Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Search results: "Catch" (Page 1 of 11)

Catch!

I wrote a review of Shirley Kirchmann’s Catch when I saw it in Grahamstown. It was the superhero performance in the hell hole venue during a blackout where Shirley sang her own sound, performed her own voice overs and even spoke her lighting cues. And I loved it. This chick was hard core theatre through and through.

Last night it opened at The Kalk Bay Theatre so I took Big Friendly along. Unless it is my own work I hardly ever see a show twice. It’s not my thing. So, I confess, I did have mixed feelings about seeing it again, but I shouldn’t have. I was caught.

Catch is a one woman stand up/sketch show all about being single, and the trials, nightmares and agonies of breakups, dating and having to put yourself out there. And Shirley is totally on top of her game. I know she is not going to be everybody’s cup of tea, and those that are offended by filthy mouthed, aggressive women who talk a lot about sex; maybe think twice. For me though, that’s Shirley’s success; talking through all the chick stuff in a brilliantly observed way (my friend Candice was cackling in the row behind me as she identified), but with the style and charge of any testosterone filled stand up. There is something rop and hectic and totally hilarious about her.

With the bells and whistles of sound and light and voice overs, the show was slick and fast. I personally find the character stuff of the matchmaker a bit long and repetitive, but the rest flashes by at the speed of an oncoming orgasm. Shirley is a power performer with great comic timing and she killed it.

Champion Catch

We all know that bringing a fringe show to the festival is hard. You have to get your own audiences. You have to pay through the arse to get yourself here. You have to wage war against the venues. You have to compete with Neil Diamond reviews and hypnotists. But today Shirley Kirchmann had to overcome a few odds to do her show, and it was amazing.

I could not find the damn Library Hall. I have been to it before but it is completely un signposted. When I finally got there it was so cold we all stood in a clump waiting for the doors to open so we could keep warm. But there was a problem; there was no electricity.  Shirley asked the few of us who were waiting if we were ok for her to do the unplugged version and we all said Yes!

This chick is a trooper, and a heroic and talented one too. She announced every sound and lighting cue. She sang her own sound track. She got her techies to join in, to the natural light of daythrough the windows and the constant grind/groan of the earthmover moving earth on the building site next door.

Those of us there loved her all the more. And her show is damn cool and funky and funny and wise. It is a half stand-up half character, half jokes show. It’s about being a single and on the dating scene, looking for love and being disillusioned. Shirley is rough and crude. I love it. She connects with her audience, She is full of energy. She is a dynamo of jokes and funny stuff.  And, truth be told, I laughed my heart out. Catch by Shirley Kirchmann rocked the house.

The Chat

Last night I spoke to my friend on the phone for an hour. I had been missing her – she lives in a different city, has a big proper job and kids, and we adore each other but seldom get a chance to chat at length and by ourselves. So last night, after whatsapp chatting for a bit, we ended up FaceTiming (ok, that is a game changer) for an hour, checking in with each other’s lives and getting a bit more granular and detailed, and it was the best. Honestly, I cannot remember when last I had a long, leisurely, uninterrupted chat with a friend, where there was no agenda, or urgency, or point of the call, just organic sharing of information and listening and talking.

I climbed into bed thinking about the little entrance hall in my parents’ house, where I grew up, and the grey telephone with the maroon handle that sat on a special telephone seat, and the hours I spent there, at night, in the dark, with only the lounge light shining brightly, and I spoke to my friends on the phone. I had friends at other schools and I checked in with them at least once a week. I would call their house and ask, usually their moms, if I could speak to them. Sometimes they weren’t home. and I had to ask, “can I leave a message?”. I remember missing the most important phone call inviting me to the matric dance because I was on the phone to my friend who had a pass and was home from the army. I remember spending two weeks of ‘being grounded’ glued to the phone, speaking to my friends and refusing to go to the dinner table. I remember lying to my granny and aunt, who phoned my mother two, or three or four times a day, and telling them she was in the bath and couldn’t talk to them then. I remember the arrangements we would have to make; the time and place, because they weren’t easy to change on a whim. I remember the second phone in my parent’s bedroom, reserved mainly for my mother, so she could lie on the bed and talk for hours too, and I remember picking up the other phone and being disappointed and irritated to find her on the line. I remember catching her talking about me to my gran, or aunt, and having a proper teenage meltdown. But mostly, it was the length of the chats we had then, in those days, that I was jiggled into remembering last night. It was about time, and energy and the lack of urgency. It was about connection, and holding that receiver, and listening and speaking. Sometimes there would be a cross-line and we would listen to and get involved in other strangers’ conversations. Sometimes, when we were bored, we would play trick phone calls in the holidays. “Is your fridge running?” was the standard, go-to one when inspiration was low.

I fell in love, had my heart broken, heard news about death, got school results, smoked cigarettes, in that entrance hall on that grey phone. (4)483612.

What we know what we don’t

Because I read tarot cards for people (not myself, I can’t), I understand and recognise the feeling before a reading where the person experiences fear. It comes in different physical forms; sweaty palms, an inability to focus, dry mouth, butterflies, or a weird growing heat that flushes the whole body. It doesn’t hang around, this fear feeling, because there really isn’t anything scary about tarot. It isn’t supernatural, or fortune telling. Still, in that moment when we believe we are about to come face to face with some truth we don’t know yet, or something about our future, we get scared.

I think this very human thing is really funny. Honestly, we should be feeling that feeling all the time (and some anxiety sufferers do, I am sure), but mostly we live comfortably blindly, knowing but not necessarily computing that things can change on a dime, and all good plans only sort of maybe kinda could possibly but probably won’t be realised. We live in the space between hope and despair, confidence and insecurity, future and past, and entirely dependent on the strange turnings of the universe and the unfolding story we are part of.

Tarot is like an idea sieve. It catches some ideas and presents them for closer examination. It allows us to ask questions and then see what could happen if we play things out. It presents us with a picture, symbol, and then meaning of things, all to help us understand how we fit in to place and time.

On a deeply personal level I live between knowing and not knowing, wanting to know and not wanting to, in the moment in a positive, could be kind of way, and at the same time out of that moment in a what is the world coming to kind of way. Sliding doors. Affirmations. Balance of scales.

Letting go. Holding on tightly. Thinking myself into. Wiggling myself out of. Tarot is a lovely way of gently telling one which one to do now.

Contact me (megan@improvision.co.za) or leave a message in the comments with your details here on meganshead for more info about my readings (R400 in person or on Skype) or to make a booking.

Cape Town and the DA

I know #whataboutists will tell me about Solly Msimanga and Herman Mashaba – both DA mayors of big cities (notwithstanding some of their votes of no confidence faced and other xenophobic utterances), but I am so completely grumpy with the DA’s Brett Herron standing for mayor I could scream.

Even John Maytham couldn’t hold the disbelief out of his voice when interviewing him yesterday. Really? A white, male candidate? Another Athol Trollip moment? Every single thing about this possibility makes me know that the DA is pedalling backwards on the totally dysfunctional bicycle lanes it spent millions on.

I am no fan of Brett Bicycle Lane Herron. I totally believe that he is unable to separate from his upwardly middle class white experience of Cape Town. I wanted to scream when he cried big white tears after catching the train from Khayelitsha that first time because suddenly he was shocked by how people had to travel every day of their lives. I was enraged when I saw the pictures of him proudly handing over keys to a few ‘Bo-Kaap facaded’ (in his own words) houses in the arsehole of the world, Fisantekraal, like he was doing a good thing.

I know that for whatever bullshit auntie Pat was up to, and that there was a lot of it, and I suspect she sold a piece of her soul to the devil(opers), she still had a relatively good idea of how the poor of CT live. Brett Herron has yet to deliver on his promise for decent transport and social housing close to Cape Town. And that was his portfolio. Why on earth would this man be a good mayor for Cape Town? I cannot see him moving away from the absolutely traditional white response to this city. And it is a response that allows for rampant gentrification, the arse licking of developers, the perpetuation of the accurate myth of the city being a little bit of Europe, and the complete polarisation of its population into old, apartheid geography.

Brett Herron’s track record reflects his position clearly. He has prioritised service delivery to those less in need of it. He has bought band-aids for photo opportunities. He has perpetuated Zille’s legacy. He is not what we need.

My 2c worth.

Dog Love

An open letter in the form of a poem to two dogs who can’t read

Hot breath tells me you’re lying next to me

When I wake up and it’s cold and dark

Gentle snores comfort me

When thoughts of the world keep me awake

No greater joy than you, Linus, throwing your black head back

And bouncing away over the grass, still looking at me,

“Look Megan, look at my happiness now.”

No greater pride, Frieda, than you catching popcorn every time,

Chasing squirrels, and being all independent in public

But defining love in private as you slide up for a snuggle.

I love telling everyone who comments on your beauty

And softness and prettiness and kindness

How we found you at the SPCA and saved you, you being rescues.

But I always know it was you who did the saving

Of me.

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