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

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I self-sabotage – but that’s just another (unpublished) story.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That’s just another (unpublished) story.

“The Alcoholic You Always Wanted To Be” (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith

He has a fat beer barrelled belly,

While your waist has only a few rings of crisp ‘n’ soda -flab.

He has a stench that attests to his 3 day & counting bender,

While you smell like a fresh daisy plucked from a mountain stream.

His voice is raspy & harsh from drunken whoops & hollers at the dive bar,

While your sclerotic office voice sounds like a hungry cat whining for its morning feeding.

The drunkard’s villa is an ode to haphazard-ry, with loosely connected pyramids of beer cans,

While your apartment looks like it’s been ‘staged’ by the real estate wonks.

I could go on & on, but let’s just cut to the summary:

In a weird kinda way you are jealous of this beer belly joe,

For he wears his woes out loud,

While you have concocted an elaborate cover story.

Come on!

Just plain admit it.

He’s the Alcoholic you always wanted to be,

But you were afraid,

For fear of what people might think.

One day you’ll have the courage to raise a glass to beer belied Joe,

Crumple the empty can in your hand,

it & throw it backwards over your head,

Till you hear it recoil & fall after hitting the overfilled bin & its aluminium foothills,

Then reach for another beer.

But you’re not ready yet.

You might never be ready to reach such illustrious, truth infused heights,

Of that generalised, fictionalised, traditionalised & ‘cantankerised’ patriot,

Who isn’t necessarily a man,

Whom I’ve simply called ‘Beer Belied Joe’.

And so because you’re not ready yet,

You reach meekly into your bathroom cupboard,

And quietly pop an anti-depressant.

But if & only if,

A day comes where you can throw the empty stress pill wrapper over your head,

And not care a jot where it lands,

Then we can talk.

And lastly – to the poetry critics in the future,

Yes I may simply have been talking to myself,

A conversation across decades,

Between my younger & older self.

For can a poet ever really exclude himself from his words?

“The Economy (Wants You Dead)” (An Idea)

by Martin Anton Smith

The Economy wants all your time,

All your energy,

All your attention.

While you’re its useful slave – it’ll run you ragged, daily.

It’ll make you sit & stare at a eye ruining-dopamine destroying – 25 fps-flickering-doom screen.

And they work you’re doing isn’t any more real,

Than the social construct that created it.

The “story” is that down the line something “of value” is produced.

That’s a lie – 90% of what’s produced is in reality a by-product.

The real product is Brainwashing – the product/service is in actuality, just the derivative of that.

“Holidays away for the plebs” – Brainwashing to squeeze the last remainder of cash from the slaves.

“House, Land + Mortgage package” – designed to trap you as a Modern Slave to “The Economy”.

“Brand Marketing” – hacks your biological need for social acceptance.

“Alcohol fueled weekends” – designed to make you forget last week but ensure you show up Monday.

The idea of a “Career” – this is to induce you to ditch your family & community in your home town.

The “Career” pretends to pay you more so to justify casting away responsibility to your community.

The “Career” or “Full time Job” in The Economy wants to half kill at least 75% of the World.

These 75% are the ones that agree to be Totalised Slaves in & to the system.

By deft chicanery “The Economy” kills all the slave’s energy & extinguishes any “life spark” they have.

This death dished by “The Economy” has these bedfellows

Feelings of hopelessness

Dispair

Loneliness

Isolation

Bad blood pressure

Heart disease

Liver disease

Anti depressant mania

I could list more of course but you get my drift.

So that 75% are the captured ones in the system, that are dying spiritually & energetically.

The other 25% are those that literally die on the streets.

They function as a constant warning to the other 75% – that things could even be worse if you copy them.

The 25% die on the Streets because they can’t reach ‘minimum employment standards’,

OR they it is because the refused to partake in the only system on offer – THE ECONOMY.

“The Economy” kills most these 25% withing 10 years of being on the streets.

“The Economy” is the inverse of Earth’s natural abundance.

“The Economy” creates Artificial scarcity of everything you want,

But creates an Artificial Surplus of The Worker Slave Pool:

This is called “Structural Unemployment” & is permanent by design.

It Keeps the Slaves wages & requests down to a minimum.

I could go on forever, but it suffices to summarise:

“The Economy” is what you should be afraid of,

Rally against,

See its Propaganda,

Use it against itself.

It wants the whole world either dead inside or dead on the streets.”

“The Economy” – the first Virtual Reality ever invented.

So stop being a sucker, a modern-day Slave to The Economy.

Why pledge your allegiance & life for a mirage?

Why be The Evil Machiavellians whipping boy?

There is no need my friend.

When you can know all this & still choose to smile through it all.

“The Economy” will notice you still have your soul intact.

Then that Beast will see you’re living well.

And that is, as they say, the best Revenge you can have.

“Henpecked” (A Poem)

By Martin Anton Smith

If you have to ask permission from another adult,

They are either your parent, babysitter, teacher, jailer, or boss.

There are no exceptions, it applies to everyone at all times.

Let this become your credo.

Your window to reality at all times of life –

your ability to see yourself.

After all, to be henpecked or rooster-pecked for that matter,

Is surely a date with death.

It’s not nice to watch from afar either.

“Release Day”. (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith

Kids in School want to leave School but can’t,

While teachers think they can’t leave School, so don’t.

They are both in Prison –

The Kids’ Prison is physical,

& the Teachers’ Prison is mental.

Both Prisons are equally real.

Kids & Teachers are both each other’s inmates,

Just marking time till release day comes.

Both parties think of ‘release day’ like this:

A future event that exists only as the proto-thought,

Of a nebulous & uncrystallised far-flung dystopian future.

Both prisoners at heart know they will be released.

But they still somehow don’t quite believe it.

This intrusive thought is the tip of the iceberg – peaking above the surface.

For hidden in the psyche lies a brutal Truth:

Modern life is just a giant ‘prisoner exchange scheme’.

When The Kid & The Teacher are ready,

Their brains will ‘release the files’.

And they will be released.

We the Kids & We the Teachers,

All of us.

And then with our brains at the ready,

& with our knowledge fully intact.

We will finally have come to know serenity.

For how could it be any other way?

For once man has arrived at the final & true destiny,

There is no want to argue.

“The Rough Sleeper & Me” (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith

So I walk down to the New Bridge rest area,

By the mighty Clutha River.

This is a monthly jaunt of mine, give or take.

I go to let loose some of those bastard excess stress molecules.

Sky, Water, Trees, Birdsong & Green – It does us all well.

Even the Grumpiest of assholes will feel better.

That’s right – I am in In small town New Zealand.

I walk down the rocky old alluvial river-track to the destination.

Bounded by willow trees & flowing water on one side & scrub on the other.

After five minutes I get to the rest area.

There he is!

The rough sleeper.

Middle aged.

Dreadlocked.

Face is beaten but not out.

There’s a dormant spark there.

I’m sure most people don’t see it.

They’ll judge immediately & avoid.

I’ve talked to him at least four times before.

He’s witty, & has a hearty laugh.

We are roughly the same generation – Gen X.

We talk of the great days of youth when bars were full & people had fun.

Sure it was all a lazy form of fun,

But at least people knew how to kick up heals back then.

We both agree that the ‘younguns these days’ take themselves way too seriously.

They don’t know how to have fun.

Not like our glorious generation did!

Poor sods those digital natives – born with a trashy computer strapped to their hands.

Nothing good can come of that.

We sound like old timers, which I guess we are becoming.

Call us ‘beginner old-timers’.

This time I have a six pack in hand,

I was going to crack open a few & take some home.

I give him a beer, he cracks it open like it’s the finest Bougelet wine, & so do I.

“There’s two more of those coming too” I say firmly & democratically.

He’s happy.

We spin some more yarns.

The conversation turns a little dark – a habit of mine.

We agree the ‘system’ we’re all born into, is a giant scam of evil genius.

Where the very many slaves think they’re free, or well off even.

You see, it’s all about expert brainwashing & reducing the slave’s options.

He’s like me – he can talk about depressing stuff like this,

And yet really enjoy it on an intellectual level.

It’s a weird happy form of misery –

but I’m probably gilding the lily –

But to be honest it’s probably a main of misery with a side of happiness.

Depressive types tend to be like this – & this includes all intellectuals.

But for now it suits me to pretend I can be happy talking about miserable subjects.

Maybe it’s just a lazy form of escapism.

But there must be some merit in it – Christ himself essentially said ‘The World sucks’.

Too soon, the beers are now all gone.

I say “Hey you hungry, I’ll shout you some fish & chips”?

Yeah “sounds great” he says.

So of we trudge to the chippy.

We arrive, we sit outside as is his choice.

I order two packs – one for him one for me.

Five fish bites & a scoop each – again, it’s democracy in action.

The food comes out & we tuck in.

A guy and his kid come out of the chip shop.

The rough sleeper engages these starngers like they’re old friends.

The dad is friendly & says his boy is autistic.

The boy sits down with us & the rough sleeper offers a chip to the boy.

That will turn out to be unprofitable.

I eat all my food quickly – I wolf it down.

Alas I grew up poor, that’s what people like me will do for life.

The rough sleeper eats very slowly & engages in a long-winded chat with the dad.

I wonder – maybe he grew up in a well off family?

Meanwhile the kid nonchalantly eats half of his chips & three of his alloted five fish bites.

I jump in & eat the fourth fish bite, for some reason this seems logical.

We can’t let the kid eat all of his food!

Oh well, at least my rough sleeper friend had a minor feed.

The kid & his dad leave.

“I hardly got any of those” says Rough Sleeper.

“Tell me about it – I had to eat one of your fish bites”

We laugh.

I get my car & drop him off to his hitchhike spot over the bridge.

he’s gotta go to Dunedin.

He tells me vaguely that somethings going down on Monday.

I don’t press him for details.

Before he gets out, I empty my car’s weighty change jar in his hand.

I’m guessing he would have got at least twenty-five bucks.

I’m thinking that’ll help him get a better feed at the next port.

I’m glad I helped me ol mate the rough sleeper.

I think to myself if he had five to ten people like me, he’d be totally on his feet in no time.

Yes – I’m feeling good that I helped him a little.

But then I would be lying if the two thoughts didn’t cross my mind.

‘Will I live to regret this’

AND

‘Is this guy really a rough sleeper – I wonder if he’s a Govt agent sent to spy on me’.

Then I realise.

New Zealand’s too useless to come up with a potential ‘great spy’ like rough sleeper.

I purged the thought.

I haven’t seen rough sleeper for three weeks now, I’ll be looking out for him.

After all – he’s a bloody great New Zealander!

Well, so far at least.

I really should have remembered his name.

After all, me & him have actually have a lot in common,

I’m probably just five to ten per cent luckier than him.

That’s the slim margin between rough sleeping & somewhat relative comfort.

The snobs of the world that screw their faces up at rough sleepers,

Who are mostly just time poor slaves – should recognise that brute fact.

But then again, he’s probably a lot happier than them anyway.

Their own lives is their own punishment.

After all –

As me & ‘rough sleeper’ contend

It’s all a mega-genius-evil-system – with its own internal logic…

But so long as you know it….

You can still eke out a genuine smile…

Even while under heavy fire from the enemy….

(or was it just the free beer?)

Till our next democratic tutorial ‘slash’ lecture ‘O Rough Sleeper’!

Down by the ‘new bridge’, with the ‘old bridge’s’ pillars looking on.

With the mighty Clutha River just passing though.

“Tim Teeter’s Trip To Rigel”. (A Poem)

By Martin Anton Smith.

Tim Teeter’s problems were not at all anodyne – they were explosive.

And yet all his attempts to fix them were largely sclerotic.

Yes, he would try to apply a poultice to his wounded life,

But he only ended up surfing the sulkiness laced silence.

Tim’s one man think tank came up only with blank faced recommendations.

So, he was stuck like a light beam spiralling a event horizon boundary.

Tim’s existence was a kind of ‘Peregrinations in Purgatory’.

Yes, his life was indeed Kafka-esque but unfortunately it was also Phillip K. Dick-esque like too.

Things were deteriorating So quickly,

His hopes of improving to become Asimov-esque – that is stable & predictable,

Were now like seeing a distant flicker of candlelight-

Held up by a very rich man standing on the surface Proxima -b in the Alpha Centuri system.

But then Tim had an idea to fix it all – sure it was a long shot but worth a try.

He looked over to a Betelgeuse like pile of coats in the corner of his room.

He took a run up & slid under the coats finding himself on the bottom of it.

He felt a sense of calm come over him – he was insulated from the real world.

Then he felt a hard-edged rub against his hand.

He found a book in one of the coat pockets.

He took it out & looked at the cover.

“A Trip to Rigel’s Via Orian’s Belt” by Tim Teeter”

The front image was of a giant blue star with an approaching spacecraft.

“Hey that guy has the same name as me”, Tim thought.

Tim turned to the back cover – and there it was.

A picture of himself, perhaps twenty years in the future as a sixty-year-old.

Tim’s fears instantly disappeared.

He knew he’d be ok & his problems were only temporary.

The joke was on him, for the real Tim Teeter of the book did look like him,

But definitely wasn’t him & definitely wasn’t from the future.

Tim’s life was destined to stay a even mix of Kafka & Phillip Dick esque.

But at least his anxiety was assuaged until tomorrow,

When he would read the publisher details page.

That night under the coats was Tim’s best night sleep ever.

Well, apart for a small nightmare early on –

Where Tim found himself as an unemployed & depressed praying mantis,

Staging an elaborate break in to his own flat,

& then reporting it to disinterested police officer.

Zombies, Mars & Us: To Transmogrify Or Die? (an essay)

By Martin Anton Smith

Forgive me for starting this essay so negatively – but trust me the sunshine hiding from behind the storm clouds is coming soon.

So many on the streets of life doesn’t see the connective tissue between their disapproval of success in others & his own inability to succeed. It is a garden variety type of soulless-ness. And the ‘success’ he sees might not be money, it might simply just be a ‘sense of contentment’ he feels emanating from that ‘poor’ someone in his cross-hairs. His ardent banality has so completely enveloped him, that he even envies those who are not actively as miserable as himself.

I could be accused of ‘projecting’ here – but don’t we all know petty jealousy is – we’ve all seen how easily it seems to blooms as do weeds in the height of summer.

[Of course, to rebutt myself I must say “Martin come on now, you fool! What you are talking about is the famed & cliched ‘tall poppy syndrome’ – this is a bad affliction in the antipodes, where you live – but don’t say that this happens everywhere! What about the USA? Don’t they admire success? What about that Texan saying “If you’re going to fail – fail big”. Yes I must agree – I am being a little harsh writing off most of the world carte blanch. Please remember this edit & use it as an asterisk for the remainder M.S Edited on Oct 2024]

This aforementioned reality – which I don’t really want to call ‘the tall poppy syndrome’ becasue I think it runs deeper than that – & is perhaps a decline that has been happening for an least 150 years in the West. However this drift downwards in our general behaviour & mood against genuine success. Note I put the term ‘genuine success’ in italics so as the reader knows I am talking of true success & not some typical 21st Century rampant speculator or online seminar scammer – I’m talking of those whose works clearly build up society to be better.

The hatred of those who have ‘genuine success’ or symbolise it via their some-kind-of, for lack of a better term – ‘leadership persona’. It equates to a ‘pandemic of the spirit’ & sadly it is not a rare thing at all – in fact it is the norm outside those oasis areas such as Texas & the parts of USA that aren’t heavily politically left leaning.

Why write about this? Is it depressing? – yes. Does it make for good philosophy? – Yes!. Is it a problem we need to solve? – Yes! And so now that I am sure I am holding the license of the ‘interesting philosophical topic’- let me delve further. Also I want to underline the ultimate aim is to shine a light on the phenomenon, so that we might be able to help ourselves embrace others who are genuine builders of a better situation here on Earth, so life isn’t so materially & psychologically hard on us all.

Quantitatively speaking, my rough guess is there has to be at least Six Billion people that have this acute pathological ailment where they bash the builders. This out of the Eight Billion in the world today. I assume the 75: 25 ratio has on the whole always been this way, at least on planet Earth (more on that later). Perhaps I am wrong on the ratio, but surely I am in the ballpark, plus or minus a handful of percentage points.

It’s worth noting here, that big technological progress has not made Earth’s population less difficult to deal with on a personal level – if anything it fuels discontent – especially when a jaguar late model passes someone driving a old bomb, which fights to stay on the roads legally & which the owner can barely afford to run. The rise of technology namely computers, has at best been a double sided sword. The most obvious case is the smartphone zombification, which has essentially bred apparently healthy people to become essentially autistic & unable to function socially & in line with the needs of the workplace.

So just to make sure we are oriented properly on what I’m talking about here let me again interject myself. The two main questions about why Human life here on Earth doesn’t really work very well, despite so many generations trying are: firstly how come it got like this?; Secondly, how do we fix it?

Usually, it’s the creatives out there that stumble on the questions and answers before the scientists ever do. This is why the liberal arts are useful to us. This is why they say science fiction becomes science fact. But it doesn’t have to be about science per se, many of the very good non-science fiction novels, & indeed storys in general, end up ringing true. The most persuasive of these storys become myths & legends. Of course this is the domain of the anthropologist examining human cultures from pre-antiquity to today.

Of course myths & legends are intertwined with prophesy – to attempt to see how the future plays out. Writing of ‘Prophesy’ is a risky thing for the serious writer simply because it’s the loaded term ‘Prophesy’, which carries flakey Nostradamus-like connotations as well as a ‘religious zealot’ connotation.

But there’s nothing wrong with ‘Prophesy’ if it was thought up with good philosophical & rational foundations – in fact it is called ‘forecasting’ in the often dry quantitative fields of economics, accounting & statistics. Much of the great fiction, namely but not exclusively the sci-fi genre, has ‘good prophesy’ as the reason in resonates with it’s consumers. Stanley Kubrick’s ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ with the Machiavellian Hal is an example of this regarding early fears of artificial intelligence gone wrong.

Another film related example, is when Writer-Director George A. Romero got things pretty much correct when he wrote & directed ‘The Dawn of the Dead’ – but as is standard in those movies, unlike real life, he had to make the walking dead more visually obvious. Contrastingly & frustratingly in real life you never can be quite sure if someone’s an, shall we say, an ‘ first class officer of the undead zombie battalian – until you’ve mistakenly befriended them a day, a week, a month ago. Or, you might just have the next cubicle to them in your office. That, I think you’ll agree is un-mistakenly just how this kind of phenomena works itself out – sometimes the person you thought was nice turned out to want walk around the city at midnight murdering people & eating their brains.

One things certain here: You can’t avoid the real-life demons of this world all your life, even if you cloister yourself with aplomb. I have noticed that the upper middle classes & newly monied types are great at trying to avoid & deny & escape the bad things in this world – even to the point of even lobbying Governments to criminalise real reports from the real world. Until these types slap an AI to Govt mainframe interface on every baby’s eyes at the instance of birth – which they will surely try to do – this is a exercise in futility.

Regarding ‘how to deal with Zombies once they out themselves’ – from that point you only have three choices: Lance the boil quickly; Become a prisoner of your own life; Or pigheadedly pretend your new walking undead friend is actually ‘perfectly ok’ or a ‘rough diamond’. I’m guessing those that walk with an air of contentment about them are also the ones that somehow knew all these things intuitively or via what the long-term wealthy call ‘good breeding’. Unlike the perhaps Six Billion that are the ‘walking dead’, they actually know the game they’re playing. In short, they’re using a good anti-zombie repellant. They’re using a good Zombie deamplifier.

But the rephrased version of the first over-arching question of “how did people become so Zombified?” is ‘how did he light became so mixed in with the darkness in the first place’?

In theory it should be ‘awesome’ living here on Earth as a human. We are atop of the food chain & can now easily sculp our environments with massive powerful diggers, lasers, engines & mainframes. Why would such a potential feast be sullied by always serving it on such a dirty plate? If you figure it out conclusively, please let me know. In fact, I’ll even settle for haphazard conjecture or two on the matter.

Conjecture: One thing’s for sure: whatever got us to that starting point of general zombie-ism was surely punishment for something else that happened, of which we have no memory remaining. Our sister planet of Mars is involved

This is the part of the essay where I become more conjectorial. Let’s talk not only of Zombies, but lets now talk of Mars. Mars of course since the robotic landers & Elon Musk is becoming more of a conservative real-world topic, vs say the 1950s comic books or even Jack Nicholson’s “Mars Attacks!” from 1996.

I mean Occams Razor suggests such the long standing punishment here on Earth is a system, not at all just a random bit of bad luck. I’ll have a crack at an answer, you might of heard similar here & there as it’s been said before – I think it has some merit. It involves Mars.

Perhaps originally we came from Mars first, not Earth. Perhaps a highly technologically accomplished generation of ours destroyed our original home planet of Mars in a nuclear war. Then a tiny remnant of that Martian population escaped via a spaceship to the other habitable planet: Earth. We escaped to that was one step closer to the sun – that we could also survive on, perhaps with some simple genetic manipulation by hybridisation with Earth’s pre-existing apes.

This brings me to conjecture two.

Conjecture two: Perhaps that remnant Martian population, now on Earth as ‘Humans’ for perhaps at least half a million years, has never been able to shake off the PTSD of the whole matter running through its veins. The sudden Mars escape has fueled a multi-generational PTSD curse that we can’t shake no matter what we do. This is why Human’s are so unsettled: As original Martians – we are not properly configured for Earth & never can be.

Perhaps this ‘Mars Escape thesis’ is actually just what the ancient religious scholars have refered to the many legends told surrounding ‘a great flood’ that so many of the worlds religeons mention in their texts. (To consume some of these ideas easily online, Paul Wallis has showcased his & his guests various ideas around this talked of this his Youtube channel ‘The 5th kind’. But naturally, be sure take at the least few very large grains of salt with you when watching such popular content)

This ‘We Escaped Mars Thesis’ is just one conjecture & of course there are so many others good or at least entertaining conjectures. All this is great fun to discuss, but lets be honest – it’s the not knowing that in the end really gets to you as a thinker. Well, it gets to me anyway – and when I look at all the works of the liberal arts, I’m sure I am not alone.

It’s also worth mentioning in passing that those who are firmly religious, might take the ‘we came from Mars first’ as an affront. But it all depends on how you view sacred texts – for if you believe the religious sacred texts used fictionalised stories & parables to represent the truth to it’s followers rather than the less palatable & understandable actual truth – then there would be no need to be ‘religiously upset’ so to speak.

And what about the pragmatic big question of ‘how do we fix ourselves from our generalised Zombie-dom’? Well as a postscript I’d say this: If indeed it all started with Mars – perhaps this will also be how it all ends, or at the very least, transmogrifies. It’s a very simple idea – the long sought out solution of an intractable problem will lie close to the genesis of the problem.

An analogy of this would be the engine of a popular model of car has had a problem for many years – let’s say it misfires erratically. Lets say the ‘boffins’ decided it best to look at every part in isolation to see what the problem is. They do this & can’t find the problem. Then a someone suggests to go back to the particular original engineering shed where the first prototype was made – they go back & open an old drawer. They find that one on the men when designing the core engine fixings had accidentilly used an imperial measurement by mistake, & the erratic misfiring was simply that unwittingly the car was an attempt to marry two incompatible systems together.

The point is that the ‘misfiring car’ problem was only solved when one bright spark considered it worthwhile to go back to the start to look at the creation of the car, rather than at the immediate production line machines, as all the other problem solvers had, & failed to find the answer.

So similar to the car analogy, Humans going back to Mars could be the answer to our intractable unsettledness, in the same way as my car analogy. When we go back maybe we’ll see we too had been trying to marry two intractable systems together. The mist from our eyes may suddenly evaporate – perhaps along with our eon’s long PTSD.

In going back to Mars I am talking of a concept called transmogrification. And let me pause as It’s worth explicitly posting the dictionary definition of the word – here I have used the online merriam-webster dictionary. Transmogrification is the noun version of the root verb word Transmogrify

 Transmogrify: to change or alter greatly and often with grotesque, bizzare or humorous effect

Yes going back to Mars certainly will be a transmogrification, and perhaps a more positive version from the dictionary definition. Perhaps it will be bizzarre, grotesque & humourous at first, but then settle into a a spiritual rebirth.

Of course I fear the propaganda world could ruin all this. Going back to Mars, our potential original home will not not a transition as the future marketers will probably paint it as. After obfuscatingly calling it it a transition, then they’ll call it a ‘holiday’. then they want to use it as Australia was for England not that long ago: a penal colony.

And you know as well as me that the travel agents of the future selling ‘affordable holidays to Mars won’t have our best interests at heart. In looking for our salvation in re-colonising Mars, we also need to guard against the corporate penal colony enslavers, looking to derail the quest & create another Van Dieman’s Land. This is somewhat analogous to the Arnold Schwarzenegger film ‘Total Recall’ where a Dictator rules Mars over an enslaved extractive mining based population. This fact is all covered up by the authorities via the front of ‘implanting holidays direct into the memory’.

I will leave you with this thought about what happens next once we can & indeed do go back to Mars, & allow the reader to think about it themselves. After all, a conjectorial, philosophy based essay like this shouldn’t drag on too much – it should be reasonable diggestable, if not fun.

If my ‘Lets go back to Mars on a mental & spiritual quest’ is indeed the right adventure & conjecture to get Humanity on the right track to solve our seemingly intractable problem of Human unsettledness, or Mars to Earth PTSD, then sure as Neil Finn of Crowded House once sung in his elegy infused song “Hole In The River”….there is no return.

In short in will indeed Transmogrify it ways we cannot predict…but perchance, just perchance – it will also cure our culture-wide PTSD.

The End

(This essay is subject to copywrite cannot be reproduced commercially without permission of the writer & Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ). Educational & Non commercial reading is allowed freely. Please contact me the writer at martinantonsmith@gmail.com)

“On Chess” (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith

My name is Master Grand,

And after at least thirty years,

I’ve started playing Chess again.

I’m playing with an old school friend – Barron.

Barron’s almost definitely autistic,

He walks funny, can’t make eye contact, points strangely at your cat –

& here’s the clincher – could only handle one full year in the ‘real world’ –

before he scampered home to the safety of the parent’s basement.

At least I lasted 13 years!

And I can do a dish.

& So being almost certainly autistic,

Barron’s very very good at Chess.

He won the first six games straight – kicking my ass.

He was loving this,

As he’s ultra-competitive with me – & always has been.

Then – he lost the seventh game.

He took it hard – especially as on the return home – he always has had to tell the news to his mum.

But, to my chagrin – he started winning again.

But then he soon lost again.

I notice each time he lost, his sense of self faltered – for surely he asks himself this:

“Am I not as smart as I think I am?…

And If I’m not smart enough, surely – I’ll be unworthy & unlovable?”

Was I creating a complex in Barron’s mind?

I was like an ‘Iron age man’ dug up from the melting permafrost – my chess skills only now emerging.

Also – I started to do my homework.

I learnt of the Great Grand Masters – of past & present.

USA’s Bobby Fisher Vs USSR’s Spasky 1972,

gary Kasparov losing to the Deep Blue Computer,

The controversy of Champ Magnus Carlson losing to Hans Nieman’s vibrating butt.

Like a sponge, I learnt, I learnt……I watched I watched….I read I read.

& then, I started to win.

The Pawns defended the King with their lives,

My ‘positioning game’ became poetry-not-in-motion,

I timed my castling with aplomb,

I rakishly pinned down his Queen like a rebel.

Yes – I tortoise-wise crawled my way to level pegging with the cocky hare.

Pretty soon I predict I’ll start kicking his skinny-lifestyle-block-paddock-dwelling-ass….

My prediction is when & if this ‘changing of the guard’ become obvious-

He’ll suddenly stop playing chess with me.

So as to forever preserve his superior win/loss ratio.

I doubt Barron’s tiny, possibly autistic ego couldn’t take the blow.

Of course, I could let him win –

In true ‘give a drowning man a life preserver’

But it’s far more interesting to see how this plays out.

This is the Chess game inside the Chess game.

After all – I don’t really know for sure if he’s autistic –

He might just be an asshole.

is it true that All autists can be assholes but not all assholes can be autistic?.

My strategy to continue to win will help me find out his true nature.

Of course, first I have to start kicking his ass,

& this might be hard,

Especially if I have now started an ‘ Chess arms race’.

Maybe I’m being far too over-confidant?

One things for sure:

If you have brains & did great at school –

losing at chess over or any intellectual endeavor & over is really hard to take.

Be you autistic – or just a library variety nerd or even the now multitudinous wannabe nerd.

People with ‘Brains’ or think they do, can be very ego driven, petty, & insecure.

This is why academics hate usually their colleagues & fellow boffins.

Thus in doing this, they display a deep black lack of EQ.

For surely to be a Grandmaster at life – you need IQ and EQ.

IQ alone only gets you to different versions of your mothers basement.

University Professors & their like,

Simply live in a masterfully-obfiscated….

Gargantuan yet splintered….

Great big fucking mother’s basement.

Damn – I wanted to just write about Chess –

I always circle round to Scammy University Professors.

But it is true…

Philosophically speaking I guess it’s becasue of this brute fact:

They as wily old campaigners – proposed a game of financial Chess,

To which I (& perhaps billions of others) didn’t even know I & we said yes too – but I (& we) did…

& how do you win a game of Chess you don’t even know your playing?

This my friend, is impossible.

You can only forever ruminate in your room about it.

Now that you are are bitter, cash strapped, middle aged fool, clacking away at a dusty keyboard.

But at least now you can drink a beer as you look at you ‘upturned chess board’,

with pieces scatered everwhere,

With the King fallen on its side – dead,

With the door slamming periodically in the whispering wind…

& Through the crack in the door –

You see a shadowy figure –

In the hazy distance, long since gone, but their outline still shimmeringly perceptable –

Hightailing it off with your unknown loot.

‘unknown loot’ – for your room was so messy – you couldn’t be sure what he took –

or wether they took anything at all.

Yes – the Knight of Profit rides a stead called chaos & uncertainty.

Chess as always imitates life.

Life is mostly chaotic.

Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

And most of us are but pawns.

But it’s the guys playing life as Chess,

That you really need to look out for.

& Socratically speaking,

In terms of Bastardry – I’d rather stay as Master Grand than be a Grand Master.

I dedicate this Poem to the late Bobby Fishcer –

Who in his last few living moments opined:

Chess is a waste of time – it’s mostly just wrote learning & is totally full of mean spirited bastards.

Still, I’m sure he loved that phone call from Spasky in ’72.

This was Master Grand – your old stalemate.

“Overcoming Early Year Writers’ Inertia & some biographical data & musings about life (a few thoughts about the page & me)

2022 was the second year of published work on this page, & the first full calendar year of posts (The page started posting in Feb 2021).

In order to keep writing during the dry creative spell that naturally occurs during summer (in southern hemisphere) I will write a really easy post about this blog page.

Last year was a good year for this page. The views/hits were up about 30% and the followers up about 50%.

I posted 62 Posts vs 58 in the prior year. Outside the numbers, the highlights of the top of my head were

  • I wrote about 7 short stories & I think I have enough now for an ebook
  • The Poems could also be put into an e-book.
  • I made progress on my Novella “Marcell Atkins the 21st Centuries Brain Chip Hacker” (then half way thru I got into writer’s block as I realised my idea to finish the book was ‘too stock’. But luckily, I think I now have a solution – the main character will turn to ‘the dark side’. This also sounds a bit ‘stock’ but trust me it is less ‘stock’ than the first idea train. So now I must try to finish that remaining 20 000 words or roughly 10 chapters. I’m dreading finishing it. I’m afraid that it’s really really crap. But I must force myself to finish it anyway. I’ll go by the adage “All turds can be polished, and today’s turd may be tomorrows fertilizer”.
  • I wrote a few good songs some were derived from some of the poems, although some were from scratch. This page isn’t a music page, but I thought I’d mention that.
  • The podcast associated with this page was fun, but traffic slowed to a crawl. I think this is because the podcast platform was free & I was supposed to “upgrade to a paid plan” but I didn’t. Or it was to “Whack” and so people dropped off listening. Either way it was great to start a podcast & I have almost hit 50 Episodes (I think we are at Ep 48).
  • Regarding my writing – I am wondering if my depressive ways are a positive or a negative. That dark cloud hovers but I fear that I might be making the world a “worse place” for putting darkness onto a page. If the answer is “Yes” then the only right thing to do is delete everything. That would be hard to do. This is why I realised a good strategy is to always add a “silver lining” of sorts to writing. Perhaps that’s enough to save the writing & my sorry ass.
  • I live in a small town where nothing happens. Of course, that can be good – as this can in theory help production of work due to the ‘lack of distractions’ – but after 6 years of being back here I am worried I have become like a giant elephant attached to a tiny peg in the ground. I want a real friend who also likes writing and flinging ideas around. Not being neurotypical it is very hard being surrounded by ‘normal people’ who only want to talk about house prices all the time.
  • You might want to know I am 45 years Old – I guess this makes me ‘young middle aged’ or an ‘old young person’. I think I have reverted to being 27 since the age of 35. Prior to 35 I tried to be ‘Normal’ & have a ‘career’ etc – this resulted in burn-out & my current state of awareness which is to shun that fake world of false material promises. It’s a lonely existence but at least I’m not living in a cubical battery hen room any more wondering why things never come together. I wouldn’t say I’m happy but for a depressive I think I’m happier than I was back then. I think my life is productive in its own way & I am more content. I think I have got to the point where I could in theory attain something really good with my work.
  • My life is now devoid of women & I am like a monk. This is because women around here don’t really like arty types, & there is no women my age who are into the ‘alternative scene’. If there are – they are more likely that not to be ‘flakes’ that are faking creativity. Oh well, just as well I had a vibrant party life when I was in my 20s & 30’s. It’s ok to be shunned into ‘forced romantic retirement’. I can survive & it is better than a series of insane girlfriends.
  • You might not know it but I lived in Australia from 2005-2016 – I returned to my home town & I feel like that old life in Melbourne is like a ghost that haunts me. Not because it was ‘bad’ but because it is an ‘entity’ that still exists in my mind. I miss a handful of people from those years, & I kinda regret not making some ‘smarter moves’ – ones that would have set me up better. I know regrets are bad, & admitting them is worse but that is the truth & truth is important & powerful on the page. Unfortunately, errors & bad choices in anyone’s past, especially while they are inexperienced in life’s ways – happen because they were always going to. An adult must accept learning comes with failure & vice versa. But early mistakes & their first cousin regret still make poor dinner guests – you accept them politely but this doesn’t mean they don’t annoy you & overstay their welcome. These things that annoy us are a part of our sentence as human beings on this planet. I am no different than anyone else.
  • The above point makes me think how ‘individuality’ is kind of a con – ultimately are we not programmed in only a handful of ways? There is a theory that there are only about 20 different types of people. But we like to think we are ‘one in a million’ – it’s an ego thing. Our parents, classmates, teachers & physical environment (for they are the most important) can only screw us up in a few different ways.
  • I spent 11 years of my 44 in Australia – & I feel at least 25% Australian (adding as an aside).
  • I am annoyed I do not get any feedback from viewers of my page – one day someone will email me at martinantonsmith@gmail.com & tell me either my page ‘sucks’ or “is good”. I’d actually be happy if someone messaged me & said my stuff ‘sucks’. It’s better to have you work insulted than totally ignored. Hopefully this year more followers will happen & more work done & more real-world events I will attend & this will happen.
  • You might be interested that my bike rides in the country help me attain well-being enough to have the motivation to write poems etc. I think arty people ignore their health too much as if it is independent of their ability & longevity to create work. No wonder arty types die early – you can’t ever fool your body’s thermodynamic properties – it needs negative entropy supplies to thrive. Being a ‘stick figure clad in black’ is favoured for an artist, followed a distant second by the ‘pudgy dishevelled look’ – but that’s confirmative bullshit. You can look healthy AND do great arty things. (Clive James is an example that springs to mind – he looked like a rugby player & was well known in the 80s – I struggle to think of other ‘healthy looking well known arty types, which underlines my point).
  • as a “P.s.” to the part where I was talking about “ghosts of the past” – I wonder if the people that haunt me are also haunted by me as well? Mutual hanting seems to be a welcomed thought but also pretty sad as it suggests both parties were never mature enough to tie close ends. We humans can’t handle rejection & it corrupts us no ends – we torture ourselves for it. how ridiculous that is. I’m trying to get better at that. Honesty & forgoing ego should be practised as we age. But I guess the question that revolves in my mind – “Am I a good or bad person” won’t die down any time soon. Sigh.
  • Thank you for reading – attached below is a pic of me taken only a day or two ago. Take care & I hope to write something good soon. (Ah it feels good to have written the first content of 2023! I will celebrate with a beer & 90’s Rock. By The way – I wrote a Poem just after I wrote this so this blog entry – so it doing it worked wonders – read it here if you like https://martinantonsmithart.wordpress.com/2023/01/09/percy-mcwhirter-on-the-margins-of-life// )

(Picture: Scruffy Scruffy Me in 2023)