Tag: Books

“Damn The kooks That Threw the books”. (A Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Zombies have arisen swiftly,

The ones that fear the page,

The ones that are tremble-weary of the wisened word.

These walking dead have taken over the halls of power,

With minds of pewter, & clothes of gold.

Like schoolchildren they’ve scribbled empty platitudes on all the walls,

The walls that border the town squares .

By now the charletans have triumphed through all the worlds arches.

They’ve never tried Shakespeare,

& think ‘King Lear’ was a guy who got meetoo’d.

They think Dickens was probably a dick (for he liked books so),

& Chaucer simply a sorcerer (For he loved words didn’t he).

They think Keats was a brand of jeans (For they hate Poets),

& Byron they’ve confused for a beach (They love Jetskis after all).

They think Milton is only a dud town (They’ll burn for that),

& Samuel Johnson just some retired English football player (For Ignoramus Pro Sportmen are their Gods).

Though it is true they have been known to use a book,

It is only to usually to throw or perhaps to stand upon,

To see something over a fence that they are not meant to see –

Probably someone getting changed with drapes open.

These are our new leaders – the ‘new anti-book-barbarians’ – the N.A.B.B.’s

Unlike the Nazi’s –

They have no need physically burn the books – they’re to lazy for that.

They simply ignored the books metaphysical raison-de-tre entirely.

If anyone said “Look at that book” they’d look squarely at it & say….’where???’

For the N.A.B.B’s have always loved the ‘boldface lie’ – call it a hobby of theirs.

And so of course this couldn’t end well – the Earth & all its skies did soon fall.

The sound was like a table full of wine glasses suddenly tipped over by a drunk reveler.

For we let the barbarians – the N.A.B.B’s – through our too flimsy psychic fortifications,

Thinking for too long that they were not an enemy,

Because they had sneakily swindly-snuck up from the deepths – our depths.

They ‘faked it’ but we let them ‘make it’.

And so naturally, everything had to become ‘completely fake’.

And when the end did finally come,

With the falling & crashing of the skies above,

The few hiding-readers-still-alive did but shiver-shed a single ‘encoldened’ tear –

For with their foresight, they saw it all coming but did nothing –

They had never left their rooms.

For their tall overflowing bookcases, comfy chairs, & violin & piano filled spaces,

Were all far too enchanting to unshackle themselves from.

Doubly so, during those last few anarchic years.

And this legend does tell of the Earth’s last ever Reader.

& you ask ‘what dying words were ‘mumurously’ said?’:

“Damn the kooks that threw the books –

The barbarians at our door.

These blames I take for my own self –

For their unworded parrys I chose to ignore”.

To All The ‘Wild Bill’s’ Of The World (A Poem/Prose)

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By Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

You are talking to someone you know.

Another person is nearby.

They try to introduce you this ‘new third party’ – let’s call him ‘Wild Bill’.

I’ll come back to Wild Bill in a second.

Now a partially half-well-adjusted-adult generally does this as an introduce-ee:

They muster at least a quarter smile, aim it towards those they are introduced to, & and emit at least a passably pseudo-cheery hello.

But No No No! – this is not always so!

In small towns throughout the cosmos, namely Earth – this skill is often missed.

Yes, our smalltown Wild Bill – instead of acting like a partially well-adjusted adult who knows how to say hello –

Decides he would rather look like he is at a funeral,

Looking at you cadaverously, without an once of good humour,

As frozen as an iceberg, while his tiny mind ticks over.

Wild Bill is trying to figure out whether you are worth talking to,

He’s hoping he might have known you for a minimum thirty years, but has temporarily forgotten.

Because Wild Bill knows that dealing with an entirely new person from scratch,

The ‘blank page’, if you will –

Is a bridge too far for him – in fact it is far far far far far too far for him,

& thats still putting it lightly.

For his fragile quadruple bubble wrapped ego can’t handle it.

For hidden deep in the recesses of his psyche – he knows if he does this – his cover will be blown.

He’d rather treat the ‘blank pages’ of the world poorly & so come across like a total hick,

Than risk actually being seen.

It is simply the price Wild Bill is more than willing to pay –

For he can stay comfortably unseen, invisible, without ever experiencing any stressful growth pangs,

& who cares what some total stranger thinks of me anyway, he tells himself.

Of course, I’m not hating on the Wild Bills of the world –

As it is always a fool’s errand,

To judge those who know not why they do as they do.

Especially as we are all like Wild Bill in some ways, or at least some stage in our lives.

But in saying that,

It’s bloody annoying when it happens to you all the same.

Unfortunately there is no polite antidote to it, other than to steadfastly not get sucked into their abyss.

This of course takes great practice.

One day I will rudely confront Wild Bill like this:

“Bill, Bill, Wild Bill – oh when will you learn to say hello properly for god’s sake?”

To which Wild Bill will probably reply stony faced:

“Not in this lifetime stranger”.

And then if I’m really lucky – a mutual disarming chuckle & will break out across these dusty windswept savannahs –

Finally allowing me & ‘The Wild Bills’ of this Earth to see eye to eye.

It’s a rose-tinted romantic hope, & as such, I won’t hold my breath.

So, all that is left to think to yourself about Wild Bill, is this:

Wild Bill – may one day your wounded soul find restful peace, with all your undue fears long gone.

You are now a-hoppin’-skippin’ & a- jumpin’ through the clouds with unremittent gay abandonment,

Greeting every otherworldly evanescent stranger you meet along the way like a manically happy labrador,

Who has just now seen his long-term owner & best friend, whom he had mistakenly thought was long dead.

God speed to you Wild Bill.

“London 2038 – The London, The P.M., & The P.A. Episode 2” (A story – Work in. Prog)

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(episode 2 – to read episode 1 click here https://antonmartinsmith.com/2025/06/12/london-2038-the-london-the-mayor-the-p-a-a-story-work-in-prog/

To say that Harrison Arnold Twotimer had a lot of personal problems was like saying that the universe had ‘quite a lot’ of stars. Harrison was the oldest of three siblings, & as such had followed the tradition of so many firstborns who are overly motivated to plunge themselves into leadership roles. Harrison’s first power grab was at Eton where his diplomat absentee father had managed to arrange him to attend a full year earlier than usual at age 12. Harrison knew what his father was up too – & like the millions of other aging ex ‘boarding school syndrome sufferers’ – he never quite forgave his parents, & his father in particular, for abandoning him so easily & swiftly like that.

Harrison had shown his true political & social climbing asperations colors early in life. This would naturally be noticed firstly in his schooldays. At Eton Harrison had put his name forward on the first day of school to be the ‘Class PM’ against a far more talented boy named Paul Pritch-Simmons III, who would later become a billionaire computer-chip making industrialist. The election was held after each boy made a spirited ten-minute stump speech to his fellow Etonians.

Where Paul had talked of the need for England to be more forthright as a nation again, & return to its manufacturing base, Harrison had argued that the price of sweets had trebled in the last three years, that & this was a travesty. Where Paul had astutely said that ‘under-unemployment in the Etonian region was a ‘festering problem which may result in less professionals in a decade’s time’, Harrison had said incorrectly that ‘Eton must do more to reverse the decline in mathematics scores – when grades had indeed improved significantly due to the targeted hiring more seasoned international STEM (Science, Tech, Engineering, Mathematics) subject teachers. Where Master Pritch-Simmons III had mentioned the need to look after the handful of homeless people who had been seen wandering around the outskirts of Eton, Harrison had retorted furiously “why should we spend our hard-earned fathers’ dollars on those stinky lazy sods”. Harrison was so unpopular with his classmates that the last minute of his speech had to be scuttled due to the boys throwing their pencils at Harrison, while they bellowed repeatedly “Out with Harrison up with Pritch-Simons”.

On the face of it from the view of his voter classmates, Harrison was in this election as they say ‘Toast’. Given Harrison’s poor rambling & speech, full of flagrant inaccuracies relative to his more polished opponent in Master Pritch-Simmons III, that’s what they would expect – but then they didn’t know of the ‘Yellowpoke situation’ yet.

The old maxim of ‘it doesn’t matter who casts the votes – all that matters is who counts them’ later became one that the future adult Harrisons mentioned in passing, & for good reason. This ‘first ever political election’ deserved to be Harrisons first ignoble defeat to a far more able adversary – but this was where Harrison’s at worst abhorrent sneakiness, or at best his Machiavellian guile came in.

Harrison as PM nowadays, uses ‘The bribe’ liberally wherever he goes & can easily get away with it. He learnt the value of a ‘well placed bribe’ from that from that first election as a sticky fingered grimacing fat little schoolboy.

Before he had came to school that first election day, he had been wise enough to steal a fifty pound note from a tin his mother had put all her countless “loose cash”. Had had the presence of mind in the prior week to his first day at school to call the Etonian secretary & asked “who would be counting the “Class PM” votes next week miss, as I plan to put my hat into the ring”. He had found out duly that it would be the schoolteacher that would collate, count & return the verdict. Armed with this information as soon as Harrison had entered his classroom with all his fellow classmates, he had made a bee line for the teacher – Mr Yellowpoke. his conversation went like this

“Ah Mr Yellowpoke – Harrison Arnold Twotimer here”. He thrust out his half sticky lolly-fingers to shake Mr Yellowpoke’s hand. With Harrison being particular short foe his age & Mr Yellowpoke a towering six-foot four, he had to practically hold his hand-shake hand vertical – it looked quite ridiculous. My Yellowpoke played along & agreed to shake his hand, & did so firmly, but also partly haltingly.

“I’m Mr Yellowpoke, nice to meet you lad – I believe your father Edward is a diplomat currently in Brussels?”

Harrison replied without pause.

“Yes father is currently in Brussels, I believe right now he is actually fittingly trying to increase our exports of Brussel sprouts to the EU!”

Mr Yellowpoke laughed, well it was more of a chortle. Harrison had many flaws as a child, & even more as an adult – but not having a sense of humor was not one of them. He continued his plan with Mr Yellopoke.

“Now Mr Yellowpoke, I won’t hold you up – I just wanted to say that I’m glad to be here in your classroom, & at Eton – & I advise I will be putting my name forward for Class PM”. He said all this with a natural sense confidence, this was his other main feather in his cap – unwarranted, unshakable, confidence. Mr Yellowpoke re-plied dryly, as his patience was now wearing thin.

“Oh well that will happen this afternoon – I’ll write you name down then – you’ll need to make a speech at the end of the day to your classmates – good luck & now you better take a seat with the rest of the class – we have a lot to go over this morning”.

“Oh yes of course thankyou Mr Yellowpoke, but there’s one more thing” Harrison sounding like a teacher himself.

“Oh yes – what’s that Twotimer?”

“Well my father just wanted to pass on this $50 dollar note – he said to me that the teachers & their partners were known to have a ‘first week party’ & he wanted to shout you & your wife a drink”. Harrison had the 50 pound note folded in a small square in his hand – which he proffered up to Mr Yellowpoke under the guise of a “goodbye handshake” – something he’d seen done on old American films & was copying. Mr Yellowpoke suddenly blanched, this made him nervous, which then made him make the unwise decision to accept Harrison’s handshake & the 50 pound bribe. Mr Yellowpoke spoke twice as quickly as usual, wanting the conversation over.

“Good luck this afternoon Harrison – make your speech a good one & I’ll count the votes afterwards – say hello to your father or me”.

“Yes sir Mr Yellowpoke – and thanks a lot” A giant triumphant ear-to-ear child’s grin filled his face – a look he would never grow out of. He still had the exact same ‘child’s big grin look’ decades later, even now as the real PM of England.

Later with both master Harrison’s & Master Paul’s speeches over, Mr Yellowpoke came out from the teachers back room to the class again. With the small wooden ballot box still locked & held firmly between his lowered two hands he slowly announced the fateful words

“The winner of Class PM – by a landslide I might add – is Harrison Arnold Twotimer”

Master Pritch-Simmons III’s looked visibly ill, as did his fellow broadsided & ashen faced classmates. they sat like they’d been turned into stone, not saying a word. Until of course Mr Yellowpoke urged them to clap for Harrison, which they did in miserable fashion, with Master Pritch-Simmons aborting the clap simply maintaining his silent head down vigil.

Becoming “Eton Class PM” was Harrison’s first of many ‘shonky’ political victories to come. He sat beaming like a lighthouse, caring not a jot for the claw claps & muted jeers of the voters. Incidentally this ‘seemingly meaningless’ stolen schoolboys election wouldn’t be the first run in with Pritch-Simmons either. ‘The Billionaire & the PM’ as the tabloids now billed the adversaries as became sworn enemies after that first vote & are still at war as we speak – with the only slightly more honorable Pritch-Simmons’s victories still few & far between.

And I know you want to know – what of Mr Yellowpoke? He left teaching at age 55 when he was outed by a student kissing the 21-year old student teacher Ms Artichoke on the schoolgrounds. Being a very married man, with his wife working at the school office it was best for all concerned. After the divorce his wife initiated, he finally entered a profession he was better suited to – real estate sales. (Now lets get back to the main characters).

Now it goes without saying that Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer – but It’s worth saying it again:

Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer. . .

(End of Episode 2…..be here again soon for Episode 3……)

This article is owned by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ).

If you are a person or a small non-profit please read or reproduce freely.

Commercial Users or NGO’s: If you want to purchase for reprint of this work for a commercial project to reach a wider audience – then contact me via martinantonsmith@gmail.com to gain written legal permission.

Ep 1. Crashlines Incorporated – The story of Yassap I. Y’tae (A Serialised Story)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

Hi my name is Cal, short for Calvin. Last name Coolix. Yes my parents gave me a cartoon name – Cal Coolix but it’s been good to me – no one forgets my name. In business & in life that’s a plus. But I’m not here to tell you about me. There’s someone far more interesting than me that’s shown up on my radar.

Yassap I. Y’tae….is a very underrated international businessman…at least I think that’s what he is right now. Not exactly a mystery of a man, not an enigma – but certainly perhaps best described as a riddle-that’s-only-half-written. You have not heard of him yet – no one has.

Mark my works he will change the world. He is not on the internet! He is biding his time, choosing his words carefully, doing his due diligence, crossing his t’s & doting his I’s. Like a cornered Tiger, he is waiting to pounce. Well that’s what I’d tell you if I had to make a pitch about Yassap I. Y’tae right now. You must always sound confidant – even if you have zero intel.

There is slight static on the line. He informs me he will be launching soon. I pressed him what “soon” meant – he chose not to elaborate only saying in his true mysterious fashion: “If I gave you a specific date when the best date possible to launch has not yet materialized, I will only let both of us down – but I will contact you soon, that is my promise”. I said “ok but can I ask…” before I could finish I heard the engaged sound. I felt foolish, as I should have left it at “ok”. It was not my first or last “schoolboy error” & I hung up the phone.

I was overdue for a Cappachino, perhaps that’s the reason I felt a little off my game on that call. “stop beating yourself up Cal, you just need coffee – that’s all it was”. I began my journey to the lobby cafe – short walk through my small rented workspace, I would enter the lift, & go down three floors.

In the lift was Anne, she was also renting some space just like me – but for her own project. We exchanged pleasantries, but no more than that. For these were cold hearted hard business times, & both Anne & I knew it. All anyone cared about right now was business survival.

With so many ventures going to the wall these eighteen months since the crash, just surviving was almost like being a billionaire nowadays. Although my hunch was that Yassap I. Y’tae probably wasn’t in the same boat as me & Anne or anyone like us. I didn’t know anything about him other than his energy was all different. In my half century on this Earth, I’d learnt that what that old 20th Century physicist Nikolai Tesla said was right – energy, namely vibrational energy is everything.

The doors opened with a weird low pitch ‘ting’. As I heard my boots step on the hard polished concrete ground floor, all I could think of was getting caffeinated & figuring out who the hell was Yassap I. Y’tae??……..

(End of Episode 1. . . .the next will be coming soon!)

I have a new domain name for the site! (an update by me)

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Hello there all!

Well I finally bit the bullet – I shelled out $42 (NZ) for the basic upgrade to my WordPress site. I had delayed this for too long. I think self-sabotage was at least 50% to blame. I think you really need to watch out for the always pervasive “self-sabotage syndrome”. I think as a Kiwi or an Aussie it is too easy to do this – as we are programmed with that stupid “Tall Poppy Syndrome” – the need to keep your head down at all times, never daring to stick it above the pulpit – for fear of recrimination. So at least I did something to combat ‘the syndrome’ as I will perhaps refer to it as.

I have decided to call the site antonmartinsmith.com, this is a recombination of the former site – with Anton Martin Smith I decided to go with this for my ‘writers name’, just to separate the two worlds I live. 1. aspiring writer & two 2. Day jobber slash hopefully also an entrepreneur (Why do I see an old timey teacher scolding me for daring to dream?). I imagine if this separation between ‘dreamworld’ & ‘real life’ works successfully then next week an interaction like this might happen:

“Hey you there digging that ditch there down in the mud – did I see you write poems on the internet? – Your names Mr X Y isn’t it?”

“No Sir you must be mistaken – my name is Mr Y X – I’ve never written a word in me life! I likes dirt ya see! I come from a long line of dirt diggers & I ain’t changin’ for none!”

“Oh sorry – my mistake – I’ll employ you next week again then My Y X – just as well as I can’t have a dreamer digging’ my ditches! They’ll stay clogged!”

“No worries my fine laird”

This is why writers need ‘pen names’ or as the French word – ‘non de plumes’….it pays to separate your day-to-day life with the weird world of creativity.

So I hope the 50 odd subscribers like the change, I’ve already made the site look a little better. I guess now I need to look at deleting the “bad stuff” from the “good stuff”. I must be a hoarder – for I don’t like the idea of doing that. I’m afraid to let go. Perhaps I could just create a “B-side section” & rename every poem “B-side 045”, “B-side 046” etc etc. I’m sure this talk is from childhood trauma.

I’m sure that’s why we are all here (on WordPress sites probably) placking away, telling all of our repressed fears & neurosis, out loud but more subtly in the subtext that lies below our words. Otherwise, we’d just be like everyone else at the 9-5 soul destruction labs called ‘office jobs’.

So anyway, I won’t hang around too much. I’ll just hope you notice that I’ve been writing at a fair clip lately. The stuff I’m most proud of lately is my science-based essay (The one about Jungian Synchronicity) and my proto-Novella called “Trafficlight Dystopia” (have a look they are there in the last twenty odd posts).

Cheers to all, have a great night & week! (perhaps I should do these letters more often).

PS I’m currently reading Journey Into the Night by Celine – it’s good so far but there are a tonne of pages..it’s a marathon. I don’t know why Novel’s ever need to be so long (seems like a child-like thing to say, but my theory is that a Novel is just a Novella with unnecessary padding).

Lets all dig the dirt of words my friends.

But let us stay healthy in the widest sense of the word too (It’s very hard, nigh on impossible to avoid that zombifying blue light these days isn’t it?).

Anton Martin Smith

Special Post: Bananas Bananas….Jungian Synchronicity …And My Physics Thesis called ‘Synchronicity -Entanglement-Oneness’ (A Thought/Blog Post)

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If I ever go into the Supermarket & a staff member from ‘fresh-produce’ comes over to me randomly & says “Yes we have no bananas” ….I will take that as 100% proof we are living in a simulation. Either that or it’s just Jungian synchronicity – for I just wrote some prose mentioning bananas. It’s one or t’other brother!.

On that matter, while I was in Dunedin NZ a few weeks ago I spent some time in the 2nd hand bookstores (‘Hard To Find Books’ in Dowling St), I read the first 30 odd pages of Jungs Synchronicity. It was very interesting & he posited (well this is my take on what he posited) that there is a ‘a-causal field’ psychic related probably to the consciousness/sub-consciousness that emanates outwards & perhaps everywhere in what physicists like to call ‘non local fashion’. I think there is truth to this, as I have experienced this synchronicity myself.

Now Jung did say that co-incidence can be confused with Synchronicity, & you need to be careful. Real Synchronicity is of the kind he mentioned with his “Scarab beetle” example while he mentioned in the book. He had a customer on the couch who was talking of her dream, which involved a Scarab beetle (or some rare Beetle at least). Immediately upon saying this, a Beetle of that exact description flew in the window & landed on Jungs hand – he presented it to her & said “was it like this”. The Beetle in question was not known to be in the area & the season for Beetles was all wrong etc etc – so the chance coincidence was the cause was of such infinitesimal unlikeliness, that Jung believed that the psychic/creative force that he called ‘Synchronicity’ was the reason.

I myself had something similar happen. A couple of weeks ago I went to my usual day job which was doing soem gardening for an older man. unrelated to this around the same time I went on a saturday drive to a town nearby, where I went to a Salvation Army store & bought a secondhand book, a autobioraphy by Hulk Hogan . In the book he talked of going back to his old childhood house, digging in the back yard & findign one of his old ‘dinky’ car toys (in NZ we use the term ‘Dinky’ for the little toy cars kids have). Ok back to my garden job. When I went to my garden job, I had not yet got to the page where Hulk Hogan tells of digging up the little car toy from his childhood. While I was on the Garden job, I myself dug up an old ‘dinky’ car toy. Two days later I got to the part in the book where Hulk Hogan talks about digging up the car toy.

I believe this personal experience was indeed Synchronicity. Coincidence can be discounted, as the chances of me buying a book where someone talks of digging up a toy car, in the same few days where I do the same thing are infinitesimal. It was Synchronicity. I’ve had a few things like that happen. Jungian Synchronicity is real.

I bet you have experienced it to.

This kind of thing is amazing phenomena. Modern science is perhaps not so denouncing of ‘psychic fields’ as it used to be, but I would say only slightly so. Modern science still feels embarrassed about this kind of stuff – even though the Truth of quantum physics, (with all its non local effects & instantaneous fields & entanglements etc) which has been totally accepted, proved & used in our various electrical technologies. Science & Physics shame on you! Be more courageous! It ( that is a-causal Synchronicities like Jung described) is not weirdo stuff!

I have my own ideas about it all. Let me tell you my idea. Physics has its big bang theory. At the start of the big bang, everything that would constitute the later universe of today was all melded in together in something the size of a grapefruit, or perhaps even only a golf ball. Entropy theory tells us that this grapefruit (or golf ball) was almost perfectly ‘ordered’, & then it slowly became less ordered & more chaotic, differentiated – the less order allowed what we have in our daily universe – protons electrons gravity, electromagnetic waves etc etc. My theory is that at the start the universe was basically one amorphous thing, there was no real differentation (other than what was required by the Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle – which incidentily was the seed for the Universe to evolve). So atthis early stage, the Universe acted as one thing – you might call it a “pre-entangled singular state” – (but this is probably neccesarily an imperfect description).

My theory is that the universe could not ever possibly lose this oneness – dispite the appearences of our universe as it is (lots of seemingly different things, obeying different applicable laws of physics – Gravitation, Electrostatics, Nuclear etc etc). Synchronicity must happen, as the universe still has lingering effects of the totalised oneness at the beginning of the Universe. Physicist believe that the information content in the Universe cannot ever be lost – so this would marry up with the idea that Syncronicity is the (very real) informational echoe of that information about the oneness of the Universe that can’t be destroyed.

P.s. I should also state that Synchronicity is also an effect of the eternal oneness of the Universe in the way that we see everything in the universe being entangled with everthing else (Entanglement has been proved by Physics in terms of particles, & perhaps also very basic atoms but not for much larger objects like a Human) . I believe that Entanglement does apply to everything big & small in the Universe – particles, quarks, photons, bosons, Cats, Planets, Black Holes, Rocks, People, Clouds etc).

Synchronicity -Entanglement-Oneness these are all seemingly different phenomena of essentially the same thing.

Anyway that’s my theory – I hope you enjoyed it, & maybe you have an idea or twon on it all.

Now Goodnight from a very cold, very wintery, but beautifully starry night in Central Otago New Zealand

Martin A. Smith 14 Jun 2025

“She, The Red Shed, & Me” (Spoken Word/A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I had been ignoring things.

As my non-fitted sheet was falling off the bed far too easily,

& as it had been doing so for six months –

It was time to go to the Red Shed to get a ‘fitted sheet’.

But I was hungry , so I stopped to get a pie & a coffee for lunch first.

Outside the shop a beautiful young-ish woman walked by.

Of course I noticed her.

Fifteen years ago, I would have been actively plotting to meet her perhaps.

When I was younger, slimmer & could still be temporarily confused for a ‘success’.

On dating matters I was more courageous back then –

I had the raw instinct that hormones allow, & smartphones hadn’t had enough time-on-earth to ruin yet.

Now I’m a jaded 47-year-old, although I probably hide it well –

Due to physical work, having all my hair, & not being too fat or wrinkly.

But like all those who have been around the block – I am of course battle-scarred.

So she flittered past & I finished my pie & coffee.

I went to the Red Shed for a fitted sheet.

I’m looking through the packs, deciding on what pattern looks ok.

Then, there she is – the beautiful pie & coffee girl, doing the same thing as me.

I say ‘girl’ because I’d say she’s under thirty-two.

It was then a few emotions took over.

I felt scared.

Like I had to run away.

It was then I realised,

Just how much a big deal even the thought of dating is,

Let alone a relationship,

For a battle-scarred 47-year-old.

With those pangs of emotions hitting hard, I realised acutely & viscerally,

I was still nursing very old wounds from more than a decade ago.

I snatched the fitted sheet pack & disappeared off.

As I was walking to the checkout, I thought:

This is a very sad state of affairs –

I hadn’t until then realised quite how twice shy I really was.

Sometimes reality hits you square right between in the eyes,

And tells you your exact emotional status on the spot.

As I walked to my car, I felt partly ashamed, somewhat enlightened, and tinged with anger.

For I knew that to contibue to indulge those emotions would not bode well for my future heart.

For surely there must be some nasty ephemeral force that wants many of us to stay lonely for life.

It wants us to hunker down in fear & embrace it as a prime motivator, & worship as a guru.

It wants us to fall in love with it in true Stockholm Syndrome fashion.

At least I’ve been around the block enough to know that giving in to such evil is a waste.

Intellectually I know that – don’t we all?

I wonder if I’ll run into that beautiful woman again?

After all – I did forget to buy a pillow….

Perhaps she did too?

Oh there’s one thing I forgot to say.

Between high tailing it away from the fitted sheet rack to the cash register,

I looked at some bogan black jeans on a rack – for nowadays they are not just for bogans.

She walked past & we made eye contact.

I played it cool, & that prior emotion at the fitted sheet rack had dissipated nicely.

And now that I have long left the store & sit here writing in my messy studio,

I am thinking this:

Will I have the balls to say hello If I see her again?

Or will I succumb to being like all the others –

Like every jaded long term single forty plus-er? –

And so say not a peep & desperately avoid eye contact?

That is to allow myself to be typically Mid-Mid-21 Century Socially & Romantically Risk Adverse?

I’d like to think I can next time show some testicular fortitude at the, shall we say red shed pillow aisle.

One thing I do know is this: It can feel nice but It’s never wise to follow the crowd.

Fifteen years ago, I would have felt more confidant this situation.

But then again – I was also a total fool fifteen years ago.

This dear audience, was my ode to being single at 40 plus.

And so, of it all – I dare not talk of solutions.

I’m mostly just happy to just know what’s going on –

For I didn’t have a clue back then, fifteen years ago, when I was thirty-two.

As a battle hardened (or perhaps battle defeated) youngish-old-coot,

I know that to be true.

I guess I better go back to the Red Shed to buy that pillow I forgot about.

After all, I’ll need it anyway.

Alert! My Latest Short Story – “Trafficlight Dystopia” is provisionally finished.

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Hello faithful readers! I am your leader! That last sentence was a joke! Read the whole thing at the link below. I was very happy to complete this work, as it is my first short story for a while (a year? eighteen months? nine months? I am not sure as time morphs ridiculously these days!).

“Trafficlight Dystopia” (A Short Story)

This short story feels like it is actually half a short story & half a novella. . . they don’t have a word for that, as I think that still falls under the rubric of a ‘short story’. . .I don’t even know how many words it is, but my instinct says perhaps 7000 words, or at least 6000….maybe 8000 who knows!

Ok I just word counted – it is 8500 words! This after a couple of edits will prob trim down (if I want it to stay a short story) or gain words (If I turn it into a novella). I will worry about this later – the smartest thing is to do both versions, I guess.

As I have just finished this new work, I feel that it might be the best thing I’ve written….but of course every writer, be they good, hack, or crap does say this – but it does feel like it is a more meaningful one. Perhaps it is because this story, I would say, is also semi-autobiographical. That’s all I’m saying on the matter!

Anyway I hope someone out there enjoys it.

Outside the short story, I am just back from a half writers weekend/half family visit to Dunedin. It was good, and I had a party night at the Dunedin Social Club with the very quality host ‘English Joe’ (The Punk Band lookalike) Bartender. Those cheap beers went down the throat like a fluffy reverse endoscope (ok bad analogy).

I also caught up with family, which was nice. You have to forgive your parents in this world; this is what I have learnt. There might be exceptions, but they don’t apply in my case. Sons & Fathers have too much beef against each other….that should change.

I also visited the great little bookshop called “hard to find books” on Dowling Street. It’s a gem & I only bought 5 books this time – I limited myself.

I am now back in my small Central Otago town. I’ve got back to my bathroom renovation project – it’s an odyssey in itself! It’s getting cold. I need to make more cash in day jobs. Same old story unfortunately! The three cats (one is mine, the other two just turn up each day) are glad I am back, they have been demanding food. The little bastards! It’s good to be back in this good writing environment (there’s not much to do you other than write you see).

So you are all updated….I hope you read my short story & I hope it’s not too hard going. I plan to write a few more short stories, as I have a few ideas brewing from my Dunedin trip.

See you soon, happy reading & take care.

p.s. there were no paid promotions here by the way. I haven’t hit the bigtime yet for that!

Martin Anton Smith 16 April 2025 10:01 PM (nice & exact)

“Trafficlight Dystopia” (A Short Story)

“PS…I Will Most Likely Dissapoint You” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

I am an Arty type,

I’ve drawn, painted, played music, & written stuff.

I self-sabotage – but that’s just another (unpublished) story.

But weirdly for an Arty type,

I look after my health & fitness.

I also now work with my hands.

So I’m in pretty good shape.

I could almost pass for a personal trainer.

This is a problem.

For for others, i.e. normies – I confuse them.

They feel they are not getting what they are buying.

They want a fellow unthinking normie jock.

But in me they get an overthinker;

A non-fiction & literature type book reader;

A night owl-late-rising “slacker”;

A “conspiracy theorist”;

A guy who can’t ever keep his room clean long;

Someone who can’t be easily brainwashed;

Someone who can think properly;

Someone who knows that Slavery never ended –

Only expanded to include everyone,

The fact hidden via ubiquitous airwave mantras;

Someone who knows that Brainwashing is the real economic currency on Earth;

So given all the above – most soon grow to hate me.

They wanted their real bona fide Jock,

Their unthinking buff personal trainer,

Their ardent careerist who thinks they’ll soon ‘get there’,

If only they’d work more hours in the office.

Someone who’d agree with their goon-scripted banalities & frivolities.

Someone who’d agree with ‘The Programming’.

Well I’m sorry that I falsely advertised myself visually.

But to nick the soon-to-be-forgotten cliche line –

From the finally soon-to-be-forgotten Bob Dylan,

That ain’t me babe,

No No No,

That ain’t me babe,

That ain’t me your looking for.

(Note: The ‘that aint me babe’ cliche works only if you also sing the line)

I know I’m breaking the artistic rules by being Arty AND Fit,

But there’s a good reason for it.

I liked Science & Maths before I liked Art.

You see, being fit simply makes sense,

If you have to still live in the physical world.

We are far too obsessed with our petty in-groups,

Where to be admitted into supposed ‘rebellion’,

You have to wear the right uniform.

And so I ask of you:

Why would a person who can truly act & think freely,

Ever agree to such a monstrosity?

So I will continue to look like a jock,

Despite the mass disappointment it engenders.

If only I’d make better art.

But again,

That’s just another (unpublished) story.

Note: I have added a new ending to my short story “A writer’s weekend”

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Hi there all,

this is just a friendly note to let you know my short story “a writers weekend” has been significantly altered – I have added a new ending. This has hopefully made the story more interesting & complex. Here is the link – go check it out! I guess this means the length is around 3000 words now or around 15 mins of reading time. Enjoy!


https://martinantonsmithart.wordpress.com/2024/12/11/a-writers-weekend/

Yours

Martin A.Smith