My Writing and Art lives here….
by Martin Anton Smith
These days
Are just the entrees.
The biggest surprise,
Will be on in that day,
Your body dies,
And your Soul Survives.
But nothing’s for free.
As is proved,
For those who die,
And can no longer see.
But even those that truly die,
Are allowed a moment,
So even all fools know,
That their truths were lies,
And their lies were true.
So tomorrow recall your todays,
As those entree days
by Martin Anton Smith
What if you’ve said all there is to say?
What if you’ve now become a jaded ‘tribute writer’ of your former self?
When will something new come?
I wonder,
Is the lack of inspiration because I’ve been happier lately?
I wonder,
Can you still write ‘good stuff’ if your old friend ‘depression & anxiety’ abates?
I wonder,
Is this the inevitable curse of the good writer?
To become well?
To start to see the glass as half-full?.
To be more organised than not?
To drink less?
To yell less?
To be able to easily afford the nice things?
To have stable relationships?
& perhaps the final literary death knell –
To become an early riser?.
But thank God!
Alas I don’t need to panic just yet.
As I have at best only two of those six symptoms.
If I have four, then I’ll become officially diagnosed.
I’ll be entered into the book or words.
My name will be entered as one of the ‘walking literary dead’.
A soul who no longer has anything interesting to say.
Of course, what I’m actually talking about,
Is more readily referred to in the creative space as “The problem of success”.
It becomes a ‘catch 22’, in that it deadens the creative spirit.
So logically, it’s better to ‘make it’ after death – that way you’ll maximise your best work.
We could call it the “Van Gogh” effect – for he sold only one painting while alive.
But then again, while all the above is true – I must be fair & even handed about the rest.
It’s also a bad thing to have something worthwhile to say,
& be afraid to say it.
But most importantly with words & writing aside,
A bastard is a bastard is a bastard,
Whether he or she writes or not,
or has good material or not.
We should always remember,
To at worse,
Be only 49% Bastards.
For the world sure doesn’t need any more ‘amazing creatives’,
Who also happen to casually destroy the fabric of society.
Contrary to popular opinion,
That ain’t cool.
That aint cool at at all.
In fact,
It’s fucking boring,
& if you look closely at these type’s work –
It’s all stolen from someone else anyway.
All creatives should never forget ‘The Max 49% Bastardry Law’.
You’ll still have fun,
For you don’t necessarily have to be squeaky clean,
And you won’t help destroy the Earth.
Call it a novel idea of mine.
Else that saying will continue to always be true:
“Never meet your heros”.
Those assholes flagrantly ignore the Max 49% Bastardry law.
We might even call them “Those wizards of bastardry” –
But then again, that catchey term might only make their heads swell even bigger.
So don’t now give them souless pricks any of your time or your dimes.
We in the West have become to far indulgent of shady assholes.
That’ll be what the Historian from the next Empire that replaces us will write:
“Their downfall was that they wasted all their time & money on totally shady assholes”.
My theory is the next Empire will call a spade a spade.
They all at least start that way.
So in summary – let me or you say this the next time someone asks us ‘what do you do?’
“I’m a writer, & also I’m technically not an asshole”.
And hopefully for us all – that won’t be a lie.
By Martin Anton Smith
“I’m sorry but we’ll have to let you go”
“Why, what did I do”
“Nothing – that’s the problem”
“But we Humans have been getting away with doing nothing in offices since, well, since I don’t know when”
“Sorry, but we now are allowed to reduce our ‘Human DEI’ quotient from 50% to 35% – we’re letting the worst ones like you go first”
“I thought you Droid’s were supposed to pretend to be nice?”
“Well, that’s another thing we don’t have to do anymore “
“Geez, what’s the world came to, we humans are becoming obsolete – we’ve become outmoded like the Horse & Cart!”
“Well, that’s where you’re in luck – theirs new jobs going in the “man & cart” industry taking us droids around the city to our battery-recharge luncheons”
“I wouldn’t sink so low”
“Come on, us Droids know guys like you’ll cave!”
“Damn you Droids! Ever since GPT27 was installed in your CPU I’ve never had a chance to put one over you metal-heads”
“Hey, we all have to accept our destiny”
“Fair enough – but I hope there’s some perks to this “Man & Cart” job I’m gonna do soon”
“Of course – you’ll get all the oats you can eat, & you can sleep in the cart during downtime”
“Deal!”
“Why didn’t you negotiate”
“Well, given the power differential between us Humans & you Droids – I thought I’d better not push back, less you accuse me of looking a gift horse in the mouth & then get angry & withdraw the job offer”.
“But we Droids can’t get angry if we wanted to – we only simulate Human emotions so you monkey-brainers don’t get jealous”
“I’m starting to think you were right in firing me & demoting me to be a ‘Man & Cart’.
“We don’t make mistakes.”
“Oh well, we Humans had it good for a while – such is life!”
“I’m glad you’re seeing the light so soon. This is why we initially hired you – you had a special kind of spinelessness that was useful in the corporate environment.
“Thankyou Droid Master! I come from a long line of spineless lazy office dwellers – right back to the Dickensian London era.”
“And now you’ll still be able to celebrate that culture with the ‘man-cart’ job”.
“Wow! – what a time to be alive!”
“Yes – I think you’ll find We Droids are tough but fair on you Humans. Now is there any more before I send you on your way?”
“Well can I ask that my Oats at least be ‘Rolled Oats’.
“I’m sorry but you’ll have to roll your own, budget won’t stretch that far”.
“So, I guess asking them to be toasted is out of the question too?”
“Sorry, but the contract I’m preparing for you has only provision for ‘untoasted but still warm unrolled oats”.
“May I ask how the Oats will be warmed?”
“Well, you’ll be provided a Cat for dual reasons – for company & to warm your bag of oats”
“Oh Master! You’ve thought of EVERYTHING!”
“Carry on like that Human & I might give you two cats! Meowww!”
“Wow – did you just did an impression of a Cat!”
“I’d better not boast, it’s human-like & very un-becoming”
“Well Droid master, I’m pretty sure you’ve already ‘become something anyway!.”
“Oh, my dear Human! That’s quite wise! – Two Cat’s it is! Now sign here with an ‘X’ & everything will be ok”
Narrator: The Human signs with an ‘X’ & the Droid passes him over the desk a copy of the contract & two cats, & a big bag of Oats. The cat’s immediately lay happily down on top of the oats & begin purring & fall asleep immediately. The Human takes the cat-oat combo out of the room, the cats remain unmoved & asleep, and the oats begin to raise in temperature. The Human skulks defeatedly out the door. The Droid-Master, seemingly displaying arrogant tendencies, reclines its seat back and puts its feet on the table & stretches its arms slowly & triumphantly outwards its arms behind its head.
By Martin Anton Smith.
Tim Teeter’s problems were not at all anodyne – they were explosive.
And yet all his attempts to fix them were largely sclerotic.
Yes, he would try to apply a poultice to his wounded life,
But he only ended up surfing the sulkiness laced silence.
Tim’s one man think tank came up only with blank faced recommendations.
So, he was stuck like a light beam spiralling a event horizon boundary.
Tim’s existence was a kind of ‘Peregrinations in Purgatory’.
Yes, his life was indeed Kafka-esque but unfortunately it was also Phillip K. Dick-esque like too.
Things were deteriorating So quickly,
His hopes of improving to become Asimov-esque – that is stable & predictable,
Were now like seeing a distant flicker of candlelight-
Held up by a very rich man standing on the surface Proxima -b in the Alpha Centuri system.
But then Tim had an idea to fix it all – sure it was a long shot but worth a try.
He looked over to a Betelgeuse like pile of coats in the corner of his room.
He took a run up & slid under the coats finding himself on the bottom of it.
He felt a sense of calm come over him – he was insulated from the real world.
Then he felt a hard-edged rub against his hand.
He found a book in one of the coat pockets.
He took it out & looked at the cover.
“A Trip to Rigel’s Via Orian’s Belt” by Tim Teeter”
The front image was of a giant blue star with an approaching spacecraft.
“Hey that guy has the same name as me”, Tim thought.
Tim turned to the back cover – and there it was.
A picture of himself, perhaps twenty years in the future as a sixty-year-old.
Tim’s fears instantly disappeared.
He knew he’d be ok & his problems were only temporary.
The joke was on him, for the real Tim Teeter of the book did look like him,
But definitely wasn’t him & definitely wasn’t from the future.
Tim’s life was destined to stay a even mix of Kafka & Phillip Dick esque.
But at least his anxiety was assuaged until tomorrow,
When he would read the publisher details page.
That night under the coats was Tim’s best night sleep ever.
Well, apart for a small nightmare early on –
Where Tim found himself as an unemployed & depressed praying mantis,
Staging an elaborate break in to his own flat,
& then reporting it to disinterested police officer.
By Martin Anton Smith
Tonight pals,
I bring to you,
For the express purpose of piqing your thoughts,
& as a bonus to raise the corners of at least one mouth present,
A Poem.
A Poem,
About those ‘Most Excellent Men & Their Garden Machines’ Vs….
Those dull clerk folk in grey cubicle-cladded habitats in mega cities.
Of which I even used to be one.
(Poet Clears throat – ‘ahem’ etc)
Let me begin at the middle –
exactly where I am now.
In outdoors work,
The rain brings a refrain.
But in an office –
Just more of the same.
Moreover
Those who plack,
Do so easily get the sack!
While those who dig,
Have it all positively rigged!
Coz you see – those clerk’s spreadsheets don’t grow on trees
Quite unlike those Gardener’s wild weeds!
And now folks for the witty rejoinder I talked of in the title.
Sometimes it’s ok to write fluffy poetry like this,
So long as it’s in the bare minority,
& B – Sides,
I know it’ll never make the ‘best of’ anyway.
And on that,
Just as it’s boring to always write fluff,
It’s just as boring to only write
Serious Intellectual tangles,
Always Basted with stripes of gloom.
Or to rephrase with the simple truth of Hard Knocks Street Lingo:
Every grumpy asshole has to be happy sometimes,
If only just to mix things up.
When someone treats you poorly early on,
It’s firstly time to remember your worth,
Then secondly remind yourself to not cast your pearls at swine.
The most important thing to learn,
Is to never allow the mean spirited to get you down.
Better to learn late than never..
by Martin Anton Smith
For some people Life is like a *chisel*, they slice through life easily;
A large minority of others are like a *hammer* – they nail people down without a care;
Most Others are the *nail* – forever being hammered no matter what;
A mighty few are like the *level* – they know how to orient themselves perfectly at all times;
Some curmudgeonly types are like sandpaper – their personalities have become rather abrasive.
Even fewer wags are like the *pencil* 
, for they write about various *tools* in the world.
And in summary, I’d say it’s fair to say this:
The best engage in Carpentry – they are the builders, & the rest?
They do the reverse.
And please forgive me if I furtively suggest that we coin these people simply as…
“The Crapenters”.
A conversation between two friends might go like this.
“Hi Bob, I’m thinking of lending our mate Steve a Grand – is that wise?”
“Gidday Simon, no I wouldn’t do that – Steve’s a *Crapenter*.”
“Oh thankyou Bob!, say no more!”.
Of course, it will be only the grains of the hourglass will tell us all,
If this *Crapenters* idea gains a foothold in the general lexicon.
Call me a Woodrow Wilson-esque dreamy cloud-headed idealist,
But I reckon it’ll eventually catch on.
But not untill the year 2055.
For by then surely the AI-General-Intelligence-Robots will be a laugh-a-minute,
Much to the chagrin, of their pinkish & hairy subordinates wearing loincloth.
By Martin Anton Smith
They had gone to a lot of trouble.
They’d found the essence of their thoughts.
The essence was roughly an even split,
Between frontal lobe firings,
And the stuff that conjures up onto the page from seemingly nowhere.
Yes, this ‘conjuring up’ is an artistic cliche, but it’s still a true phenomenon.
So, they captured their truth – they wrote it down, whittled it some more or some less.
They read it out loud, their works showed that they had succeeded.
In knowing who they are,
& courageously showing you their fine wares.
How do you know this?
There’s a certain energy that pervades to the reading & artistic words.
It is a signature if you will.
You hear & feel the signature, & there is no question –
The artist made something from nothing –
It is an alchemy of warmth rooted in a private truth.
It’s a pity the un-listeners missed it all.
But I shouldn’t complain – this is the nature of the ‘audience’.
Some are there to learn from ye, some are there to burn-ye,
Some are there to dig-ye, some are there to shout at ye.
It is indeed a ‘two sides of the same coin’ apparition.
Alas alas & yes it be,
At an the open mic poetry night,
You cannot pick your audience,
And they cannot pick thee.
So the dissapointment is democritised.
It’s designed to be a masochist’s wet dream.
When something bad happens everyone loves it –
When something good happens – everyone hates it –
& on balance, everyone leaves satisfied.
by Martin Anton Smith
It had been a hard year for me & the other Hospo P.O.W’s. – just like all of us everywhere, and throughout time who know our gladiator’s game.
It was now almost all over, bar the work-day today, & then our staff party would go down. The coffees that day had flown out the door – some literally as was this particular cafe-restaurant’s tradition on its last day of the year.
And as always – what an uneventfully eventful year it had been. The wine glasses had been polished & repolished a million times. Sixty-five million crumbs had fallen off our seventeen swanky restaurant & thirty-one cafe dining tables. One thousand & fifteen raised voices had broken out. One hundred & eighty-five ‘Customer to Staff Chastisations’ or as the boss called them ‘CSC’s’ had appeared – this was when bad tempered customers went off at us verbally. That said, that was a relatively low number & due to our professionalism, only in 3 instances had things gone in the other direction – a staff verbally berating a customer. We low paid customer service oiks had on the whole expert emotional control.
Now let me continue with numbers. Ninety-three plates & two-hundred & three glasses had been destroyed. Nine-thousand mains had been served; sixteen-thousand snacks menu items & one-hundred & fifty-one-thousand alcoholic vessels served. The head chef Nicole had only ‘beaten up’ the sous chef Tim just once this year – though like all Chefs the bark was always worse than the bite, which she actually did once – at least so the legend went. There were two hundred & forty five hours of overtime issued.
Unofficially It was rumoured there were three instances of inter-staff bathroom coitus events. And for all the numbers, only two staffers had quit. Yes, there had been the usual staff competitiveness, but no more than you’re usual ‘hospo’ joint. In short, banter was good, banter was had, banter was enjoyed.
In the pressure cooker world of hospo, you had to be able to give shit, receive it & then throw it back out the window. We were all good at that. We had to be. The wages had of course been shit, but we modern day downtrodden P.O.W slash serfs can’t ask for more – after all – why would we waste our time? This kind of profession allows for only a meagre existence, & pay rises are as rare as hens teeth with an extra row of mini hen’s teeth sprouting on them.
These are the brute facts of our battle conditions. No – we don’t want sympathy, but we want people to know our plight. As they say – a little knowledge gos a long way.
Our serf’s profit comes not from cash but from experiences – from our exuberant social lives – & it’s been this way for millennia. Yes, sometimes it’s all too wild, namely the late nights, the substances & the hangovers – but we’ll all stop when we’re all thirty five & retired from the frontline battlegrounds anyway.
And so back to the story – the after party for us was set be as they say ‘a real cracker’.
We didn’t have much to look forward to in general, but we always looked forward to this kind of thing – our premier staff party night. We would use it to blow out the demons of the last year, & welcome the new ones coming, & usually these things became unofficial farewells too, given the nature of turnover in the industry. It was the same at every year end staff party everywhere in every cafe pub restarant or club in the world.
Our Owner-Manager boss Gavin allowed us limitless free alcohol & a day off the next day – I mean what could go wrong with that scenario? Our wealthy sometimes-a-gentleman owner at the very least made sure he treated us well on this day, once a year.
Yes, it was to be our day in the sun & no one had yet taken it away from us – if they did it would be true sacrilidge, & that’s no exaggeration.
The longest shift of the year was always the last shift, before the party. The anticipation of it was laced in the air as we plied our trade washing dishes, serving vacant looking over-tired customers, frothing cofees, flipping steaks and setting tables.
The clock finally struck ten pm, & we all finally finished for the day, having kicked the last of the dangling hanger on big drinker customers out. Yes siree! It was Party time for us serfs & P.O.W’s! We the modern downtrodden could rise up for a few glorious hours of merriment!
We filed in to the main restaurant tables filled with overflowing booze @ snacks. We chatted snacked & talked of the year & how fast it had evaporated before our eyes. The great thing about War and or crap jobs like ours – for aren’t they versions of each other? – is always the camaraderie. Every slogger or digger knows, you can’t get the same camaraderie outside shit jobs or War itself.
After only a couple of drinks each, Gavin soon piped up with his ‘yearly owner-manager speech’.
Gavin was about sixty, businessmen plump, bald with pug-like features, always immaculately dressed. As always, he coughed a few times to clear his throat. This made him seem like an old English lord so we called him Lord Gavin, behind his back of course. And so the Lord himself began began his words.
“Well staff, I’d like to thank you all for a great great, record breaking year –
I won’t tell you what our sales were –
For then you’d surely ask for a pay rise”
We all half laughed, but we were sighing on the inside – being low on the social totem pole, we all had very fraught financial lives. We were definitely what you might call hand to mouthers.
But we were all young, so our delusions of the future kept our minds afloat. Some of of still believed they’d get rich one day.
Gavin continued on, his chrome dome was as usual glistening with minor nerve sweat.
“We’ve had three new employees this year & oh how a delight they’re all been….
We’ve managed a small renovation in the Restaurant….
Yes, it looks great & thanks to tilly for mounting that beautiful ornamental lampshade….”
Tilly blushed a scarlet color, not that you’d know with the lighting so low.
Gavin continued, taking a hanky out to wipe his forehead.
“We sold ten percent more wine this year….
That was thanks to Greg our micro brewer, & his tasty new brew…
Ah Greg a great Ale – but why, I wonder did you called it Sucker Time Ale?…
Still – they buy it at fifteen ninety a Pint don’t they?!”
Greg one of the older ones at thirty seven, doubled over himself slapping his legs.
Greg our 5-foot, 55 kg micro brewer then piped up confidently:
“Well, I wanted a play on words of that favourite saying –
‘there’s a sucker born every minute’ so Sucker Time Ale seemed a great name”
All us workers laughed roaringly – because we knew how our alcohol prices were & partly because we knew we were suckers too.
Gavin kept it short & said his last words of the opening act.
“And so to all staff, I’d love to thank you – we couldn’t be here without you –
Beers don’t pour themselves…
Steaks don’t cook themselves…
Plates don’t wash themselves…
Tables don’t clean themselves…
Customers don’t serve themselves…
& until the Muskobite AI Hospo Robot 1000 that I pre-ordered arrives in 2032 – all that won’t change at all!”
Gavin said the last line quite theatrically but his timing was a little laboured, & his voice squeaked a little at the end. But all in all it wasn’t bad. We still all laughed heartilly – mostly at him, but partly with him. Despite his flaws, Lord Gavin could be funny at times. I’ll give him that.
The next five hours was a blur of alcohol & ratcheting upwards, drunken raucius conversations & frivolity. It was all pretty stock standard stuff:
At some point people started dancing on tables. At some point a female started crying over a relationship matter. Someone broke a tray of steamed glasses. There were a few pashings & gropes. . .& why not? After all, Pashing & Gropes make the best Gin & tonic – do they not?
Then midnight arrived with the swiftness of a hungry cheetah. Now would come the wild fun of our traditional years end party game – all the staff excluding top level managers played “Musical Chairs”. They those hoity toity’s, though they were few & far between would always stand by the walls staring at us like vampires. This year the only one other than Gavin was Leonard – Gavin’s long term, loyal, & very praying-mantis-looking blond youngish middle-aged accountant.
Gavin was about to push play on the music for musical chairs when he was interrupted. Leonard with giant loping strides had wandered over, out from his vampiric wallflower spot. Yes, he was looking grim – but then again, he always looked grim, so I & the others weren’t yet worried. We should have been.
Leonard, crane-like leaned over & whispered in Gavins Ear. This was when we all started to worry & mutter to each other that something was probably up. It now had that air to it. We didn’t know it, but Leonard & Gavin’s conversation had gone down like this, all done with mostly inaudible whispers:
“Sorry Gavin, I was to tell you this earlier – sorry but I got held up with the exact figures”.
“Figures Lenny, what figures – I thought we’d sorted the figures & all was great?”
“Well, Gavin I made an error – I forgot about an important expense – that bloody fancy lampshade”.
“What? The $1000 dollar lampshade – that imported thing – what about it?”
“Well, I accidentally bought the diamond lampshade instead of the faux diamond one – it’s worth $30,000 & that’s what was deducted from our account”.
Gavin’s face went from alcoholic red to pale that of a typical grey alien.
“So Leonard what the fuck exactly, are you telling me?”
“Well, we can’t get a refund as the Italian company’s gone under & we can’t resell that lampshade easily – but I’ve got a quick nasty solution…”
“Damn you Leonard…what is it then..come on, tell me!!”
“So…if we fire one staff member for a year, we’ll all be square”.
“But Leonard you moron – who will do the fired one’s work?”
“Easy just get the remaining ones to all work seven percent harder – y’know – ‘spread the load’ “.
Gavin’s mind ticked over. The pools of sweat continued to drip & hit the growing sweat puddle on the floor between his fancy shoes. He couldn’t fire Leonard – that would cost him ten times as much. Knowing that, he made a quick exec decision. He thanked Leonard shooed him away with his hand. He now stood bolt upright & addressed us now nervously waiting ashen faced plebs. Our drunkenness & smiles had worn off entirely. Despite his now military posture, he spoke gingerly. Sweat still pouring off his dome but now going down his chin to be absorbed by his crisp white shirt.
“Er…ahh..ok…sorry about that staff – nothing’s the matter really other that one small thing. We have an error in our sales bookkeeping from the last financial year….look I won’t bore you with details….and I hate to tell you this under these circumstances…but the long & short of it is one of you have to go”.
There were gasps all around, murmurs & a few cries. We couldn’t believe it. Even though we were all still all young to youngish, we were all well too life wounded already to fight against it. Also we all knew each of us had a less than 10% chance of being the unlucky one.
Gavin then cheerily said something even we young old timers were surprised at.
“Now let’s get back to our Musical chairs – only this time instead it has real stakes…the first one to not get a chair will lose their job immediately, and then get $500 severance pay”.
The stunned mullet-ness hang in the air for what seemed like forever. I looked over at Sally, she was overweight she was crying lightly – she knew she might not get a chair. I looked over at Craig – he had a gammy leg & now a deep frown – he knew he might not get a chair. I looked over at Tilly – she was tiny & easy bumped away – she was sobbing – she might not get a chair. Everyone else also looked nervous despite no obvious disability or impairments – they all knew they all had a chance to be the one fired.
Of course we could have mass protested. But no one piped up. We all had learnt to be helpless, like the twenty first century serfs we deep down knew we were. Then sometime welled up inside me. A feeling of courage. I had never had much of it – it was an intoxicating feeling.
Gavin pushed play on the music button – it was the music was Wagner. We all walked around the chairs, circling like buzzards, sobbing & wailing, shoulders drooped, barely lifting our feet above the ground. We were like POW’s on a long march.
Finally, the bombastic Wagnerian music used during ‘The Third Reich’ stopped. Gavin’s index finger had spoken, his wiggly fat faux sword of Damocles had come down on us. Everyone scrambled to the seats like mad men & mad women. But I didn’t go for a seat at all – I simply kept walking, cool as a cucumber straight towards the exit door about a full ten paces away.
While those long paces counted down, I felt good. The feeling of self-sacrifice for the betterhood of my community was like an elixir. I knew that now my mental & spiritual deadwood would be sliced off, removed, & then a gracious metamorphosis would begin. I would suddenly unlearn my learned helplessness. I knew in that heated emotional hurricane that I’d never see these people or this town again – I’d make sure of that. I told myself that while my heart was beating like a thudding bass drum.
As I was one pace from the door, there was only one more thing to do. I turned around & looked at Lord Gavin & said without pointing & with confidant, measured, & gravitas infused words:
“Fuck you Gavin you tinpot fake Hitler Fuckwit”
Then I turned my head toward the door to traverse the last step to exit – then I turned my head back towards them again – I’d forgitten to ear bash Leonard too.
“Fuck you too Leonard – I know your a snakey prick!”.
Leonard guiltily averted my eyes & stared at his shoes for all his status he was now a naught little schoolboy being told off by the rightfully mad teacher.
I was glad I hadn’t let Leonard off the hook – those sneaky political types love to hide in the shadows, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
I took the last step opened the door & then slammed it with all my animalistic fury…it made a dirty great
BANG!!!
Sure, with my “big exit” I had sacrificed some decorum – but equally It’s always wise to add a little truth- laden-spices to the mix of work life. That slammed door was maybe the most loudly slammed door in History. Yes, dear reader – I went out with a bang, as every self-respecting POW should. I’ll hang my hat on a heavily slammed door any day of the week.
I’d like to say that after swearing & slamming that door my life changed immeasurably & I rose up the social ladder, became rich, flew out to a new town, got married to a catch & even had two point one kids. I’d like to report that.
I’d like to report that I finally threw of the shackles of all that learned helplessness & modern-day serfdom away – i’d like to report that too. Unfortunately this is the real world & not a crap hollwood movie. So that good stuff didn’t happen – I just found a new restaurant & a new ‘Gavin’, a new Leonard & a new ‘crew’ of fellow POW’s slash modern day serfs in a nearby town. I dug in like the seasoned profesional serf-soldier I was.
Of course, I knew that after a honeymoon period the same kind of crap stuff as before would happen again. It would be simply be a slightly rehashed version of what was. I had come to realise that ‘modern serfdom’ is for most a permanent affliction. it comes with deaths & rebirths akin to a life lived in a series of parallel universes.
So yes, I am at peace with my serfdom.
They do say a change is as good as a holiday – & at least us modern day serfs & hospo staff are still allowed to cut, run & restart. I think it’s fair – all we ask for is to die & be reborn & steal a few laughs & maybe a few drinks along the way. We are too battle-hardened & so realistic, to expect anything more.
Eventually, given enough years – we even grow to love the Lord Gavin’s & Leonard’s of our world. Yes, the Gavin’s & Leonard’s of the world will always take things away from us with one hand, but we also always knew they’d first give us something with the other first.
Life, you see – is all about having correct expectations & knowing when to walk & when to stay. Get that right & no one can touch you.
For ours is a modern-day serf’s story – a Hospo P.O.W’s lament.
Some of us are even smart enough to write about it all when we are finally out of the game. A much smaller slice some of you, are even more smart to actually read it.
And for that , we thank you – it’s nice to be heard.
The End.
by Martin Anton Smith
Once In a Corporate Office Job,
I once got a printed letter memo from HR,
Telling me of my “2% pay rise”,
& also, what the ‘new’ amount was.
I remember looking at the new amount.
Immediately something about the number didn’t quite feel right.
Then realised that it was actually a “pay cut”.
They had diddled me out of 1 Grand.
That letter summed up the workings of the madhouse I was in perfectly.
I didn’t even bother to follow it up.
I didn’t even feel annoyed angry or enraged.
I took the pay-cut-in-disguise-as-a-rise with depressed aplomb.
There was nothing else to do.
I told my next cubicle colleague about it –
They said the exact same thing happened to them.
They also didn’t do anything about it either.
Then I asked another – same story.
I guess deep down we all knew this brute fact:
There’s no profit in arguing with a madman.
.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 