the left again. At around six a.m. I woke on the wrong side and knew I would have to do something about it. I have worn undies to bed every night since becoming disabled. I had thought about touching the shit but didn’t. I wondered at how I was going to push my wheelchair to the shower without getting shit everywhere. Shit. Shit, my hand went down the back of my undies. It was shit. It was shit on my hands and it made me smile to know I was right and wrong

I put a piece of pooh in a jar beside the bed. They have a sign on the front of their shop saying, like us on Facebook. I got Dub from their cafe. They are cheap but it’s not worth it. I’m not going to shame them but they are online. I vomited earlier in the day. I’m so used to being sick that I didn’t take it as a warning. I carried on my day, slightly sweaty, feeling a bit odd. It felt like my mind had left my body. I was doing everything I normally do but my body wasn’t there. I imagine if I could walk I would have collapsed. A car drove me there. I sat sweating as the car drove my there; well it was actually a man who drove me there but you know

The doctor’s surgery had hired an illegal alien to work on reception. There was a chain around her ankle and the desk. I asked her if they had the pathology of my pooh? She blurted out a mouthful. What, I asked, sorry what did you say? She said it again. Pah pah ba gah, a pah gag. I’m sorry, I said, I can’t understand a single word you are saying. She pointed to a small monitor screen on the top of the table. It said, IF YOU ARE DISSATISFIED WITH THE PROCEDURE PLEASE PRESS 1. I looked down and pressed one but it didn’t blink. I pressed it again but nothing happened. I pressed it three times in a row but it still didn’t blink. I pushed my wheelchair next to the toilet just in case I was going to shit myself and waited

A short stocky bald man walked up to me. His left hand wasn’t there but he had a hook to replace it. Are you the one, he asked? The one what, I replied? The one who keeps ringing the buzzer, he said. Yeah, I said. You only have to press it once, he replied, it’s loud back there. How should I know, I asked. There is no way of knowing if anybody has heard it at all. Oh don’t worry, he said, I hear everything! Are you unhappy with the service provided, he asked? Very much so, I stated. The woman on reception can’t understand English. She can, he said, she just can’t speak it. Well, I said, what’s the point of that? I will be the one, he said as he scratched the tip of his nose with his hook, that asks the questions. Okay, he said, and what is your name? Pope John the Twelfth, I said

He went away and came back with a tall angry lesbian. I’m not saying anything about homosexuality. I am only describing her. It is probably the work that makes her angry. The man looked down at me and smiled as she started handing all of these forms to me. She gave me a bright red plastic clipboard and said, after you have filled all of those complaint forms in come back and stand in the line. She pulled up the bulldog clip to put the papers in their place and handed me a blue Biro. I will not stand in her line. I smiled at her and she smiled back plastic. She turned and walked away. I tossed the clipboard and the pen on the floor under a chair and started turning my wheelchair. A young boy was standing with his legs spread and one finger between his teeth smiling at me

Nobody understands anything so we all get in these lines. My love is ready for anything

I
Am
You
Us

We
Will
Not
***** *****

I can not stand in a line and will not pay for her love. I can’t. Love and sickness are the same. It only comes from the inside. My love comes from my sickness. Her love is my sickness. Heart Mind Stomach Arse. Everything is bad chicken. This is all connected but I cannot say how (that’s a lie too; I am incomplete). I’ll leave that up to you

 

 

 
 
Andrew Stuart Buchanan

NO FEELING.

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NO FEELING

 

 

 
The ride finally came and I got home. As the car dropped me off I saw this thing moving towards me. It looked huge and moved in a sloppy fashion. As it neared I saw it was a woman pushing a shopping trolley. She looked right into my eyes. She was wearing seventeen layers of clothes. All of her possessions filled the cart… I mean the cart contained everything that she owned. I looked at her face and saw she was beautiful but covered in dirt. I used to think that seeing a homeless man carrying all of his things was the saddest sight. I looked at her face and saw that she could be a model. I wondered what had happened to her so I approached and asked her? Well, she said as she looked down at my wheelchair, what happened to you? I raised my eyebrows and nodded.

 

 

Narcassism

 

 

I got inside and heard the phone ringing. It was a friend telling me that they wish that they didn’t feel anything. I told them that they were wrong and hung up on them. When I was first admitted to hospital they made me take anti-depressants. I was discharged and not a week later fell out of my wheelchair and broke my hip and it just happened. They put me back in the same hospital. I didn’t feel angry or sad, it just happened. I stopped taking them and now I don’t feel anything but frustration. I am stuck within the wheel of a system and it is making me angry and facetious. I hopped in the shower to wash my balls. I had too. They reeked. I soaped them up and washed it off in cold water. I transferred off the shower chair and dried my groin and my legs. I inhaled deeply and could no longer smell them.

I finished drying myself with a towel. My left hand felt sticky so I opened the palm and saw it was covered with blood. Where was I bleeding? I checked my whole body but couldn’t find the source. I fucked around for a good fifteen minutes trying to look at the bottoms of my feet in the mirror. My hand went down the back of my pants a couple of times to make sure it wasn’t the haemorrhoids. Oh well, fuck it, I couldn’t find the source. I started getting dressed again. The final part of the process involves strapping the orthotic’s on my feet. I found the source. The scab from the scratch on my leg had bled. I had removed the scab when I was drying my legs. No feeling.

I had to go to the post office so I left the house. I’d only pushed one hundred metres from my front door when I saw the postie. Did you get the ticket for your parcel, she asked? I turned to face her and I fell out of my wheelchair. I haven’t fallen out of it for the longest time. There was a branch lying on the footpath. The postie and a strange lady walking by helped me back into it. They both fawned over me asking if I was okay? I told them I was fine. That was a lie. I am so sick of everything. I got home and stifled the tears… no sorry that’s also a lie. The tears came but I managed to control them. It is the only control I have.

At home I got out on to the balcony and saw the homeless woman was still standing outside. She was running her right hand through her hair thoughtfully. She was so beautiful. I will never know what she is thinking. She was standing directly in front of my apartment. She looked up at me and I blushed. She still knew she had it and so do I. There is something missing from our lives. We are both without feeling.

 

 

 
Andrew Stuart Buchanan