WHEN YOU WERE MY FRIEND

We eat to fill the void
We fight because we’re scared
We’re quick to get annoyed
When our hearts are bared
So we hum our favourite song
That takes us back
To the time we went wrong
On some beaten track
We were so smart for fools
And treated life as a joke
We made our own rules
Until something broke
These days not so cavalier
It gets like this
When the end is near
And you’d settle for a kiss
Or a genuine word
A tender touch
Or something you haven’t heard
Like I miss you so much
So here we are
Poles apart
Maintaining our dignity
Playing our part
I miss our wild years
And those nights that had no end
That knew no tears
When you were my friend

(C) Frank Howson 2019

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WHERE DID WE LEAVE THE STORY?

Where did we leave the story?
Oh, that’s right, you left me
Were we out of our minds
To ever think we’d be free?
What’s the name of that street?
No, wait, it’ll come to me
Did we throw away our good fortune
Whilst searching for destiny?

“I knew a man who went to sea
And left the shore behind him
I knew that man for he was me
And now I cannot find him”
You once sang me that song
On our way to the gym
I think it’s about a legless man
And how it was he could still swim

Where did we leave the glory
We’d fought so hard to win?
Perhaps God was insulted
And deemed it a sin
What is that condition
When we’re too scared to win?
But perhaps we can’t blame it on theories
The truth is we’re made of tin

Where did we leave those tablets
That got us through the night?
Who said we had a chance
And that we were in the right?
You know me so you know
When I glow in the light
I don’t give up till I’ve given my all
Although this time I just might

Why did you leave our story
Just when things had worked out?
Were you afraid to express
All of the things that you felt?
Well it snowed this Christmas
Alone I watched it melt
Then I toasted us with aged whiskey
Although our drink is stout

(C) Frank Howson 2019

SPEECH DELIVERED AT LONDON FILM FESTIVAL OPENING

I am very honoured to be here.

“What The Moon Saw” was the second movie that my production company Boulevard Films produced. Since then we have made another five films, all of very different genres. Yet “What The Moon Saw” is the one that seems to have taken on a life of its own.

Earlier this year this film was selected and shown in competition at the Berlin Film Festival where it was such a hit it came to the attention of Miramax who acquired all rights for North America and the U.K. It is the first Australian film ever sold to Miramax.

One of the most exciting experiences, after watching the Berlin Wall come down, was watching the movie with an East Berlin audience comprising of mostly children. It was the first film from the Western world they had seen and none of us knew what to expect. And yet, the enthusiastic audience reacted to the very same things that a Western audience responded go. The same laughter and the same tears. Well, except for when Mrs. Melrose accuses the playwright of being a Communist. I think they thought she was praising him.

The film transcends normal language barriers because it speaks in that most universal language of all – the language of the heart.

Young Steven Wilson lives inside all of us. He’s that child we left behind somewhere in our race to bigger things. Occasionally he resurfaces only to be told (by a grown-up) not to be so “childish”, or “You’re having too much fun”; driven away, by those who’ve lost their sense of joy and the appreciation of simplicity, with slogans like “Time is money”, “Act your age” and, the cruelest jab of all, “Grow up!”

At the beginning of the film young Steven is farewelled by his mum and dad as he leaves his small country town to get on a bus to go to the big city for the first time and spend a week with his Grandma. It is a long winding journey along the coast road as he looks out the window at wonders he has not seen before. And for us, the audience, it is a look at the magic of innocence.

I miss Steven Wilson. I miss his unique point of view. The way the world is so simple to him. Things are either good or bad – black or white – sunny or cloudy – and a grown-up’s word is taken literally. He couldn’t survive in the confusing contradictory greys in which we adults have to exist – so we drive him away. Back home to that other country. That simpler slower world where people do the right thing regardless of the cost. And dreams, not regrets, get you to sleep at night.

Thank you for making me feel so welcome. And my work so appreciated.

You’ve given me some warm memories to take back with me on my long bus ride home.

London 1990.

(C) Frank Howson 2019

ALESSANDRA SMILES

I don’t know where to go
Don’t know where to turn
Every bridge I built
I lived to burn
Wouldn’t you think I’d learn?

But when I close my eyes
I forget the miles
There in my dreams
Alessandra smiles

I don’t know what to think
Don’t know where to start
We can touch the moon
But not each others’ hearts
We just tear them apart

In this deserted place
Filled with empty aisles
Here inside of me
Alessandra smiles

Tired of living scared
Sick of push and shove
Guess the only thing that can save me now
Is love
Sweet sweet love…

Because when I close my eyes
I forget the miles
Deep inside of me
Alessandra smiles

Alessandra smiles…

(C) Frank Howson 2019

ST. KILDA

The fun park is closed
The wind is streaked with ice
“Just for Fun” says the sign
“Cheap at Twice the Price!”
The night life is dead
I walk these streets alone
Just a kid when I left
Now a man’s come home

St. Kilda by the sea
St. Kilda at dawn
This is where I lived
Where I was born
I can still hear my father’s voice
Ringing through our back street home
Still see my mother’s tearful eyes
When I left to roam
Now I stand at this empty house
A prodigal alone

The beach shack is gone
The gang have moved away
“All for one” we had pledged
But it’s one for all today
The sea beats the rocks
My heart it beats too fast
They say some have no future
They just repeat the past

Oh why should I care?
To care you hurt too deep
“God is dead!” screams a broken man
All I want is sleep
The kid is back in town
The years can take their toll
I stand in the dim light of the morning
A ghost of a lost soul

Still see my mother’s tearful eyes
When I left to roam
Now I stand at this empty house
Where once there stood a home

(C) Frank Howson 2019

MR. WILLIAMS PASSED AWAY TODAY

A million flowers
A million cards
And an unfinished play
A lonely room
Filled with lonely dreams
Mr. Williams passed away today

A hotel lobby
Is under siege
For an expose
The daily press
Want a photograph
Mr. Williams passed away today

Mr. Brando’s unavailable for comment
And Blanche ain’t been seen for years
The streetcars dim their headlights
So a city can cry its tears

Two sailors argue
As theatres close
All around Broadway
They want some light
But they haven’t heard
Mr. Williams passed away today

(C) Frank Howson 2019

POTATO JACK

Potato Jack often left home without his jacket on. His mum warned him he’d catch his death, but she was wrong. Just like she was wrong when she told him he knew Jack Shit. He in fact had total recall of everyone he’d ever met and this person, to whom she often referred, he was positive he’d never crossed paths, or even swords, with. But he didn’t like to tell her she was wrong because she was known to carry chips on her shoulders.

Potato Jack loved nothing more than getting baked. He could take the heat for hours, feeling all mashed and gooey and light. But sometimes he’d die for a pea.

Once, he’d fallen for a sweet potato but she left him for an Au Gratin, and Jack conceded that he just couldn’t compete with such illustrious gems.

So, he lost himself watching endless repeats as he sat on the couch eating wedges.

His dad liked to call him Silly Sausage but that didn’t sit well with his over-sensitive son and gave the youngster a pain in the bun. His father admonished him at times for being thin-skinned and told Jack if he didn’t harden up he’d end his daze in a salad.

Dad had been a big wheel in Idaho and spent much time on the gravy train until it all turned to sour cream. Yes, he’d been skinned by several unsavoury types. A lot of hams still chived him about it, but the wise old potato knew that one potato two potato three potato four.

And that kind of humour a-peeled to him.

(C) Frank Howson 2019

For Raija.