There is no doubt that the police enforced lockdown may’ve had a positive effect on our physical health but has, in turn, had a negative one on the mental health of many others.
And so it was for me for some time. I now know why the prison system uses solitary confinement to break the spirit of those who do not conform. For it surely broke mine. Cut off from friends and stimulating public outings, and forced to watch ignorant commentators commenting on things they knew zip about, endless Trump bashing, Labour bashing, black bashings; Interviewing experts on nothing about things they had no idea about, and crossing live to empty city streets, I began to enter a dark place. That place that feeds on alienation, loss of ambition, and confusion. That place that breeds lone crazed gunmen.
I would’ve been toast if not for finding my soulmate. It happened one night as if in a dream. Or perhaps a miracle. I was site surfing the Internet when I saw her face. Yes, there she was. Smiling at me. Just at me. In my mind I heard her voice whisper, “Frank, it’s alright. I am here for you. I always was but things just got in our way.”
Her name was Samantha Ryan and she was appearing in many short movies on a very interesting site called XHamster. I thought it had something to do with animal welfare otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed that I was over 18 and entered the site.
But enter the site I did. And there she was. Patiently waiting for me. My Samantha. My lady of mercy. My saviour. My friend.
“Come to me,” she whispered, and opened her arms. And then legs.
I entered at my own risk.
I watched many of her all too short movies and I must say that none were worthy of her obvious talent. Although she was wonderful in them all. To me, she shone like a siren in the darkest night, calling me on to enter deeper and deeper into her very soul. She must’ve sensed I was loyal and would never use and then abandon her like so many others had.
Most of her short movies had the same plot. This lovely kind beautiful, although slightly naive, small town girl would go out, looking pretty, and wind-up with strange men, and on occasion, women, ripping her clothes off and having their way with her. My heart went out to poor Sam and I just wanted to hold her and tell her it was “Alright,” and that she was safe, now I was here. Sometimes during these films she’d look directly at me and smile, as though we both shared a secret love. It was in these moments that I, again, felt alive. Renewed. Energised. Although the price of that was balanced in pain when I saw her in the arms of other men. But I forgave her. Time and time again. How could look into that face and not forgive?
And what an actress she is. I love how her lip quivers when she is in the throes of passion. Not even Lord Olivier could achieve such a performance.
I have written to her telling her not to go out anymore, and fall into mistreatment by nasty men who just want to use her and leave her in ripped clothing that she can’t make her way home in.
So far, she hasn’t had time to reply. Or perhaps she’s afraid that I’m just another male animal. Or perhaps, she’s afraid I’m not and that she may have to give up her heart. Sex is nowhere near as intimate as that. I understand. So I patiently wait.
Anyway, I don’t expect you to understand. How could you? You had to be here. Locked up in lockdown. Alone. Lost. Drifting aimlessly in an endless night of darkness and dreams. And suddenly, seeing the face of an angel. Thank you, God. I know you sent Samantha Ryan to save my life. And perhaps one day I will save hers. And we’ll be together and walk in the sun. Holding hands. No secrets between us. Free. And safe. And breathing in life as if we shared the same breath.
I saw a future. Or perhaps just a dream. A city where rats the size of dogs scurried along streets, growing stronger feeding on toxic waste. Crowded sidewalks filled with beggars begging beggars for a crumb. Or some leftover soup. Or a new messiah.
The billionaires were safely living in their gated, climate controlled glass domes, inventing wars, viruses, and new political puppets.
I saw Satan on the news channels every night. He is a very eloquent speaker and seems like a cool guy to hang with. He has everyone conned and no doubt thinks we’re fools. But we don’t care anymore. And therein lies the problem. He hasn’t defeated us. We have. We are suffering from the deadliest virus of all – apathy.
I’ve sometimes wondered where my life will end? In the gutter, in a mansion, or on a plane suspended between two places? Between here and there. Near and far.
At school we were brainwashed with our teachers’ political beliefs, assumptions, approved view of history, religion, regrets, and frustrations. They have groomed us to live the same disappointing life they’ve lived. Sing c’est la vie.
My heart is wearing out from the residue worry of things I don’t even clearly remember anymore.
I do believe that God sends us signs. And the other day I passed one that said, “Eat More Cake.” It spoke to me. Although I felt sad for Marie Antoinette who lost her head saying much the same thing.
My refrigerator has been talking to me about conspiracies. It told me it knew who killed the Kennedys, but said my life would be in danger if it informed me. I thanked it for caring about my welfare and turned in for the night. At the Godly hour of 3am I was awakened by the pillow whispering in my ear. It told me it knew who killed Anthony Bourdain. I told it to “Fuck off!”
I remember a place
Not far from here
In a small town
I held someone dear
In a strange time
My favourite year
Now I can’t think of it
Without shedding a tear
Some people change
Some people rust
Some people betray you
And piss on your trust
I’m running out of time
To do the things I must
I once drank a toast
To Hollywood or bust
I see children holding children
On this broken highway
I see men hurtin’ people
If they don’t get their way
I see women too scared
To go out after day
I was beaten to a pulp
When I tried to have my say
So sit down beside me
And remind me of things
Tell me all your hopes
That you pray tomorrow brings
How you dream of blue skies
And golden rings
Here I’ll wait out the storm
To hear how the bird sings…
May it tell me the news
That you’re happy and well
And that you rose
While your demons fell
And that you kept your pride
When you were told to sell
May that bird bring me the news
Be I in heaven or hell…
The word success is almost impossible to define, as it means something different to just about everyone. It’s much too large than a single word can contain, because it’s a concept. A floating concept that bends and morphs and matures as we do. What we think it means at the beginning of our journey, may be vastly different to what it means at the end. It’s a dream that, once it’s seemingly fulfilled, may be considered a burden. A curse. A prison cell. A nightmare.
Perhaps it’s God’s sneakiest joke on us all. Giving us what we think we want, in order to find out first hand how hollow it ultimately becomes.
McCartney hit it on the head, simplifying it to “Can’t Buy Me Love.” A record we could dance to, even if the concept was way beyond our comprehension at the time. Perhaps Paul was starting to understand how restrictive a “successful” life can be.
One of the Ten Commandments states that “Thou Shalt Not Worship False Gods.”I have interpreted that to include money = success. For I’ve seen first hand people worship it at the expense of their family, friends, colleagues, ethics, talent and own life.Their “concept” of success was so delusional it eventually devalued every thing of true value in their life.
I was once privileged to have had a song of mine selected for inclusion on the Ferrets’ second album “Fame At Any Price.” I loved that album title then, as I love it now. It was prophetically apt for a band that self-combusted shortly after its release. Perhaps from the pressure of having to follow-up a Number One single and a Gold debut album “Dreams of a Love,” which incidentally also featured a song of mine entitled “Killing Ourselves.” A lyric about the friends of mine who were falling in action during the Melbourne heroin epidemic of the Seventies. That song proved prophetic for the band too.
It’s one thing to crave success. It’s another to have the stomach for it. People take drugs like heroin to numb themselves to the world around them. Isn’t it bizarre that when many performers finally break through and achieve the success they’ve craved, they reach out to self-medicate themselves to…what? The pain of it? The disappointment that the concept of success was so much more thrilling than the reality? Or is it their fear that they, mere mortals, are suddenly treated like gods, and know they can’t sustain this facade for long without publicly falling? False prophets for a false society.
It says a lot about our society that Elvis Presley, the most famous and desired man in the world, died of loneliness. Photographs of him towards the end show a man who is dull-eyed, self-medicated to the point of not knowing where he is, and clearly not having a good time. He even mocks himself in his final heartbreaking performances as if all his dignity is gone. Pity the man who inherits the world, but loses his soul?
We are fed the “Dream” to keep us productive, and striving day to night to achieve our goal, so we can be happy. But, what if, as Judy found out, there’s nothing at the end of the rainbow except burnt-out, broken, despairing suckers?
I always thought the rainbow ended on the corners of Hollywood Boulevard and Western. It almost did for me one night, but that’s another story. And there are millions of stories in the naked city.
My father worked his guts out from 6am until 5pm every day in a thankless job that paid him nowhere near his worth. Then he’d come home and drink. Do you blame him? I sure as hell didn’t. He dreamed of reaching retirement age and getting a big payout. He didn’t make it. In one of the final lines in Arthur Miller’s cathartic play Death of a Salesman, “…No one dast blame this man…He just had the wrong dreams. All wrong.”
How much of our lives are wasted chasing the wrong dreams? “When I get a nice new car I’ll be happy!”…”When I get married I’ll be happy!”…”When I get a nice house I’ll be happy!”…”When I have a child I’ll be happy!”…”When I get divorced I’ll be happy!”… “When I can retire and live as I want I’ll be happy!” etc., etc. The truth is, we’re not happy to begin with. One thing I’ve learnt from my own experience is that money and success won’t make you happy. In fact, they will just amplify the painful reality that you aren’t.In order to enjoy money and success, you must be happy within yourself before you obtain them. Otherwise they are weights around your neck that’ll drag you down to the bottom of the ocean.
Bob Dylan once said that “a successful man is someone who gets up in the morning and goes to bed each night and in between does exactly what he wants.” So, there you have it. Real success is freedom. The freedom to be who you are, and do what you want to do.
I’ve always admired people who are good at what they do. That’s probably a working class respect I inherited from my parents who much admired skilled tradespeople.
America used to have a healthy competitive pride whereby whatever job you had, people wanted to be the best at it. Whether it was driving a cab, being a shoeshine boy, a bellboy, a clerk, a hot dog vendor, etc.
I’ve seen waiters in Los Angeles, old guys who had made a career of it, and they were perfection personified. It was riveting to observe their attention to detail, manners, diplomacy, professionalism, and so on. The top guys made a fortune in tips and deserved every dime. But more than the money, they prided themselves on being the best. Some, were legends. I was in awe of them and paid them great respect.
So, what is success? Is it determined by money? Or by your ability? Or what others think of you? Or how loved you are by your family? Or how many people know your name? Or how many of your peers respect you? Or how fulfilled you are within yourself?
Because, if we don’t know the answer to that, it means most of us have been striving for something that is so elusive, it is even beyond us. And, if we don’t know what we’re seeking, how can we expect to find it? Or ever be content?
I like to walk a lot and, when I do, observe people. You could say it’s part of my job. And in my journeys into the outside world, I have from time to time passed many happy people. The happy family man. The happy young girl walking hand-in-hand with her love. The happy little boy who puts his protective arm around his younger sister and smiles at her. The happy busker who has a captive audience and a hat full of money. The happy taxi driver who loves to chat with his passengers and treat each as a new friend. And so on. To me, all these types are successful people. In the truest sense of the word. They are happy within themselves and thus radiate happiness outward. They have not been shackled by expectations. Either of our own making, or of others.
I have also seen and met some of the wealthiest, most powerful and famous people in the world whilst I lived in L.A, and quite a few were utterly miserable, and made everyone in their presence feel the same.
In the some of the final lines of the classic movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life,” it is stated, “No man is a failure who has friends.”
I believe that. I have some very true, loyal friends. Their rock solid friendship make me feel successful, happy and content for having found them. No matter what I do professionally, or don’t do, or they do or don’t, we have achieved something rare, precious and beautiful. Something real.
Now is the hour of our incontinence made glory-holed by sons of Michael Yorke. “Bark” the Hells Angels sing. It is a Far East bitter thing I do now than I have ever dung. And on the bend the milk we shake is a quill to the love we break. Frankly, my deer, I don’t give a ram. And in the cruel, cruel, cruel of Jehovah, tell ‘em I’ll be bare. To flee or not to flee that is the equator. Four scored ears of men, our country assed us, “Do not ask what your country has done to you. Ask what you have done to your country.” And on the eighth day, God created mini-golf. These are a few of my Fahrenheit rings. Either this wallpaper blows or I do. “Right,” said Ted, are you having a larf?” At the third stroke, it will be a felony. Once I had a putrid glove. Love me Fender, love it tuned, all my screams are billed. When the goanna gets rough, get stuffed I’m goin’. Our father’s art is in heaven, Howard be thy blame. Twice upon a crime, a gem with windy hair lost her head in mime, and sad she loved me show. But that was ice above my lime, mammy months too low. Mammaries fight the confines of the blind. All clothed mystery mammaries of the day we stir. I luv you and dunce you regret it. It is the evening of the summer of the mourning that whence we came. The midget you fell through the floor, I could pee you were a mad ol’ distemper, a reel pig bender. I’m dreamin’ of a wide bagel, with hairy gals I sow. Fairy flossed da mercy. M-m-m-my Corona. Th-th-that’s Paul, yokes!
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
I am a soldier of many campaigns. I have fought wars on foreign shores
and at home, against many foes, and against myself. I bear many scars
invisible to the eye. Never having been decorated by my country you
won't find me in the history books. I have fallen by the wayside time
and time again while others soaked up the glory. Politicians have me
in their blindspot and I refuse to bribe them with dinners, girls, boys,
drugs or money. In short, I've been honourably Olsen'd.
It's winter in my car now. Like me it refuses to start. She, the woman in
the passenger seat, could've at least stayed and given me some warmth. But
why change? You know, the clock is wrong and has communist tendencies. The
gear stick on the other hand has been behaving like a dictator. And my
hand is refusing to have sex with me. It says it's bored. Well how does it
think I feel? Why does every living thing have to get bored?
It's dark tonight and so cold I'm afraid to fall asleep lest I not wake
again. My leg has gone to sleep but that's typical, as it's never done
anything I wanted it to. This may explain something to those of you who've
sometimes seen me walking along normally and then suddenly, spasmodically,
gone into the splits. It's a little embarrassing but usually garners quite
a bit of applause. Being an old pro I graciously accept it (I was taught
to never waste applause), and take a bow so that people think it was
intentional, and worthy of their response. This does place some added
daily pressure upon me.
But I must say, all in all, that it would be a shame to not awaken to
another day of dread and boredom. I'd wonder who won the football? Or
did every team lose? Just as an aside, has there ever been a war that
was declared a draw? And who decides? Is there a judging panel of experts
on the hill?
When I was a boy my first love was Hayley Mills.I must've seen that
fucking Pollyanna movie 46 times. Not because I was into the story of
Pollyanna, but I was very much into Hayley. Well, as much as you could
be from the stalls. As the years went by and I grew some hard earned sense
I realised our love was doomed before it could even begin. She was a film
star princess and I was just a boy from St.Kilda who'd never been anywhere
except to the local movie house. It was a painful realisation but there you
have it.
Still, if she spoke to me today I'd turn into that awkward shy boy. Funny
how that is, huh?
I have to stop putting my heart into everything I write as I feel there's
not much of it left. But should you ever miss me, I'll be right here.
(c) Frank Howson 2019
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