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I have not been feeling it since Ange passed. The HYM ( hot young Mum ) once asked me who my favourite Woman was, I was quick for once and said, it would not be fair to all of the others to single out one but the truth was it was always Ange, she taught me about the clitoris. The way we broke up was horrible but I always kept a place in my heart for her. That was the start of my sorrow.

Then my Father passed, between GIO not helping me and iCare not conceding that Wheelchair accessible accomodation is their priority my Father’s ashes are still waiting for me in New Zealand. To think that I used to complain about GIO when they handled my claim fully. At least GIO saw that I am now severely disabled from an accident, iCare does not see me as a human being let alone an insured one. They will not help pay for wheelchair accomodation despite the fact that if I was not confined to a wheelchair I could stay with my Mum or any number of friends for free

And then Jarrod passed. My grief has been immeasurable, I didn’t realise it at the time but he was the best friend I have ever had. While nobody close to me could understand the constant pain I am in Jarrod was the only one that treated me the same. I often prayed for death before Jarrod came back into my life but now I just pray for an end to this Workers Compensation nightmare. I have been very lonely since my support network has gone and have been questioning my relevancy since the only care and love I have gotten has gone. Jarrod and my Dad were the only ones that constantly complimented me on how well I was doing and how far I have come.

So yes I have gone through all of the stages of loss but am stuck on guilt. I feel guilty for relying on Dad and Jarrod too much. That is why there hasn’t been much output. I have been too sad

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

INSIDE IT

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INSIDE IT

 

 

I didn’t tell her to make her upset. I told her because she has become very dear to me. We love each other. I feel comfortable enough to tell her the good things and all the bad. I told her I had a drink. I didn’t tell her I that I got drunk. Thank fuck I didn’t tell her how drunk I got. I heard her choke back a tear. Oh Andrew, she said, a man with a brain injury as severe as you’ve had should not be drinking. I am in total agreement with the statement, well not total agreement. When I got drunk I didn’t even think

The dichotomy, the division, has merged together. The separate has joined in. In the middle there is a third new colour. I call it me. There is now a fourth eye that sees it all. Two eyes see and the third eye sees and the fourth watches them doing it. I don’t know what eye saw me reach for a beer but I am grateful. My finger untwists it and it kind of hurts but it hurts good. It’s like going to the gym and working on a body part. It only really hurts the next day. With each drink I forget who I should be and remember who I am. * told me to never drink by myself. In the end we are all alone so that statement is useless

I picked up a pen and started writing. I am a one-eyed Cantabrian. I only write what comes out of the pen. I need my pen. There was a knock on the door so I opened it. He stood with his lips pursed and his hands clutched together. He told me a lot of people don’t like reading what I write. I thought about it a minute then told him that I don’t care and slammed the door on him. My brow furrowed and I opened the door again and told him that I am positive about the negative. I grew up that way with Stan Freberg and John Cleese. I once wrote a story about fucking a dead prostitute, I mean fucking her once she was dead. I wrote that before I was disabled so I make no excuses. I don’t read happy books. I picked up a book of short stories by **. He is a genius but I still wanted him to get to the point. A writer ruins themselves for all others

Someone earlier had called and told me I should join a support group for people with disabilities. They thought that by talking about it, it would help put things into perspective. That would be no use for me. The only perspective I have is when the pen is in my hand. Talking to somebody who has lived through a similar experience helps some. When I write I help myself. Writing it down is the only sense I know. The older I get the less people I like. The phone rang so I picked it up. It was an old man who said, you oughtta do something different. I said, but… then I heard the phone click. He had hung up on me. The pen told me what happened after it happened

I broke the rule. I woke up and everything had changed. My love knows no love and I don’t know anything. I finally heard and answered her call twenty minutes late and told her where I was. She was so angry with me she told me to get my own way home. That is not the first time a woman has told me that. Every one hates at least one thing. To drink is bliss. I know it’s not the first time I’ve said it but when I drink I don’t think. I am just here. Most women hate what alcohol stands for. The hedgehog needs leaves to hide in but I have found a better way

I called her back to apologise but instead rung the wrong woman. The one I called was the worst. I mean the one I called was the worst to pick me up at the wrong time. The one who I forgot to call is the best woman. It’s a shame I was too drunk to call and tell her where I was. I wonder if she will ever come again? I doubt she will. I was so drunk I doubt she will come back at all. When I got through to her I was full of apologies. I must have apologised at least a dozen times. She was too mad to answer me. When men are drunk we could apologise forever and it wouldn’t make a difference. When a woman is mad she would not care. I’m sick and tired of being so sick and tired. It doesn’t feel good to need help. When she eventually talked to me she asked if I was drunk. I told her, and how

My computer is old. My version of Word for * is so old that it’s now six years out of date and no longer corrects grammatical mistakes but instead underlines them. This is a good thing. Spellcheck makes you lazy. I’m going to have to buy a new computer soon. I haven’t backed up any of my stories and the laptop keeps making these strange whirring sounds and then crashes. I lost a story recently. I wrote it and then pushed the wrong button and it was gone. It is now lost forever as is this. I sacrifice myself to myself and the word is the only proof

Alcohol is the devil but it’s a good excuse. I mean people can get away with just about anything if they blame it on the booze. Now I’m not talking about drink driving, I’m talking about sleeping with someone you shouldn’t have or throwing up in the birdbath. A woman wants the control and hates to see us out of it. It’s as much as a woman can take to see a drunken man. A woman hates a man because we have a penis and we are not constantly using it. Women hate men for not appreciating what we have. A drink is like a slap in a woman’s face. We are saying, we have it and we don’t care

She asked me if I could rub her feet for her as she stepped out of her shoes. I said of course and picked up the left one and started. She suddenly tried to remove her foot but I had it in my hands. She said stop, loudly! Stop what, I asked? She told me to let go of her foot. I held it in my hands and asked, why? Because, she said, it feels too good. I let go and gave it back to her. As her leg withdrew I smelt her sex (her vaginal juices). It must have felt really good. I had a swig from the bottle and it felt better. She put on her shoes and walked out the door

The day man first questioned his divinity was the dawn of civilisation. They claim it was when man first asked, how did I get here and what is it? I know how I got here and I don’t care what it is. I only want to know how to get away. I called a cab and it still wasn’t there forty minutes later. I called the company and they told me that they had to give it to another booking service. I hung up and stuck my arm out to hail a passing one. Nobody ever stops for a man in a wheelchair so I pushed up to parking sign and pulled myself up ‘til I stood. Two cabs pulled up beside me. I sat back down in my chair and pushed to the last cab. I don’t like a winner

The cabbie got out of his side and asked me what he could do? I transferred into the passenger seat and started dissembling my chair. If you could just bung it in the back, I asked? The driver got back in, looked at me, and asked where too? His breath smelt like he had just eaten a shit sandwich. His breath smelt so bad I threw up a little in my mouth. Once I had swallowed it I looked away from him and said, anywhere but here. I said again, anywhere but here, wound the window down and stuck my head out the window.

He started to drive away…

 

Andrew Stuart Buchanan