Tag: writing

“The Max 49% Bastardry Law” (A Poem)

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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.

“Tim Teeter’s Trip to Rigel” (A Short Story)

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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 feeble, sclerotic even. Yes, he would try to apply a poultice to his wounded life, but with his band-aid solutions, Tim only ever ended up surfing the sulkiness-laced silence of his messy bedroom. Tim’s ‘one man think tanks’ always ended with his own blank faced recommendations.

Tim hadn’t always been like this – for the first fifteen years of adulthood he was creating what a conservative parent might refer to as “quietly succeeding in the corporate world”. Of course, Tim’s parents, like them all – were wrong.

For Tim It was more a slow realisation that that the corporate world he had wedded himself to was just a scam to steal a human beings time on Earth & energetic vitality. So, after fifteen years of filling out propaganda laced budget spreadsheets, & being bullied by a wide array of bosses & associates he decided that he’d leave the easy way – he took a baseball bat to his boss’s computer, & a bunch of other screens for good measure.

That was all over now, a semi-distant memory. A memory that now somehow didn’t quite feel as if it was real, & had actually happened. But that’s was just his brains way of coping with the embedded trauma – to make his past life seem like the fading remains of a vivid nightmare.

Tim was by now simply in what is dubbed a ‘holding pattern’; he had closed one chapter of life but had not yet properly opened the next one. Or said more correctly, he had thrown the book he was reading into the fire & had not yet gone to the bookstore to buy another book, more suited to his interests to read.

So, right now he was stuck like a light beam eternally spiralling an event horizon of a black hole. Someone might say he was in ‘no man’s land’ – neither putting his front foot forward, or retreating to plan an atttack.

But for Tim the most important thing right now was that he wasn’t being sucked into something else, something definitive, some dark sapping void that he wouldn’t like & couldn’t handle. He couldn’t repeat the past, at all costs.

Tim’s existence right now was a kind of ‘Peregrinations in Purgatory’. He had taken on a job as a postman. He hated the early mornings. He hated his boss – who was like a mean version of Homer Simpson, both in looks and demeaner. The guys & handful of women he worked with were mostly nice but most by now had had the life well beaten out of them by their ‘as nice as the SS’ managers.

An example of the managers meanness was this example: The ‘mean homer simpson’ manager had waited untill one of his postmen. this postman was knocknamed ‘Scroungey’- had arrived back to the sorting room, after he’d delivered his round. The conversation, which had a large audience of other fellow postmen went like this.

“Hey Scroungey! – I heard you’ve been feeding Mr Tambourine’s dog snacks – is that true”?

“Yeah, I’ve been giving it some dried snacks here & there, so what”

“Well I’ve just heard that the dog had an elergic reaction to that food & it’s dead & the owner says he’s gonna sue us – you’re probably gonna lose your job Scroungey”

Scroungey had been totally fooled by ‘Mean Homer’s’ good acting job. He pleadingly replied.

“What! That’s not my fault, I talked to the owner she never told me about the dog havign an elergy! Honest ‘mean homer’ come on, trust me, how was I to know the Dog had an elergy?”

This was when ‘mean homer started laughing, it was a evil villain kind of laugh – or the one a serial killer might have. He was enjoying making Scroungey think he might lose his job. All the others, including Tim had watched in horror. This kind of thing happened all the time. But Tim knew this was just temporary. He wouldn’t end up here for decades like every other person there.

That night Tim went back to his grungey bedsit, where he of course lived alone. Every night he read sci-fi novels & short stories to help his psyche survive until this holding pattern had played itself out & his new mission in life would emerge.

This was ok but a little too boring. Tim had an idea: mantra. He’d heard about mantra’s while watching an old Beatles documentary, about the time they had gone to india to learn about transcendentalism. Of course that stuff was all flakey crap to him, but he also had an open enough mind to try things & find out for himself. He put the book down & sat up in a lotus position.

He started the mantra.

” Ommm….Ommm…Ommm….Yes…my life is indeed Kafka-esque…Ommm….& it is also also Phillip K. Dick-esque like too…Omm.”

Indeed Kafka & Phillip K. Dick were his favourite authors, with all the rest a distant third. He repeated this mantra for three hours non stop. He wanted to give the mantra a fair chance of working, to give it ‘a far shake of the sauce bottle’ as Tim had once heard an Aussie postman at work say. Though it was three hours it seemed to Tim like fifteen minutes tops. In fact It was only the slam of the Chef returning from his shift at midnight that had broken the trance. This made Tim happy, he had his first real smile for months.

But his good mood didn’t last long. His mind started it’s internal monologue.

“Things are deteriorating So quickly. My hopes of improving my life to become Asimov-esque – that is stable & predictable, are 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 this depressive funk he’s suddenly entered post mantra – sure it was a long shot but worth a try.

He looked over to a Betelgeuse like sized pile of coats & disguarded clothes 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. The smell of the coats & clotehs was only musty, & not stinky. This was becasue his routine was to leave his used underware & tee shirts in the shower room as he showered.

Then, as he was lying under the weighty coats & clothes he felt a hard-edged rub against his hand. He fumbled to the source like the blind man he was under this musty but relaxing clothes-mountain. He found the hard shape & realised it was a book left inside one of his coat pockets.

He took it out of the pocket & popped his head & the book he was clutching out from underneath the pile. In the low light of his dingey joint he looked at the front cover.

“A Trip to Rigel Via Orion’s Belt”

By Tim Teeter”

The front image was of a giant blue star that had a marble-swirl look to it. In the image there was in the stars orbit an Earth lookalike planet, exept the continents looked totally different shape. In the foreground was an approaching spacecraft that looked somewhat similar to ‘The Enterprise’.

Tim liked the image, but he didn’t recognise the book – he figured he must have picked it up at one of the many second hand bookstores he frequented, & somehow forgotten about it – which was unlike him as an ardent sci-fi book lover. Then he took a double take at the writer’s name.

“Hey….Shit!! that guy has the same name as me”, Tim said out loud – as he did when highly surprised, even if he was by himself. Tim turned to the back cover – and there it was – a photograph of the author.

It was picture of himself, perhaps twenty years in the future as a sixty-year-old. Tim’s fears instantly disappeared. He knew after looking at this picture he’d be ok & his problems were only temporary. Tim was sure this was a book from his distant future, that had somehow popped into his life twenty years before he had written it.

Tim figured that maybe it was a ‘glitch in the matrix’ type thing that he’d heard of from the internet videos. Tim knew a lot about physics from his school days & that’s why he didn’t think his ‘book from the future’ popping into existence in his present was an unbelievable thing. Tim knew that quantum mechnics says that particles & anti-particles pop into existence seemingly ‘from nothing’ all the time. Tim thought that the book was perhaps some kind of effect wherby the quantum effect somehow magnifies into something large like a book.

But Tim was mistaken. In reality the book suddenly appearing was not a undiscovered quantum physics effect at all. For the real Tim Teeter from the photo the book’s back cover was not the Tim same Teeter that was stuck in a holding pattern, worked as a postman & had dived under his Betelgeuse sized clump of washing for mental health reasons.

Yes – the photo did look like identically like him, or what he would almost certainly look like in twenty years, but it definitely wasn’t him & it also definitely wasn’t him as a succesful Sci-fi writer from the future. but Tim didn’t realise this.

Tim now felt like a ‘new man’. He had a warmth in his chest. He had a sence of sureity about his existence. He felt suddenly like he figured a rich man might feel. He felt like he could now happily deal with all the crappy depressing ‘holding pattern life’ that was his reality. Tim’s knowledge of his ‘good future life’ – even though it was false, allowed him to smile as he waded through his very deep trough of bullshit that followed him everywhere tenty-four-seven.

Unfortunately this feeling would only last until around ten days – until some time late in the next week. His anxiety would then return with interest when he went back to his supposed ‘future book’ & he would read the publisher details page. He’d read the date of publication, the country it was written in etc which would destroy his post-mantra reality in an instant.

That night under the coats was Tim’s best night sleep ever. And so were the next nine nights. Why would he stop sleeping under his coats, trousers & shirts now? They’d lead him to the book. He also decided to use his sick leave to bunk the post office, he had to enjoy the feel good time rather than waste it at that crap hole. All day & night He read all his stacks of unread sci-fi books & mind other bending fiction books.

During those ten days of wrongful-victory-bliss he had the time of his life – he’d read so much stuff he’d even kept the mantra’s going every time he’s read ten pages of text as well. Sure he was putting himself in a ‘manic state’ & he knew it – but what did it matter? – he told himself. He knew it would all work out ok – the book had destined it!.

At around night five after finding the book under the musty coats, his sweet restoritive sleeps started to have a kink in them. Perhaps the mantra’s & the reading had caught up with him. On night five he developed a reccuring nightmare.

The nightmare went like this: Tim found himself as an unemployed & depressed praying mantis who had staged an elaborate break in to his own flat, & was now reporting it to a series of disinterested police as a ‘killer-bad-guys-out-to-get-him, he-was-just-lucky-to-not-be-there-at-the-time’ thesis.

In the nightmare no matter how much he as a ‘sincere sounding praying mantis’ tried, the various police officers wouldn’t listen for a second. They all suspected him of staging the break in, in the hopes of insurance pay out.

The nightmare plot continued to the last part: He as the praying mantis had got so stressed that the cops wouldn’t be suckered into his scam, It got to the point where he was so stressed he told the reporter from the local rag an extremily elaborate story about all the scenarios of ‘who were the bad guys out for him’ that he felt he would have to leave to go live safely in New Zealand so to hide out from the killer burglars who were one hundred percent sure to return & ‘take him out’.

By the ninth & final night’s sleep under the musty clothes mountain, & the fifth consequetive night of the ‘burgled praying mantis’ nightmare, Tim was almost at mental breaking point. By now it was like he’s become one with the sci-fi stories he’s been reading all day & night for the last nine days & nights with reckless abandon.

That afternoon on the tenth day he emerged from underneath the pile & went over to the coffee table which was only a foot away from ‘musty clothes mountain’. As he looked at the cover of the book he instantly felt cured of his manic state. He flipped to the publishers info page. He froze like a statue made from ice chipped from Saturn’s moon of Titan when he eyes read the following words.

Published by Tim Teeter in 2019 By Sleeping Mantis Press.

Tim fell backwards onto the top of ‘clothes mountain’. he fell still holding the book. When he landed on the clothes the book’s edge had hit his lip & cut it, & it had even dislodged his two front teeth. The last thing Tim felt was the whack of the book, and the feeling of trickling blood from his mouth. His eyes slowly closed & he lost consciousness.

In three days time two police officers forced their way in by breaking in the door. They quickly saw Tim’s arched body on the top of ‘clothes mountain’. The book was lying nearby him with it’s sprawled pages facing downwards. They saw his bloody face & teeth knocked out. They also looked around at the bomb site all around them. The room full of broken bottles, various detritus seemingly thrown from drawers, books thrown out of the many book cases, which had all toppled over. The saw the book next to Tim, but didn’t think much of it.

They immediately suspected foul play, emanating from break in. Tom Trevelli, who was the senior partner of the two, called the job into to the Precinct & prepared themselves for a double shift. Tom was an ardent sci-fi himself, which helped him escape the drudgery of cop work. He’d been sick of being a Cop for at least a decade now, but was stuck inside of what he had coined ‘The black hole of the Force’. Just as well he had Sci-fi, and that’s how he spent all his spare time after he clocked out – alone with snacks, beer & Sci-fi in his one bedroom unit.

While waiting for the forensics team both of them figured they’d read from the book., then when they heard the others coming, they’d place it back exactly as they’d found it. One of the cop’s put on his gloves & lifted the book. He was a little startled when he read the words on the front Cover.

A Trip To Orion’s Belt Via Rigel

By Tom Trevelli

He almost died himself after he turned to the back page & looked at the photograph of the author – it looked just like himself only about twenty years older. His partner Alex saw his discomfort.

“Hey Tom, what’s up you look like you just saw a Ghost?”

Tom looked up at Alex, walked over gingerly & showed him the book.

“Look at the auther & photo man – it’s as if it’s actually me! I’m taking this damn book home”.

Alex after looking dumbfounded, looked at Tom & deadpanned his words.

“I didn’t see nothing Tom – we never solve these kind of cases anyway – that book won’t matter none”.

With Alex’s reply, Tom gingerly picked up another book at random from the floor, dropping it the first time he tried. He put it face down with pages sprawled back to the exact position of the one he was now quickly stuffing down his pants.

As Tom got back to his feet he smiled at Alex & they both heard approaching distant wail of their fellow cops in squad cars coming in from the Precinct.

The End

“Tim Teeter’s Trip To Rigel”. (A Poem)

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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.

Updates from the abyss

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Hello there Poem readers of great aplomb. Take me to your leaders. I want to see the cats. The cats are in charge – we all know that. The Cats have pulled of all the rights of life without the responsibilities. their only catch is they mostly rely on us for food.

I have (as usual) been trying to survive small town NZ life. This is not easy for someone who writes Poems. But then again NZ is quite open to these things, so what am I complaining about?

The day job is going ok – I work in the trades. If you mix things up enough you can keep your sanity. e.g. dig a hole here, bang a nail there, prune a tree here.

Since my last letter/update I have written a reasonable amount – the links are below & I have written a line to describe them.

Poems from latest to earliest:

“And so we remain uncivilised” (A Poem)

This is a giant complain about how humans are (a typical theme of mine). I argue for example that Atomic Physicists are not necessarily ‘civilised”

“The Bomb-Cleaner” (A Poem)
This is about my messy room. Just as well if my cat told me to clean up I can yell “No! I am an artiste!“
“Deadbeats Can Be Poets” (A poem)
This is a hurrah to the fact that if you are a loser, you can hide it with engaging the arts –
this is a well-worn trick which has been done since the caveman days –“No I don’t have an actual Bison for tea dear – I was too tired to go out & hunt one down – but look here – I drew a picture of one on our cave wall”
“Low Dopamine Inc.” ( A Poem)
This is about practical ways to beat depressive behaviours – i.e. know exercise cuts it in half at the very least – due simply to dopamine release.
“On Chess” (A Poem)
I went through a Chess playing phase – this is the notes of that.

It has been good to keep writing – unfortunately no one really reads them but then again all I do is this blog. Like most writers – I still need to “Bloom”. This means to be more business like. One day I better push harder. I fear that it is ‘fear of success’ rather than the more advertised ‘fear of failure’ that is the true reason. For that I guess I shoulf blame my childhood – why not? My theory is if I am screwing up ‘blooming’ – at least what I can do is keep writing & posting it here on my blog. At least that’s something – that’s at least like reading one page a day of a giant book – one day you will finish it.

Anyway nice chatting

till next time!

An Update on recent Writing & life

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Hi there!

Well Well Well! I have just finished a new short story. I wrote the last half of it just now, after stewing on the half-done version for 2 weeks. So please read the first draft final version of it here:

“Weatherboards” (A Short Story)

It has been freezing here in Central Otago NZ where I live. it’s been getting down to minus seven or so. It’s even worse when you still haven’t organised better insulation. In NZ the old carpenters made the houses often with no insulation! Crazy stuff! But then wood was cheap & every home had a blazing fireplace.

It’s great to have finished two short stories in the last month or so, the other short story (a long one) being below.

“Learning To Love The Alien” (A short Story)

Soon I will have to take a month of my day job & try to edit all these short stories – this of course seems like a massive massive task. Sometimes I think I’ll never get around to making all this writing ‘blossom’ – but I hope I am wrong on that. I guess a more assertive thing to say would be “DAMN IT I WILL BREATH THESE THINGS INTO LIFE IF IT’S THE LAST THING I EVER DO”…..but writers don’t really talk like that.

I believe in the system way of thinking – my system is to produce core writing & enough of it so as to create some good final product. I’ve been on that journey 5 years & I guess I might have got to that point where soem good stuff can be winnowed down into a nice book or two.

In saying that – I should really make sure I do something proper with it all by age 50 – that gives me 3 more years!

Ihad a nice trip to Dunedin the other day – I stayed for a week & relaxed, bought books, and rejuvinated. In these post covid days we need to remember we have to fight the plan that we should not be leaving the house. And for writers we probably don’t like to leave the house much already.

Why do I do this stuff? I guess I hope I am describing the madness & occasional goodness of the human condition in an original way. maybe I am failing, maybe not – I guess that;s not for me to say. Anyway I enjoy it – & that’s the main thing. I think I have cracked a way to not stress out about writing. I always seem to come up with something reasonably soon. Writers block hasn’t hurt me for a long time now, touch wood.

Anyway I hope you are all well.

happy reading

Martin A. Smith 23/06/2024

“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 Ballad of The Overpriced Shandy” (A Poem)

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And So To the Nearby-Bar-In-The-Other-Town I Did Go,

In My Trusty ‘Horseless Carriage’.

Also known as its shortened name – a “Car”

This Is a regular saturday jaunt of mine,

I go from a one-horse-town,

To another one-horse-town.

Or perhaps I should update the phrase & say “I went to a one-car-town”.

These are mostly Shandy, Books & Coffee & Boob-watching trips –

& by ‘Boobs’ I unfortunately mean the ‘people’ kind.

Yes, most people suck, but occasionally you get lucky.

So, this particular time I sling into the usual regular bar –

a slightly old fashioned working mans bar, but owned by recent immigrants.

The two bartenders that are there are damned good guys,

Guys that you know have a real heart beating in their chests.

But the boss is too – let’s just say his vibe doesn’t fill me with confidence.

The good boys at the bar usually give me a good & fair shandy price,

But I make a mistake & ask the owner for the same drink.

He gives me the usual inflated price.

I tell him it’s too expensive –

I say “I usually get it for Six Fifty – surely you can’t charge me the same for a full beer”

I add that he doesn’t pay excise tax on the half of the glass that is lemonade.

The owner looks at ‘good guy one’ next to his shoulder and asks “what do you charge”

‘Good guy number one’ agrees & says “Six Fifty”.

So, the owner, backed into a corner backs down @ gives me my usual Six Fifty price shandy.

Five minutes later I order from the Boss again.

He rings up Eight dollars.

I say “what gives”,

He simply ignores good grace & says “it’s Eight Dollars”.

I regrettibly cough up – with the half protest of raising my hands up in the air while saying “ok ok”.

He pours it, I take it, I drink it.

I thought to myself “I’m probably not coming back next time”.

I found it amazing that the owner was willing to lose a regular customer,

Just to save the one & a half dollars of an overpriced shandy.

That owner boob only valued my regular custom at $1.50.

I paid it anyway & drank it & left.

After I left, I thought about not coming back,

Then I felt extra sorry for those two good guys behind the bar.

I thought to myself “I really should help them get new jobs”.

As I left the stormy day suddenly turned sunny & drove home.

I thought to myself

“If only there were more bars in one-horse-towns”.

Then my actions could have a chance to live up to my principles & intensions.

Yes Siree! You sure give up a lot when drinking overpriced shandys in one-horse-towns.

“Writers Block” (A Poem)

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‘Writers Block’…

Connects with the writer’s head

It was a sad story

Fueled by too many rejection letters

Luckily it was just a block of cheese

That the writer had stupidly

Put precariously on an overhead shelf

Above their writer’s desk

Cheese though is softish

So it didn’t hurt The writer much

And anyway any disappointment & soreness

Was Whiled Away

Upon Munching On The Cheese

the Belly Now Filled

The Words Did Flow

Writing My Last Short Story – An insight into ‘My Writing Processes’ (A Blog Post)

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I wrote my eleventh Official short story a few days ago – it is “draft finished” – i.e. the main bones are there but it will still require ‘cleaning up’ – it might lose 10% of its wordiness, will have the better spelling & a few words changed etc etc. Anyway, this post is just a light one about the process of my writing.

It had been since October 22 since I wrote my last & tenth short story – which I don’t think was a very good one. I figured I better get back in the game with a really good effort so as to end up with something I feel good about. The very unscientific ‘gut feel’ as to whether you created something that was ‘good or not’, is I think quite a reliable instrument in the arts. You tend to know pretty early if something is up to scratch or whether will likely be left on the ‘cutting room floor’ as they say.

My gut says I did a good job in writing “The Men, the Moon & The Machine” (it’s published on this site, so go read it) – a story about Two faculty staff – one older, accomplished, revered, & one younger who has spent the last 10 years ‘underachieving’. It’s set in a run of the mill University in the Astronomy area of a Physics dept. I won’t describe more as I’ll only ruin it by posting ‘spoilers’!

So I was itching to write a ‘goodun’ as we say here ‘downunder’ (you international’s see NZ & Aussie as kinda the same so I’ll agree with the term ‘downunder’ as a description of NZ, even though we kiwis don’t ever call ourselves that) . Having a science/maths education background I like the sci-fi genre so I figured a story which has a core theme of the possibility of life on the moon as a good starting point.

I guess if you are writing a sci-fi story about the moon, the go to environment is a) an astronomy dept or b) a private company that wishes to exploit the moon for profit. I decided on a) the university environment. I had actually written a story plan that differed from the end resulting story (I posted the plan on this site so you can read it too).

Writing out a stream of consciousness plan (akin to brainstorming) and/or a more detailed one something I only vaguely adhere too, but I think it gets better results, even if you deviate wildly from the plan. I think it gives a better chance for your subconscious to organise the material better & then this presents to the conscious mind.

For example – I started ‘thinking very vaguely’ about ideas for a new short story, about a week ago – then a couple days with no concrete plan I just decided to commit to writing a plan with the hope of something slightly crystallising out. Luckily some ideas flowed & the plan was about the moon being found to be habitable & then the forces of soulless nouveau-riche capitalism took over & there were land grabs & clamours of social climbers & ‘faux elites’ to gain a ‘exclusive slice’ of real estate on the moon.

In my plan everything was going great for those wishing for a slice of paradise – I called them “Mooncitz” (i.e. Moon Citizens) until the oxygen levels start to misbehave. This is passed off as a statistical anomaly at first by elitist leaning scientists, & all returns to breathability until the next time it becomes clear no one can live on the Moon anymore, & a panic to leave sets in. The problem was ‘the poor folk they don’t like’ had to save them.

I abandoned the main thrust of that plan when I started writing the actual story – but I think it was a good idea & I will probably re-visit that plan soon. The problem with that kind of storyline – where a rogue commercial element exploits space – is I think there are so many threads it’s hard to keep it to short story length. When I stuck to a “University Dept”, the story seemed to allow for a more limited number of threads to follow & thus was easier to write.

When I sat down to write the story it was, I think 8pm on a weeknight – I wrote the first draft right through until 3 am – which was I think 3500 words. The first draft ended with Zac’s words written in the sherbet (‘I found greenery on the moon first’). I went to sleep & the next day I decided it couldn’t end there as this was too open ended, so I wrote more.

I wrote about a parallel universe where Zac lived & was the guy that saved Earth from losing WW3 – versus the AI robots we though would help us. I ditched that as I realised, I was starting a whole new short story idea, I replaced it with the one that is now there – which gives the secondary character Chester more airplay & examines the aftermath of Zac’s death.

So out of the themes I discarded, I actually have 2 extra themes that could be pursued. It’s also good to be able to make big theme changes & not be attached to much to what you’ve written. My brain now tells me when an idea doesn’t fit well & needs to be ditched for something else – I think you shouldn’t squash that brain tell, & you can keep the writing that gets edited out anyway.

‘The Men, The Moon & the Machines” I think could be my best short story yet (ok I’m early in my development story writing so that doesn’t count for much probably) in terms of short s. I think it is right up there with “Storms Of Change”” &probably has more popular appeal than that story. I printed out the story & read it to a family member who liked it & offered some tips here & there – but the main thing I wanted to know was whether they liked it – they did, so I was happy.

Next up I think I’ll write perhaps two more stories & then look to collate & publish at the ‘next level’ which will probably be either amazon or perhaps a physical self-publish thing of some form. I wouldn’t mind meeting some writers who I can help me on these matters & act as a feedback mechanism. I think it’s easy to hide away in your dark room on your computer & not push your writing enough – becasue that’s comfortable. At 40+ as I am, I think it’s bad to never get beyond that ‘comfort trap’ – especially if you have built up a big amount of writing.

Anyway, I hope you read “The Men, the Moon & The Machine”, & if you can be bothered email me about what you thought of it – that would be great!

See you later!

P.s. I forgot to mention that when I write I have pop/rock/metal music playing on an old hi-fi, often a can of beer to sip & snacks – salami, deli items etc. These little rituals are more important than you might think! You must make yourself comfortable as possible, as writing a good piece of writing is a real challenge – why not make it a little easier while you do it?

Martin A. Smith

20/05/2023 9:56PM NZ Time.

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

Posted in anxiety, Australia, Australian Issues, Humour, philosophy, social commentary, writingTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment

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)