I was told off by an angry woman recently. She had nothing to be angry about but it did not stop her. An angry woman is terrifying, if only humanity could harness the power of an angry woman’s rage, it would make coal and petrol obsolete
She started off being pretty, but I don’t do pretty well so she kept changing. She had hair and all. I think I prefer the back of the painting once again. Dem bones dem bones dem…
THE LONESOME. ALONE AND A HAND-FULL OF PUBES
subtitle : IF THERE WAS NO BAD LUCK THERE’D BE NO LUCK AT ALL
dysfunction art woman
We haven’t talked in days although it feels like months. It feels like, have we ever talked at all? She’s in one of her moods. I can’t even remember what it was about. It was probably something I’ve done. Who knows; it could have been something I’d forgotten to do? Normally all I would have to do is give her a fuck when she’s mad but she is too angry for that. Every time we pass in the hallway the energy she is giving off makes the hair on my arms stand up. She walks past me with a tone of haughty indignation. If only humanity could harness the power of a woman’s rage, it would make coal and petroleum obsolete. What would derision smell like if it had a smell? It would smell somewhere between burnt hair and a stale fart.
Work, work, work, is that all you do? She told me I should join the art place up the road so I did. She tells me that I always talk about being in a wheelchair. She once asked if I thought that it made my life much different to hers? I picked a course and turned up at the art class and asked a lady standing in the hallway where I had to go. An old man walking towards me with his canvas under his arm pointed up two flights of grand oak staircase and said, good luck. I looked back at the woman and saw her nodding. It was a white heritage property with lots of rooms. A man with a badge came walking down the corridor towards me. He shook my hand and apologised for the lack of accessibility. That’s all right, I said, as he led me to his room down on the ground level. This is the only class that you could get into, he said.
I tried to concentrate on what I was doing but I couldn’t. The controller had sent me on another wild goose chase. The teacher asked me what kind of painting I liked? I told him that I liked Jean Michelle Basquiat. He said, wasn’t he the junky that overdosed? I nodded at him and said, he also painted, {boom for real}. He looked at me like I was a simpleton then led me around the room. He introduced me to each of the students and showed me what they were doing. I felt embarrassed looking on their work. They were all more talented than I will ever be.
One of the students looked right at me when I entered the room. I saw her pupil’s dilate. She was old and looked regal. She had silver hair and big saggy breasts, and I mean BIG saggy breasts. She was wearing a tight thin pale yellow see-through dress. It looked like she was carrying two watermelons. She did not wear a bra. I saw her nipples erect when she saw me. I had to pass her as the teacher lead me around the room to see the other students work. She opened her mouth and made a small hissing sound as I neared her. I poked out my tongue then looked down and saw she was wearing sandals and that her calves were hairy. I’d bet good money that she hadn’t trimmed her pubes in years.
She wants me to apologise but I won’t. I am nothing but nice to her. I’ve noticed that her moods are triggered by what she experiences when she is not around me. That’s why I won’t. Small, trivial matters become a reason for her to hate me. Her rage comes from what she experiences during her day and cannot control. I am the easy target. If she is ever mad at me when we are on the streets she will purposely flirt and try to grab men’s attention. I only ever paid her back once when a cute blonde woman started flirting with me as my woman had stopped and flirted with her man. They stopped and talked as we went up the street together. I looked back and saw her face changed when she saw me doing the same thing as her. She got so mad that she stopped flirting. She ran up behind the blonde shouldering her in the back. I turned and saw the man she had been flirting with was just as surprised as me. Look, she screamed and pointed at me, see look what you made me do! I went and bent down and picked the blonde off the ground as she started beating me with one opened hand and one closed fist. I cowered as she rained blows on me. The blonde mouthed, I’m sorry at me as she wearily stood and backed away from us. I mouthed back, I’m sorry too.
I went back outside. I was not interested in painting what they were. The artists were copying from photos they had next to their easels. I want to paint what nobody has ever seen. I looked down onto the street and then looked back inside. The lady with big breasts came charging out the door scanning both ways of the street. She smiled when she saw me. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes, walked up, lit and started talking. She shook one loose of the packet towards me. I took it and said thanks. I could smell them on you, she said. I smiled and accepted the lighter as she handed it to me. Come around the back, she said, it’s less noisy than on the street and we can talk. I followed her as she took a right turn. She sort of half-skipped away from me and took another turn out of my sight. I drew on the cigarette. As I turned the second right I saw she had pulled her pants down. I was right, she hadn’t trimmed her pubes in years. I told her to take off her skirt and she did. Her breasts looked exceptional.
She pulled my pants down with one quick tug. Why aren’t you hard yet, she asked? Because I’m not warmed up, I replied. She said, don’t you find me attractive? No, I said, not really. Then why did you follow me here, she questioned. I don’t know, I said, it seemed inevitable. We both studied each other silently. Are we going to fuck or what, she asked? A bus changed gear as it went up the hill and woke me up. I shouldn’t, I said, I’m married with three kids. Don’t you want four, she asked through a smile? Do you still get your periods, I asked? She took a long drag on her cigarette then stubbed then stubbed it on my right ball. Oooowww. My penis started to slowly harden as I brushed off the cinders. Aahhh , she said, I’ve been with men like you before as she reached out and slapped me across the face. My penis stood up. Yeah, she seethed through her clenched teeth; I know what your type likes. She reached out and grabbed my right nipple and twisted it. Yeaowh, I screamed, don’t. I don’t like that! I know your type, she said as she slapped me across the face with her other hand. Stop it, I commanded! Stop means go and no means yes, she said as her eyes narrowed.
In the classroom I found that the teacher wanted everybody to be friends. He kept showing me everybody’s work and introducing me. They were all happy to meet me but I wondered what it had to do with art? Some of the students were good and some were bad. That is a perfect form for a still life. When I join the class I will try and sit at the back. I studied once before in an adult education class and I found that the loudest people got the most sway simply because they were the loudest. My nerves shuddered as I imagined having smoko with all these old ladies. I already knew Nipples would be the loudest and in charge. When she came back into the room she glared at me as she barged past. Her left hand opened on the collision. I looked down and saw a fistful of black and silver pubes on my lap. They all had the little white gland on the end. She had pulled them out by the root.
I left the class early to get away from her. She wanted to fuck me and it was making her silly. I can tell heat. My head hung as I left the building. I kept asking myself questions that I didn’t know the answer to. I had to find the way back. I got home and opened the door. She was singing. She was happy. She likes it when I go away and come back to her. I smiled as I went up and cupped her behind for a kiss. Do you think you’ll go back, she asked before she kissed my left cheek? She looked at my face and asked if I was hot. Pardon, I asked? Your cheeks are all red. I nodded and said, yes. I didn’t tell her about my confusion or the woman or the fact that this is it. She wouldn’t understand. There is something to be left behind. {Art and Sex} I don’t know, I replied. I can’t figure out if I enjoyed it or not
Andrew Stuart Buchanan
I AM AFRAID
It’s the second or third time that they’ve approached. I feel like I must have a bullseye painted on me. Being disabled attracts weirdos. They always have something to say. Today they started talking about their woman. They told me that she was driving him crazy. He started talking about how illogical she was. He told me that she didn’t want solutions; she only wanted to fight. He told me that she was always piling shit on him. That’s what she’s there for, I said. I don’t think he heard me. He just said the same thing over and over again. He kept repeating what he had already said. She only wants to fight. I said it again, that’s what she’s there for. You’ve already said that, he said. I thought to myself, no, you’re the one who’s already said it. He told me that she was always complaining that he was at work. Well quit your job, I said. He said, I can’t, I’m the breadwinner. He continued talking about her and his problems. I told him, women are insane; don’t look to your woman for logic. He nodded then repeated everything he had already said. I was bored so told him I had to go. He started repeating his problems again. I sighed but he didn’t hear me. He didn’t know logic either so I turned my wheelchair on him mid-sentence and started pushing away
I prefer Bondi in the winter. I like it when there’s nobody around. A strange woman walked up to me halfway down Bondi road. She asked me if I remembered her? I said, no. We were together one night, she said. Are you sure you can’t remember me? She had a nice big bum and long sexy legs. Her boobs were huge and at my eye level. I looked at her face. She was beautiful and I was angry that I couldn’t remember. We were together and you couldn’t get it up, she said. She smiled smugly. I was glad I couldn’t remember. I asked her if she was a slut? The smile drained from her face as she said no. I took my sunglasses off and told her that I can’t get it up for a woman that’s too wanton. I couldn’t remember her. She was European. She had obviously wanted to fuck for an Australian child. She has a child now with an Australian man so she can stay here. I had a girlfriend once I could never fuck. She would try desperately to jam my flaccid penis inside her. I remember her because I wrote a story about it. Every time we were together she was all over me. She wanted me too much. I could not gain an erection from the feeling it gave me. It felt like she was raping me. She died young. I think she knew she was going to die young. That’s why she wanted it
I love her too much. I loved her at first sight. She walked up to me smiling. She had a face and a mind. She liked me, I could tell. I don’t like me but I don’t think she could tell. It took weeks of seeing her everyday before I had the courage to ask her out. She said, no she couldn’t, but suggested a later date. She had to finish. Once I found out the disparity I considered myself an idiot. I’ve only had my heart broken once before and that was by a younger woman. I do not hold a grudge but I will never forget. A young woman can break a man’s heart easily. A young woman is not emotionally responsible enough to see my love. I am now an old man too damaged for young love and too emotionally damaged to play that game. I have already lost. I love her too much. I couldn’t see a reason why she would like me. I love her but didn’t like that she liked me. Strange thoughts play through my mind. I cannot stop them. I hate myself
Going down a hill in a wheelchair is easy. I was halfway down Bondi Rd when a Spanish man walked in front of me. He had a big black moustache. His sweaty head shined like amber. I could see up his nose. Long black hairs advanced down and met his moustache. He leaned down and asked if I believed in God. I don’t know, I said, I think I’m agnostic. What, he said, is that like Anglican? No, I said, that means that I don’t know if God exists, nobody knows. If He is real I believe in Him but if He’s not I don’t, it doesn’t really matter anyway, nothing really matters. The day man thought of a higher power was the dawn of civilisation. That was along time ago. People see Science as a God now. They look for divinity in acquisition. Everyone has forgotten Him. God now stands at the back of the line with the fat kids. There is no time for prayer after deadline. Only a few can still see Him but they use it like a gift. They wear their love for Him like a shield. It is a code for them to live by. I told him I believed in some sort of God, just not his. And besides, I said, I thought there was no room for God in public. You know, don’t talk about religion or politics. Tell that to the priest, he said
I continued on to the gym. Just let me get there. Just let me get to the gym without having to talk to anyone else. I saw her before she saw me. She was walking towards me talking to a friend. She was in her late thirties. She was alone, just like me. She looked lonely, just like me. Faded white lines ran down her cheeks. The scars from the man who broke her heart were all over her body. When she turned and saw me she straightened slightly. I had to smile. She smiled a shy smile back and her right arm withdrew past her purse. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Her walk turned to a half-swagger as she looked out the bottom of her eyes at me. Her left leg peeled out. She looked so beautiful. I saw her neck click as she inhaled my pheromones as I wheeled my chair past. I turned around and saw her backside. She was magnificent. She turned back to look at me. I smiled at her again. She smiled for a second but kept walking
I wasn’t able to stop blushing and smiling from the fact that I had smiled at her and she had smiled at me. I thought of the electricity in our smiles until I remembered I had done nothing with it. I cannot remember myself. I only remember young love. I turned around. There was another beautiful woman standing right in front of me. Just let me get to the gym. She had a bookmark in her hand. She handed it to me. She stood silently and smiled as I read it. It said that they had a cure for everything. I looked up at her and saw an idiot’s glazed smile. She had small tits but a big bum, God’s greatest curse. Maybe that’s why she believed. She told me to come along with her. She said that they had made a wheelchair-bound man walk. I looked at her and saw one of His idiot’s. Everyone’s crazy for something
My father once told me I should be glad that people want to talk to me. I am too polite. I don’t know how to ignore. There’s a madman with lips bigger than Mick Jagger’s. He wears army pants and a tight bright-orange fluorescent t-shirt. I shook his hand the first time he came up and introduced himself. Someone walking past me nodded at him and told me he had AIDS. I have not shaken his hand since. I have not shaken it because it would feel dirty. I am ignorant and I am a coward. He just stood and slurred words. He said words I could not hear until it was comfortable enough to tell him I had to get to the gym. The gloves I wear have handled the friction of hanging on. I finally got down there. I told the lifeguard at the pool that I couldn’t go for a swim ‘cause I had a cold. That’s not like you, he said. I just feel crook, I said. A strange man walked past and said, no you’re just getting old. I am getting old so I smiled. The smile lasted too long. I thought of my situation. I didn’t think of it for long. My situation is bad
The mind has taken over the body. The body sits angry and fuming. I am ignorant and I am a coward. I love her but I’m afraid of young love
Andrew Stuart Buchanan
IT WOULDN’T BE WRONG
I know a female who told me that men shouldn’t cry. She told me it is wrong for a man to cry. She is wrong. Men need to cry too. I haven’t cried in ages. I need to cry. I need a good cry but am unable to. My world is upside down and inside out. It has been for some time. My body is my enemy and the corporation keeps fucking with me. The corporation does not use protection and I have picked up all their viruses and diseases. Their viruses and diseases are born of neglect and pain. This is not the only reason I need to cry. I haven’t had a relationship in years. They say the culmination is like riding a bike. What bike? My balance is so bad I would probably fall off anyway. I now look at females and they look at me like I’m from a different planet. I wish it were as simple as that. If I was from a different planet I could excuse my situation. It would make sense to me if I had two heads or five arms. I could say that I understand why I haven’t had sex for as long as I can remember. I have so much sperm and pent up energy inside of me I could blow at any given moment. I am not angry. I am indifferent. If I were angry I would climb a bell-tower with a twenty-two and pick off civilians. I am only angry with myself so if I climbed a bell-tower it would only be to finish myself. I have thought about suicide. I’ve thought about suicide many times. At the beginning of my rehabilitation it was the only reason to get up in the morning. The only thing I could look forward to was thinking of my death. I left my family and my partner left me. 2-1=1. Some people have told me it is better to be by alone than with the wrong person. I can only laugh when I am told this The people who have told me that are either in a relationship or are happy being alone. I am not happy and I am alone. If I could cry I would fill a lake with my tears. If I could cry it wouldn’t be wrong.
Andrew Stuart Buchanan
jbjb(p(p
THE SECOND COMING IS NOT WHAT I WANTED TO SEE
I got a thing in my mailbox the other day telling me the second coming is drawing near. It was a small piece of white paper folded in two and was coloured green white orange and yellow. It was folded so that a drawing of the back of a Man on a horse was on the cover. The Man was wearing a golden pointed crown. The Man was holding a golden sword up in front of His face. He had pants with King of Kings and Lord of Lords written down the leg (I wear Adidas). The horse was white and had a white mane. The Man on the horse was wearing a cape like Skeletor. The cape was rippling. The Man was hovering in space looking down on the earth (with clouds above the atmosphere) brandishing a golden sword. He was somewhere between the earth and the moon’s orbit. The horse had its neck back and front left leg bent up at the knee. It looked like the horse was about to rear. The Man was looking down on planet Earth and you could tell by the way He was holding His sword that He was preparing to charge. Inside it told me the second coming of Jesus to the earth is called the RAPTURE.
The piece of paper told me that if I didn’t repent I would be damned. It told me that putrefying painful sores, seas of dead men’s blood, rivers filled with blood and the stench of dying aquatic life plaguing man and beast are coming. It told me the sun would scorch the flesh of blasphemous men (I am sunburned today) and then disappear into the blackness of full darkness as men gnaw their tongues (it’s been years since E’s) for pain. It told me the Euphrates River is going to dry up (is that in Sydney?) as great earthquakes pound the remnant of earth’s inhabitants. It went on to tell me that God will say it is done as his wrath is satisfied. This piece of paper told me that if I miss the RAPTURE that I would be a deluded non-believer and burn up in Hell for all eternity. I read it and thought wow. If you don’t believe like I believe you’re going to burn in Hell. Thanks a lot. Is that what its come to, scaring people into religion? Did anyone else get this in the mail or was it just me? Anyway, that’s all beside the point. I’ve already said sorry.
Everyone picks they’re own ideals. It’s a means to an end. It becomes a reason when people can’t see a point to life. I can hardly see a point to life but I can’t believe like they do. I sat in my wheelchair trying to imagine what sort of people are trying to recruit followers to a vengeful God. Do they look like you and I or do they have it written all over their face? They’re normally easy to spot. They hang around train stations smiling inanely. It’s come down to pamphlets in the letterbox trying to recruit. I had an encounter with a beautiful woman in Bondi one day. She looked like a princess from a Golden Book. She was smiling (too much for a stranger) at me as she approached. She stopped in front of my wheelchair to tell me that she was part of a congregation that ran a healing clinic at a church nearby. She told me that I should come along and that they would cure me (I already knew better, there is no cure for what I’ve got, but couldn’t help wondering if I went along and joined up would I be able to fuck her?). I asked her what religion she was? She said Christian. I asked what denomination? She said Christian again. Yeah, but what denomination are you, I asked again? She looked at me like I’d just caught her kissing her good-looking cousin (you know guilty yet pleased) as she told me; I guess you could call it evangelical (I knew I wouldn’t be able to fuck her). For those of you who don’t know what that means, that means she goes to a church where people collapse. You’ve probably seen them before on television with their eyes closed and their arms waving above their heads in the air trying to catch God. You’ve probably seen on TV a preacher touching someone on the forehead and then the person collapsing. The person collapsing from the supposed power of God the preacher carries with them. I told someone that I was thinking of going along. Really, they asked? Yeah I said; it would make great fodder for a short story. They asked if I would be taking the piss out of the congregation. Of course, I said. The person frowned and told me that it would anger God if I did that. I haven’t gone along yet so I still don’t yet know how He’ll feel about it.
I had a bad day yesterday. It got me thinking about God. I had a day where I questioned the reason for my existence. I woke up feeling that way. I felt like I didn’t belong. I prepared then went through my morning bowel routine. It told me I wasn’t normal. I lay in bed and injected three enemas via a plastic syringe and length of catheter into my rectum. I lay in bed awhile then transferred over a blue sheet on to my wheel commode-chair and pushed it into the bathroom. I pushed the chair over the toilet, removed the blue sheet from under my bum, and waited to hear a plop. I sat for five minutes wishing that I were allowed to smoke on the toilet (oh Heaven, anyone remember that?) until I heard two plops. I put on a glove and stuck one finger in my bum to pull any stragglers out. I was clean inside so I took the glove off, chucked it in the bin and pushed the commode chair next to the shower. I transferred on to the shower commode char. I reached up and got the showerhead off the wall and turned the water on. I asked Him as I sat on my chair washing the tears that had started to drop down my face. I turned the water on to my chest and said give me a sign. I reached down to get a squeeze of soap. Just give me a sign that there’s a point to all this. I told Him that I understood why He hadn’t given me a sexy neighbour to spy on through my bedroom window but couldn’t understand why I was still alive. I told Him, just give me one sign. I need one sign. I turned the hot water up. It burned me well. I felt my stomach cramp. It suddenly smelled bad in the shower. I looked down to find I’d shit all over the floor. The shit was dark brown, almost black (too much seasoned seaweed) and was made up of three long skinny turds. I hadn’t even felt it. I asked Him to show me a sign (I meant give me a woman you Bastard) and He showed me by making me shit on the floor. I wanted Him to show me but that’s not what I wanted to see. I had to pick the wet turds of the shower floor. As I bent down to start picking them up another plopped out.
That’s how my day started. I washed myself then transferred out the shower. I put on a glove reached down and picked the poohs off the bottom of the shower. I flushed them down the loo. I wheeled back to the shower and sprayed it with disinfectant. I dried my face armpits balls and bum got dressed and pushed my way to Icebergs. It’s straight down Bondi rd to get there (sounds like fun aye? downhill in a wheelchair, it’s no fun pushing back up the hill in your wheelchair). I’ve worn holes in four pairs of gloves from the friction of hanging on to the wheels getting there. I love that place. It’s beautiful and the people there are nice to me. I did some standing and then swum two laps in the pool. It was on my way back from the gym I met her. She was with a friend and they both smiled at me. She introduced herself (I promptly forgot her name) and told me that she always saw me pushing myself ‘round and that I was an inspiration. I said, don’t say that. I didn’t tell her why. An inspiration? Fuck! Didn’t she know? I stared into her eyes. She really didn’t know. Everything I do is based on necessity. She told me that she always saw me pushing my wheelchair up the hill. An inspiration? Fuck it. I don’t want a woman to be impressed by my actions. I want a woman to want me.
Just last week it happened again. There was another woman who I’d met at the Icebergs before. I saw at the start of the week in the middle of the morning halfway down Bondi rd. She stopped and wanted to talk. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to go to the gym. She had dirty uncombed hair and came at me from a deep and low tone about spirituality. She went on and on about the forces. She told me I was an inspiration several times in the conversation. I wanted to get to the gym so eventually put my hand out to shake and go when she told me she was sincere and had meant everything she’d just told me. She put her hand out. I shook it. I looked at her hands and saw dirt under her fingernails. Her voice changed as she said that it wasn’t the booze talking. I smiled and asked why? Did she have a few drinks the night before? No, she said, I’ve had a few drinks this morning. The smile dropped from my face. All the things she’d said were tarnished knowing she drank by herself in the morning. As I pushed my wheelchair away from her I understood and acknowledged that we are all broken. It’s just that you can see how I’m broken. I wanted Him to show me but that’s not what I wanted to see.
I met a twit as I approached Knotts Ave. He stopped walking and stood in front of my wheelchair to block my way and yelled at me, I WISH I HAD ONE OF THOSE! One of WHAT, I asked? A WHEELCHAIR, he yelled back at me. The look on his face said he was impressed. I don’t think I frowned but I remember my face dropping thinking what an idiot… he wished he had a wheelchair. He obviously had no idea of the ramifications of most wheelchair users. Now know that I’m not talking about old dears being pushed by their grandchildren. I’m talking about damage to the spinal cord. I’m talking about loss of bodily functions. He’s as bad as the twit who said he was jealous of me not having a job. I’ve pretty much had some sort of a job since I was eleven years old and I hate the fact that I’m not healthy enough to work. Twit obviously hadn’t thought properly about not having a job. No money no honey. I remember reading something where a man said that, no woman actively sought out a dishwasher. What chance do you think a man in a wheelchair without a job has?
Most people will go their entire lives without ever seeing a psychologist. A large percentage of those people could do with seeing a psychologist. I woke in hospital to have lost the use of my legs and have a balding …fat man (I’m a customer come on play nice) with a clipboard asking me questions. I may be dumb but I’m not an idiot. There was never a good question asked. Even with a brain injury I could see he painted by numbers. The GOLIATH has made me see two more within the last week. One was a garden-variety psychologist and one clinical. My life was made harder for me and it hasn’t stopped. I woke out of my coma to find them slowly pulling the rug out from under me. I’ve got a good DAVID fighting for me but all he’s got is a big bag of stones (he’s a good shot though). I sit (literally) and wait while the Avocado tries to smear some guacamole on GOLIATH’S sandal (doesn’t God wear sandals too? no wait, that’s Jesus… God probably wears high heels or gumboots). The GOLIATH had arranged the appointments. Seeing the clinical shrink made me feel dumb. She first read out a list of twenty-five words. She’d told me to remember as many words as I could from the list and repeat them to her. She spoke in a monotone (I would give you some examples but I’ve forgotten). I remember initially remembering the first four words. My ears were hearing the sequence she was saying but my mind was trying to remember the first four words (what where they again?). She repeated the same test three times. I got progressively worse before she told me she would read out words and I would have to tell her if they were on the list. I couldn’t remember. I had even forgotten the first four. The whole experience made me feel dumber. Now I know I wanted Him to show me but that’s not what I wanted to see.
Tomorrow’s got to be a better day. It can’t be much worse than yesterday. I keep getting up hoping my view’s going to improve. It has to… it better. People keep telling me that there’s a reason I’m still alive. I’m not so sure about that. To have then to have not is something else. It’s character building if nothing. Apparently He only helps those who help themselves. Well I have helped myself but now I need a little help (I need somebody, Help, not just anybody).
Some day He’s going to show me what I want to see.
PS. I hope I haven’t offended Him by writing this and I don’t want people to think I’m seeking pity or am angry. I don’t think I have offended Him. I’ve been smiling writing this. He’s probably got a good sense of humour. He must have. After all He sent his Boy down to us and we hammered him to two pieces of wood with three nails
Andrew Stuart Buchanan
NOTES FROM THE EDGE 