HOMELESS 20146

He had no name
Let’s call him Homeless 20146
He was once called something
But it was long ago
There’s a rumour he had a sister and a brother
But they’re missing from our records
So let’s call them nameless
Blameless
People lose touch
It happens a lot these days
Families can kill you
In so many ways
He was just another victim
Of our coldest winter on record
We keep a note of these things    On our records
Important data for something
He seems to have otherwise
Been in good health
So the cause of death seems to be
The lack of a blanket
A pair of gloves
A hot cup of coffee
A friend
Which of these should I note
On our records?
Our fucking records
Our arse covering records
That no one ever looks at
No one ever learns from
And you who sit in your homes
By your warm fire
Sipping your hot chocolate
And laughing at TV shows
About idiots
That aren’t really funny
But make you feel smart
And superior
And it takes your mind off
Feeling ashamed that you don’t care
No, you don’t even think
About those with no names
And no faces
The ones you don’t make eye contact with
In case you may feel something
And that feeling could spread like a cancer
And spoil a perfect day
From your perfect life
So you mutter under your breath
“Get a job”
To justify your ill feeling
It saves you asking their name
Or finding out their story
And what bad luck led them to bad things
That led them here
You hate them for making you feel guilty
And wish the police would move them along
But where to?
Anywhere
Just out of the way
Of us good people
Who have somewhere to go
And a schedule
And a plan
And mummy and daddy
With a safety net
Lest you stumble
Well, there’s some good news
There’s one more
Deplorable gone
But you won’t remember him
Because you never looked at his face
And the deep etched lines
That were a road map of where he’d been                                       What he’d survived
And how far he had fallen
From the life his parents had hoped for
And those haunted eyes of his
That expected nothing
And saw that the world was naked
Perhaps he was Jesus on the make
And you missed him
You are safe now
The nameless man on the corner Of Lonsdale and King
Has ended his journey
Tonight he sleeps warm
And safe
In a place where names are not important
Or the cut of your clothes
Or how many figures you make a year
It’s a shame you never got to know Him
He knew things                       Perhaps you were scared of what he knew?
And his story may have made you weep
It was in fact he who could’ve given something to you
But you were in such a rush
Going nowhere
But
Down

 

(C) Frank Howson 2018

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REMEMBERING

It was one of those days neither here nor there in the life of Felix Appleton. He had experienced the dizzying heights and the devastating plummets of a life lived in the circus ring of the performing arts. He was often praised as a born performer but wasn’t sure of the truth in that. He hadn’t sprung from the womb singing and uttering funny one-liners. Perhaps his screaming was in tune? He didn’t know and was not about to reinvent his life for the joy of some hungry reporter. If he had a talent to amuse, it had come from pain and the ability to live with it. He used to say, “Show me an artist who hasn’t suffered, and I’ll show you a phoney.”

He was born in a public hospital and taken home in a taxi to a single-fronted weatherboard house in a street not many people walked down. It was in this small modest home that he got to know his parents, both workers who had struggled for their existence and carried the scars of their battles and defeats on their faces as proudly as old soldiers displayed their medals. They smiled with sad faces.and their eyes brimmed with the waters of a joy that’d rarely found the opportunity to flow. Felix instantly fell in love with them and knew he’d found the right home. His parents were that dying breed called good people. Yes, they were tremendously flawed if one was to appoint a critic to write a cold and detached review of their lives, but that critic would’ve missed the value entirely. Like the first critics to review “Citizen Kane” and “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” they would’ve been dismissed as “irrelevant,” “a misstep,” a disaster of epic proportions.” But what do critics know? Because of deadlines they have to rush to judgement and, more times than not, in their haste they miss the point. The true worth of something is judged in time and weighed by the impact it leaves behind in all those changed by having experienced it.

Thus Felix was nurtured through his first steps into this world by two unsung national treasures. He inherited from them the gifts to love with all the loyalty of the poor; the joy in giving away his last coin, cigarette or piece of advice to someone in greater need; the strength to stand by your friend through their mistakes, no matter how unpopular that stance may be. For who among us is not flawed when day is done. As long as there is no meanness in it, all is forgiven. Like the Irish mantra, “No fear, no spite, no envy.”

Oh, and never show your enemies you’re hurting. No one should be
rewarded for their dark actions.

So it was from this environment that Felix went forth into the world. His parents had taken him to Luna Park, and the circus, and to Hollywood movies many times. He had grown to love the lights and the laughter and the collective tears of a reinvented world so much so that he joined it. “Hi diddle-ee dee an actor’s life for me.” He became an actor and acted out all the emotions he had experienced in his little childhood home – all the anger, the heartache, and the humour that can be found in any awkward situation that Life can throw at one.

Felix was praised for his talent to wring insight from any character he portrayed. Was he born with this gift? No, he was born into it. And how could it be called a gift when it comes at such a cost?

He never developed an arrogant ego, for his parents had clothed him in humility. He never cut down a rival due to envy, for he was sure that person’s journey had been as difficult as his. And he never said goodbye to any friend (whether it be man, woman or child) without tagging it with the words “I love you” for he had learnt that in this life we are never guaranteed of seeing that person again.

Felix was now an old man who kept to himself. He hated few things in Life but moving was one of them. It always signalled the end of an era and the beginning of a new one. And as such he not only found it physically exhausting but emotionally draining. He was hoping this last move would be his last. Not that he was morbid. Far from it. He saw a joke in everything, and put that down to the Irish blood from his mother’s side. The ability to get through even the darkest defeat with a funny line. He thought one shouldn’t take this life too seriously, after all, it’s just a long elongated dream. And dreams come and go. He was just about through this dream and hoped he’d performed as well as he could, given the extraordinary circumstances that had occasionally rained on him. And that he’d given more than he’d taken from this world, for he understood that there was a delicate balance to everything and most of the problems in this world are caused by man’s ego arrogantly tampering with that balance. He’d learnt to let it be. To leave affairs of the heart well enough alone. To respect what you don’t understand. And to do no one any purposeful harm.

When he looked back at his life he was now able to smile at not only the good parts but also the bad. For out of every disaster he had learned a huge lesson. And from great lessons learned comes great wisdom. Yes, if there is a God, he thought, he’s a very clever bastard.

Felix didn’t know if he’d be remembered. It didn’t much matter because he’d be dead. And so would all those whose opinions meant something to him. Anyway, who wants a whole bunch of strangers talking about you and dissecting you after you’re gone, and getting it all wrong?

Still, he hoped, if there was another dimension or heaven or universe one goes to, he’d still be able to remember his parents. They were good people. They had given him valuable parts of themselves. And they were worth remembering.

 

(C) Frank Howson 2018

SORRY FOR NOT SEEING YOU

Sorry for not seeing you but your beauty blinded me to who you really are. With each feature vying for attention it is easy to lose focus as to where perfection ends and heaven begins. Perhaps your beauty just confirms that there is such a thing as heaven, as well as the painful realisation that it will be denied to us on this earth. God allows us to make fools of ourselves in your presence by uttering the wrong word killing every perfect moment, and our chance to have had you. For the way to Him must truly be paved by our humility.

I have walked with wise men and none told how to handle you. Perhaps they were wise enough to know that such a thing cannot be handled as that would reduce it to the grubby conversations of hungry men. Like knowing dissipates the magic from a Houdini trick. But perhaps the truth to why they never prepared me for you was because you had broken them too on their journey to wisdom, stopping only briefly in bitterness – the platform on which we must all kill time, frantically searching the night for any sign of approaching light, waiting for a train that never comes.

I check my ticket stub and notice that I will be seated in carriage D with all the sad men. Old before their time, wearied to exhaustion from striving too hard and too long to have it all.

Why didn’t my mother warn me that I would always end up alone and that my mission in life was not to have love, but to write about it?

 

(C) Frank Howson 2018

 

 

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO FRANK

The following is my recollection of my past life through deep sleep therapy, hypnosis and past life regression techniques. The disclaimer is that some people believe this is unreliable and that there is a difference between real life and dreams. But I, and several alcoholic scientists, are not convinced. Most of what follows is true.

I was brought up in a region called Galilee which included such towns as Capernaum, Magdala, and Chorazin. I remember it having a lot of Greek influence thanks to Alexander The Poof who had conquered Judea 361 years previously. In exchange for killing our army and a large dose of innocent people the Greeks gave us their language, as well as radically different ideas (which only served to confuse us all) about religion, architecture, government, philosophy and mortality. Oh, but they gave us the souvlaki so all else is forgiven.

The Romans took over Judea in 63 BC and during my youth the Romans humoured us by granting us Jews a local puppet leader, King Herod The Lunatic, who was allowed to rule on some things such as do five aces top a straight in poker, close finishes in a camel race, and the Miss Galilee beauty contest. The strain of all that eventually proved too much and Herod The Horrendous later gave up some of the region to his half brother, Phillip Herod, due to his full schedule of getting pissed and rooting anything with 2 legs. Some rumours later circulated that this opened up to 4 legs but I have no first hand proof of that and refuse to engage in idle gossip. Although some of our livestock did go missing.

I first bumped into Jesus (literally) at a wedding reception in Capernaun, located on the shore of Galilee. Like most of the invited guests I was already shit faced on the bloody awful cheap wine they were serving. That’s when I discovered Jesus was a part time magician. He winked at me and said, “Lay off the cheap piss, I’m going to do one of my tricks and turn it into a wine of the highest quality.” Well when you’re tanked you’ll listen to anyone, so, I goodheartedly went along with what I thought was a fellow drunk’s delusion. But sure enough, an hour later he was the hit of the party with everyone proclaiming him to be the Messiah! When I could grab his ear I asked how he did it but he just gave me a look with those loveable puppy dog eyes and that enigmatic smile of his that I grew to hate. God, he could frustrate you.

After that night Jesus and I hung out quite a bit together. Well, you never knew when he was going to turn on the good piss again. He went on and on and on about his childhood and his lost years. Trouble is, the latter part I can’t remember as I was usually legless by then, but suspected his “lost” period may have been due to a battle with alcohol. Like mine.

He said he’d had a knockabout youth. His step father had been a carpenter and made a modest living due to his tables always being a bit lopsided. I asked about his real dad and, giving me that bloody irritating smile again, he replied, “Oh, he’s in heaven.” So, I deduced that the poor bastard died young. Jesus years later would get into a shitload of trouble not elaborating on things.

According to Jesus his mother was a madonna. The greatest mom ever. He then told me, confidentially, that she’d remained a virgin after his birth so, again, I deduced that she’d had one of those new fangled Cesarean procedures. You see, when you asked him for details on anything all you got was that bloody knowing smile like he was talking to a child or a retard. You had to deduce a lot when you called this guy your friend. But all in all he was a good bloke and meant well. And was worth it. To this day I won’t have a word said against him. Although initially I was only hanging with him for the free booze he did grow on me and didn’t deserve the horrible things people said and did to him. No one does. Okay, so he could be delusional at times. Who isn’t?!

At his trial I spoke as a character witness. I was put in a tricky situation when asked if he was the Son of God. Now I don’t mind telling a white lie for a friend to get him out of trouble with a suspicious wife or a bookie, but…I just stared them down and said, “Listen, and mark my words. You kill this poor simple bloke and you will be hated for all time. I’ll have you know, he is one of the greatest wine makers in the world and that’s no lie!”

But what good did it do? The trial was fixed. The poor bastard was given no legal representation. The jury was an angry mob who’d been sponsored by George Soros. The high priests were feeling threatened because they couldn’t make wine. All Jesus’ witnesses were well meaning drunks and free loaders, me included. And King Herod The Turd was spitting fire and brimstone because Jesus had refused his advances.

As for the Judge, Pancho Polite, his heart and attention weren’t in the proceedings as he had a skin problem (having shaken Herod’s hand) and had to keep excusing himself every 15 minutes to wash his hands.

I was shocked when my dear friend got the death penalty. But, hey, it could’ve been worse. One night with Herod The Herpie springs to mind.

But at least it was over quickly. Three hours. Most took three days. But that was so typical of my friend. He was always in a hurry on his express train to immortality.

I decided to visit his tomb three days later to pay my respects but was surprised to find the stone had been rolled away and one of the angels was there in his biker gear. I said to him, “What gives, brother?” And he smiled one of those smiles like everyone’s in on the plan except you, and replied, “Haven’t you heard the good news?” To which I, now irritated by the condescending smile and the question answered by a question, responded, “No, fuckhead, I’ve been on the piss for three days due to the loss of my friend, comprehendo? Or do I have to draw a sketch for you?” With that he broke my nose and gave me the lowdown – Jesus had risen, gotten the fuck out of Dodge, and taken off to India!

Still sporting a massive hangover, I pondered this for some time. After awhile I smiled. Another one of his bloody tricks I thought. Then I was laughing. I missed him already.

I finally said, “So he’s not with his father in heaven?”

To which he replied, “Not unless that’s a suburb in India, Retard!”

I told him his tone was not appreciated. To which he kneed me in the balls. I was not able to continue the conversation after that and crawled back down the hill in a fairly undignified manner. When I reached town I was given quite a bit of money from people who thought I was a crippled beggar. On reflection. I could’ve lived comfortably for some time but blew it all on a camel in race six.

Over time I received a few postcards from Jesus informing me he’d taken my advice and married Mary, and was working on a new wine for the Indian market. I was pleased and told him I had an instinct his name would live on forever.

He is buried in India but I didn’t visit his grave as I was a little nervous about who’d be guarding it given my run-in with the angels. I am comforted knowing that he is at last in heaven with his father. I know, first hand, how much he missed him

 

(c) Frank Howson 2018

 

(c) Sketch Frank Howson 2018

GINGER BISCUITS

We told each other we had a good life full of ginger biscuits and roast dinners. I suppose it reminded me of my youth waking up Sunday mornings to the smell of something cooking and the excited anticipation of a family gathering.

I’m all that exists of that family now. So, in my defence, I will plead guilty to attempting to bring this ritual into our lives in the hope of a shared familiarity or perhaps the conjuring up of ghosts from the past. Futile dreams were our dessert. Big serves to disguise the cold reality that the best in us was gone. All that remains are the broken pieces of empty dishes. And the broken after dinner stories of broken lives that harbour in my memory and things I dream at night.

There were glimpses of great love in my family but thinly wedged between slabs of anger, recriminations, abuse, guilt and tears. Perhaps that’s what makes those glimpses glow so warmly in my heart.

You wanted a feeling of family and so did I but we were loveless refugees on the run and our pantomime of make-believe was a farce that didn’t hold up to intelligent scrutiny. But the first thing to die in such a delusion is intelligence. We played our roles with conviction but were hopelessly miscast, or perhaps just too old for believability.

We had a life of ginger biscuits and roast dinners but that was all. There we were, unarmed, falling where we stood in the small talk and repressed resentment that neither of us got what we had wanted. The past can’t be repeated, excluding the bad bits, by acting out the good. There is no cutting room floor anymore. Gone. All gone. My youth. My dreams of love. My good will to others. My mistakes of the heart. My misplaced loyalty to all the wrong people. Gone. And soon I will be gone, and all that will remain will be words. And people’s rushed and conflicting judgement of who they thought I was.

Fortunately there will be no one to play act the glimpses of my failed Quixotic quests to harness some joy in myself, and in others.

 

(C) Frank Howson 2018

TWIN PEAKS

Without doubt the most anticipated television series of all time has been David Lynch’s latest instalment of Twin Peaks. And therein lies the problem. That obsessive anticipation and expectation blinkered many to what they were actually seeing. Myself included. I had hoped that the series would go in a certain direction and it went the complete opposite route. But hasn’t Lynch always done this to us? He is obviously not creatively inspired unless he is taking risks and going where no one has dared ventured before.

Watching the new series I got to episode four before cashing my chips in. To me the main problem was that Special Agent Dale Cooper, the story’s protagonist, the character that is supposed to be propelling the action, was catatonic for those episodes and would remain so almost all of the series. I was brought up to believe that if your main character sat down too long, so did your show. Of course I was aware that Lynch doesn’t follow conventional story development, and I, most times, find that very exciting. But this was really testing the viewer. Almost in a cruel way. Many, like me, simply tuned out.

It has been rumoured that this was Lynch’s last project as director, so perhaps he didn’t really care about ratings and was experimenting with Showtime’s money.

This would’ve remained my opinion only for Richard Wolstencroft loaning me his blu-ray boxed set edition of the new season. Reluctantly, I put it on and started again at the very beginning. This time no anticipation. No expectations. And guess what? The slow burning magic revealed itself.

The famous first season of Twin Peaks changed television forever. But at the heart of the small town weirdness there was the narrative coat hanger of “Who killed Laura Palmer?” Lynch has admitted that the big mistake he and co-writer Mark Frost made was revealing at the end of the first season who the killer was. Once it was known, viewers lost interest in a second season. Lynch has said that “the mystery and investigation should’ve gone on forever revealing other smaller mysteries.”

Which brings us to the latest instalment. It is my opinion that Lynch has progressed far beyond a murder mystery in a small town. He is exploring the ultimate mystery – Who are we? Why are we here? Why do we do the things we do? And, do we sometimes stumble blindly into another dimension in a parallel universe?

Like the world, Twin Peaks is scary, frustrating, absurd, baffling, funny, provocative and harsh.

The darkness at the edge of town has moved into us. We are the mystery that defies reason and clarification. Each of us carrying our own hell and heaven within us. The more we delve the deeper the confusion driving many into the shelter of ignorance and small talk, sounding all the more bizarre and comical amidst the backdrop of impending evil.

Mention must be made of Laura Dern’s performance. She and Lynch have collaborated many times now and the ease and understanding of their relationship shines through. She is riviting in every scene she is in and her talent and instinct makes her one of the most versatile actors working in present day film. She is grossly underrated.

When Special Agent Dale Cooper finally wakes and re-enters this dimension in one of the final episodes it is almost a religious experience. Suddenly energised and coherent he is eager to continue his investigation. But what does Lynch do? Just as the pace is moving like a runaway train, he ends the series on what is possibly the biggest cliff hanger of them all. Will there be another season? Will we have an explanation? Possibly not. There are no happy endings in Twin Peaks. Only mysteries. And, true to life, many of them have no comfortable resolution. And so they go on. And so do we, fumbling around in the dark, drinking coffee, and looking for answers where there are none.

 

(C) Frank Howson 2018

ANNOUNCING THE OZ INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL

In November of last year Richard Wolstencroft felt it necessary to resign as Director of the Melbourne Underground Film Festival. At that time he asked me to take the reins and chart M.U.F.F’s overhaul and new direction. I accepted because I felt that the festival is an important outlet for emerging film makers to find their feet and their audience.

My acceptance of the top position was on the basis that I would have total autonomy to make changes and lead the festival into a brave new future.

Unfortunately after prolonged negotiations it has become apparent that the severing of the past and what is needed to create a totally free new system proved more complex and time consuming than either Richard nor I could have possibly envisaged.

So, it is my decision to not continue as my feeling is that M.U.F.F should be handed back to Richard, its creator, who will run it as a free speech absolutist event.

But, on the other hand, having put a lot of time and energy into a new look festival, as well as commencing negotiations with several legendary international film identities to visit our shores to as festival guests and share their experience and wisdom with us, I have decided to go ahead with a totally new film festival that will be clear to create its own identity and reputation as well as serve as another much needed outlet for young local and international film-makers. This I hope is not seen to be in any way competition with M.U.F.F but quite the opposite, another important spotlight that will include some categories not covered by M.U.F.F. It will also be run at a later date, in our summer months, at some very prestigious venues already locked in.

The Oz International Film Festival can assure you of a very exciting premiere season.

We welcome film-makers here and abroad to visit our website and submit their latest works for consideration of inclusion in our inaugural festival.  Your films will not be judged on any bias to politics, race, gender, sexual preference or content, but purely on the execution of your film-making abilities, and a diverse and experienced jury of industry veterans will be announced within the next few weeks.

The festival will honour the bold, brave and adventurous new voices in the world of cinema and hopefully help some go on to be the new vanguard of the next generation of important film-makers.

I will be the Festival Director and ably assisted by Executive Producer Barry Robinson.  Other appointments will be announced shortly.

Good luck and welcome aboard what we feel will be an exciting new chapter. We look forward to your submissions and you can trust that they will be very carefully considered, each and every one.

Kindest,

Frank Howson
Festival Director.