Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Category: deeply personal (Page 2 of 104)


Last night

Still skin sensitive (I have thin white skin)

After reading an article from Americaland or its cleaner cousin Canada

Where black theatre makers asked that white reviewers

refrain from reviewing their work – they don’t know what we are talking about –

I asked permission to write a review.

This was new.

Who the fuck am I, right? I had never thought about it before.

Oh the sneaky insidiousness of white privilege.


I sat in the close heat of the unairconditioned, semidecolonised, renamed and reframed


I watched purity and purpose and word and movement

On stage, like a duet dance.

In the audience

We watched, heard, laughed, shivered and shook.

Women and GBV and #menaretrash and our worlds at war and words at work.


We rose and applauded. Such good, powerful, clever stuff.

And then a Q&A crept into the room

As I was getting ready to make my exit.

There were 7 white women in the room last night. Including me. I say it to make it clear.

And with the ease of a tide coming in, as we know it must, and does,

White women spoke. First, and loud, and freely.

Sitting at the back I got shy, and then frustrated

By the size of the demographic compared to the space it was comfortable to take up.

By the unconscious, unselfconscious, unilateral hierarchy of colour and gender

And come on. Racism.

Followed by.

There were no white men in the room last night. But, next on the list,

White women. Then black men. It was black men who spoke next.

And the black women on stage, at the Q&A, were the ones who were

Asked, interrogated, questioned, like the representatives of the whole wide west and east.


That’s quite a big burden.

To carry.

Out of the theatre

And into the world.


Yes I know it has been, day 1 news of hideous shooting in Melville, day 2 Trump war, day three the actual horror of the whole of burning OZ and day 4 the start of more load shedding, but I am feeling good. Happy. Clear. Excited. Healthy.

I have done (not enough but definitely more than usual) a bit of forward planning and visualising for the year ahead, and I am starting it with energy and positivity as well as a sense of quiet confidence.

I feel like I have a few things up my sleeve. I feel in it. And I like how it feels. I look forward to tomorrow, and getting back into the swing of things. I am ready to work, and play and create and write and manifest. I had a great walk and swim and chat and relax today, and I am going to sleep now, to dream into it all. See you later. For more.

A little, bitter pill

I don’t know why I became obsessed with the Trump impeachment proceedings and the UK elections. I have only ever had a glancing interest in the convoluted and complicated political rules of other countries, but this time it feels like we really are on the knife edge of Fascism in a global way.

I was so disappointed and surprised by the Tory landslide because the kinds of people I follow on social media and the kinds of news I had been reading had given me hope that Labour would win. It was an eye opener for me that the general British working class are self hating poor, who only hate those slightly worse off than themselves even more. Refugees, basically. A lot like our poor here at home, who, in desperation lash out at black foreign nationals or African refugees.

And then the well televised processes of impeachment filled the screens and interwebz. And I kept walking away from them with a pounding headache. As if I had been knocking my head against a wall. Because it is clear that facts are worth shit. Trump supporters and Republicans are anti-fact. You can’t argue with them. They don’t care. This is not about whether Trump (a sociopathic, idiotic, misogynistic, racist nut job as well as mean spirited, bullying and crooked) did these criminal and treasonous things. Nobody gives a shit. This is about their guy staying in. He is their guy. They chose him, groomed him and stuck him there so that they could get on with pissing all over everybody, and there are at least a whole bunch of Americans who think that is A Okay.

I remember when Italy chose their Trump, Zuma clown Berlusconi. I remember the shock I felt that this pedophile was the guy they chose and then fought for. I remember the disbelief when the ANC skopped Mbeki to the curb and put Puma in the hot seat. Was it just me, or were the warning bells ringing before he even got there? Now it has become what countries do. And I am scared.

A busy week of abundance

Even though I have really wanted to believe, I have always, in the deep recesses of my brain, been sceptical about ‘asking the universe’ or ‘visualising’, or ‘tapping into the source of abundance ‘. Which is ridiculous, because even when my asks have been outrageous, or half hearted, or even totally unrealistic, I have generally had pretty good results.

Here is a little case in point story that goes like this. I popped into my agents to sign a contract for a tiny TV series role (I had asked for it and gotten it without even realising that it was me getting what I had asked for) and I announced to the fabulous Onida and divine Suzi that I needed to land an ad to help get me back to NYC in mid March 2020 (because my play Lost Property is going into full production in Jersey City! Another thing that happened by me asking the universe very nicely and clearly) and Suzi said, “Ask for it here, in the office. Visualise it.” I did. And I got confirmed on an ad that I am shooting this week. It is my first ad in years. It is a lovely part, for a product I am comfortable with. When Suzi let me know about the callback she called the job the ‘Get Megan to NYC’ campaign.

This is powerful stuff if we allow it in. It works best with accompanying feelings of gratefulness and humility. It works in both positive and negative ways. It seems to work properly if there is clarity of intention.

In the next week I will be looking back on this year that was filled with beautiful and amazing actualisations and terrible, dark times of despair. I will be looking forward and articulating how I want to be, and who and what, in the year to come. And I will be asking, with the clarity and gratitude that it is already happening. Here’s to life.

A delightful and cheery end of year light

Last night we performed our final ImproGuise pop up improv show of the year at the Drama Factory in Somerset West. It’s also one of the last shows to perform in the old Drama Factory before it moves a few units down into a bigger space. Sue Diepeveen is one of my theatre heroes, going it alone in that neck of the woods with her fierce and independent little theatre; doing the marketing, front of house, and even jumping in to do our lights at short notice. She has more energy than a teenage party goer, more staying power than super glue, and she is a fabulous actor and director in her own right. Next year I will definitely be performing The Deep Red Sea there, and hopefully, I will be able to do more work there in general.

We also performed our signature format of TheatreSports last night, and we were a team of mixed oldies and newbies. It was so much fun, and there was singing, accents, emotions, story, and lots of corpsing by me.

It’s a great thing to have done as my last outing on stage for 2019.

In comparison to the rest of the year which has had me working in fits and starts, this last month has been full, and rewarding with work. I hope this sets the tone for 2020, where projections are looking pretty good. I don’t want to jinx it, so no details here yet, but I am excited.

December blues, greens and deep sea grey

As I type dust particles collect in the grooves of my laptop keyboard, blown through cracks in ancient ceiling boards, and under doors and improperly sealed windows. Courtyard plants stand sideways in pots and dog hair tumbleweed rolls through the rooms. It is December in Cape Town and the wind is here.

It is hot now and becoming dry. Traffic is mad, and impatient and brainless. And there is load shedding. Load shedding in Cape Town in December. Restaurants are losing their shit. Nobody can manage a traffic light turned 4 way stop.

Now it is 1030pm on a Sunday night and the wind is whirling though the courtyard, lifting the hatch that goes into the ceiling and battering the turning chimneys on the neighbours’ braais. I have spent the day negotiating the wind and load shedding.

I want to go to sleep but I am rattled and unsettled.


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