Tag: New Zealand

“Soulful Self Expression Or The Existential Ramblings Of A Lonely Kiwi Man? – Part 2” (A Blog Post).

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Part 2 (If you haven’t read Part, 1 click link below):

https://antonmartinsmith.com/2026/01/17/soulful-self-expression-or-the-existential-ramblings-of-a-lonely-kiwi-man-a-blog-post/ )

……….

Back to things ‘New Zealand’. Of course there is a new different form of isolation – of ‘small town New Zealand’, being over thirty, and being unmarried, single and over forty, over 50, over 60 etc. Yes, I admit the ‘peacefulness of New Zealand’ is written into the fabric of this place. I don’t deny that. It’s an amazing thing in itself. But the added social isolation is a construction of the people who came here and the people still here now. The social isolation situation is constructed actively that have been here (i.e. After an arduous three month journey landed and dis-embarked off that boat out of Britain & then settled).

The ‘isolation culture’ has been managed and reproduced to the next generation since NZ became a colonial outpost circa Eighteen-Thirty. My current favourite theory as to why isolation is so entrenched here is that we never got over the wild chaotic pioneering beginnings of things. When there was too much hard work ahead of us to build literally everthing; almost no ‘civilizing’ females here only en-roughened violent and bad tempered men; Law and order was patchy to non existent at best. In those conditions in colonial NZ, it was wise to not trust anyone, given anyone you randomly met was probably some rogue drunk and violent male, most probably a cast-off from eighteenth-century Dickensian London, quite ready to rob, beat or maybe even kill you. The entrenched isolation is perhaps proof it’s all too early in ‘cultural-time’ to expect otherwise.

The theory is surely half right – how could it not be? after all – ‘facts are facts’ as they say. Sadly, I also think we as New Zealanders don’t know ourselves well enough to be able to fight the unnecessary ongoing culture of isolating patterns of behavior. It’s almost as if after saying ‘no we are not British we are now New Zealanders’ we have embraced a void – we have something we are not (British) don’t have something we are. Of course anyone with brains knows it is folly to pretend we ex colonials are not still ethno-culturally British/European – even though the white liberals love to pretend they can.

But I believe agency exists, at least in part (this is a big topic in Philosophy). In NZ People allow themselves to be too reticent, too co-dependent with their spouses, too suspicious of ‘others’, never backing themselves to get out of their rut, always worried what people will think of them of they dare put their head above the pulpit. That is why despite the ever-piling-up evidence (e.g. poor mental health) to the contrary, we still pretend ‘everything is ok’ and that we are just people who like to “chill out”. I believe ‘Chilling out’ to much has killed more people than all the guns, at least in terms of a very real ‘mental death’ – for just look around – you can be ‘walking dead’ with ‘the lights on with no one home, long before physical death.

I can only hope this self-deception in NZ can end one day (and also everywhere else). I mean if what I say is not true, then why is our social society and economy so full of cavernous fractures? For a people who are happily ‘chilling out’ there seem to be hell of a lot of mental meltdowns, early deaths, murders, assaults, poverty, homelessness, depression etc.

I am like any adult. Sometimes I wonder whether I am ‘really happy’ or ‘really sad’, or somewhere in between the extremes – just ‘sad’ or ‘sad-ish’ or ‘happy’ or ‘partially happy’ etc etc. But now with age and experience I realise that’s a ‘silly modern question’. No one asked that kind of question until about one hundred years ago. When the medico-psych industry realized if they could male everyone think they were sick because they weren’t ‘skip through the tulips happy’; when the advertisers realized it was better to make people think they were sad in order to sell the (faux) ‘materialistic’ solution – a new fridge, radio, house, table etc. A great scam – you could fleece everyone. So since we can agree ‘true happiness’ is a modern fraud then the real question is one of contentedness.

Under that theory we should be asking ourselves ‘are we content?’. To be reasonably content would mean we are conventionally ‘happy’. I guess I roughly have that to a degree nowadays. But I also have a nagging feeling that I’m supposed to actually be living some other life, in some other location, making people go ‘wow that’s cool what you just did – tell me more’. I wonder if thoughts like this are a ‘remnant hangover’ from the NZ brand of socio-cultural ‘bad-programming’ I’ve been subjected to over my lifespan as a resident New Zealander (?).

Perhaps it is Edward Bernays’s fault. If you don’t know – Edward Bernays was marketing genius of around one hundred years ago. Bernays was the pioneering propaganda guru who realized you have to manufacture wants in peoples minds, not just wait for them to tell you they want something – and if you do that trick you can’t get ridiculously wealthy and influential. With Bernays era it is the programming of ‘you must be unhappy so buy this flash car you can’t afford’. That crap has immersed us thanks to modern tech where media is blaring at you everywhere, and it’s now in our pockets.

Or as Karl Pilkington said without knowing any of that theoretical stuff at all – “everyone has a ‘worry hole’ that has to be filled” (I paraphrase). It aligns with the manufactured wants Bernays thesis. For it doesn’t matter how rich or poor you are – the ‘worry hole’ is there & must always be filled by things you cant ever get to. The Pilkington ‘worry hole’ is proof the Bernays system has truly worked on everyone. The fact you feel empty for no reason is proof the ‘Bernaysian’ brainwashing has worked and is still working on a deep psychological-societal level.

It has been proved that Multi-Millionaires and even Billionaires do worry a lot (a hell of a lot), despite their big material comforts. It is more than just ‘Bernaysian programming’ (the maxim of ‘one variable can’t ever explain everything’ is true). Over and above what has happened in the last couple of hundred years, we do seem hardwired to worry. The evolutionists say that it made far more sense to jump first and think later, least a sabre tooth tiger eat you while you were thinking whether to jump or not. This is also very true. The logic is good. Darwin and later (his promoter) Herbert Spenser had a good point there.

Anyway, thoughts of wellbeing are very interesting. Perhaps if my parents had not been divorced & I had grown up like ‘The Waltons’ (for those under 40 that was a cheesy 1950s falsely perfect American TV family) and not grown up in a recession ravaged small NZ town in the Nineteen-Nineties.

I’m just talking out loud here, being less intellectual for a moment. Wondering about your own ‘Wellbeing’ is a bit like getting into Ufology – no matter how many Alien/UFO podcasts you watch – you’ll never know more than you started, you will never know if ‘they walk among us’ or if Roswell was true, if their really are Aliens seeded through the Universe. Perhaps that’s why no one in the old days even thought too much of ‘Wellbeing, Self-Help & Happiness’. They just worked, got married, had kids and some were (born?) lucky enough to earn more than their neighbor who wore rags for clothes.

Anyway these are all nice philosophical musings. And perhaps I am just indulging in a educated-middleclass traditional hobby – doing what ‘the chattering classes’ do. I don’t really have the answer. I guess – practically speaking – it is best to worry about the day one day at a time. Someone born long ago with long hair and a robe said that a very long time ago in Roman held Israel. It’s hard to argue with the Christian maxim that each day has enough worries of it’s own.

On that measure, I had a good day today, and a good week. After all I did get a lot of real things done in the physical world (which is a bit of a hang out of mine these days). Maybe the best maxim really is ‘if in doubt don’t overthink more than what is in front of you’ – which is really just the Stoic (see Marcus Aurelius et al) version of the Christian maxim. Maybe if you do that maybe not much will go really bad.

The German Philosopher Schopenhauer (channeling the Stoics?) thought ‘happiness’ was stupid and contentedness was all you could have, and that came from the absence of bad outcomes, i.e. a negatively defined thing. He’s got a good point I think – though it is also worth mentioning that History has I think correctly adjudged the German Philosophers as being far to depressive.

I must say I feel much better now for writing this – for expressing myself as a unique individual. Not being a copy-cat. Writing helps. Why? Because have expressed myself as an individual. My soul likes it. And now that I travel down this fork in the road instead of the copy-cat other fork, I do get to do that a lot. That is a very real form of wealth. Maybe I’m secretly content. But will I allow myself to admit that? I am not so sure – it might not be a profitable use of my time & resources – according to a Bernaysian propagandist at least.

Perhaps these are all just the idle ramblings of a lonely kiwi middle aged man. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Where would we be without ramblings? I’ll take a side of ramblings with my main of lukewarm discontent any day of the week, all washed down with a mighty ice cold beer of course. Yes, for now we the plebs are still allowed beer. As the 80’s Batman of the DC comics would say at the end of the comic – this city is safe….but for how long…

‘Happy’ (content?) Saturday folks !

Anton M Smith

17 (& updated on the 18th) Jan 2026 (+ updated on Feb 10)

“Soulful Self Expression Or The Existential Ramblings Of A Lonely Kiwi Man? – Part 1 ” (A Blog Post).

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

So it is a summer Saturday in small town New Zealand. As usual nothing is happening. In NZ nothing much happens, especially if you are over thirty. While being under thirty their are low hanging fruit frivolities of student parties and easy drunkenness. But then after that era is over all social life is destroyed. The over thirties want to sit in their burrows with the co-dependent other and slowly mentally die. This to me just seems a fact.

Disclaimer: Of course – I know this is actually a worldwide phenomenon. New Zealand being an already long term socially and geographically isolated place, it acts merely an amplification of the general effect. A slide towards (techno) isolation. A canary in the coal mine, if you will.

Of course the ‘moneyed’ will always have their ‘dinner parties’ etc – so I’m not so much talking about them. I guess in a way this is a reason for me to hate them less – they know socializing is important. That is why they ‘force it’ like a job they have to attend, when they would rather sit on the couch. [Edit: I have, like all those who grew up poor been guilty of hating that nebulous blob ‘the rich’ I realize now that that is an affliction in itself For the ‘nebulous blob’ is at least half fictitious. It is perhaps poetically more of a haze that clings tightly to a wooded gorge, avoiding the city flats at all cost.

I shouldn’t hate the ‘moneyed’ as if that ‘nebulous blob’ is scientifically real – it’s probably a bad habit I can’t break. I know most of them – pretty much all the ones that are not mega mega rich – actually do work hard. They are not lying when they say that glibly. It’s just I can’t stand how they all sound like the exact same tape recording. That’s usually how they got their money – copying each other. I can see why they do it. I mean they don’t need to worry about being under a bridge catching fat moths to eat. And besides, their genus on the whole are the types that hate to read. Another reason why I don’t like them. That one is a good proper reason.

But I think they (the moneyed) minimize the down side to being so very much a copy-cat all the time. There’s a big price to pay with that psychologically. There’s a dissociative thing that happens. I believe deep down in every human there is a creative soul wanting to be heard. The moneyed don’t realise that this need cannot be willed away by hard work, fine things, weekends away or general copycat-ism. This is where the dissociative aspect enters. It is as if the moneyed middle-class-copy-cat types, all residing cloistered within their tight-knit social groups are all acting as the same character in the same play. They know something’s deeply wrong, but they dare not listen to their muffled souls voice crying out from the bowels of their hearts to them – for they fear if the listen the risk losing all their wealth, or half it or perhaps three quarters of it, and they feel to mention the lie would risk being ostracized, ridiculed, exiled. And of course they are right to fear this – that is what would happen. It takes courage to listen to that what speaks to you from the core of your ancient humanity – your caveman self? More so if you are at the lover levels of the ‘moneyed’ cults. And so the dissociation, the split occurs – the moneyed treat this via alcohol and or class A drugs, or sometimes a sport like golf or running etc.

More than a decade ago I used to work in the ‘Corporate world’ (it’s all in the name – they admit it’s not actually the ‘real world’ its a constructed one, a virtual one, with its own customs and laws). I was around these ‘middle class copy cat culture’ types – perhaps a third were the dissociative ‘moneyed’ types mentioned prior. I was about thirty when I realized I was facing a fork in the road: destroy my life as I know it or become like them (the moneyed), or at least a half-pie version of them. I chose to destroy my life as I knew it. Though it wasn’t really the executive functioning side of my brain making a considered logical choice. The decision came leak-wise and via stealth from my soul. I think it used its ‘veto power’. It issued a clandestine order:

You will self sabotage this life, you will torpedo it from afar.

That is what happened. It was a slow exit over perhaps two years. In the middle of my separation from my ‘rehashed middle class copy-cat life’ was a six month long international trip to three south Asian countries (Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam but it could have been anywhere really). At the time I thought that trip was happening to ‘revitalize’ me, whereby I would return to some kind of ‘copy-cat utopia’ back in the big rat race city I lived in (Melbourne, Australia). Of course my soul new that it was just stretching out the divorce from my former self. Not so much a closing of a chapter but a throwing away of the whole book. The mind trick self delusion of a ‘ nice reset via a international getaway’ was just my soul just making it sure the ‘book throwing’ could be made palatable.

That was more than a decade ago. After that trip my souls sneaky plan worked a treat. I couldn’t rehash that old life, even though I did try for a year afterwards. The attempt to re-copycat myself failed at every turn back in the copy-cat-haven-rat-race city. It all folded so beautifully (but yes, I thought it was a disaster at the time). No employer of copy-cats wanted a bar of me. They could smell I wanted out. So I never had a chance to get my old life back – I now know how lucky that was. Most copy cats die as copy cats, with ingrained downward trend faces and anti smiles, having not had a flicker of light in their eyes for decades.

My life is no longer a copy-cat thing at all. It’s quite original & creative, even if I do say so myself. But anyone with access to a computer can just read my stuff to see that I copy no one in my work. My life – It’s not perfect by any stretch. But I get by, & I no longer am strapped to a cubicle climbing the corporate ladder, dealing with passive aggressiveness, putting up with office politics, getting wildly underpaid. No longer saying copycat-culture empty platitudes about mortgages, marriages, 2.1 kids & career progression plans. That shit is all gone. After the fork in the road opened up to the new highway, I taught myself to ‘fish for my food’. I now source my own jobs out there that people need done in the physical world. When I need more money I work harder. When I have enough I ramp up my creativity. Am I living as the ancients did in a place of bounty? Probably not as that sounds far far to romanticized. Perhaps I am merely talking up some kind of ‘temporary gentile poverty in the New Zealand countryside’ moment-of-life I reside in. As always the truth is probably a mix of the two philosophical bookends.

End of Part 1….Part 2 is below

“Soulful Self Expression Or The Existential Ramblings Of A Lonely Kiwi Man? – Part 2” (A Blog Post).

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

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Politicians were too young,

Or too stupid,

Or too lacking in real life experience,

Or too Professorial,

Or too academic,

Or too Lawyerly,

Or in truth – they were all of the above.

High on bad Neoliberal theory.

The so called “Washington Consensus”.

The Corporate Raider Lobby got to them,

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

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

For the Anglo-American Wolf did cry:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Corporate Raiders took over,

Took over the minds of our oh so feeble Politicians.

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

They all said to us:

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

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

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

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

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

Yes! – We now have no bananas!

Well – none at affordable prices anyway.

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

For 41 consecutive mire-filled years.

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

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

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

In only Thirty-Nine short years.

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

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

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

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

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

And PS – we never got the Coke.

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

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Hi there all,

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


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

Yours

Martin A.Smith

“Weatherboards” (A Short Story)

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by Martin Anton Smith

My name is Bert Matinski. Everyone calls me Matinski – but not my wife, she calls me Bert. I really hate the name Bert. Growing up the name Bert caused me much strife in the schoolyard. It wasn’t a solid name Terry or a Billy or a Tom. Of course there was the Sesame St character called Bert. So as a kid – I took the heat. The most common taunt was “Where’s Ernie Bert?” Followed by loud guffaws.

The schoolyard jibes made me hate my name for life. Call me Bert now & I cringe. My wife knows this & plays on it. So, I cringe around my wife a lot – but not just because of that, she’s also as nutty as a fruitcake or a fruity as a nutbar – take your pick. Plato was a wise man to never get married. I’m not as smart as him.

I’m middle aged, mostly poor & jaded, but I get along in life. I get along because I read a lot, & I can also be sensible & practical. If you can be sensible & practical, & you can get out of bed – you have a good chance of surviving life.

Sure, it won’t necessarily be pretty, but you’ll survive. But holding this skill doesn’t mean people don’t make life annoying as heck. All people are annoying, it’s just a matter of degree. Life is defined by suffering. My wife makes my life harder – but at heart she’s only the garden variety screwed mid-level crazy neurotic drunk – I’ve learnt to survive her.

What’s that? My wife’s name? it’s Samantha. I call her Sam for short, like everyone else does. On this stock standard day, Sam was shouting at me at huge volumes. The spit was flying out of her mouth, & her breath stank. She was looking dishevelled. I kept telling her she needed to brush her teeth at least once a day, but she clung to her hippy carefree past & her melancholic ways.

I kept telling her that no one likes an aging smelly clueless hippie – especially a female one. The weird thing about my wife was she wasn’t actually chilled out like hippies were supposed to be. She’d henpeck me just like all other the other non-hippie westerner women have been brainwashed to do. But I knew it was just what they psyc’s call projection. The classic projector flings their shit onto others & then criticises them for being dirty.

let me tell ya – it’s not very nice seeing your troubled aging hippie wife scream at you day after days for the latest imagined drama – I can attest to that. It’s doubly worse when she smokes pot & drinks wine at the same time. The haranguing intensifies. Men don’t ever think they’ll end up henpecked – but they all do. This is why there are these smart creatures called lifelong bachelors. These types see the world for what it is & don’t allow themselves to be scammed.

Like clockwork Sam peppered me with her loud volleys of domestic flak attack. These usually were a laundry list of my personal failures & tasks not done.

“Bert you haven’t fucking cleaned the gutters yet” My wife screamed.

She takes a slug of her overpriced wine – straight from the bottle.

“Bert – why don’t we have that cute fucking Pekinese dog I’ve been wanting since 1991”

Then she takes a big toke of her spliff, simply reloading her bow with the next arrow.

“Bert you’re fucking lazy! We should have a better house than this dilapidated junk pit, for fucks sake Bert!”.

My general strategy was to ignore. I had even stopped the “yes dears” a decade ago. Of course some complaints hit the mark – stuff I’d procrastinated for years on.

“Bert you gotta go collect those fucking weatherboards – that fucking corner of the house is rotting to shit, has been for years! Man you’re an asshole Bert!”

She was right – I’d been a asshole on the Weatherboards. The rotten weatherboards. I had been working like a mule for decades in construction & had always been bad at doing up the house. They say the cobbler’s kids have the worst shoes – it’s the same kind of thing in the carpentry game. That’s my excuse & i think it sounds good.

Carpenters are usually great human beings who usually work too hard & put themselves & their dwellings last on the list. Hell, there was a reason Christ himself chose to be a Carpenter among all the other professions – Carpentry by its nature keeps you honest & real. I should mention Christ was also wise enough not to get married. Yep he could handle a lot – but probably not that.

Unfortunately like most men in the now feminised western world – Carpenters take the heat from their crabby out of control media indoctrinated ladies. Don’t get me wrong, there are some great Western women around, it’s just hard to find the ones smart enough to know that feminism was a scam.

A scam to make the households occupied with both sexes in them less happy, more pill popping, more drunken, more willing to kill themselves working, get into more debt, & generally consume a tonne of badly made shit that’s now made off shore. Intelligent western women know this is true. Less with it ones like my wife don’t. These of course are just the simple facts.

This Saturday & I’d just finished a big week, but Sam’s words hit the mark this time for some mysterious reason. I’d force myself to get the weatherboards & then quick-smart fix the corner of the house. I looked at my drunk pot hazed old brainwashed feminist hag of a wife with a broad smile. It was time to be sensible & practical. I gave her the good news.

“I’ll do it honey – I’ll fix those fucking weatherboards.” I said in a false sarcastic cheer. Sam was like an American – never understood sarcasm & so never saw or reacted to it.

She blew away the spliff generated smoke cloud & took a giant slug of her wine. She looked at me with great suspicious doubt, but then she shrieked with pleasure & a big smile broke out over her face. Her smile was what hooked me in all those years ago – it was now the one & only impressive thing about her. The b she snapped back into her habitual negativity.

“About fucking time Ber-Bert-Bert!” she howled. One Bert was never enough. She had to rub it in. But then she snapped back to a genuine glimmer of sunshine.

“Thank you, Bert honey! I knew you’d come good! Fuck this is why I married you ain’t it! You tend to come good in the end ….eventually“.

So, with the misunderstandings out of the way – I went about the task. I thought to myself Let’s get those fucking weatherboards & fix the fucking house a little. If I do that the nagging will reduce perhaps by seventeen to twenty one percent.

Why so precise you ask? Having been married to a predictable western feminist for thirty plus years, meant I had become a domestic version of what the share market analyst guys call a ‘quant’ – the point of difference is my quant was about the nature of feminists instead of the Dow Jones.

At heart it was the same skill set at play: I expertly knew how long a feminist inspired harangue would last, when it was overdue, when there had been a boom cycle in her nutty-ness & when this would suddenly turn into a ‘bear market’ cycle of low feminist-inspired hen-pecking activity. Like a day-trader, I knew what things relieved or worsened the ‘daily nag cycle’ & exactly by how much.

Using this “quant” knowledge I could use ‘timing the market’ to make sure the harangues were reduced & the happy times were amplified. I knew for example not to do good things at the ‘Bull Market’ harangue period – because she would be so irrationally negative, you’d never get any credit you were due.

The smart move was to do the good things on a ‘Bear Market’ for the feminist harangues – her anger was reducing every day towards a minimum, so they’d be those perfect few days where you’d get maximum credit for what you’d done, so each day it made sense to do a little more to make her happy.

This week was just like that. She was mothing off, but unlike a ‘Bull Run’ she wasn’t throwing plates at my head or not coming home for 3 days straight on a bender, or hanging out with old boyfriends at the pool parlour, or threatening divorce while holding a hatchet.

Sam’s divorce threats were always just idle threats – she knew without my sensibility & practicality she’d be in real trouble – then she’d have to face the real world. And we all know extreme feminism doesn’t do well in the real world – it’s parasitic. Deep down they all know this brute fact.

I shut the door quietly & left her to happily booze & smoke her spliff & listen to her weird Yoko-Ono ‘screaming only’ music, & then without fail she’d read page 1 of ‘The female eunuch by Germaine Greer for the billionth time before flaking out with her head in the book & hand still firmly gripping a half-drunk wine bottle.

I was now done with that crap & was on the sensible & practical job – “Project Weatherboards”. I hooked up the trailer, looked at a map of the seller’s address & high-tailed out of the joint. The half hour drive was full of greens & country views, with many fruit trees & the odd grass chewing cow by the roadside.

I arrived to the rendezvous point first – It was one of those fringe Christian churches – those weird batshit crazy offshoots of Christianity. The kind that preaches ninety-nine percent correctly but the remaining one percent is stuff like “Jesus came from the Pleiades & was an Alien being who didn’t like monogamy…that being said now give me all your wives”. Like all good scams they smuggle their deception among piles of professed truth & decency.

My rule for any organised body, including organised religion is this: If they are ultra secretive at the top & run a system where they ever can’t be audited – you know they are more likely to be doing the Devil’s work than God’s. There really are no exceptions. Whoever said ‘Power corrupts & absolute power corrupts absolutely’ was dead right.

No where was I? Oh yes, the weatherboards deal was going down. I had just left my one one-horse-town & was now going to a 0.1-horse-town. After the sweet country drive, I rolled my car into the rendezvous point – the front gravel carpark of the church. Seller Ben was nowhere to be seen. I could see that the goods were stacked there nicely. Beautiful long weatherboards.

I looked over the merchandise. It was mostly pretty good, but had some surface mould on some planks.

Great! I thought! The goods are imperfect – I can offer a lower price. I’ll just amplify the problems during the negotiation & then take a large but fair slice off the price. This is simply ‘wheeler & dealer 101’ tactics.

I semi-rehearsed my soon-to-be-said buyer to seller lines.

Then the other half of the deal arrived – Ben – he roared into the front yard & stopped like a hooligan, with a gravel scattering skid.

He sprung out of the car in a way that belied his old man exterior. He looked like a down-under Jack 1970’s Nicholson – meaning he was scruffier, less confidant & shiftier looking, & totally devoid of charm. Come to think of it – he was less like Jack Nicholson & more like Captain Mainwaring from ‘Dad’s Army’ – full of Bluster & no substance. At least, he had that air about him.

I got straight to the point, which when a deal is going down is a wise idea. Only a fool gets too pal-ie with the other side of a negotiation.

“Look Ben, there’s mould on the surface, so I’ll offer you $200 for all the Weatherboards”. To that he looked non-plussed & was stony faced. A man of his advanced years doesn’t take kindly to a younger man putting him on the back foot. Ben hadn’t come down in the last shower, that’s for sure.

“Hey we’re a non-profit” he bellowed speaking with his hands outstretched in sermon like fashion.

“All this money will go to charity”, he said cooly again. I had seen this low bellied trick before – I retorted with ease.

“Look fella, don’t pull that one – this is strictly a business deal, & besides I do charity in my spare time too!”.

Ben was again stoney faced. Feeling the pressure a little, I added another line.

“Look I do a lotta Carpentry, I gotta put an hour or two in to fix this stuff, alls I’m doing is accounting for that”.

Still Ben was stoney faced. I couldn’t help but sweat a little – after all if he called my bluff, I’d have wasted time & energy for nothing. Ben started his reply

“Hey Matinski…I do a lot of Carpentry too…look at the Church’s new weatherboards. He pointed at the Church. I’d looked great. “Hey look, it’s a good deal whatever the case, Matinski”.

He was right of course it was a good deal. We both knew that.

“It is a good deal Ben, but if I don’t spend an hour’s labour on all these weatherboards – that mould could get into the frames – I gotta take something off for the labour I gotta put in – so take it or leave it”.

I could see the old fella was a little taken aback at my assertiveness. I started to fear he’d call my bluff. I really wanted the merchandise, & obviously I didn’t want to show it. I waited for his response. The seconds again felt like minutes. This time the pause seemed almost Einsteinian.

Trading man to man like this is as old as humanity itself. There’s something ancient & beautiful about it. During a tough trade negotiation, you can feel the ancient-ness of it all. The cut & thrust of it is quite exhilarating.

Ben was a wily operator – he knew how to use silence in a negotiation. After about 30 seconds of it, it was far to annoying to bear, I pulled the cash out & waved it in front of him.

“Ok Ben, just take the money – I’m only shaving a little more off, & let’s be honest – who else will offer you good cash for these few leftovers!”.

Ben’s wily silence started again. But it was shorter than before & stuffed my cash in his wallet. The testiness of the intense dealmaking immediately dissipated. Still there was some residual testosterone in the air. I felt the need to extend a symbolic olive leaf. I looked at the frontage of his Church, it was a real picture with his well painted weatherboards on the front.

“Those weatherboards came up real nice” I said peacefully – “it’s looks WAY better than before, it looks great!”.

Then I realised that sounded like a ‘barbed compliment’. But my genuine smile, timed well helped avoid that impression. A smile goes a long way in life, that’s no lie. Everyone should learn to smile genuinely.

“Yeah, it did!” Ben said heartily. “It came up real well!”

Ben’s grifting gnarled old face beamed. I breathed a big sigh of relief – the deal was done & dusted. We were both happy enough. Ben sold his spare materials that were now doing nothing, & I wouldn’t be crawling back to a drunken & stoned Sam emptyhanded. You might call it a warm neutral feeling.

Ben jumped in his flash Cheverolet & split just like a 80’s Hollywood getaway. Wheels squealing, gravel flying & gas guzzler engine roaring.

I cut the weatherboards on site & put them in the trailer. An old lady next door looked through her curtains with disdain at the loud electric saw noise. I finished cutting. I left the greyish sawdust on the ground – I’d forgotten to bring a sweeper. I piled the weatherboards in the back of my trailer.

As I drove away in my old beaten up but reliable workman’s wagon. I looked back at the little piles of sawdust. It looked like little two piles of ash on the ground. I couldn’t help but think of crematoriums, given I was at a church – where hundreds of funerals would have been celebrated, or commiserated as the case may be. And let’s be honest – In this world there are plenty of people celebrating when someone they don’t like finally karks it.

That thought dissipated & I got the hell outa there. like Ben I roared off with my much cheaper wheels spinning & my less powerful engine growling.

On the drive home I had the following thoughts:

Man that all kinda felt pre-programmed, pre destined….

One day real soon I’ll use those weatherboards to stop the rain getting in.….

Man! I can’t believe I’ve put this job off for a decade…what the hell is wrong with me?……

I drove home uneventfully. I parked up & stacked the Weatherboards in the shed. I opened the door to tell the ol’ pain & strife – my wife Sam – that the deal went well for us.

I looked over at her natural habitat, the heavily life experienced old couch. She was lying face down passed out from boozing & spliffing too much. She was also lying in her own vomit. That was one of her calling cards. But the most important thing was that she was breathing, well, snoring.

I wasn’t worried, I’d seen it all before. She’s be fine. Besides, the times I tried to help her up just turned in her screaming, becoming a dead weight & refusing to move.

I left her in her happy pukey smokey dream state & went to the front porch & cracked open a beer. All in all It had been a good day – I had survived, hadn’t I? Yep, half of life’s battle is just surviving the day. The other half is resisting the urge to be a total bitch or bastard. Do both & you’re a genuine winner in my book.

That old German philosopher Schopenhauer was correct – life isn’t about being ‘happy’ – it’s about being content. And ‘contentedness’ he said was simply the absence of too many bad things you have to deal with. It’s a pragmatic & sensible definition of ‘happiness’. Unfortunately, Hitler also liked Schopenhauer but all that proves is that a broken watch is right twice a day. At minimum his happiness theory works a treat.

Some seven years later, I finally started to replace those old leaky weatherboards – all good things take time. This is the kind of crap all morbid procrastinators tell themselves. They say those who procrastinate do it because of a neurosis formed through childhood trauma.

Procrastination they say it happens to adults who as kids were heavily criticised by their parents no matter whether or not they doing good or bad. The result is the kid then the adult has a subconscious rule that says “don’t do anything – it’s the only way to survive”.

Some of us are or have been a lot like old neglected weatherboards. I know I am. That’s how I became sometimes sensible & practical. Socrates was right when he said Know Thyself . I can attest. I’d be either long gone dead, or else be fifty & still waking up in a pool of my own puke if I didn’t….and there’s no way in hell I could ever be around that kinda shit.

Sure, I put up with all of that crap for my screwy aging hippie wife – but don’t we all have to do some community service in life? Surely each sensible & practical person can carry at least one extra weatherboard in need? It’s a scary place when we don’t.

Only a bastard or a bitch doesn’t carry at least one.

The End.

“The First Of Many Quibbles About My Fellow Countrymen” (A Poem)

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Too many NZ’ers like to believe in the madhouse thinking –

That everyone should get on like a house on fire,

Even if they are like ‘chalk & cheese’.

Worse – when the truth inevitably hits,

They think that this means the other person must be a jerk.

Only 3 yr olds are friends with all.

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

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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)

Dear NZ & Australia: Lets Ditch Tall Poppy Syndrome (An Open Letter)

Posted in America, Australia, Australian Issues, Melbourne, New Zealand, New Zealand Issues, Open Letter, Tall Poppy Syndrome, well beingTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Dear NZ & Australia.

I would like to talk of that awkward subject, that horrible addiction we have, those unhealthily too comfortable mind-shackles we choose to wear:

Tall Poppy Syndrome.

The Problem with NZ & also Australia is that too people are Prisoners of their own Egos,

& they mostly choose to stay with that familiarly uncomfortable, Viper-like, very limiting cocoon.

They then choose to teach their kids how to do this to secure the next generation of misery.

And so on & so forth seemingly until the end of time.

They make this ‘deal with the devil’ to stay this way until the daisies are very much pushed skywards.

That system of blundering dunderheadedness is the basic ingredients of the famed ‘Tall Poppy Syndrome’.

I dream that one day this cycle will be broken, & NZ & Australia can embrace its own, rather bully them.

They are usually Bullied into jumping ship, suicide or the more common garden variety solution:

To take an oath of wearing a Calvinist spirit, only hold materialistic & utilitarian views.

In short, they agree to wear that well-worn mask of intellectual Lilliputianism.

Say what you like of America – for all their misgivings, they at least learnt to cut those juvenile shackles off.

NZ & Oz Love To Cut Tall Poppies

For that’s what Tall Poppy syndrome really is – ‘Shackles that Retard the Mind’.

If America did it – then so can we in NZ & Australia, & it can’t come soon enough.

I only hope that unlike America we can achieve Freedom from our shackles Peacefully –

But perhaps to kill off Tall Poppy syndrome you really do need violent revolution & civil wars.

I am a cynic, but I’m not that cynical – We can simply choose to remove our mind-shackles.

We can follow this simple process:

When the natural feeling comes over us to cut the heads off a loud annoying ‘Tall Poppy’,

We must reach into our pocket & read a laminated note that reads:

Don’t Do It.

Do this enough for ourselves & our kids & the “Don’t Do It” note becomes freely available in our heads.

Then The War is Won, & the ‘Mind Shackles’ will be a distant memory of an archaic brutal past.

Then we will have a chance to truly self-actualise.

After all – Is it really much fun being miserable? To go along with a un-reflexive crowd, baying the words ‘WHAT DO WE WANT – MORE MEDIOCRITY’? WHEN DO WE WANT IT – NOW & FOREVER’.

Nor is it joyous to carry placards through the land that say ‘STAY WITHIN YOUR LANE’?

I say to you Ladies & Gentlemen of NZ & Australia

NO IT IS NOT!.

Yours Sincerely Martin Anton Smith (a 44-year-old New Zealander and Ex Melbourne man still trying to cut his shackles – but at least I know they are there and the metal is weakening)