BERLIN IN RUBBLE

I remember raindrops
I remember a child
I remember that look of yours
When we were young and wild
I drink to forget these days
And sing songs without hooks
As I search for my shirt
And go to burn some books

I remember outrage
I remember the shock
We stupidly thought we were free
As we danced 'round the clock
You made a beautiful bride
While I made a mess of things
We could not be enslaved
By the confines of rings

And yet I get sentimental
Every time I stumble
And in every reflection
I see Berlin in rubble

I remember lamb chops
I remember a road
I remember how much I loved
Before the teardrops flowed
I drove to Hollywood
While you drove me insane
Nowadays I'll be found
Among mementos of pain

And yet I get sentimental
Every time I stumble
And in every reflection
I see Berlin in rubble

I had a winning regime
Before Russia in the fall
In case you were wondering
In case I missed your call

And yet I get sentimental
Every time I stumble
And in every reflection
I see Berlin in rubble


(c) Frank Howson 2020





MY MOTHER

My mother had suffered. While other teenage girls were carefree, my mother's 
youth was robbed from her by polio. And the result was she'd walk with a limp 
the rest of her life. She'd also been denied an education because she'd had 
to leave school at 12 to work in a florist shop to help financially support
the family. Her father, whom she'd adored, was thrown out of the house by her
mum, and although he'd occasionally return to beg a reconciliation with his
family, it never eventuated. 

I was told that he couldn't keep his feet still if he heard music and loved 
to tap dance. It's one of those spooky things in life that I too loved music
and told my mum I wanted to learn tap dancing when I was all of 7. I guess
somehow in that mysterious way of the world I'd inherited his love of that. 

One night he was hit by a car driven by a drunk and died instantly. No doubt
my stubborn Irish grandmother felt guilt that she'd never taken him back into
the family and household he'd loved so much. But all actions have ripples, and
some turn into tidal waves.  

My mother missed him all the days of her life, and always told me what a
lovely man he was. 

Some say wisdom can't be taught, it has to be earned. And perhaps all the
early heartbreaks my mother endured explained her inherent wisdom. She had
a calm soulful way of smiling and imparting her wise words that would cut
to the heart of any problem you had. 

She was also the greatest mental arithmetic exponent I've ever witnessed, and
could correctly spell any word by sounding it. She was never wrong. Perhaps
She had a love of words that rubbed off on me. Her mathematical skills did 
not. 

She loved people. Another trait I inherited. And like me, she sometimes
trusted the wrong people. At the age of fourteen this pretty, naive, 
friendly girl was raped by a much older man. At fifteen, before her life
had really begun, she had a child, which was brought up by my grandmother
as hers to avoid a scandal and being ostracized by society at that time. 
My mother assumed the role of the baby boy's sister. A common story in 
those days, and much later gave me the insight to write about it in the
musical based on the life of Bobby Darin, "Dream Lover." I had witnessed
first hand the aftermath of the pain, shame and fallout of that situation. 
Hence the line in "Dream Lover" that "once you tell a lie, it must become
your truth forevermore."

In her early twenties my mum met my father. It was obviously, on my dad's 
part, love at first sight. But my mother steadfastly resisted any commitment to him. 
Still, he persisted. Phone calls, flowers, visits to the house, all
intended to wear her down and make her fall in love with him. His desperate
Quixote delusion. These days such a romantic fool would be arrested for
stalking. Back then it was considered "woo-ing."

He and his two brothers were all steeple chase jockeys, and although my
dad wasn't yet earning big money, healthy prospects loomed. All the 
brothers had been brought up as stable boys so they had a great gift with
being able to handle horses. It was second nature to them. My father offered
to give up his promising but tenuous career to get a steady job if only
Pearl Walsh would marry him. She refused his proposal. Then one night he 
showed up at her mother's house, drunk and crying, and threatened to kill
himself if she didn't marry him. My mum's oldest brother, Bill, told her
to "let the silly bastard off himself so we can all get some sleep!"

My mother, cursed with a soft heart, married Henry Francis Howson (Jacky 
to his friends) and they set forth to try and build a life together.  

She'd thought her child would move in with them and the wrong could be 
righted, but he'd grown too attached to the familiarity of her mother by 
then. My mother carried the hurt of this rejection the rest of her life. 
In his later years he'd desperately sought my mother to acknowledge him 
but she never did. He had made his choice. In Irish Catholic homes 
betrayals and vendettas ran hard and had a way of icing even the sweetest 
of hearts. 

I never knew any of this until I was a teenager. I was staying at my
uncle's house once, and his kids kept referring to him as my brother.
Suddenly, it was unraveled and and revealed.

My father's drinking accelerated and one can only assume as to why that
was. He went to his grave with so many inner feelings unvoiced. Like most 
men of his day. Perhaps he regretted what could've been if he hadn't given
up his racing career. He watched both his brothers go on and gain much
acclaim culminating in his oldest sibling winning many Grand National
Steeple Chase events and ending up in the history books. 

Or perhaps it was because he was sensitive enough to know that my mother's
love never matched his. After he died, my mum told me that she hadn't loved 
him and had only married him because he seemed so lost. That hurt me very 
much to hear, and made me sad knowing my father had endured a life with that
knowledge. She'd married to get away from living in her mother's home with
her two older opinionated brothers. Suffocating living under too many 
people's rules with a child she wasn't allowed to acknowledge as her own. 

At times I've thought that some people marry in order to kill each other. Or
themselves. Not sure if there's a name for that syndrome but it surely does
exist. As much as day follows night. 

I guess I always dreamed that I'd one day have a normal family life of my 
own, not damaged by denials, guilt, recriminations, and shame. And, for
15 years of a marriage I did, but lost it all when I stood up over a
principle (that Irish streak again). I won big in the integrity stakes but
lost in the financial one. Still, I could live with that far better than the
alternative, for I'd seen first hand what damage living a lie does to
people.

Who knows what my mother could've achieved if she'd been born into
different circumstances. Her great love was the movies. Spencer Tracy, Bing
Crosby, Cary Grant, Bette Davis, Fred Astaire, Ronald Coleman, Katherine
Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman were among her favourites. Later she became a big
fan of Peter O'Toole and thought that the acting between him and Richard
Burton in "Beckett" was the greatest she'd ever seen on the big screen.

My mum quoted Hollywood stories like some people quote Shakespeare or Bob
Dylan. Somehow she's found some morality stories about Tinsel Town. One of
which was about dear ol' Cary Grant who'd married the Woolworth's heiress 
Barbara Hutton, and how everyone at the time had thought he'd only married
her for her money. Yet, when they divorced, Cary took not a cent. What a
guy. That morality story has cost me a small fortune. I too, as a result, 
have never walked away from a marriage with anything other than the clothes
I'd been wearing. Somewhere Cary and mum are smiling. As for me, I've spent
years crying. 

She had an amazing instinct about people. Not sure if one is born with this 
ability, or earns it from meeting too many horribles along the way. Anyway, I'd 
bring a young school friend home and after they'd left she'd say, "He's 
(or she's) not for you." That really pissed me off as I thought she was far
too judgmental. But what pissed me off most was the fact that she was always
right. In fact, I've missed her judgements for far too many years. 

She was so protective of me. I'd been a change of life baby and in her eyes I 
was a precious gift from God. Of course I tried to rebel against this
rather restrictive image at every opportunity, but her love to me was always
unconditionally. When my much older sisters heard my mother's good news about
my impending entrance into this world they, in their usual graciousness,
refused to speak to my mother for 12 months. In many ways, I became the love
of my mother's life. All her unrequited dreams were wrapped up in me. It 
became a heavy burden for a young boy but on reflection I guess it pushed
me to strive harder so as not to let her down. This resulted in my mother
thinking everything I did was right, and my sisters believing everything I
did was wrong. It got me used to mixed reviews. And I also learnt early that
if people resent you it doesn't matter if you walk on water they're going
to be unimpressed. Or pretend that they missed it. And you can't fight that
or you'll become as mentally ill as the swallow people. 

Every day she'd get on the tram to the city and wander around all the floors
of the Myer Department Store shopping for the latest bargains. I shared those
journeys with her many, many times. She was on first name basis with all the 
sales staff of that vast shopping complex. If she didn't have the money she'd
put some item on higher purchase and pay it off (sometimes over years it seemed). 
Or, she'd have them deliver it "cash on delivery." If they delivered during
a poor week we'd have to be as quiet as mice as the very patient Myer delivery man knocked
at our door. It was quite an adventure. The policy was that they'd attempt
delivery three times before they'd give up. If this happened, we'd go into the city
and order the very same thing to be delivered hoping that by luck the knock
would come at the door on a more prosperous day. My mother was a first-hand
example of perseverance and hope.

She had a smile for everyone and loved a chat. A trip with her to the corner
shops and back could take all day, as she'd stop and chat to each person
she encountered. It used to frustrate the hell out of me as I'd hear the
same stories 43 times in succession!

When she died, her dear friend Kathy Jansen described my mother's voice as 
"the sound of joy." And so it was. I never once caught her being maudlin,
sorry for herself or depressed. To her, each say was a new adventure. Along
Along the way, she beat cancer and overcame heart problems - probably by
her positive disposition - and it was only a freak silly accident in the
house and a bump to the head that caused a blood clot, that signaled her
exit from this world. 

Her stroke cruelly took away her ability to speak. To my mother, this was her 
lifeblood. Every day I'd visit her she'd clench my hand with all her might,
look me in the eyes, and through sheer force of will force out three words,
"What's...the...use?"

I had no answer for her. We'd never lied to each other. 

It didn't take long until she'd willed herself to death. 

Years later when I was living in Los Angeles and having my own voice
problems caused by intense stress, my longtime friend John Capek
suggested that I go to an energy healer he knew on Laurel Canyon. I
took his advice and did so. During my first session, the energy guru
asked me to tell him a potted history of my life. I did so as best as I
could to which he replied, "Oh my God, what a hard life you've had!" 
I was momentarily shocked as I'd never thought of it that way. Not in those
terms. After all, I had no other life to compare it to. It was what it 
was. In fact, I'd felt that I'd many things to be grateful for. But when
I thought more deeply about it, given his statement, the tears started to 
flow uncontrollably from my eyes in spite of myself. As though my body was
releasing the intense pain I'd suppressed since childhood in order to
just keep going. It was quite a cathartic experience. He then said, 
"Oh, and your mother is still with you. She doesn't realise she'd dead. 
She loved you so much she can't let go. You need to tell her to go away."

It was one of the hardest things I've had to do. The fact that her great 
love for me had transcended death was so touching and yet I had to reject
her in order to breathe and begin to restore my own life. I have weathered
many great losses and loves in my life, and this was another loss I'd dealt
with. To everything there is a lesson, and I've learnt the art of icing my
heart to certain things. To quote a line from my film "Remembering Nigel,"
..."It's alright to love something, but you are damned if you love that 
thing too much."

And I'll be damned if I wasn't right. 

I've never been one of those men who looked down upon women or devalued
their opinions or didn't see them as an equal, and that's no doubt because
my mother was a very positive example to me. She was smart, wise, funny, 
instinctively sharp, kind, true, strong and open-hearted to all other
open hearts. It's true that when some people die the world is diminished
in some way. And so it was for me and all those who knew Pearl Howson.
Not a day goes by...


(c) Frank Howson 2019














DEAR WORLD

Dear World,

It has been quite an interesting stay here, but I feel I must be on my way.
I've always been quite anxious about overstaying my welcome. An overthrow
of too many years on the boards.

Whilst here I have met some truly beautiful people, by beautiful I mean in 
spirit, who have inspired me and been kind to me. Most are dead now and I
miss them deeply. 

Unfortunately, I have also met an abundance of cunts who have left me broken 
in spirit and in pocket. Horrendous people whom not even Mr. J. Christ,
formerly of Nazareth, could find it in his heart to forgive. Their actions 
discredit everyone and they think the human race is some perverse sporting 
event where someone has to win by any means necessary and every other
person has to lose. When I discovered this truth I sold my running shoes
and took a seat in the bleachers. The only thing those deluded competitive
bastards have won is a place in hell. Their names are on the doorlist. 

And what's with the fucking weather? Earthquakes, tidal waves, volcanic 
eruptions, tornadoes, torrential storms and bullshit vomiting from my TV 
set every night?

You can also stick your cooking shows, and your expert political analysts 
explaining the politics of the day to me via their own fucking bias agendas,
up your arse! If you have one?

It's enough to send a person mad. 

And how come after many thousands of years some people still judge others on
the shade of their skin? Are you kidding me? Evolution? Zip. The other day 
I saw a prejudiced old cunt walking a black dog that he called "Sweetie"! 
So, racism doesn't apply to the shade of animals, only people? Well let's 
look at each other as animals and we might learn to be kinder. 

Beam me up, Scotty. There's very little intelligent life down here. The 
proof of that is aliens may fly past us but there's no way they
want to make contact with barbaric rednecks. They've seen what we do to 
each other. What the hell would we do to little green aliens?

But don't get me wrong, dear World. I have enjoyed some aspects of my stay
here. Mainly the simple things. Coming home to a warm meal and a happy
family; an open fire; being able to help a friend in need; the blissful
ignorance of youth; the look in someone's eyes when they believe in you; the
beautiful lies of lovers; and the true love of parents who allowed me to be
me, even though they must've known the price that would eventually cost. 

I walk through crowds every day on city streets and all I see are the long
faces of the disappointed. As though each face is one big teardrop.

The world has certainly been an interesting place to visit. Just not sure
I can live here. 


(c) Frank Howson 2019

Photograph by Vanessa Allan. 







I REMEMBER YOU

I remember you
Even more painful, where and when
You told me when it was over
That you'd find me again
So you searched all the hostels
Inhabiting lonely men
I was killed by your mouth
You were killed by my pen

I told you I liked chocolates
So you bought me a cigar
You have a cruel talent
For pushing me too far
I remember walking miles
While you passed me in your car
The same one I'd bought you
When you became my star

Now the years are conspiring
To drive me insane
Along with some of my friends
Who only deal in pain
So let me spell it out
To you nice and plain
My dance is slowly fading
And it failed to bring you rain

I'll soon be gone like Jesus
To never come again
You nailed me to your cross
And made me watch you with other men
They all hurt and manhandled you
And I shed tears for my precious friend
But you stood with them and mocked me
I should've known how it would end

(c) Frank Howson 2019

UNTIL THE BROKEN HEARTS HEAL

Let us kneel and say our prayers
That something hears our call
We think too deep
And we see nothing at all
Rome wasn't built in a day
But I bet it took an hour to fall

Let us not weary in our cause
Until we right the wrong
A place is not a home
Until you feel you belong
A country isn't great
Until it looks after its own
To value true friendship
You must walk many miles alone
Let us not rush to condemn
Until we know what's real
Let us try a little kindness
Until the broken hearts heal

Let us not worship false gods
Like money or power
For we will see their futility
In our final hour
And when we face the truth
May we hold our heads up high
And know we did our best
And that the seeds of those deeds won't die
And that the judgement we're given
Can't be argued or repealed
For the best of us did not rest
Until the broken hearts healed


(c) Frank Howson 2019 

Photograph by Frank Howson 2019 Mui Wo.

IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT

If I should die tonight
What would I say?
I'm glad you came along
And chose to stay
And thank you for the love
Shown to an orphan gone astray
If I should die tonight
That's what I'd say

If I should cry tonight
Don't turn away
You've been my ray of sunshine
Come what may
You helped me through the storm
Through all the nights that followed day
If I should cry tonight
Don't turn away

You see me
When others don't
You're the one who tries
When others won't
In the temple of truth
I was humbled and confessed
If this be love
Then I've been blessed

If I should die tonight
What have I learnt
From all the battles fought
And bridges burnt?
I bore a heavy load
Through all those dreams that wouldn't cease
If I should die tonight
God grant me peace



(c) Frank Howson 2019

WHAT AM I BID?

He's in that room
Second door to the right
Asleep on the couch
Exhausted from trying to make sense of it all
And from staying out of anyone's way
He can't play the person he was anymore
The clothes don't fit
The lines don't ring true
And the lighting isn't right
All of his happy endings
Added up to one massive disaster
He stood up once
To be shot down
But that bravest hour
His finest
Misreported by many
Cost him more than money
And years
And the loves of a life
Although the fire was extinguished
Some embers still burn
When it's that three o'clock hour
And the world is silent and God whispers "Don't worry"
To thwart the attack of the shadow people
For it takes a lifetime
To realise
That the more you're taught
The less you think you know
It's all part of the process
Of shedding skins
In order to set the spirit free
From the chains of this world
For you have to be beaten
And mocked
And fall
Time and time again
On your road to humility
That will eventually carry you
Above these prison walls
The world has been taken over by idiots
And statisticians
Gossips shows and celebrity chefs
And is a place where a couch
In a tiny room
Has become someone's refuge
As he puts on his coat
And goes walking with his ghosts
Into a familiar surrounding
That is at last bearable
As he wanders
With the knowledge that
With wisdom comes predictability
And explains God's boredom
With us
Can you imagine?
Few can
Take this man
Oh, take him, Lord
He who lived with trauma
And the insanity of hope
And walked streets that turned back into themselves
Like people do
And was insulted, defamed and betrayed
By those he'd shown the most kindness to
How much am I bid for his heart?
It's weary from caring
But it is still in working order
What do I hear for his love
That has the capacity to extend to so many
For so little in return?
What am I offered for his feet
That have walked the world many times
And yet were still able to stand while others fell?
What will you give for his voice
That was silenced for a time by experts
Who feared his truth?
Going once
Going twice
Sold



Words (c) Frank Howson 2019

photograph by Bruce Woodley.