An update from the writer (+ other whimsy-like anecdotes).

By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Well, we are hurtling to the end on 2025. Here the weather is getting hot – which as all arty people know – is bad for being artistically productive. The extra energy that the air brings takes away the top 5% brain function that good art requires.

This is why I haven’t posted for a long ten odd days now – so this is the perfect time for a ‘update post’ – it’s all filler but interesting none the less! (I hope).

Let me start with a little larf. Today I had a couple of laboring jobs, & as is my habit, I go to my local Chinese restaurant afterthe day is over for a tasty feed & a beer (I usually get a beer & a plate of Nasi-goreng for $20 0 a good deal eh?). As I have mentioned I like to have a chat with the staff, & I am basically a “VIP” there. What can I say – must be my natural charm (or is it the free english lessons & the cash from my wallet? yes probably that). Anyway today the interaction went like this:

“Hello Anton, do you want some cold water”

“Yes Yein that would be great – I’m parched”

“What does “parched” mean Anton?”

“I’ll tell you later, I’m too tired to explain”

“That’s ok – take a seat”

(I take my usual seat & she brings over a glass bottle of very cold chilled water. I open it pour some and take a quenching gulp).

“Ah that’s good, thanks Yien – it’s nice & cold too”

“Did you know in China we don’t like our water cold? We even have a saying for how warm water is better for you”

“Really? We in NZ have saying about drinking warm water too”

“Really??”

“Yes it goes like this….’We in NZ used to drink our water warm….BUT WE’RE NOT IN CHINA ANYMORE, ARE WE!!!”

Yien laughed at this bad, somewhat Americanised joke (Or shoudl I say ‘Americanized’), and I soon ate my usual tasty Nasi Goreng + cold beer (I usually prefer Asahi, or Steinlager, but this time I had a Heineken as they had run out),

Anyway so that was nice to hear someone laugh today. I told my mother the joke I made & she thought it was a bad joke (Mothers are always so brutally honest aren’t they).

I think I’ll leave it at that – other than to say that this year is the 5th year of my blog & as far as views/visits it’s been a record year by quite a margin – I think they are up by at least by 75% this year.

Thankyou to all the readers – yes there is a lot of bad stuff – but every now and then there is something ok or good (I hope). I am thinking more ‘slice of my life in my home town’ angles will be coming next year – the truth & small-town-grounded-ness angle really adds some intimacy I think.

Cheers & keep writing & reading – a great thing to do (lets do it while pens, paper, & keyboard clacks & characters on screens still exist!).

Yours Anton Martin Smith 8 Dec 11:36PM, Central Otago South Island NZ.

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

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Politicians were too young,

Or too stupid,

Or too lacking in real life experience,

Or too Professorial,

Or too academic,

Or too Lawyerly,

Or in truth – they were all of the above.

High on bad Neoliberal theory.

The so called “Washington Consensus”.

The Corporate Raider Lobby got to them,

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

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

For the Anglo-American Wolf did cry:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Corporate Raiders took over,

Took over the minds of our oh so feeble Politicians.

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

They all said to us:

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

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

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

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

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

Yes! – We now have no bananas!

Well – none at affordable prices anyway.

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

For 41 consecutive mire-filled years.

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

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

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

In only Thirty-Nine short years.

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

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

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

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

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

And PS – we never got the Coke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers Anton Martin Smith

email me at antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Thoughts About “The Mirror Book” by Charlotte Grimshaw (Book Review)

Book Review: ‘THE MIRROR BOOK’ BY CHARLOTTE GRIMSHAW

Published By: Penguin

Rating: 4.5 Stars Out Of 5

review by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

WARNING MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS

I read this book inside 2 days. This was actually the best book I had read for a while. Charlotte Grimshaw is a well-known novelist & the daughter of a “heavyweight of NZ literature” – CK Stead. This is her autobiography. She is a woman in her mid 50’s her career started in Law but then she quickly left to pursue writing & “the rest is history”.

I have not read any of her Novels but was interested to read the book after a family member read the book & also having read an article which also mentioned the book (or was it a radio interview? It’s a bit hazy).

This book is roughly split between description of/trying to figure out her early life as raised by her parents – the one she saw as a child & the one she has looked back on as an adult. The other half is about an early relationship with a troubled Lawyer who was manipulative & often abusive; her next relationship with her husband & a break up & the swift reunion.

The Book describes how CK Stead her high status father who was also a university professor as well as a writer constructed a “public family persona” that was often incongruent with reality according to Grimshaw. She mentions that her father would often describe their family as essentially “happy normal interesting with a minimum of piety, yet there was plenty of odd things happening to refute this description. She mentions her father would often flip out over small things – such as starting a new bottle of jam before the other was finished. She mentions his bad temper & yelling was appraised by her mother as “particle male energy to be respected”.

She mentions the many affairs her dad had which were swept under the carpet by the family & namely her mother. She mentions that her mother didn’t really seem to like her & often gave people the silent treatment – which Charlotte was exposed too for a period of years. She mentions that she went off the rails as a teenager, including run ins with the law for petty crime, yet this was seen as a positive thing by her selectively anti authority parents (They didn’t like Teachers or Cops in particular).

She talks briefly of a terrible house sharing situation she ended up in after leaving the abusive first love – a bunch of males who eventually kicked her out for upsetting a friend in conversation. She writes that her father & mother seem to automatically favour the male in public sex scandals – indicating they are actually very old fashioned & conservative despite the veneer that a literature family is going to always be “progressive”.

Yes, this book is largely about outing the contradictions she regularly faced. It’s also about “gaslighting” – being told she has lost her sanity when bringing up alternative narratives to that of her father & mother. It’s also about being a mother & wanting to raise her kids differently & with more respect for institutions/authority. She mentions her inability to have close relationships with females & how she goes to a female therapist to help resolve this on top of the therapy she requires to help her answer life’s questions.

This book I believe was almost required to be written – as if Charlotte had to write it to finally “set the record straight” – to remove a monkey on her back. It is as if She wanted to exorcise the spirit that was the fabrication of her early familial life story. A story that was actually a false, self-serving appraisal by primarily her father, but ably supported by her mother.

Writing a book like this takes a lot of guts – her parents are still alive and of very old age. Not many writers would risk massively upsetting their parents & remaining family members by writing a book that lays out the family in a plain light of day. Not many non-writers would even have the guts to talk privately about these matters. This I believe is the reason the book is really good. It’s ‘truth factor’ is huge, mountainous. The reader wonders how much this has affected Charlotte’s current relationship with her parents – although we are told the answer to some of this by the fact that her father has said “I remember things differently”.

This book will make you think about yourself & your relationship with your family. Readers will see a lot of Charlotte’s story in their own families. Many Parents will actively promote a “polished” to “totally fake” version of the family they created & raised – after all we would expect that, it’s it the Parents self-interest to do that after all. But of course, the children will be hurt by extremely false appraisals that cover up the hurt they felt – this book is a testament to that. Many children now adults will sympathise with Charlotte’s experiences.

Many Parents now elderly will recognise their own whitewashing of family history & perhaps will feel embarrassed. Perhaps The Mirror Book will help build a few bridges within middle age children & elderly parents – even if in true NZ ‘sweep under the carpet’ culture specifics may never be raised – & that would be a great thing.

Charlotte Grimshaw showed a tonne of guts to write this kind of warts & all autobiography, and it worked a treat. It also makes me wonder about her father’s work – having not read any of it.

As an aside – this book reminds me (because of the descriptions of the father) of the “They are a bastard but they made good art” phenomenon. Do bastards make better art? Is CK Stead a bit of a ‘Bastard’? Is his work actually really good? I will read at least some of his work in the near future perhaps – I wonder after reading The Mirror Book if I will think to myself am I being deceived here, are his characters wolves in sheep’s clothing?.

The books style is very easy to read – straight, simple & to the point – and that’s why I read it inside two days. The chapters aren’t too long. The book isn’t too long or too short.

The only mild criticism I have is the first 100 pages felt a little laboured, & perhaps 25 pages could have been swapped out for more of what came after the first 100 – i.e. the really interesting stuff. But apart from that minor quibble it’s a solid 4.5 stars out of 5.

It will be interesting to delve into one of her fictional works & see if they are as good as this autobiography.

“The Mirror Book” By Charlotte Grimshaw Is Published By Penguin & is available online & in bookstores.

“Remembering The Old Working-Class Bar” (A Poem)

I was 22 years Old

And behind the Bar.

A working-class bar where the old coots give you shit.

The more they drink the more confidant they get.

The jokes were always bad.

The couple owners were old close to retirement,

and the tough as boots old lady had an eagle eye at all times.

My first week she told me to the dairy go next door for a “long weight”,

I fell for it like a total boob.

The old man was a classic old time slow grafter,

who occasionally when drunk propositioned and squeezed the female bar staff.

He did it to the lady that ended up lifting his cash from him.

I guess that’s why she allowed it.

There was the devil eyed nasty alcoholic teacher lady,

Who took a disliking to me,

I assume it was because at the time I looked far too much ”young anglo male’,

And she probably deep down wanted to be one too.

Or she was probably just a garden variety mad as hell teacher who hated herself.

There was my manager was 36 and partied every night,

I couldn’t keep up with him, I tried for a week.

There was the old Naval Hero who was the cook,

A sneaky old coot that tried to push me around.

if 3 people ordered a meal at the same time he panicked,

much like a MGM cartoon character about to be blown up.

The joint was laden with smoke from cigarette smokers,

That second hand smoke annoyed the hell outa me.

There were the gamblers at the pokie machines,

They sadly played pushing the button time after time,

desperately hoping for “free spins”.

If I only had a pint of beer for every time a Jackpot winner said:

“Thank god I can pay the electric bill now”,

I’d never pay for a beer again.

There was the dopey musclehead who had a too decent Japanese wife,

He was running around behind her back with some drunkard whore.

One day a tough guy came in and threatened us behind the bar,

the musclehead cowered despite his muscles,

He was still the weak bullied kid in his mind.

There was the punter with ginger beard double denim & cowboy hat a wannabe “outlaw”,

he gave me a lot of shit, then one day I gave him two barrels back,

Which drew hoops and claps from the gallery.

The Pub’s suburb was the same one my Paternal Grandad, (Father as a kid) & Great Grandfather had lived in,

some 35 years later.

The Grandfather was a Drunk – and here I was serving his type.

I didn’t think much of that but the older I got the spookier I thought of it.

When the Rugby was on it was packed out,

Any ‘hospo’ worker knows how hard a job it is when a bar’s packed out.

No one gives Hospo workers credit – how bizarre!

They allow people to blow off steam, take a tone of crap & feed people,

That’s an important job if you ask me.

One day the owners sold out & retired.

The option was given to stay on with the new owners,

no one wanted to do it, including me.

It must have been an alright time.

That reminds me, I had a fling with a customer the red head student teacher once,

She wasn’t a supermodel, but I was male & 23,

23 yr old males don’t say know to a “free meal”.

Why are Teachers so horny? Is it the stress of their jobs?

It was twenty years ago now, and I still remember those years well.

I went back to the Bar a few months ago,

A few changes but roughly the same.

I saw a few wooden seats that were the exact same seats.

I ordered a coke so as not to seem odd.

It would have been nice to see an old face – alas there was none.

I wondered how many of those lovable old coots had passed.

RIP to all those old coots of that Chatty Bar in New Brighton Christchurch, NZ.

I still remember ya’s.