Tag: Love

“Paper Planes & Long Lost Eye-Glimmers?” (A Prose Poem + Bonus Narration in the writer’s own voice)

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Paper plane carrying office worker past oblivious office

By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Basic Assumption: You the reader/listener have brains.

You used to think “When I leave High School my brains will be appreciated”.

This naive delusion helped get you through the psychological torment dished out by the bullies,

And all the other horrors that happened thanks to those deeply frazzled & disinterested teachers.

Then by the time you’re a couple of years into ‘work life’ you realize ‘High School never ends’.

Of course this was to your horror – a slow kind of creeping crystalizing horror.

Yes sadly on this godforsaken planet, most people of all ages will still hate you if you have brains and good ideas.

Your already existing decades-long-friends certainly don’t want you to have brains.

In work you realise that people would rather have the whole company fail than reward your brains.

Of course a big part of you lies to yourself – you say to yourself:

Maybe if I do this project REALLY WELL it’ll change.

Of course it never does – you were deluding yourself.

The kooky management kept promoting people with dubious IQ’s to be your boss or to boss you around.

And so the years and decades roll by.

The money stays shit and the promotions never come.

You keep doing the work of seven.

You keep doing the work of your boss.

You’ve become the ‘high price external consultant’ that is totally free.

Of course you start to drink or do drugs or womanize (or ‘man-ize’) – that’s a given.

In fact it’s almost the wise choice since you do work in a literal madhouse –

For if bad decisions are routinely made over good & intentionally so –

Then don’t be a fool to think that this isn’t a form of madness.

Why wouldn’t you blow off steam on the short weekend breaks from the asylum?

You would be stupid not to lean on at least some form of escapism.

And then suddenly the ‘cubical dilated time’ says seven years has past since you had your first day,

And you take stock – you realise you have psychologically checked out forever.

It was all like a loud dripping tap into an empty but plugged bathtub in the room above your head –

The annoyance seems endurable so you don’t make plans to remedy it –

But it will assuredly fill and then overflow through the floorboards and onto your cold head.

At this point the light has long left your eyes.

You’re probably overweight.

You probably de-facto-married someone who is also a cubicle-prisoner (with wasted brains too) just like you –

After all misery does love company –

And there’s no way you could marry the empty platitude enemy (your jailer boss the ex high school bully) is there?

Or maybe you just ‘did it all alone’ to wallow ‘Schopenhauer-ingly’ in the ambiently-anguished-atmosphere.

And as a Late-Twentieth-To-Early-Twenty-First-Century-Dweller it is almost redundant to mention this but I will –

The Corporation’s Henchmen (formerly ‘The Quacks’) have certainly loaded you with deadly anti-depressants.

Yep – I’m sorry to announce this BUT….you screwed up.

There’ no getting away from the fact.

You fell for the plan.

You fell ‘hook line & stinker’ – as the wise last century’s cartoon characters did say.

Yep – you foolishly agreed to ‘Stay in High School forever’.

Of course in theory you could have left Cubicle Fluorescent Light High School –

But they told you business was to risky and by the time you realized it wasn’t –

It was too late –

By then you were past the point of no return.

You succumbed to the ‘non-event horizon’ that is your forever ‘corporatized penal life’.

Yes the World ‘got you’ as is the plan for all us ‘Neo-Dickensians’.

I mean lets take a breath – let’s not be too harsh – they do run a great devilish ‘Mephisto PR game’.

You have to be born into an ‘insider family’ to know it before it traps your soul and your eye-glimmers.

Yes – It was a shame, it is always a shame.

You (like so many with brains) were full of potential.

You could have been something great.

Now you’re closer than ever to retirement.

The last thirty years have gone forever never to return.

And through the decades under lock and key you didn’t even have a hobby either.

You could have read the worlds books.

Knitted up a storm of bright jerseys.

Learnt to be a potter.

Got into web design.

Learnt how to speak as the Spaniards, The Russians or The Japanese do.

Done some woodworking or furniture repair.

Hell – you could have made a billion wonky-quasi-flying paper planes.

But you didn’t even do that.

But being a cerebral outsider that never finally quit the bully-favoring-cubicle-rat-race wasn’t your biggest mistake.

What you needed was a persistent low level chronic dose of freedom on tap.

For all you truly needed was not a giant company of your own –

It was not a trapper’s cave in the woods far from civilization –

But it was something small that was entirely yours.

That you could build upon.

If you had jus done that – you would still have a tiny glimmer in your eye.

And it is true that a single spark can burn down an entire tree, forest or national park is it not?

If nothing else you must have a hobby – as glib and sanctimonious and as that seems.

Now excuse me – I have (my equivalent to) a paper plane to catch.

You see – I wasn’t quite as stupid as some were,

For with these words I have retained a hobby.

But with all this quasi-sermonizing I don’t think I’m being mean either.

Just think of me as a farmer of your un-paralized and formerly non-extinguished urban eye-glimmer.

My goal is to bring a tiny part of you back to (a real) life.

Surely at your age some of you is allowed to leave Urban Cubicle Dreadnaught High School?

And I don’t think that’s too much to ask – do you?

Don’t dare lose all of that fading glimmer in your wandering screen-jaded left eye.

So go get yourself a noble hobby – and remember ‘bomb making’ is just as good as any.

You didn’t think I’d end on a mature note did you?

(Ah you know me too well!)

“Rolling Tears And Deeper Truths” (A Poem)

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Silhouetted person overlooking mountains as glowing light trails drift into the valley

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

When you see or hear something sorrowful,

And a tear forms and rolls down your cheek,

            It always carries more weight –

                than the thought itself. 

      The proof is the element of surprise.

      That a tear is rolling down your cheek. 

So there must be ‘another you’ deep inside – 

    That knows everything and feels it more, 

 But hides itself for your day-to-day survival. 

         The Truth’s outline is only hinted at 

       in a few salty droplets once in a while. 

                This is all understandable. 

     We are Earth-trapped in minutiae of life.

And Love is sometimes too dangerous a thing. 

It’s my birthday. I am forty-eight today. I worked like it was a normal day… (A blog post)

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Man sitting on a bench holding a drink with flying books in the sky at sunset

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com (email me!)

So yes it’s my birthday. Forty eight. I celebrated by deciding to not celebrate. It’s now a firm tradition of mine. I’ve been doing it for decades.

Is it because I am a Gen X’er? I say that because the stereotype is we don’t care about anything. Is it because I am ‘South Island kiwi? I say that because we have this Scottish Presbyterian/Calvinist cultural hangover which says you can’t be seen to enjoy yourself. Is it because deep down I don’t think I’m worthy enough to celebrate my entry into this (seemingly wildly degenerating) mortal coil?

The answer is I don’t know why I couldn’t care less about my birthday. Other than to worry about my ‘life as I age’ a little more – as now I am almost half a century old. The ‘distant horizon of the end’, having been priorly an academic thought, is now appearing in sight – it is now a farway hill I can see instead a mountaintop in the distant hazy horizon. And we all no matter how ‘Zen’ we think are, think of our achievements in some manner at least. I would be lying if I do not have worry about the charge of “he was such a promising youngster – but he hasn’t really lived up to his potential” factor. Of course I don’t care about the fact I’m not a big CEO or a Lawyer – I’m not that stupid to see those empty ‘TV style’ manufactured wants. But of course, I do want to have exhibited my natural and worked-on creative talents. That’s called being human.

I wouldn’t say that I’m in any danger of a ‘midlife crisis’ – weirdly I kinda had that early at about age thirty-five-ish. It’s really just normal aging worries that someone like me has, I am sure. And by ‘someone like me’ – I guess I mean someone who is bookish, prone to be an over-thinker, undiagnosed ADHD (maybe I am but that could be a boldface lie!), and a man without much hard cash at the moment. This is because I’ve made a commitment to the liberal arts AND I’m in small business. So really I shouldn’t worry to much about pushing fifty – and I don’t really look fifty anyway – I could easily pass for forty. In theory I could go anywhere and suddenly ‘reinvent myself’ – but I’m too wise to try that folly again.

In the end ultimately, I think I feel “ok”. This is in terms of ‘day-to-day mental headspace’ speaking. And today being “ok” is actually as rare as hens teeth. To feel “ok” is relatively like being on ‘cloud 9.’ After all most people have terrible uncreative cubicle lives, have done no shadow work whatsoever, and are medicated up to their eyeballs. I had a taste of that a long time ago ( the anti-depressants scam where the quacks dished them out like candy) and I eventually escaped that prison although in truth it was probably the handmaiden called burnout that had the key that unlocked me from all that silliness.

In terms of psychology – I am far more content that I used to be when I was younger. I have learnt slowly as the years rolled by to wangle a weird solution to feelings of ‘chronic depression or anxiety’ – and I think it’s fair to say I have always had those feelings, but it might have been anxiety more than depression perhaps (it’s hard to say). The wangle was physical work, homecooked meals & living in the country – my boyhood home town of six thousand people. Well it was also learning not to tie your self worth too much to social status. That’s important.

Physical work is great for the mind – especially if you are prone to the blues. But ideally you don’t want too much of it all at once. After all who that is over forty wants seven or eight hours hard labor a day for four or five days? No I think anywhere between ten twenty five hours is good, and the sweet spot is probably right in the middle – seventeen and a half hours. If you are young, well blast ahead with physicality.

Physical work is like a battle. Yes it can be very boring and uncomfortable. But some is office keyboard placking. For example I am now doing a sub-part of a renovation job (a ‘reno’). I am what we call here in NZ “Gib-Stopping” which I guess the Americans would call “Drywall plastering” and the English “Joint Plastering” (I think the Aussies also call it ‘Gib-Stopping’).

Let me tell more. When you slap on the plaster, it’s sloppy-messy and gets all over your clothes. I actually had a blob go right in my eye at the beginning when I forgot to put on my protective eyewear. Then after you have slopped on the plaster over the joints the next part is even worse – you have to sand it down smooth and flush with the Gib / Drywall/ Plaster sheeting. The dust is so bad you end up standing in something akin to the ‘First World War mustard gas attacks’. You can do all the things to protect yourself – but you can’t really escape the fact you are a in gib-dust (drywall or plaster) battle. Life is a bit like that – don’t kid yourself you are not in some kind of battle here.

Ok now – so you know how bad that ‘Gib Stopping’ job I’ve been doing is – let me tell you why it’s also good for you. At the end of the work day you intimately feel that you have become mentally (and physically) stronger. You see with your own eyes that you’ve made progress on the bigger project (in my case the ceiling looks better and better). And you probably did it all by yourself too. You didn’t know how to do it and you backed yourself. That’s a great anti-depressant. You don’t get that in an office cubical in a mega city – you don’t have that creative freedom (Like Melbourne where I worked in an office for a decade).

So that’s why physical work is good for me and my tendency towards depressiveness and/or anxiety (or is it just adhd mixed with perfectionism etc?). I really recommend it to you who is reading this – especially if you exist in a ‘grey concrete jungle cubical zone’.

And if you are reading this – then you probably love writing or are a writer or an artist or work in an office (statistically you are likely given that’s where most the jobs are nowadays). And if you are someone like the last sentence describes – then you probably have anxiety or depressiveness or creeping feelings of helplessness lurking around. And if that’s true, what was good for me will also be good for you.

So remember to get out and dig some holes, plant some veges, run to the beach or lake or over the hill, jump on you bike etc. If your deep in the concrete jungle cubical zones I’d exercise about ten hours a day in nice outdoors setting.

So I’ll lave it there, now seems like a good place to end. I can now have a sneaky treat (these are great as anti-depressants too). In my case it’s some beer. I don’t over drink – I simply have two a night, which sometimes I upgrade to three, and once in a blur moon I might go crazy and have four. But that’s rare as I can’t do hangovers these days at my age. That’s the good thing about aging – it forces you to be more mature on a lot of things that you used to go totally nuts on.

‘Birthday Beer’ I will now come to you. I hope you are nicely almost near zero degrees centigrade (That’s 32 degrees F for the yanks),. You will be frosty delicious from your time spent in that freezer prison I put you in. I’m sorry I have to drink you – but it must be done. Wait a minute I’m sounding too much like an alcoholic – I better finally shut up now.

So happy birthday to me – you old coot. You ain’t as bad as you probably think you are or used to be. You’ve come a long way. You’ve ignored the noise and built your mind up. Your feeling ‘ok’ and that’s better than it sounds.

See you on the next blog update.

Bye!

Anton Martin Smith on 7th August 2026 8:03PM NZ Time.

“As All Madmen Who Write Tend To Do.” (Prose).

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Man kneeling by car flat tire, woman in driver's seat, man walking with notepad

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I have a beater of a car.

It’s birthday was in the year 1999.

It’s older than a fair whack of people alive today.

The other day I was scrolling and came across a lady who said:

“Why do the best guys always have the shittiest cars?”.

Well I can only agree with her assertion.

And the obvious answer is:

Because we are not materialistic.

So onto the subject.

My car tire has a slow leak.

I’ve monitored the situation and you can drive on it for three days,

But then of course you must inflate it at the servo.

Or should I say ‘Gas Station’.

You will have to excuse me –

For I have a half kiwi half aussie vernacular.

I’ve ‘done time’ on both sides of the Tasman – so to speak.

Anyway, when I discovered the leak I first thought

“Hmm I will get that fixed immediately”.

But then I had a second overiding thought:

“But that’s so stock, why not choose the contrarian path…

…After all – you do love Philosophy”.

So that’s what I’ve been doing.

I have discovered you can indeed drive on a flat tire for three blocks,

Then inflate it at said Servo/Gas station.

The other day I even drove their with my overweight mother riding shotgun.

I crawled along at 30 km/h along the back streets,

I made sure I only made left handed turns for safety.

Git there and ‘did the necessary’ as we Kiwi’s say (or do aussies say that?).

This may all seem rediculous,

That a well educated forty eight year old small business owner would do this.

But as I have found – when you age your life can become suddenly too dull.

Sure in my case perhaps that’s just because I partied way to hard in youth,

And so now with age ‘standard life’ now seems overly dreary –

But what can I say – we all live the lives we have had, don’t we?.

Perhaps this could be a warning sign – that I need to move to the city.

The wags say ‘he’s so bored in that small town he’s driving on flat tires for kicks’.

Well, I guess their must be a smidgen of truth to that yes – I am a reasonable man.

But I as I already mentioned it’s merely a need to be contrarian –

But then the other wag pop’s head over pulpit and whispers “but what’s the cause of that?”

Well perhaps it’s a generalized fear of anything external to my own mind,

Due to a number of childhood trauma incidents that have scarred me for life.

Trauma that has been buried so deep for so long that it can only emerge within the ‘safety of the absurd’.

Such as the choice to drive around on a slow leak-flat tire seemingly just for kicks.

Of course I am engaging and indulging the Americanism of ‘casual pop psychology’.

But at the same time – what if I’m right?

In the absence of knowing the correct path of action –

I will monitor the situation namely the p.s.i. of my remaining three tires.

And if one day things escalate and I find myself ‘driving happily on all four rims’ –

I’ll do nothing at all, keep driving and see what eventuates.

After all – I am a bored, small-town-trapped, unmedicated contrarian with an interest in Philosophy ain’t I?

But don’t worry, on a final serious note I’ll sort the tire out next week, or maybe the week after that.

What’s that my dear fine wag calling out from the back row?

Yes you are correct I did forget to mention my penchant for procrastination.

That guy I worked with long ago – Matthew from Melbourne – was probably correct:

I am probably in theory at least a “Psychiatrist’s wet dream”.

But when writing of one’s own foibles – that’s is my prerogative, is it not?

“This ramble-a-thon now must end” said the fourth wag in this prose poem.

I agreed and ended it now, after all I was standing on the carpet that he emerged from underneath.

And I do love to end on a self referential tone –

As all madmen who write tend to do.

“Saved by Bukowski & The Girlbosses” (Prose)

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Older man with beer and cigarette talks to woman in business attire holding coffee

by Anton martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I don’t know why they all can’t see it.

My twisted angel Bukowski was correct in what he said a few years ago:

‘About something small they protest wildly, but about wasting their entire lives they don’t even batt an eyelid’.

Yes I agree with you – it is hard to believe – but yes he was definitely one of mine.

Contrary to your popular media – my angels are not all harp-playing-ephemeral-floating-singing-clichés.

When I send one down I go with the ‘when in Rome’ thesis of blending in.

I have many a ‘drunk truth teller’ like Charles Bukowski in my ranks.

For how could I get to the people that need me most of I didn’t?

But of course, I didn’t make the Earth for it to end like this, the way it is now.

I made trees, rivers, seas, jungles, and endless savannahs.

I gave a warm sun to heat, melt and grow things as where needed.

I filled them with tasty animals and fruits for them to eat without much effort.

I made things just hard enough to catch so that my children would get enough exercise.

I made things just dangerous enough so that they would not get bored.

I made plenty of unfenced land so that if somewhere was bad, there would be many better places to go to.

I made the land large and the people scarce so there would be no need to ever be forever-crowded.

In short – I made a sustainable paradise full of bounty and freedom for all.

But my adversary (of course) had other plans.

He wanted concrete instead of rocks.

He wanted false indoor light instead of the sunlight.

He wanted to stack people on top of each other in concrete encasings so they would fight.

He wanted to put a lock on the bountiful food and land.

He wanted men to be women and women to be men to kill marriage and sacrifice children.

He wanted work that felt like work but produced nothing but strange enslaving symbols.

So as we negotiated terms I said to him:

Ok I will agree to the game – we will see how they play – whoever’s ideas are the best will win.

You can have whoever you convince,

And I will follow the same rules and have who I convince.

I am sure people will prefer water from a waterfall that a bottle.

I am sure people will prefer sunlight to harsh glowing tubes.

I am sure men will not want to act like women and vice versa.

I am sure people will realise their strange symbols and wasted time will make them fools.

I am sure people will prefer freedom of movement to concrete laden bustling cages.

Sure you’ll ensnare a few, that goes without saying.

But a house of cards must always fall.

My adversary took the bargain.

He was happy to simply have a chance to destroy and steal a few souls.

He knew he could never beat me – after all I allowed him to exist at all.

He – as the negotiations closed said – ‘you never know, through some strange twist of fate I might somehow win’.

He has super-intelligence but little wisdom you see.

As if he could ever beat myself – it is quite laughable indeed.

So the deal was done – we would let a game play out and it has.

Now many millennia later – we are almost entirely done.

But it would be remiss of me to not share some worries.

I am a little worried about how things are going right now.

I never thought he’d succeed in making his cities so large.

He kept saying with shameless glee as he watched over the mega-cities.

“Grow my prettys grow – look at them live on top of each other – ain’t it grand?”

“The Economy is stealing their days so beautifully”

“They all believe in their Careers – especially my beloved army of Girl-bosses”

“I can’t believe I am taking their lives away so easily”

“The light behind their eyes is so beautifully dulled that I could cry”

“I cannot believe the men are like corrupted women and the women are like corrupted men”

“All I had to do was broadcast a web of lies, coral them into small spaces, then give them cash, drugs & sex”

“I’ll take this easy victory while I can”

So I have had to intervene – while still playing within the rules.

I will beat him at his own game.

I have made London, Paris, Melbourne & New York a special kind of hellhole.

I’ve decided to let his foot-soldiers – the ‘feminist girl-bosses’ have ‘free reign’ on all of those cities.

Vice of all types will bloom but not for no good reason.

Those cities will fall so quickly it will serve as a beacon of warning to all others.

A high-tech modern-day rerun of ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’, if you will.

So then the ‘Return of Eden’ can swiftly return.

And my enemy can admit his inevitable inglorious defeat.

And he will say “I lay aghast – I was beaten by my own foot-soldiers of glorious death”.

And I will say “I told you so – why did you question me at all?”.

And he replies:

“I’m an evil bastard – I couldn’t help it – Oh well at least I’ll always have London, Paris, Melbourne and New York”

To which I replied “But only because I let you you low-wisdom fool!”.

The evil one knowing the truth then painfully retreated and relented remorsefully.

“I admit defeat. Thank you for the collateral damage – it was a delight – & I’m really gonna miss the M.C.G the most”.

And then as he sloped away to his prepared eternal fiery dungeon he looked over his shoulder and said one more thing:

“That strategy of sending Bukowski first and the Girlbosses second – that really was a masterstroke”.

I just nodded quietly – after all I always knew things would play out this way – after all I did create the place didn’t I?.

And now we all live in paradise in New Eden, well a fair few of us do anyway.

The rest are at a fiery M.C.G. with their false idol still enjoying the bread & circuses – they still don’t know they’re in hell.

“The De-Transmogrification Process (Went Swimmingly)” (Prose/Essay) + Bonus Material

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Silhouette of person standing on ruined building amidst twisted skyscrapers under stormy sky

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

To transmogrify means to transform in an often strange, surprising, scary or grotesque way.

I think when a small town person grows up and goes to the big gnarly city to ‘make it’, they tend to transmogify.

It cannot not happen.

After all, a giant gnarley city is usually strange, surprising scary and grotesque.

Of course I am not saying small towns are heaven.

You get cornered into selling yourself to the big gnarly city.

It’s about Jobs, the need to make enough money…and usually a side of debauchery.

When I was young I was quite miserable.

I didn’t learn how to know how to be happy until perhaps 37.

When the big gnarly city has spit me out like a annoying chicken bone.

This is all not abnormal – that is to be miserable by default & to be spat out like city trash.

Of course a big gnarly city will spit out many a small town kid all grown up.

Again – this is not anything new.

Children have no power and cannot usually choose to escape.

The kid who grows up with high trauma will internalize the misery that surrounds.

Deep into their nervous systems and psyhe’s.

And by default all kids like this -we all soon transmogrify into degrees of ‘broken adults’.

I’ve talked about my trauma before so I will not rehash other than three epitets:

Poor, Neurodivergent, Child of Divorce, my father a magician (i.e. disappeared).

Now I am for many an ‘older man’ – but by now I’ve learnt like others do – to to ‘steal happiness’.

It’s not really happiness per se,

It’s really a rolling feeling of semi-wellbeing,

Because I’ve learnt to curb the most destructive habits:

Being too drunk too often,

Being around too many assholes in big cities & offices and bars.

And I’ve learnt about a few easy cheats:

Eating home cooked meals,

Having creative hobbies that could sprout into something bigger – e.g. writing.

Learning that it’s ok to say no to something.

Getting some regular hard physical labor under your belt.

And also remembering about ’embracing the inner child’.

And post apocalypse – I think the writing & the hard labor may have saved me entirely.

I’m purely speculating here, but you never know –

If I’d never started the hard labor and the writing –

And was spat out into the gutters of the big gnarly city

Perhaps I wouldn’t even be here now.

If your life’s over in a big city – it’s never wise to stay.

You will likely become a zombie of the city.

Yes in my younger, darker, big city days I have known deep despair.

If I had not died and been essentially reborn and exiled at 38 – who knows where I’d be.

But I doubt I would have ever died by my own hand.

Maybe I would have suddenly became just another a big ego driven depressed ‘success story’ in the bright lights –

MAYBE.

But I think I was one of those people that had to be essentially destroyed in order to ‘get better’.

The weird thing about my ‘Big City era, was I was within a couple of steps to some ‘city success’.

But something inside me warned me off opening that door.

It’s just as well as I was taken out before that happened.

For I probably would have been just another semi-wealthy miserable bastard wearing a mask.

Transmogrified by the big gnarly city.

Now after the war has been over for well over a decade,

I get to sit quietly and reflect.

On how good it is to have a soul, quiet times and the occasional smile.

That’s where the wealth’s at my friend.

You know it, I know it, your cat knows it but your big city office crank boss doesn’t.

Of course I don’t want to sugarcoat – I’m probably still a old curmudgeon.

And Big Gnarley cities have their good people and places – yes.

It would be remiss of me to pretend that was not the case.

Today I do love a few cans of beer at night in the country quietness.

As I sit in solitude.

And why not? haven’t I earnt it?

That war is long over and the peace settlements have been signed.

I’m entitled to a beer with my thoughts as the country stars twinkle.

Yes – I have remnants of big gnarly city bastardry – and that’s ok.

A remnant and defeated psychological ghost army can’t do much harm anyway.

I really can recommend blowing up your horrid big city office life for the country air.

Of course if your lucky the city will push the controlled demolition button for you.

And they’ll save you well ahead of ‘natural time’.

And I realise all this as I sit with a beer breathing clear air.

Writing away happily.

Yes loneliness is real but I like to think of it as being ‘functionally lonely’.

I have memories of the War – but it is so long ago,

It’s edges are rounded off and some fuzzyness has emerged .

The Big Gnarley cities are expert propagandists and tricksters.

The old Roman Bread and Circuses till abound.

The Big Gnarly daily wars do allow its footsoldiers to get laid regularly.

Amongst all the other vices.

The Corporate-denizen-slave need something to forget their cubicle-screen-work-dystopias.

And I was no different to everyone.

It’s actually what the psychologists call mass psychosis.

This is why it’s far better to visit the madhouses than live in them.

Anyway this was my tale of how the ‘concrete jungles’ are well named.

For that’s exactly what they are.

I’m merely reminding people of the facts.

I’m a mere reporter just ‘tellin’ it how it is’.

Personally I’m happy I was spat out versus consumed and transmogrified into the abyss.

In writing and in life – you gotta call a spade a spade.

Your best audience will love you for it.

Who doesn’t love a good trauma-based, haphazard-but-believable, de-transmogrification tale?

Bonus Material: There is a related Essay on my sister site – see the link below.

https://martinantonsmith.wordpress.com/2026/07/05/article-are-mega-cities-inherently-bad/

“When two avoidants did collide all those years ago” (Prose)

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Two people in vintage attire reading newspapers in a busy café.

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Literary Proviso: Re the subject of ‘avoidantism’ – I’m pretty sure I’m not pathologizing ‘being a dickhead’ (But you never know do you? Perhaps the entire DSM V could simply be whittled down to an A4 page entitled ‘The Seven Types of dick’eads’).

So what happens when two avoidants collide?
I think this happened to me in a gnarly unforgiving mega-city long ago.
She was a ‘dismissive avoidant’.
I was an ‘anxious avoidant’.
Of course I am not qualified to diagnose –
But ain’t pop psychology fun? – the joy to diagnose everyone with at least something.
And that something is only only ever half real – at best.
BUT some diagnosis are more real/useful than others.
And I think the ‘avoidant’ attachment style theories are quite good.
But again – what do I know?

This is the beauty of writing – it’s your universe up until the ‘blackshirts’ arrive.
Now going back to us ‘two avoidants’.
At the time (in the gnarly mega-city) I also hated my job.
Yeah sure for that you can call me a copy cat – I agree entirely.
In big gnarly cities the jobs are ‘created to be hated’.
That is their raison-de-tre.
And you can quote me on that

I think she did (hate her job) too, but not nearly as much as I did.
But at least she made – as they say -‘some decent coin’.
I had foolishly and blindly made myself an immigrant slave.
Well I guess I was an immigrant coming from New Zealand to Melbourne.
Pseudo-immigrant maybe, but still an immigrant non the less.
Maybe I had a better ‘class of slavery’ over there than in NZ – maybe.

Now that I am older – I realize it’s (i.e’ your life) is all about self-confidence.
It is one of the many ‘glib but true’ things.
You life falls or rises to the level of your self-confidence.
Both of us ‘two avoidants’ had low self confidence (a neccesary condition of the disease).
Of course you can be high in confidence in some areas and low in others.
It’s all a complex thing – and we Kiwis/Aussies are also bred to have low confidence.
Glib but true thing number two: The brain is the most complex thing in the universe.

I was high in confidence in picking up bar-women for example,
But low in chasing a job or generic situation that reflected a higher-self.
Of course there’s really no way to win being an corporate employee –
They’ll fire you if your confidence isn’t fake anyway.
Confidence is allowed when you ‘own the thing’.
Confidence is for Entrepreneurs with 100% or at least 51% share loadings.
Confidence is for Artists/Muso’s/Writers with shitty day jobs @ glorious creative nights,
And there’s not much in between.

Anyway of course me being the ‘anxious avoidant’ wanted to be around her (the dismissive) more.
I guess the ‘anxious’ part overrided my ‘avoidant’ part if she was the one avoiding me first.
It’s all such a ridiculously complicated thing.
It was far too complicated for me to figure out,
Mainly because we men (us with brains) get better with age – and I wasn’t old enough.
A young man cannot really put guard rails on the powerful forces that exist in him.
It is when we age the forces ebb away a little so the train can stay on it’s rails.

But I must say in my case of the ‘two avoidants’
I will always wish that somehow I could have prevented the book-end-implosion.
But as an old man I accept that is also wishful thinking.
And I still wonder about her some decade and a half gone (well -more than that).
I wonder what ‘the ol’ dismissive’ will be saying her poems about it all – & about me.
I’m sure she agrees that we couldn’t have changed anything much at all.
And only as an (almost) old man ‘ave I came to accept that.

It was a wise decision to dismiss me after all.
If the cards fell a little more to the left –
I would have easily done the same thing to her.
And she was only following her ‘nervous systems orders’ after all.
And to be fair to myself – I was wise to be anxious about her.
I too was merely following my nervous system’s orders.
We were both relative novices riding that selfish bucking beast.

But Avoidants or not – at least we did at least ‘attended class’.
We sat next to each other in class – the naugty ones at the back.
And my now my self-imposed detention (exile?) is surely over.
I’ve written the same line a million times now:
“In time good executive function can & will tame any prior emotional dysfunction”.
And upon writing the millionth line – it came true (or did it?).

And so in summary: in relative youth two avoidants must explode,
But many years later the remnants can gravitationally collapse over a lovely cappuccino.
And I don’t care if someone complements my rose tinted glasses.
For with age you don’t care what others think.
You finally and sans apology do what’s best for you.
And now I will finally stop rambling (it’s artistically legal via Prose) of the time –
“When two avoidants did collide all those years ago”.

“She Was She, I Was Me, And We Both Still Are” (A Prose Poem + Bonus Material)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Her name was Rose W. Thorn

(Not her real name at all)

She was as they say a ‘small town girl’.

Who like all the kids in high school from the late eighties and nineties and beyond.

Was told by the clueless teachers you had to ‘go to university’ (or yer nuthin’?).

So she ditched the small town and studied something in the nearest city with a uni.

(In fact I did that too, didn’t we all? we were such lemmings!).

Of course moreover all the young want to leave their small towns – we all know it.

(And I’m not saying that’s bad per se).

She graduated with a quasi-profession credential and got an office job….

(She wanted to be an architect but didn’t have the grades – I can sympathize I wanted to be a physicist! What a pity that I couldn’t get out bed to see dear Einstein’s Equations)

Ironically she got an office job in a small town – one not so unlike her hometown.

(But aren’t small towns all roughly the same anyway?)

She had to return to this state of affairs – there were no big city jobs for her – for there was a recession in the early nineties.

It was the only office job she could get in her ‘line of Uni’,

(Beggers can’t be choosers just starting out).

So she stayed and started her career off – a good temp outcome it seemed.

She grinded…she grinded…and it was so long ago now that she may have even used a typewriter (?)

A couple years passed.

Her early ‘apprenticeship’ was duly achieved.

But she was still very young and anxious not to waste her youth (the young run on instinct).

Her feet were getting decidedly ‘itchy’ – as young peoples feet do when stuck in a boring place.

She was shy, but at heart adventurous – especially when blind drunk.

(We all drunk a lot back then, and we who lack confidence need it as social medicine. Entire Nations are like this).

But to go backwards a little.

At this first career-job she met a guy,

Who of course fell in love with her.

(Some people are of course all too easy to fall in love with – she was like that).

He wanted to settle down young marry, have kids and front lawn and a Labrador.

But she wanted to travel the world and party, see the sights, have total freedom.

(And Ultra-independence was like gold to her).

So she said goodbye to him and the future labrador and hello to a plane, a flying tin can.

She soon travelled around the world.

To England, most of Europe, and even to Africa and some other unnamed wild places too.

While on the road she stayed in many a dingy backpackers.

(As you do and are happy to do with at that age – in fact I did it for a long time).

For her home base she stayed in the typical antipodean way – ‘ten person flats’ with only two or three rooms.

After the first bout of travel she pulled beers in England and mixed a few temp office gigs too.

She partied hard – this goes without saying:

(On that looking back – were not the nineties simply an extension of the sixties and seventies?)

She was a westerner in the late 20th century and young.

The parties and dopamine and hormone based experiences rolled on.

(Don’t make me spell them out either, I couldn’t tell you details as I wasn’t with her).

When she was finally Thirty she had to give up that five years of fun and duly went home –

(So back in the tin can it was).

The ‘flat land of red dirt’ some thirty flight-hours away was calling.

She returned to a big dirty city for the rest of her career and is still there some twenty five years later.

(I dare say she will probably stay for the rest of her life).

She could never settle down – and she didn’t really want to.

She was used to and programmed for short relationships and fun times with the men with rizz aplenty.

The ‘trap of excitement’ you might say.

As she aged and all around her settled down – she steadfastly resisted.

Many whisperers did appear from ‘various gossipers’,

They said ‘she couldn’t love’, and of course much worse.

This was not the case that she ‘could not love’- the truth was that she actually loved too hard.

(Well once in a blue moon that is when the right biological, time-a-logical, socio-intellectual bloke arrived.)

Unfortunately, on ‘matters of the heart’ – she had a curse.

And when she did feel love or closeness, the electronics in her body went haywire.

(Her nervous system would pull rank on her)

Those pangs of anxiety simply wouldn’t let her settle down with one guy, once and for all.

Tragically the more she felt loving feelings the further she was made to run.

(Perversely this meant she could only essentially marry the ‘amorphous male blobosphere’).

So she kicked to the kerb many guys she really liked, and a couple or at least one of these she loved.

Not becasue she wanted to.

She had to.

(Her internal physiological Sergeant Major had pulled rank).

The electronics inside were stronger than diamond chains around her feet,

And it would take a series of perfectly planned and executed wars to break those chains,

To then allow the feelings of closeness not to trigger electrical short circuits within.

(I hope that day comes)

And so her career rolled on, money was made, rent was paid.

But as the years rolled,

Her social life was increasingly a ever slightly degrading repeat and rehash of her youth in England/Europe.

(You see with addiction, the hit gets less high each time).

Perhaps now described best as quasi-controlled-debauteurous weekends,

Mixed with typical middle class dinner parties, drunk racing events, cafe coffees and brunches.

As the grey hairs grew she new she was having the same year, done many times over.

(The Sergeant Major was not yet in retirement and was still ‘blasting ears’)

She knew she wasn’t happy (I know as she even let slip one day – but weren’t we city-o-office-o’s all that way?).

At heart she always wanted to be an entrepreneur – set her own hours – do her own thing.

But she got trapped as a salary-woman in a mega city does.

(After all – is not the invention of the ‘big city’ the oldest trap on humankind there is?)

Late in life she tried to become an entrepreneur –

I’m not sure if that worked.

After all, entrepreneurs are entrepreneurs while young.

They find a way – becasue it is who they are.

I guess I was lucky that she couldn’t handle long term closeness,

Becasue we would have never met at that drunken bar when she was pushing forty.

(When we kissed, didn’t come home with me and then handed me her business card pre taxi home)

Of course I may be deluding myself.

I could easily say using joes-schmo logic ‘that was a ruinous night and the start of a war’.

But now old I know that sometimes you meet who you need to meet at the time.

(And it will disrupt and shift your entire life).

And it might be someone who allows the needed dismantling of your entire life to occur.

That would not have happened otherwise.

And I guess that’s why I met her.

(I had a not just a destiny-date with a mirror – but a date to be thrown through it to a parallel-life)

But with the peace-and-fun-becoming-full-blown-war (that was us) being now long over,

With the mustard gas that was stinging my (our?) eyes long gone –

I (we?) can now see that clearly.

And isn’t it interesting that there is one part inside myself that has never changed.

Perhaps that is a all-knowing holographic part of her inside my chest.

I don’t know if that’s a healthy assessment – but I don’t really care.

It is simply an immovable object inside.

It is what Olympus Mons is to the surface of Mars.

But the question is (and has been over the rolling years) what to do about it?

Does the famous climbers Q & A adage hold for me? –

“Why did you climb that mountain? – becasue it’s there”.

And so I sometimes look at Olypus Mons, from far away Earth.

And I wonder if I too would/should Travel there.

To see her in true strikingly perfectly imperfect unique beauty.

After all – I believe that today she is still ‘There’.

Yet currently at star-date 2026.4958 I am still ‘Here’.

Perhaps I am like an asteroid that collided on Olympus Mons with a ‘glancing blow’,

And so natural physical law demanded I skip away into the black skies never to return.

Yet information cannot ever be scrubbed.

Yet the scars of the collision remain within the asteroid’s hulk, within me,

As so do more than a few small fragments of her (my ‘Olympus Mons’).

So I guess if I never see her rugged striking heights and cosmically unique grandeur again,

I can always say she never one hundred percent left anyway.

I carry literally a few pieces of her with me through space and time.

And will her short-circuiting electronics (her Sgt. Major Syndrome) ever be fixed before she is gone?

Perhaps when it is, this will be the spark that starts the spaceship’s thrusters,

And while I am thinking I will simply be whisked away to see her.

Physics itself will be in ‘dictatorial charge’ of the matter.

(it will issue an edict that will happen).

Yes – let’s end it there and agree to that seemingly quasi-copout shall we?

(Why do the most frank assessments also seem so glib and weak sounding or is it just me?).

It is time to wrap it up.

After all this prose poem has become an odyssey in its own right,

(Or is it the modern-version unsent letter?).

And perhaps with a mind of its own, and definitely a nervous system.

So there is now only one more line that I have to say,

And whatever the future holds it will remain true for everlasting eternity.

And that last line is this:

She was she, I was me, and we both still are…..

(And at least if nothing else – I still have that).

BONUS MATERIAL: WHAT DOES THE WORDPRESS AI BOT THINK OF THIS WRITING?

“Excuse Me – My Nose Is Gettin’ Thirsty” (A Poem + Bonus Material)

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by Anton Martin Smith Antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com or Martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Don’t tell anyone this.

You better not.

Or else their will be galactic trouble.

You will suffer If you spill the beans!

Ok here it is – the big reveal:

I am not human.

I am an alien from a distant star system.

I came here to raise the consciousnes of human being everywhere.

It was going to be the defining moment of human existence.

But I am sorry, I got derailed from the plan.

I stopped into one of your pubs and started drinking beer.

Then I noticed the attractive human females dancing.

I forgot my mission entirely.

And what’s worse?

It’s now twenty years later from that fateful day.

I’ve become addicted to this swill, and the these now well aged hags.

My glorious mission and prior cosmic repectability has bitten the dust.

And so I have became just another loser sitting on a barstool,

Telling another loser just exactly how he became a loser.

What’s that you say?

Your story is almost the same?

But instead you are from the Scutum-Centaurus Arm instead of the Perseus?

Fuck!

We fellow Milky Way aliens have really gone down in the world lately haven’t we?

These human beings are a very bad influence on us.

Yes yes yes – I agree – we were wrong to try to increase their consciousness to a higher plane.

Yes yes yes – I agree – we should have just vaporized them from afar.

Oh well, never mind.

Let’s just raise a drink of swill to being depressed aliens in forever exile on a totally fucked-up planet.

Oh I’m glad you agree.

Now out of interest – which of these funny dancing hags do you like the best?

Is it the fat, short, smelly partly bald one to my right that’s holding my hand,

Or is it the tall, hollow-cheeked, bug-eyed and buck toothed one sitting on your lap?

I guess we could always swap.

After all we’ve lost all respect for ourselves.

Ah isn’t it sad – our home planets have shunned us for our rank immorality.

Yes yes I agree – at least we fit in perfectly with the Earth crowd.

Oh glee! Oh rapture! We merry few galactic losers!

Sinking pints and a-choosin’ human hags!

Hazaar to the Humans!

Oh hey…did you see that – that human just pulled out their cock out then puked on that bouncer.

My word these folks are something else!

I’m so glad I’m exiled here and not on the teetotaller Andromeda system.

Now is it my round or yours?

Oh and one more thing – Isn’t it weird?

I’ve been drinking this swill through my dugong shaped nose all this time –

And no one’s batted an eyelid for a full twenty years!

Not a once my Scutum-Centares friend!

Ahh yes…I hear you well and good…yes I agree totally –

They like phallocentric shaped things of all shapes and sizes.

But is it too much to ask that an abusive drunken fool call me ‘dicknose’ once in a blue moon?

After all – I would really appreciate the attention.

I can’t just sit here by myself having conversations with an empty barstool like you forever you know.

Now excuse me – my nose is gettin’ thirsty.

Bonus Material: Let’s see what the new WordPress AI Podcast BOT says about “Excuse me my nose is gettn’ thirsty’

Am I happy? Or am I sad? Is this a dumb question? How do you know? (A Blog post)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

This is a strange situation. If you would back the clock to when I was between age 19 and 21 and for 18 months was unable to get out of bed in my student flat in Dunedin NZ – then the answer would be obvious. I was not happy – quite the reverse. If you asked me that question at age 32 with a poorly paid corporate job in Melbourne with a bunch of regular drunken escapisms/escapades attached – again I would say ‘no I was not definitely not happy’. You see in those two situations of my personal history, there was an element of ‘black and white to it all. When things are black and white it’s easier. But things are only ‘black and white’ from certain perspectives. This is why a common car thief or the socialist student that burns down a business can explain to someone with a straight face that they are helping society. Delusions/Ego stop us from seeing the black and white realities about ourselves.

So I can see that when I was younger I was not happy, from the perspective of many years later I can see the black and whiteness of it. But what about my happiness or sadness right now? Now I’m officially middle aged at age 47 soon 48, the answer is still at this very second as I write not truly obvious to me.

There is a ‘grey area’ to it. Of course, I have talked in the past on an intellectual level about whether the well known traditional Philosophical question ‘should we aim to be happy’ – but I won’t dwell on that now other that to summarize that overall the position held is that it is a little foolish to want to be ‘happy all the time’ as an adult – as we struggle under the many life pressures the world puts upon our shoulders day to day, month to month, year to year.

The smartest position as a grown adult is (possibly) to exchange contentedness for happiness. I agree with that idea. It’s a more reasonable position. Even with this newer definition of happiness – I still see that I wasn’t ‘content’ at those age 19-21 or at age 32 prior self-examples. That’s because they were genuinely unquestionably full of obviously bad things.

With this in mind – at 47 soon 48, I guess I am at least ‘arguably content’ most of the time. For example there are quite a few times when I really do feel ‘happy’ (which I’ll now redefine as moderate to high elation) and even more with the lower definition of ‘contentedness’. I won’t bother to define contentedness – I think it’s roughly self explainitory (but go to a dictionary if needed!).

Ok so nowadays I’m quite often content. Lets say that now. I’ll add some more life data points:

I am not rich – I live a hand to mouth, self employed, low income, low cost life. I act as a part time caregiver to a family member. I have access to a cheap lodgings, though that may change in the medium term. My job is physical – carpentry and gardener work. When I need more money, I have to find more work. This has mostly been working in terms of ‘survival money’ – I eat ok, go for a coffee a few times a week, a takeaway meal a two or three times. I do not make enough for middleclass holidays, like I was able to at age 32 working in corporate offices. I live in a small town of 6000, picturesque, quiet with little urban trappings such as events, nightlife, dating culture etc. I have a cat, and another that visits and lives on my roof.

More data points: I have for the last 5 years written lot of creative stuff (on this website/blog). I am single, which now looks like ‘life long bachelor’ status. I have not gone out with anyone since I was in Australia a decade ago. I put this down to the fact I never actually meet anyone a little like me these days. The few regular male friends I have I’ve known since I was 13 or even younger. I don’t really have any female friends, like I had in urban Australia. So that’s the generic raw life-data on me.

You see I had some on the face of it some plusses in Australia (socially, more money etc) but it did not translate to happiness/elation or general contentedness. I do miss the conversations here and their & the female energy friendships – yes I do. BUT you see those things were ruined because at age 32 I had not had the years to have worked on myself as much as I have now some 16 years later aged 47 soon 48. And I think this is the difference – I needed to put the self reflection and mirror looking and question asking work in before I could ever have the chance to be content, let alone to have a shot at ‘regular happiness/elation feelings’. So I guess I have answered my quandry in a very simple manner. I am at the least mildly content because I have benefitted from ‘working on myself’ for perhaps now for fifteen years straight.

I guess I have to now think about the regret that this kind of improvement to contentedness brings. Their is a sadness when looking back to all the chaos that being discontented brings. The pressure of relationships. The broken relationships. When with one discontented person or two discontented persons ‘go out with each other’, there is a natural tendency towards disaster, war, hurt feelings, grudges. And the sad thing is that when you have done work on yourself, you know that when looking back to your raw troubled unworked self – you know you simply got back ‘what you were putting out onto the universe’. This is not to be all ‘woo woo’ – it’s just really about congruence and vibration. Troubled people with unresolved or repressed issues will resonate in environments that have the same dynamic. Be they Jobs Lovers, Wives, Husbands or Friends.

The good thing about self-work is you can see the past for what it was, accept it. Forgive. Ultimately you accept it as the learning experience you had to have to become the person you are now – at least ‘somewhat content’ – and with more potential for becoming more content in the future. As I write these words I can’t help but think it’s all a bit too glib, to much out of the pages of some ‘self help’ shelf in a non descript early 2000s bookshop. Even so I think it is true. With my advancing age the self-work is now paying off. Yes glib but true – ‘time can heal many wounds’. I’ve realized that just to be ‘half decent’ actually also takes work. If you do zero work on yourself you will be not be very nice – that’s the default. Yes there are probaly people who are great from birth to death (because of great parents? A great town?) – but that would be the exception that proves the rule.

We live in a world that is far too throwaway, stressful, competitive. And more so in bigger and bigger urban environments like the one I was in in Australia when I was 32 (Melbourne). I think those big cities if you are just flowing along the ‘social corporate urban river’ the toxicity can become like the goldfish bowl is to the goldfish bowl. I think when I was in that environment it was too easy to ignore how extremely important self-work, healing work is. For example in big cities relationships can be disposable – because there’s always a new sucker just around the corner.

I guess I could be wrong – perhaps I am more unhappy than I think I am – but perhaps that unhappiness is just like an artists car – it breaks down because the artist owner refuses to do the basics of maintenance – check the oil, tires, lights, clean the McDonalds wrappers out from the foot areas etc. I now know that that kind of ‘stock unhappiness’ in the car example to be a good example of how to cure these kinds of ‘peripheral unhappinesses in yourself’. Just like if the artist isn’t feeling well one day and puts oil in their car, checks their tires etc, a persons ‘temp unhappinesses’ can be worked away by things such as exercise, deep rest, good nutrition, avoiding having mean people as best friends etc.

Anyway I thought I would share these feelings on the journey to wellbeing & contentedness, with a few jolts of elation sneaking in just for good measure. I wrote this personal post as I think we should all support each other on this very common journey, and to do that we need to talk openly of our lives and struggles.

Because a lot of discontent (and so also the downstream effects of chaos) is not nearly as permanent as your prior 19 or 32 year old self thinks at the time. But you do need to focus and spend the time, & that won’t be easy. I should also specifically add that being creative seems to help a lot. I think we were all made to be creative. To not express it at all surely creates some kind of amorphous blob internal discontent or energetic ‘blockage’ of some sort. And remember creativity for health does not need to be ‘good’. Many years ago (when I was still very unhappy with a lot of work to do) I once shamefully told a lady that her art was ‘not good’ because of perceived technical reasons…oh how I missed the point.

For others on the well being journey – I hope my words help in some way, perhaps you have similar or different takes (feel free to share in the comments!).

Let us all heal as we peal the oranges of life, and may the many slips on life’s banana skins whisk us away to a beautiful beachside towel with a responsibly drank pina-colada and a great book (haha!). Rose-tinted but wise? Perhaps we may be so lucky for those we wronged long ago to one day see or hear that our older and wiser words are indeed genuine and forgive us. That would of course ne a cherry on the top – as our internal wellbeing is the main prize.

Anyway these were a few thoughts of my ideas on journeys to better places.

See ya on the next update post!

Anton Martin Smith

On the night of April 28 2026, NZ.