“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)

“Absolutely Positively Contrarian Street” (A Poem)

If You Are Born Into Madness – Madness Is Normal & Unseen.

You Can Be Born Into a Mad Family,

Or a Mad Town,

Or a Mad Nation,

Or a Mad Planet,

Or All Of The Above.

But You Can See Madness – If You Work Hard,

& Strive To Be a Contrarian – An Independant Thinker.

It Is Worthwhile,

& Despite The False Adage “Ignorance Is Bliss”,

Truth Is Nirvana.

They’ll Hate You For Wanting It.

They’ll Hate You For Seeing It.

They’ll Hate You For Teaching It.

Wear That Badge Of Honor,

That The Madman Pinned On Your Chest.

For When A Madman Calls You A Madman

You Must Not Be Mad.

As Two Negatives Multiplied,

Always Make A Positive.

Live In A Universe Of Positively Truthful Nirvana,

Where The Madmen Are Slowly Disappearing From View.

“Life as a Series of Lies & People to Avoid” (An Essay)

I was reading Bob Dylan’s autobiography “Chronicles Vol. 1” & a part sparked me to think of how the world normalises falseness. He roughly said that the world often asks us to live out what is essentially ‘a lie’. Here are my thoughts that sprouted from that literary spark. They flowed very quickly, I might add – so I assume they must have been percolating quietly for a while prior to writing (or should I say ‘keyboard placking’?).

I felt very old at the beginning of my life & this didn’t faze itself out until age 27. When I was young, I felt like an old man amongst babies. I just never felt “in the right place” through childhood. From about 30 I almost suddenly felt more and more child-like. Attempts to negate this failed miserably – If I tried to be “mature” I found life wouldn’t allow it. I could do well at work & be ignored for promotion. If I sounded rational in conversation, I was hated for it. If I acted “mature” to women they became uninterested romantically.

Then as I became over 37 no matter what I did, I could not curry favour with any “normal” person. I had grown tired of the “lose-lose” realities of being or trying to be just like everyone else. By age 40 I had realized the ‘not fitting in’ problem was in fact most likely to just be life itself as a human being in modern times.

I realized at this point in Homo Sapien’s low level of spiritual awareness, the point is to systemically not allow for any individual to feel comfortable. Under our terrible system of existing – you are supposed to feel uncomfortable. The world has an invisible arm guiding you to live life as some kind of ‘living lie’. You pretend that you are on top of your life – both its emotional & practical hemispheres – and you trot this line out in social gatherings.

The truth that this whole thing (from my Westerner viewpoint at least) is a system to create a total farce is a sacrilegious thing you can’t say 99% of the population. The ‘World’ has its Game, it forces you to be born into it, it hides the rules from you – & your happiness means it loses the ‘Game’.

I found the key to survival is to be happy to be an outsider. You have to see the people who are propping up this wilful insane asylum as some kind of spectres to be avoided in confidant yet non-violent fashion. This for me has thus allowed a mostly solitary a world of personal interests, books music art and when I’m really lucky – honest insightful interesting conversations with those who are my spiritual kin.

The ‘World’ doesn’t like such behaviour & cannot handle itself being rejected. The ‘World’ will send its evil angels to hold you to task & to renounce your hermit like refusal to engage & embrace its false premises. The more and more you find solace and success in rejecting the “World” the more spiteful its ‘evil angels’ are.

I guess at that point we are supposed to follow Christs maxim – ‘resist not evil’, ‘turn the other cheek’ etc, but I must admit to thinking I can cut these demons off entirely. This is probably because I still have much to learn about the World & it’s dark ways.

I have learnt at least one thing for sure from my life: Survival, Decency, Health & Sanity is the highest ‘Success’ you can have – & you have to follow the path less taken to achieve it. I am also pretty sure you wife/husband/friends won’t ever do this for you – more likely they will be the fog covering the winding ice laden road to the town your supposed to live in.

I think you have to get used to your own company & deeper thoughts to reach a breakthrough in how to deal with ‘the world’. If you can’t ever get 1 minute away from the hordes of unwitting & witting demons that constantly surround us – you’ll never find the salvation your spirit needs.

The trick is to not listen to that voice in your head that chastises you for being unsociable, an outsider, a loser, a snob, annoying or just plain ‘bad’ for disobeying the ‘Worlds’ crazy, stress filled, unfulfillable-by design diktats.

You have to keep believing your contrariness is definitely the right track – I think a sign of this is your former materialist ways & bank balance worries shrink out of the range of your mental radar.

In closing, even the best ‘world avoider’ must admit to my following lines I will describe as realpolitik poetic truism. – that is simply a paraphrase of Bob Dylan’s famous “you can please some of the people, some of the time…” lyrical quip:

You can avoid some of the people some of the time – you can avoid all of the people some of the time – but you can’t avoid all of the people all of the time.

– Essay by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Podcast Episode: “Big Mal Evans – The Beatles Runaround” (An Original Poem with an Intro)

Welcome to The Baby Wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Inc. Podcast, a creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. In this episode I read a New Poem which emanated from the desire to watch Peter Jackson’s new Beatles Documentary where he released an elongated film on the making of the Beatles “Let It Be” album – called “Get Back”. It is a great doco, and I highly recommend it, especially if you create music as I am also trying to do.

In the documentary footage it often shows big Mal Evans who was a helper and friend of the Beatles. Mal was the one who belted the hammer on the anvil on “Maxwells Silver Hammer” a song they practice on the “Let It Be” sessions but was released on the Abbey Road Lp. The footage of Mal on The Anvil is there on Get Back.

He seemed interesting so I looked up his story and I transcribed the highlights and added some artistic flair and asked a few open questions. I find it interesting to look into the making of albums, as there is usually a rich tapestry of stories and occurrences to interest the mind. Mal’s story was sad and I thought that he got a rough deal on the face of it.

I think Mal Evans was simply “too nice” for such a tough environment and it in that high pressure insane world that surrounded the Beatles, I wonder if niceness helped him much. As the old Christian adage goes, being kind without also being wise is folly – but then who is wise AND young? Is it possible to be wise without life experience? . Is this simply not why the young need great leaders?

I being only 43 of course only stated listening to the Beatles around 1995 when they released the anthology album and documentaries; but I got into the Beatles mostly in my Uni years and shortly after. My interest had waned since being over 30 but the Peter Jackson documentary has piqued my interest again and thus helped create this poem. I thought it would be more interesting to write about Mal, and his Beatles time and then his tragic early death vs say John’s – which of course we already all know.

The question of what would Mal’s life have been like if he’d never met the Beatles is an interesting one – would he still be here and would he be happy? Also, how many of us are in Mal’s situation – i.e. seemingly in paradise or in the Lap of luxury and success but hurtling towards disaster? These are interesting questions that are hard if not impossible to answer and I think this is because in life we are usually wading blindfolded through in the fog of some undeclared war. Only when the war is over, the blindfold lifts and we can look back on the battle scene and our accompanying battle scars. Perhaps we are like Mal in many ways, and not less so with this bizarre socio cultural – pandemic flux we have been injected into.

But why is it we never learn from history? Is it because the ones that do know History’s pitfalls and cavernous abysses are to cowardly of ineffectual to stop it? Is it also because the intellectually blind populace simply swallow the hogwash offered up by the latest shady populist politician or technocrat? To me the answer is a resounding YES!

And so, I will now read the Poem.

“Big Mal Evans – The Beatles Runaround “

Poem by Martin . A . Smith

Big Mal Was Big 6 ft 6 And Wide As A House.

He Met The Beatles in ’62 & Bounced At the Cavern.

He Became A Roadie – Settin’ Up the Amps and Mics.

But His Real Job Was A Fab Four’s Personal Runaround.

Lennon Said: “Mal Socks”, And It Was Done.

Ringo Said: “Mal Undies”, And They Appeared.

George Said “Earl Grey Tea Mal”, And So Be It.

Paul Said: “Beetroot Sandwich Mal”, And That It Be.

The Big Lad Had a Big Smile And Thick Glasses,

Only Triumphed By His Big Heart and Rounded Edges.

A Wife And Kid At Home And Only Paid 38 Pounds A Week!

While The Beatles Had Mansions, Steak Dinners And Soiree’s to Greece

“I’m Just Too Nice To Ask for A Raise, An Extra Nickle”, He Wrote.

His Dairy Scrawling’s, Would One Day Make Someone Rich.

He Even Helped Paul Write A Line Or Two – So They Say At Least.

And Paul Promised Mal A Royalty? Or Did He? Or Did He Not?

Was Big Mal Too Nice Or Were The Fab 4 to Mean?

A Bit Of Column A, A Bit Of Column B?

In ’70, When Beatles Broke, Mal Became Broke In Another Way

Come ’75 He Was Financially and Emotionally Spent.

The Post-Beatle Industry, Was Far Too Tough For Big Kind Mal.

And While He Slumbered Around Trying To Forget,

His Sufferin’ Wife Lil Finally Left Through the Kitchen Window.

Down And Out, And Clutching The Last Straw,

He Scuppered to California And Rented A Dingey Room.

But It Was All Too Much For Big Friendly Mal,

And He Did What He Knew & He Hit The Bottle To Cope.

The Apple Corp Boss Called And Sensed He Needed Help.

But Alas No! Mal Said He ‘Wouldn’t Come Out Tonight’.

But Tomorrow 1PM For Lunch?, ” Yes I’ll Be There!” Said Mal.

And He Kept Drinkin’ & Drinkin’ & Taking What God Only Knows.

Drunk, Down And Doped He Played Inside With His BB Gun.

Cops Were Called And Thence They Did Come.

But the Airgun And Bourbon He didn’t Put Down.

“Just Let Me Be, It’s My…My…Mine!” He Did Scream.

And Together, The Cops Shot a Volley of Blamity Blam’s.

Of The 6 That Were Fired , So 4 did land.

Big Mal Now Harpooned, Did Slowly Sink Downwards.

Bottles Rattled And Floorboards Flew.

The Air Gun Clacked On The Ground Harmlessly,

Having Finally Left His Iron Clad Grip.

Medics Arrived And Then Counted Him Out Of The Game, aged Only 41.

But I Ask – Was His Death Really By His Own Misadventure?

Or Was It The Cops fault?

Or Do The Beatles Have Some Skin In The Game?

The Funeral Came And Went, But The Beatles Didn’t Go.

Just A Couple of Big Pips from The Apple Corps Did So.

He Was Cremated And Then His Ashes Posted.

Those Royal Mail Dopes Lost The Parcel, And So Beatle John Did Quip:

“Didn’t They Check The ‘Dead Letters Office’?”

But Now That The Death Was Done, What Doth The Judgement Be?

Your Honor, It’s Clearly 909th Degree Homicide & Now I Will Close My Case.

This Is The Ballad Of Big Mal Evans.

Just A Gentle Guy With a Giant Roar.

The Fluffy Monster The Beatles Needed.

A Constant Presence On Their Studio Floor.

Loved More Than They Dare Let On,

Far Far Too Big to Ignore, But Eventually He Was.

Was Big Mal Evans Maybe The “Unluckiest Lucky Man Alive”?

So “Unlucky” That He Was Actually Now Dead?

Drunk With A Pop-Gun & Shot Dead By The Cops.

And God Help Him, He Was Then Lost In The Post!

Yes, Mal Was Scrooged By The Fab Four and Apple,

But Don’t Blame His Demise On George Paul Ringo Or John,

All They Did Was Answer The Knock On “The Cavern’s” Door.

But I wonder – Would Mal Still Be Alive If They Had Doubled His Wage?

And Paid Him A Lousy 76 Pounds A Week?

Alas, As Ringo Supposedly Said: “Tomorrow Never Knows”.

And We Silly ‘Beatles Fans’ Will Never Know.

And In Closing, May I Ask a Final Question,

And Can I Pose A Final Thought?

Is Money The Root Of All Evil?

Or Is It The Lack Of It, That Is Evil?

Mal Evan’s Life, Or Should I say Life and Death,

Is Surely A Living Allegory, Of That Old Conundrum.

Thank you for listening to the Baby wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Podcast, A creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. This podcast is available on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts from.

Published by Martin Anton Smith creations ltd (NZ) © All Rights reserved. No Commercial Use or Commercial Public Broadcast Allowed Without Written Permission. Non-Commercial/Educational Broadcast is Freely Encouraged.