ERROL FLYNN

Born with damn near nothing
Except your dreams to keep you warm
You live inside a movie
To hide you from the storm
Beautiful and reckless
You keep waiting for Hollywood to call
You’ll hate me when I leave you
But I won’t stand to see you fall
You think you’re Errol Flynn
And you’ll get away scott free
One day when you’re not Errol Flynn
My friend
You might remember me

Gambling in Kokopo
You risked your life to raise the stakes
Each day attempting to prove
You’ve got just what it takes
You’re restless and confused
You pray each night to be that shooting star
But somewhere along the way
You forgot who you really are

You think you’re Errol Flynn
And you’ll get away scott free
One day when you’re not Errol Flynn
I hope
You might remember me

You think you have to impress me
With your daredevil feats and tall tales
But buddy I was your one true friend
And that’s the bottom line when your bullshit fails
And don’t you forget it

You think you’re Errol Flynn
And you’ll get away scott free
One day when you come down to earth
Maybe
You might remember me

(C) Frank Howson 2019

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THE YOUNG BOY CALLED ME OLD MAN

The boy called me old man but I pitied him and his youthful arrogance, for I knew the pain that waited ahead for him. Life humbles us all. Even the ones who think they are Superman in those summer days of our lives. There will be plenty of time for him to look back at how much he squandered his power on those who let him down. Like an incessant drum beat that slowly fades and diminishes altogether till there is only the relief of silence that comes to those old enough to appreciate it. Some will rage against the unfairness of the inevitable but will fall where they stand as young men step over their bodies in their excitement to enter the ring.

When we are young we dream of running away with the circus. When we are old the circus runs away from us. But by then we can see through the grandeur to the sweat, fear and blood of the performance. And the toll it takes from us all.

It is unjust that we amass some experience and wisdom that gets us nowhere but a park bench in the sun. For no one is interested in listening to what we know because they’re too busy rushing around making all the same mistakes we did. And good advice is only met with resentment from the young, like telling someone how a book ends and spoiling it for them.

Some young men have so many women they don’t know what to do with them. Eventually the women realise this and leave for greener pastures and something more substantial than big talk. Or a big car. For they were never really interested in the car.

Time is a serial killer that picks its targets indescriminantly but will eventually come knocking for us all in the dead of night.

Even for those who were once arrogant young things who thought they knew it all

(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

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

THE FINAL STAGE – Adrian Rawlins review of what he called “My lost masterpiece”.

It started out like a normal day for the man of the house. He had breakfast with his wife. She was no warmer or cooler towards him than she had been for a long time. He read the morning paper, donned coat, picked up his briefcase and left for the office.

She reminded him that there was no office anymore. He had to acknowledge that all that is now part of “the past”. Putting aside momentary chagrin at the loss of anticipated freedom he feels safe. There will be no more journeys into the outside world.

He and his wife relapse into a conversational sortie we know they have ventured into often before, their discourse, though completely Australian, throws up the cliches and truisms of everybody wisdom and in almost Pinteresque way introduces echoes of Oscar Wilde’s sublime parable “The Happy Prince”.

A telephone rings but nobody answers. It has no dial – like the clock face in Bergman’s “Wild Strawberries.”

There is an unexpected knock at the door and a man with failure written all over him seeks admission. He has about him the air of a failed vaudevillian/cabaret performer. Like T. S. Eliot’s narrator he has seen the moment of his greatness flicker…but…”I am not Prince Hamlet…”

The dialogue is cryptic, enigmatic, redolent with oblique references to poems, books and cultural assumptions, skirting banality while continuing the Pinteresque reference to the daily metaphors which have been the cliches while still retaining their nugget of “the truth” and providing many moments of genuine “comedie noir”.

Another visitor bursts in, this time no stranger. Stinky Radford is an actor, lover, a forceful extrovert character, beloved by both Man and Wife. Asked about his life, he bravely lies while we see that he too is not Prince Hamlet, nor was he meant to be.

While the husband muses upon the remembrance of the past, Stinky makes love to his wife, who was once his wife too. Then, girding up his loins, he leaves to…try again?…to solve the riddle?…face the music?

By the time the audience have accepted the essentially metaphoric nature of this work of cinema: the room is none other than the stage on which Sophocles presented his vast and mighty tragedies, or Aristophanes his satires: the same stage which Shakespeare saw as emblematic of the world, “on which stars in secret influence comment”.

Another visitor – a youth, streetfighter, violent, working-class poet and thug – shades of Jean Cocteau here – bursts in and now we are given our first inkling of the exact nature of the metaphor we have been watching. Despite his bravado and overt displays of machismo, he is terrified by the wife’s advances. We are justified at this point feeling that perhaps all of the male characters are aspects of the husband’s psyche and that we are witnessing a revelation of Everyman/Everywoman in a decidedly contemporary encapsulation.

The wife reminisces volubly about a lover, a lawyer with an earring in one ear.

Stinky Radford returns, having failed to discover anything. The streetkid wants to go back but Stinky assured him “there’s nothing out there”.

The husband has already asserted “we are kindred spirits,” and “this is the room of the lost”.

Finally, Music and Light and mysterious opening of a door heralds the moment when Man and Wife must Face the Music in an upper room (the Upper Room?). He is the Happy Prince, denuded now of all his finery, and she, the Swallow who will not leave him. They are translated into Light.

Immediately they are gone, another figure bursts through the front door, demanding explication. He is obviously the Lawyer who has been the wife’s lover, and in the manner of lawyers he threatens to sue everyone until “you’ll wish you were dead!”.

As his three auditors laugh and laugh we now know exactly where we are and the form of the film, which has been hovering at the corner of our consciousness now snaps into place – and everything makes sense.

“The Final Stage” is, at its deepest level a work of art covering in an original and ground-breaking way the same philosophic and metaphorical terrain covered by Jean Paul Sartre in “No Exit”. It is also a funny, sad, poignant, piquant, witty and disturbing story which amuses us while it reminds us of the – dare we say? – eternal verities of Life and Death.

Because of the way “the story” unfolds – similarly to the creative method employed by Peter Carey in his best short stories – the film is decidedly out of the ordinary – its unusualness and the charm and variety of the performances, induce us willingly to suspend our disbelief. Those viewers familiar with poetry, the theatre, and great literature will find echoes of those other forms and discovery of such connections gives the film’s delightful tension. Theatre-goers, one hopes, will appreciate more fully the slightly theatrical edge to the dialogue. But everyone should be able to see that “The Final Stage” makes a significant, even historical contribution to our understanding of film form in the deepest sense.

– Adrian Rawlins
Critic &. Poet
1994

Review written for Farrago.

Produced, Written & Directed by Frank Howson starring Adrian Wright, Abigail, Tommy Dysart, Michael Lake, Zachary McKay & Tiriel Mora.

photograph by Luzio Grossi.

JESUS – THE JEWISH DILEMMA

Who is Jesus Christ? The facts are he was born Yeshua ben Yosef – a simple man from a simple town. Born at a time without the powerful worldwide reach of the media’s sophisticated communications technology and yet he is by far the most famous person who ever lived. That in itself is an extraordinary achievement, and somewhat of a miracle in itself. How does someone get remembered that long and his following just grow and grow into every country and backwater place in the world? And this was initially flamed by just word of mouth from those who knew him and had witnessed his tragic fate.

From all accounts he was a devout Jew, a Rabbi even, and was praised for his spiritual knowledge and the great power of his sermons. He connected with the wisest men of the day, with simple folk, and with those the world shunned – the lepers, cripples, deformed, the deaf, the paupers and the blind. He treated all with the same respect. For he saw past their afflictions and addressed their souls. He also acknowledged women as equals much to the annoyance of his own apostles. His non-judgmental attitude also stretched to the Romans, which led to criticism amongst his own race. We are told that he saw inherent good in us all no matter our race or how far we had strayed into darkness. That belief was his most powerful statement and no doubt why he remains so relevant. It would also be the cause of his shockingly brutal and barbaric death.

Perhaps he still lives because more than two thousand years later, most of us are still grappling with his radical concept of loving everyone, including those who have wronged and seek to damage us.

And therein lies another truth of fact. Jesus was a political and social rebel at a time when such things could get you either banished or killed. That’s why he told parables, child-like fiction stories, that symbolised what he was really trying to tell us. Interestingly, we seem to be headed back to those dim dark ages where you have to adhere to the accepted politically correct opinion of the day. Not sure Jesus would last too long in the modern world either which, sadly, shows just how little we have really progressed as human beings.

Another fact. Mary Magdalene was not a whore. She was married to Jesus and no doubt had children with him. No rabbi was allowed to speak in a temple unless he was married and had children. Jesus spoke in several temples and addressed those in attendance. So why did the early Christians decide to reduce Mary Magdalene to a good hearted whore who needed Jesus to save her? They were men carrying the residue of old doctrines and still too threatened to give women too much power in their new religion. Many wise men throughout history have seen through this rewriting of the truth according to Jesus. Michelangelo for one, who risked his life mischievously painting Mary at The Last Supper seated next to her husband Jesus. Either that or a very feminine looking man in drag, so I’ll go with it being Mary. The unspoken truth is also in Michelangelo’s sculpture “The Pity” which depicts the dead body of Jesus cradled in the arms of Mary. But look closely at the face and it is not that of the mother of a 33 year old man. It is that of young woman. A wife, now a widow.

This truth, to me, makes the story of Jesus all the more powerful. Yes, pity indeed. But while these early Christians were creatively inspired they watered down other aspects of Jesus because obviously the fact that he was a real man with real human contradictions at times unnerved them somewhat. In the words of Father John Misty on his album Pure Comedy, “…they get terribly upset, when you question their sacred texts, written by woman-hating epileptics.”

Isn’t it ironic that the poster boy to a very large majority of the world, Jesus, whom even the Muslims honour as a holy prophet, is not recognised by his own people? I remember when I was living in L.A and serving on the board of the Starlight Foundation and we were having a black tie fund raiser one evening and a very wealthy Jewish woman went into a tirade about Jesus spitting venom and heated hatred about a man she’d never known. Arriving late into this conversation one would’ve thought she was talking about Hitler, or an exhusband. But no, it was that simple man from Nazareth who told us all to love each other. Being the only one with the guts to cut into this tirade with some logic, I offered up as my sacrifice, “Look I can understand you not believing he was the son of God, whatever that means, but what is there to hate about a man who preached love, forgiveness, redemption, understanding, and who loved children, animals, lepers, well, you name it, he seemed to be a walking lovefest?” There was silence and then she walked off in a huff of negative energy. A shame because I was truly interested in getting to the bottom of where this hatred for such a man sprang from.

Also ironic is the fact that people who on one hand intensely dislike Jewish people, on the other worship Jesus. The Rabbi Jesus that is. Strange.

Is the Jewish dislike of Jesus based upon the fact that they were called “Christ killers” in some misinformed circles? Well, again, don’t blame Jesus for that. He laid blame nowhere and on no one.

Another fact. Jews didn’t hate Jesus during his time here. Quite the opposite. They appeared to have adored him. Who were those thousands who came to hear him speak? That lined the roads to greet him? Who came to him with their problems seeking his help? Who were his disciples? Who were the first Christians?

The only Jews who had a problem with Jesus were a very small elite bunch of high priests led, or misled, by Joseph Ben Caiaphas, the highest honcho priest who was clearly in the pocket of the Romans. I have seen the layout of the palatial palace that Caiaphas was given by the Romans in exchange for keeping his tribe in line. Life was sweet for this pampered man until that Jesus character started becoming an overnight sensation amongst his own people. Hosanna indeed. Suddenly there was talk that he may be the long awaited Messiah, which fuelled excitement that the downtrodden masses may rise up and overthrow the Romans. Then came word of miracles. One even performed on the Sabbath. It is understandable why Caiaphas became deeply concerned about an uprising that would jeopardise his own authority and lifestyle. Something had to be done, and it was. The wheels were set in motion when this Jesus character proved he could not be bought or intimidated by threats. I believe, if for no other reason, Jesus deserves our respect for the simple fact that he didn’t just talk the talk, he walked the walk. A man so genuine in the beliefs he preached that he laid down his life in the most agonising way to confirm his commitment.

Blaming all Jews for the actions of Caiaphas is like blaming all Americans for Senator Joe McCarthy. Ridiculous.

Jesus had no interest in taking on the Romans, his main quest seemed to be to publicly expose Caiaphas to his own people as the fake and betrayer he no doubt was. A man who’d sold his own congregation out.

Which brings me to Judas whom I believe to be the most wrongly reviled man in history, and again a victim of a slapdash dumbing down rewrite of the complexities of the real story. Fact is Judas had friends among the high priests and I believe Jesus used him as the go-between to force a public confrontation between himself and Caiaphas. At the last supper when Jesus says to Judas, “Do quickly now what you must do” I take that to be an order, and no doubt Judas did too. But then things got out of hand. Jesus didn’t call Caiaphas the “sly old fox” for no reason.

And let’s not let the Romans off the hook. It’s amazing how they have escaped any lasting blame for their involvement in the bloody death of Jesus. Sure, Caiaphas started the fire but Pilate sealed the deal. I find it difficult to believe that a man as powerful as Pilate would be so reluctant to decide the fate of Jesus. What was one more Jewish life to this man? Based upon his track record, not much. Yet according to the scriptures written by Jewish men, Pilate time and again virtually pleads with the angry mob to spare the life of this preacher. He states that he sees in this man’s actions no disrespect or threat to Rome. Finally he pleads with Jesus to say something to let them both off the hook. But Jesus has already accepted his fate and knows full well that the prophecy must be acted out.

The reason we are given for Pilate’s out of character reluctance to execute Jesus is because his wife, Claudia, had a vision one night and told her husband that a holy man would come before him for judgement and that he must not condemn him or he will be condemned himself forevermore. It is interesting that in the Greek Orthodox Church Claudia is considered a saint for having had that vision.

Still, Pilate condemned Jesus to death. He may have washed his hands to symbolise that he wanted no part of the blame, but his failure to stand up to the mob calling for blood (many of whom it is suggested were paid by Caiaphas to begin the chant) makes him culpable just the same.

Given the above, I often marvel at the irony of the contradictory titled Roman Catholic Church. Not quite sure how Jesus would feel about those naming rights for the custodians of his truth. No doubt it was necessary to downplay the Roman involvement in the murder of Jesus in order to have the Empire embrace this new religion.

There are now manuscripts that reveal that Jesus’ brother James (another person who didn’t make the cut), and the apostles wanted to start their own religion in the name of Jesus. It no doubt would’ve stuck closer to the real story as they knew the real man and witnessed all the major events with him. They knew first hand what he felt and thought about things. It’s interesting to note that James was adamant that it would be a Jewish religion and honour all the accepted traditions as Jesus had. But this character named Paul came forth, a man who’d never known Jesus, saying he’d had a vision and been instructed by Jesus to start a new religion and open it up to the whole world. Up till then, Paul had persecuted the followers of Jesus and was on his way to Damascus to arrest others when he saw Jesus in a stunning light. For three days after this event Paul was blind until Ananias restored his sight. It is now believed that the obviously conflicted Paul also took epileptic fits.

With time the majority of Jews sided with Caiaphas and his version of events and the Jesus followers ended up in the St. Paul camp.

St. Paul is now the wellspring on which the current Roman Catholic Church draws its inspiration. I’d say that was a rocky and somewhat compromised source to begin with.

It is indeed a shame that in this sanctification of Jesus, a great deal of the real man has been lost. His very humanness to me is what makes his deeds all the more extraordinary. He did get angry, he did have doubts, he did fear, he did weep, he did love, he did care, he did feel pain, and he did laugh.

He was not an alien, or the angelic haloed image on a million posters and commissioned paintings, he was one of us. A son of man whom God would be most pleased with.

(C) Frank Howson 2019

THE POWER OF IDIOTS

I sit in this room, this crumbling room I grew to love, cluttered by the mementoes of a crumbled life. Framed photographs of friends, lovers and family, all long gone. My bookshelves filled with the greatest wisdom the world can offer, written in the most eloquent of ways, and yet all it did was lead me here. And very soon lead me somewhere else because of a landlady who is in my opinion certifiably insane and subleased apartments to me and several others without having the authority to do so. I would’ve thought that was fraud but it seems the police have no interest in fraud these days. I guess there’s too much of it to deal with.

So good luck out there trying to deal with people in good faith. I have written in the past about the death of common sense. But I also believe we have lived to see the death of basic common ethics. All of this of course is flamed by apathy. Nobody cares anymore. We are too emotionally burnt out by watching the end of the world live on the internet.

Einstein could see things the rest of us couldn’t. And yet quite often was unaware he had odd socks on. John Lennon was so acutely insightful and sensitive about himself and yet could not pick a mad man who meant him harm. We can, allegedly, put men on the moon and yet so much of ourselves is left untouched. How deep does that darkness go? That inner space we fear to go lest there be no coming back?

They say to kill someone also kills a part of ourselves. So, after a few more what is it to kill six million? It just becomes a number. We live in a society that does much to take away our dignity, dehumanise us, mock our integrity, and reduce the truth of our lives to third hand gossip because we have lost the will, the pride and the energy to correct it. No wonder we have become the most dangerous species of all. In fact, if we went away the world would thrive. What a sad epitaph to our existence. The proof that there is intelligent life elsewhere is their very reluctance to make contact with us.

Is it easier for us to hate than to love? Yes. But we weren’t born like that. The act that creates us, most times, is love and we are programmed to be born into it. But if that love is not waiting there, and all we get from a mother is regret and tears, and from a father anger and blame, how could we ever wish for the capacity to hope, or know of its existence? Monkey do as monkey see.

Some of us are born into great love and a warm bed. We are shielded by our parents in our formative years so that we don’t experience too much hurt, rejection, violence, and any physically harmful mishaps. They sing us lullabies and read us stories about heroes who laid down their lives for something bigger than themselves and are loved for it. We are nurtured like this until we are old enough and adequately delusional to go forth into this world in search of a love of our own. For we’re told we are not one until we are two. Complete. Our better half. Ready to be wedded to each other and to a mortgage, a job that pays us enough money to sacrifice our self-esteem, 500 pay channels of crap and fake news to dumb us down, and a long slow road to that retirement village and watery vegetable soup until one day we surrender back into that inner space. And if we have lived that accepted life without complaining we are deemed to be the lucky ones in society’s eyes.

But what happens if you are full of love for everyone and yet never find the right partner? Or waste your best years on the wrong ones? Well buddy, you’re on the scrap heap of life. Banished to Regret on the outskirts of Shame. Always finding yourself standing in the rain on somebody else’s property, constantly being moved on. Looked at suspiciously. Labelled a possible future threat. Told that we just don’t “fit in”. A gypsy. A fugitive. An unwanted man. As doomed as Jeffrey Dahmer.

I once wrote the following lines for a Keith Potger song, “The cowboys pine for the open range, the sailors stand looking out to sea, the gangsters get gun-shy and start acting strange, and the lovers end up like me.”

So, if the very foundations of our existence are either gone or, at the very least, shaky and unpredictable, is it any wonder we make such poor decisions in regard to everything else? And to the many of us who have lost all hope and are locked away in our rented tombs, are we not ticking bombs? The most dangerous person in this world is the man who has nothing left to lose. In effect, he is already dead. He no longer fears the police, or jail (he’s been living in his own for far too long), pain, slander, or meeting God. The government hate this person because they are considered a wild card and their actions cannot be predicted. You cannot bargain with him or her for there no longer exists anything they want. All those desires and needs and beliefs died long ago. The seeds were planted when we got too close to Santa Claus and realised he was just an out of work actor in a padded suit designed by Coca-Cola, hiding behind an ill-fitting false beard. In most cases this disillusionment make the disenchanted confrontational. They demand answers. If we have been expertly lied to about Santa for years where do the lies stop?

Man kills anything he can’t understand. And one of those things is love. We have a long history of murdering the messengers who preach it as our salvation. But if you promote hate and genocide and are paid big bucks to invent sophisticated lies a government can sell, you’ll most likely have a long life and die in your bed.

Recently a man who’d died for some time during an operation and brought back to life, was interviewed about this experience. During his dead time he said he’d had the usual white light sighting but then travelled on into the heart of it. He then became suddenly aware of a powerful presence behind him. He could sense it. When he went to turn, a voice of great authority said to him, “Don’t turn. For if you see my face you cannot return. And trust me you wouldn’t want to see me angry.” (The last statement proving God has a sense of humour.) The man asked, “Are you…?” To which the voice replied, “What do you think?” The nervous visitor then said, “May I ask you a question?” And the reply was “Yes. Of course.” The great presence was then asked, “What is the meaning of life?” There was laughter and then the response, “I get asked that a lot. It is very simple what life is about. Love. Love one another and be loved in return. This is not your time. You need to go back and appreciate the love you have. But when you return we will have much time to talk and you can ask all the questions you wish.”

The man was then hugged by the presence and the feeling of unconditional love filled him with a joy so intense he feared he was going to explode. And then he was back in this life. He weeps to this day because he misses that feeling of unconditional love. It seems that a love that pure without agenda could be addictive if we ever experience it.

Perhaps Life really was meant to be that simple. And man through his over-inflated ego has sought to make his own impression by complicating the natural balance and looting everything he can for his own benefit. In this lust to sell the world, pure true love has been replaced by how many women you can con into your bed for bragging rights to impress other con artists. But there is no love in carnal conquest just as there are no riches in financial wealth. Those who have acquired huge fortunes by walking over people often, at the end of their days, talk about the hollowness they feel inside. Having killed many lives with their fountain pens, and the excuse, “We’re just doing our job” they then attempt to fill their dead centre with booze, drugs, and sexual perversion. But that leads to feeling even less. “Pity the man who inherits the world but loses his soul”. You can lie to your conscious but not to your subconscious, for it records every con, lie, hurt, betrayal, etc,, until one day you cannot take any more, and so you don’t. The suicide rate is astonishing amongst the extremely wealthy. This doesn’t get much press because the power brokers of this world who push for more and more productivity are scared to inform us that our goals are wrong and that money is a false god.

I fear it’s too late for us to reprogram ourselves. This bullshit is too ingrained in our DNA. Or is it?

There’s a very insightful lyric by that mystical troubadour Bob Dylan, “Man has invented his doom, first step was touching the moon.” We have now invented technology that gives us the internet which we were told would open our minds, make our lives easier, and that the answers to every question would be at our fingertips. So how come the ignorance level has never been higher? We also don’t need to have to go to all that trouble inviting someone over to participate in sex because we have every porn clip in the world depicting every sexual fantasy anyone could possibly imagine, all performed by beautiful people. It saves being rejected, as well as all that energy. But should we be inspired by the sexual acrobatics upon our screen, we can get into Tinder and have a total stranger knock on our door within the hour. As easy as ordering a pizza. Too busy to establish personal friendships? Not a problem, grown men can play online games. It’s very exciting.

So, we become more and more isolated within ourselves, and reality is conveniently invented and programmed for our personal needs as easily as switching on the air conditioning to our perfect temperature. If there is a Satan could he have invented a more effective device to bring about our own hell?

But that’s where we are now. Perhaps the world has ended and nobody told us? Where are those madmen in the wilderness when you need them? Oh yes, that’s right, we probably killed them. Or at the very least, locked them up. Discredited them with a phoney scandal. Silenced them. This modern world doesn’t tolerate freedom of speech anymore. Yet it was those opposing voices and radical opinions that triggered spirited debate that led to positive changes. Today all the truth tellers have been very effectively silenced for fear of being labelled a Nazi, a sexist, a fascist, a racist, a bully, or just plain crazy. And in the present day world, if enough people unfriend us do we really exist anymore?

How clever of a higher being who initially gave us free will, to also have allowed us to orchestrate our own doom.

In spite of it all I still believe in love. And in the inherent good in the majority of people. We have just lost our way, that’s all. And the road back is very difficult to find in the dark.

(C) Frank Howson 2019