Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Thoughts on asking for Money

It took everything I had to ask for money to help me get to Jersey City for the reading of Lost Property. I am still trying to unpack why crowd funding made me feel a certain shame. As if I needed charity.

But the desire to go there and represent my work; read it myself, propelled me out of shame and into a shy proudness. And, of course, the process exceeded my expectations. Family, close friends, and even acquaintances helped in big and small amounts and I managed to reach my dream target (which will more than pay for my ticket and production costs in the US). I also managed to do this in a record 4 days. I can’t believe it, and I am overflowing with gratitude and amazement.

So, what I am taking away with me today, and taking with me when I go, and what I will bring back, is that there are people who believe in me. They believe in my work, words, and theatre making. This feeling I am now allowing to permeate into everything I do, and it is no mystery that the flow gates are opening.

I am working more, and dreaming more and making more. I am manifesting and visualising and excited and energised. Watch this space.

Or watch me. The Deep Red Sea comes to the Alexander Bar on 20 and 21 May, just before I leave on the 22nd.

PS. A weird, convoluted, heartfelt bow to Pieter Howes. In the strangest, and most uncomfortable of ways we saw each other. I am sorry the world wasn’t a good place for you to be in.

Lost Property in Jersey City

Finally, after 17 days of squirming, my Thundafund campaign is live. It has been a long, uncomfortable wait but now I can confidently ask for help to get me to the USA to be there in person when my play Lost Property has a reading at this little play festival.

I am so proud of this work, and I have to be there in person because I wrote the play very specifically to be performed by me.

I need $1500 to make this trip real, and I need it before I leave on the 22 May. I am offering some fun and fabulous rewards too, so please take a look and then help. Every tiny bit helps.

Go to this link www.thundafund.com/project/lostproperty and please contribute, and share to anyone you think may be able to help.

With love and gratitude.

Dear Bruce Springsteen

This is a letter to Bruce Springsteen. If you know how to help me circulate it so that it may, against all odds, get to him, please help!

Dear Bruce

I’m writing to you as a friend because that’s how it feels. That is the genius of you, I know. That is how all of your fans feel. It feels like I grew up with you and that we’ve been together, as friends ever since I met you, through a friend, when I was twelve. That is 42 years ago. It’s a lasting friendship.

You were the background to my rebellion; growing up white in Apartheid South Africa, you were the voice of my freedom, the echo of my first heartbreak, the shocking reality of my politics, the narrative of my wildness, the love song (If I Should Fall Behind) at my wedding, my solace when my father died and the poet on my inner journey.

I first saw you live in Harare at the Amnesty International concert. (It was my friends and I who had cheekily painted the ‘We love you Brian Springsteen’ banner that made you laugh. It was many years later that I saw you again, first in Cape Town and then in Johannesburg. I couldn’t bear not seeing you in my hometown and so I flew up for that concert that was like a baptism in the rain. Nothing could have prepared me for how personally I took those shows.

Your words and music have been a profound and enduring inspiration to me. So, when my play Lost Property was chosen to be read at a tiny developmental play reading festival at the Jersey City Theatre Centre on the 31 of May, I couldn’t help myself.  I have been fantasising about you being there. I know that it is beyond ridiculous, and beyond all realistic expectation, but I had to ask. Bruce, if you are in that neck of the woods, and would like to come to hear my play being read, I would love to have you there.

Lost Property is a tiny two-hander dealing with land, and home, and houses, and ghosts, and gentrification, and loss. It is deeply personal, and political and also strangely whimsical. And I think you may like it.

Much love and gratitude

Megan

Good News

Today has been a really good day from a creative point of view. There have been a series of signs that I am moving in a positive direction – not totally there yet, but moving certainly. I am working my way through getting funding for my trip to the US so I can be at the reading of my play Lost Property at the end of May, and I am preparing for a reading of it here at home before I leave (watch this space for more news of that). I am gearing up for the first ever proper performances of my piece The Deep Red Sea on the 20, and 21 May at the Alexander Bar and Café, and I am preparing for teaching a series of classes and workshops. Also, my favourite thing happens next week, also at the Alexander Bar – we are improvising from Monday to Friday in The Style High Club, a series of long form improv shows dedicated to style – film noir, SA soap, Austen, movies and musical, all made up on the spot.

But the best news of the day is that my rhyming children’s story has been picked up by a really big publisher and I couldn’t be more thrilled. I will share all the details as they evolve, but right now I am grinning, and giggling and delighted.

What’s in an Election Poster

Every time I see the “Aunty Pat for Premier” election poster I laugh. I see it a lot because it is ubiquitous on my route to and from home in Woodstock. So, I am laughing a lot, which is a good thing to be doing when I think about elections. It is a lot better than crying, which is probably what I should be doing.

There is a very particular reason for my jollity. My sister-in-law Gina Shmukler played a delightful role in Aunty Merle The Musical and my five year old niece loved that show. She loved it with all her being. She saw it three or four times, and absorbed every song and dance, and Marc Lottering as Aunty Merle is her best thing by far.

She spent 10 days in Cape Town recently and wanted to know who the lady, who looked like Aunty Merle, was in the posters on the lamp posts. We tried to explain to her that it was another Aunty, a political one, Aunty Pat, Patricia de Lille not as nice by far as Aunty Merle because she is a politician. All of this was fine by her, but she kept on asking when this Aunty’s show was. When could she see this Aunty perform? And was she as good as Marc Lottering‘s character Aunty Merle? No matter how hard we tried she could not get that Aunty Pat was Aunty Pat in real life. My brother explained that she was a politician and all politicians are bad, but for my niece this just meant that poor Patricia was just not as talented as Marc Lottering.

And so, every time, I laugh.

Textbook White Fragility and White Tears

I spent far too much time on Facebook yesterday, on somebody else’s thread, explaining to a ‘I don’t see colour’ racist why believing that a photo wasn’t true of a white teacher segregating children of colour in her class in a school in the Northern province was exactly the result of his racism. My argument, in which I stayed unusually calm and persistent, followed his textbook one from outrage, through denial, to criticising me for not seeing his point of view, to blaming my tone.

This was his first post, defending the teacher, and supporting the fake news spread after the initial picture went viral. “There’s no racism here, folks!”

He carries on, in total support of the poor, maligned teacher.

Then I get involved. I try. 

I persist.

I stay there. Still trying.

And on and on. (I haven’t put everything here because it is more of the same.)

And on. This is where he engages with somebody else and does my favourite. Talk about me in third person and complain about my tone and style.

This was all on someone else’s (a black person’s) thread. I will not be engaging like this again. Send me your racists. Let’s do the work.

 

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