Tag: life

“Circa 1984-87, The Ballad Of NZ” ( A Prose Poem/Spoken Word)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Politicians were too young,

Or too stupid,

Or too lacking in real life experience,

Or too Professorial,

Or too academic,

Or too Lawyerly,

Or in truth – they were all of the above.

High on bad Neoliberal theory.

The so called “Washington Consensus”.

The Corporate Raider Lobby got to them,

In true ‘Wolf in sheep’s clothing’ fashion.

They were sold a story of “growing up & becoming worldly”.

For the Anglo-American Wolf did cry:

“NZ’s is just a silly backwater – don’t you want to be suave, like us?”.

“You must sell all those great ‘bad’ assets at a fire-sale to us”

“You must work more for less, so we can charge more for less”

“You must be a part of our single-blind experiment & guess who the blind one is dummy!”

“Now be good little slaves now stupid-o’s & do exactly as we say!”

“You have reached your destiny – as our fully propagandised automoton living breathing data points”

“And don’t worry if your society becomes a living hellscape – we promise to buy you a coke”

“Oh, wait did I say that out loud? Please forget I said that O Backward-o NZ 1980’s Politicians”

The Dopey Politicians took it all in hook, line, & ‘stinker’.

The Corporate Raiders took over,

Took over the minds of our oh so feeble Politicians.

And while we “The People” sank further into the mire,

They all said to us:

“Oh look at that beautiful mire you’re stuck in – I reckon some daisies are about to sprout”

“Oh, look you’re sinking further, don’t worry breath through this plastic drink straw”

“Oh no! You’re not breathing – oh well at least you can’t ever lodge a protest vote”

This is the ballad of the giant swindle that shoulda-neva-‘appened.

Yes! This was the shit-show called “NZ Circa 1984-1987”.

Yes! – We now have no bananas!

Well – none at affordable prices anyway.

Which is pretty strange – given we’ve been in a Banana Republic,

For 41 consecutive mire-filled years.

Oh well! I guess this is our lot in life.

For we went from hard-truth-seeking-knowing-soldier-farmer-labourer-types,

To weak willed bender-over-ers & take-it-up-the-butt-ers,

In only Thirty-Nine short years.

Yup we the people folded to those Anglo-American-Politico-Demons to easily.

Alas we were so open minded, that we not only let our brains fall out,

But we let them roll under the ocean & all the way across the Tasman,

Stopping only when they landed in Keating et al’s far-lap.

This was Circa 1984-1987, The Ballad of NZ.

And PS – we never got the Coke.

Musings about our Kiwi (& Aussies) lives. (A Blog post/update)

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Today I was wondering about Kiwis (Sorry you Aussies are relegated to the P.S. section) – I was wondering why we are so reclusive. I came up with this line of thinking:

Why do we NZ’ers not know that our ultra-reclusiveness is something we are deeply hamstrung by? Does this mean we’re stupid as well? Or is it arrogance? Perhaps it is simply a form of entrenched genetic PTSD stemming from our ‘Let’s escape our shitty UK lives’ ancestry. yes – that’s gotta be it!

So this kind of makes me feel better – we are probably all suffering from a heavily entrenched & now genetic level PTSD. It’s not because we are stupid, or arrogant at all. And besides, we are natural ‘Mr Fixits’ – you can’t be stupid & know how to fix everything – so case closed.

So while I feel happy about this – this is still a worry. Becasue while ultra-reclusiveness may help us ‘tinker away happily fixing things in sheds’, it is bad for our mental health to be so insular. This is under the thesis ‘ a problem shared is a problem halved’ thesis. We don’t share our problems – especially males – so our mental problems are relatively doubled compared to the (perhaps only mythical & not actually real) ‘happy problem sharing society’.

Yes we try to get better on this – but I’m not sure we can force ourselves to be better. I think that will only help us perhaps ten to twenty percent. To change 50% we have to somehow change who we are. I don’t know much – but I’m sure that won’t come from talk alone. So the answer must be this:

We need to find a new project to totally enliven us – but what the hell would that be?

I will end here – becasue I don’t have the answer to this problem. Hopefully (to use an overused term) it ‘sparks debate’ & some genius will save us all from our ‘hideaway & tinker syndrome’. But the worry of that course of action we often look for a saviour in all the wrong places. Just look at 20th Century History. in the hope of getting better, we better no get worse.

Good luck to us & all others like us (Eastern Europe?)!

P.s. the Aussies surely have the same ‘Genetic level PTSD’ problem – but they are ultra competitive lot, & can pick on each other rabidly – if that’s a ‘solution’ to their entrenched cultural PTSD then could the solution be worse than the disease? Or am I just dreamin’?.

P.P.S The Aussies are certainly making more money than us – but are they happier? I’m not sure that the truly are. After all – remember your grandparents dictum of it’s not what you earn, it’s what you save….& prices on their side of the ditch are roughly on a par with us (& everywhere else in the western world).

P.P.P.S At least we kiwi’s when stressed can always blindly walk into our back yards that are also giant beautiful nature parks. we defnitely have this over our Aussie cousins as an ‘anti-PTSD pill’.

Cheers Anton Martin Smith

email me at antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

“My so-called PTSD Life?” (A Poem)

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By Anton martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

Do I have PTSD?

Is the question I ask of myself daily.

And If you’re reading this – I bet you do too.

Did I reach a point at 35 when the until-now-buried, seeds-of stress-all bloomed?

Before that mid-thirties limit, my youth could smother it all,

Like some cyborg-ed cold-hearted futuristic bounty hunter.

But then at that critical year in life’s age,

I must had been once again pushed another infinitesimal millimetre,

But this time, time & space had run out.

Now I was found myself finally pushed right up to & teetering over the precipice,

Of that cliff that was designed for me, & people just like me, long, long ago.

Teetering, thereby when the next trauma hit – (likely disguised a pretty human female),

It would send me careering downwards to ‘bottom-cliffs-ville’ with no parachute, & no recourse.

Then when you hit the ground, youth has suddenly gone forever, & the world has changed.

When you look up from the splat-point, you now may as well be seventy.

All the good things that came to you so easily have now evaporated.

But as the years post impact rolled along this “PTSD” has given you wisdom.

And you realise it’s cut that ‘fake-hard-but-easy’ old world away from you,

As a butcher cuts off a line of fat from a steak, & then whacks it, you’ve been made much better .

Ahhh ‘PTSD’ & AGE – heavens secret gift for your aged soul.

And in truth you probably don’t even have “PTSD” – merely some cheaply made imitation.

But each night you’ll raise a glass to the comfort of it all just the same.

Just like the two billion of others just like you,

Who are also convinced they are uniquely sad.

And we all unwittingly raise a glass nightly & in unison to each other,

As we sit in from of our computer screens,

Forever mourning the sudden death of our own past lives.

“Life Is A Catch-22 Problem” (A Prose Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The problem with being an intellectual, be it faux or otherwise,

Is that you can’t but help be trapped into negative thinking.

This is because ‘intellectuals’ want to understand ‘The World’,

Or should I say Need to understand The World –

And,

If you haven’t already noticed,

The world always but always, has a lot more problems than solutions.

This is why all in all, having ‘brains’ is far more of a curse than a blessing.

Yes – ‘The Garden of Eden’ orientation is correct:

Ignorance is (for all us distant dystopians) unfortunately – bliss.

Yes – ignorance of the unnecessary is natures ‘go to strategy’.

So – should we should ‘act dumb coz that’s natures leaning?’ – I hear you ask?

Well, that’s a tricky one – as ‘Nature’ is also often a beast in itself –

It will happily sacrifice the few for the good of the many –

With no tears shed.

Our indulgence in the unnecessary is why, by 2025, the only ‘true thing’ happening here on Earth is:

THE FABLED ‘CATCH 22’ Scenario – summed up with this dictum –

“You’re damned if you do & you’re damned if you don’t”

Now I could tell you the real solution to this – & forgive the vulgarity – this very “poopy sandwich” –

But then again, my latest money scamming psychiatrist has diagnosed me as ‘anally retentive’* –

And the prior souless shrink before that one also diagnosed me as ‘a narcissist’ –

And the one before that as a ‘compulsive liar’.

So I will respect their judgement –

So I’m not going to contradict those fine-living parasitic assholes, & tell you the answer to the aforementioned,

‘Life is a Catch 22 problem’.

But I will tell you what my suddenly retiring fourth-last-dodgy-money-grubbing-psychiatrist told me in my & his & my last session:

“You’re on your own buddy”**

With this casual undiagnosticly inclined in-passing phrase, he was inadvertently the only shrink ever who had ever told the truth, in the history of psychiatry.

And now my friends this prose must end unsatisfactorily –

But luckily, as always the only one who suffers is the reader/listener –

I the writer will scoot by the seat of my pants as always, & end up reaching for a well chilled beer from the fridge.

& Amen to that!

*This topic of anal retentiveness makes my mind wander – I wonder if it’s acceptable for a plumber to speculate on a customer’s bowel motions?

**This line should be said in a weird American accent.

P.s. I apologise for this bastardry, so badly disguised as a poem. All those cranks I’ve been seeing must be rubbing off on me. But I guess I should take that as a compliment.

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!)

“Toast Your Inner Void” (Prose)

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by anton martin smith by antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

I have an inner void.

It’s there.

But that’s not the interesting thing.

The interesting thing is this question:

Is the void normal, or is it a pathology.

I used to think it was depression –

But then when older & wiser, I realised this wasn’t so.

Was it the void that all ‘children of divorce’ carry their whole lives?

Perhaps the void is the child of the ‘child of divorces torment’ itself.

Perhaps the void is some generalised genetic trauma.

Of being a bedraggled ‘colonial sendoff’ out of England in the 19th century to New Zealand.

Perhaps it’s a lack of love, now so ubiquitous & long lived –

That I’ve forgotten every mammal – including myself needs it.

Perhaps the void helps me,

Perhaps it’s there to make me think.

Perhaps if I forced myself to not think about the void,

I wouldn’t be writing about it now.

The truth is that the void becomes your colleague –

Because it’s always there, it’s predictable – there’s a maligned but real comfort.

You don’t know what it would even be like to be without the void.

They say the everyman lives a life of quiet desperation.

Yet I’m sure my ‘the void‘ is more special than that.

My void writes poems, while their voids write better CV’s –

It can’t be the same thing as everyone elses void.

Please lord let my void be unique, one of a kind, a gem, a unicorn.

Make my misery mine, I do not want to share.

Some times all a man or woman has is their misery –

Or the delusion that’s it’s becasue of their personalised little grief story.

Maybe to be human you have a built in the void as per factory settings.

To deny our void-truth we try to reprogram ourselves with fancy life-setting.

But no matter how we try, the ‘return to factory setings’ button is always pushed.

Perhaps it is child-like folly to think I, or anyone, can beat the void.

For no one can deny their destiny & be better off for it.

Let us all raise a glass to the mysterious the void – be she a pervasively permanent beast,

Or he a spectre-like figment of our depleted imaginations.

I mean really – given we know nothing at all – what else is there to do?

To the void,

Our hang-around friend, our arch-enemy,

Our source of inspiration & exasperation,

We know you’re not going anywhere soon,

We all think you’ve been given far too bad of a rap lately,

So sit down & have a quiet drink with us won’t you?

I’ll make a table for the four of us –

Me, myself, I & you – the void.

if its anything like the last time,

It’ll be a real knees-up.

Oh..and one more thing…..

My dear the void, if you do decide to come – whatever you do….

….don’t tell anyone.

“Caviar At The Work Table” (Prose/A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The World Waiter will serve you shit sandwiches.

Then tell you it’s caviar.

When you scream:

“Can’t you see that’s shit between bread???”

The World Waiter will say:

“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you...Workers….

He bends over backwards for you…you.. ungratefuls……

Now eat your effing caviar you…you…WORKER YOU!”

And then if you say:

“And what will you do if I refuse to eat this shit sandwich World Waiter sir?”

They will say:

“We will make sure you cannot work yourself to death…er I mean are employed in our work camps….er I mean Work tables…

..We will conspire amongst ourselves to ban you from slavery..er Work.. & you will die in a ditch!…

You’ll get no shit sandwhiches…I mean you’ll get no delicious caviar… you..you…Worker swine! – you’ll starve fool!!!”.

You think for a minute – soaking it all in.

You know those workers who refused to toe the line.

Those ones under the bridges.

Those starving ones.

Those ones wearing threadbare rags.

Those ones all The Workers like you are afraid to one day become.

Those ones who couldn’t play anymore or were kicked off the sick game on offer .

Those ones who saw the shit sandwhiches as shit sandwhiches.

You make a decision & bite down hard on the shit sandwhich, its contents oozing down you chin.

You look up merrily & say to the impatient & now fuming World Waiter:

“My word this caviar is delightful!.. This is the best shit sandwhich.. er I mean caviar, I’ve ever tasted…so juicy! Give my regards to the glorious & bent over chef”.

The World Waiter now placated half smiles & slowly dissapears to the next Worker Table.

You think to yourself.

“I swear this shit sandwhich is starting to taste like caviar”.

You suddenly feel ashamed, for you think you know what’s happening.

Your cowardly thoughts somehow soothe your confortably re-battered soul.

The thought goes on:

“Oh well, at least I’ll be retiring from this Work Table in fifteen years.

It’s not that long – I’ve been here twice that time anyway!…

…and then I’ll be able to have all this shit tasting caviar without even having to sit at a Work Table”.

As you feel less fearful that you’ll end up like “The Others”, you hear the The World Waiter from accross the room.

“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you..Workers….”.

As you finish your last bite, you feel a twinge on cameraderie wash over you.

“Ah..so this is what it feels like to be truly alive, among colleagues, well fed, with a roof over my head…and sitting at this highly polished Worker Table….Long life the glorious World Waiter & The bent-over Chef!….I am so lucky! Lucky-Lucky-Lucky!”

But then you find yourself in the midst of a sudden involuntary “GULP”.

You know somethings up – but for the life of you,

You can’t quite figure out what it is.

“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.

“Corporatitus” ( A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The longer you have divorced yourself from the banal “Corporate World” the more you recognise it as a disease.

If you are good you can literally see it emanating off those who still suffer from…

Let’s call it “Corporatitus”.

Although we shouldn’t hate these people.

We should feel sorry for them as they are merely victims of the ubiquitous focused brainwashing.

We should quietly, compassionately, & creatively help to bring them to the light.

So that one day in the hopefully-near-distant-future,

They will realise they have become poorly paid supporting actors,

In a very bad movie,

That they didn’t write.

Then they at least have a chance,

To slip out the back studio door & once again feel real-life sunlight on their face.