Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Category: writing (Page 1 of 13)

In the Presence of

Last night I went to see something quite transformational and spiritually injectifying. My ex student Melanie Aiff organised a sort of concert/gathering/jam/witnessing of creative live performance and music in which she was the thread, voice, word, move with all these other amazing people in the space (the totally transformed Theatre Arts Admin Collective).

She advertised it as Mel Mwevi Shares, and there was a lot of sharing. It was like being in her crazy lounge and reading her diaries (entries of which were played as a slide show on the big screen), while sitting on cushions on the floor.

She sang, performed poetry, spoke rambling personal stories, got outraged, introduced us to her friends (and some fellow performers) from Breaking Bread, a one woman organisation who takes care of and feeds the homeless and helpless of Salt River, Woodstock and Obz, and we ate delicious vegan food, and fell in love with Mel and her friends.

Mel is the easiest and most charming person to watch. Somehow she combines the deepest emotion with the lightness of touch, and sheer enjoyment, indulgence, arrow sharp point slash of intention, trivial tantrum are all combined to make everything she does real and meaningful.

We sat transfixed for two sets that lasted almost three hours and I (who can barely manage a 55 minute play) was happy to be there until the full moon rose again.

Now here is the thing. Mel Mwevi is a true artist. She is a goddess of the word, a siren of sound and a wizard witch of the performance space. She needs to be able to make and share in every crevice, corner and stadium of the world. She is unique and inspirational. She needs to be given lots of hard cash to do what she does, and to pay the troupes of people that will work with her. I know there are people who have managed to get this right, with patrons and crowd funding. So, people who have, or who know of people who have, please let her know how. I will connect you up.

PS. Photo stolen from Facebook. Taken by Jono Tait.

For Lazer

I’m living in

Your shedded skin

Your echo voice now faint

Your tiny trees died

within six months of you leaving the planet

But huge ones,

Standing fast,

Reach arms across divides

To touch.

A reply to the ‘comments’

These are people you are talking about.

These are not dogs you keep out of the lounge for shitting on your carpet.

These are human beings,

Forced to live on a sports field, in the middle of winter.

These people, who must follow the rules and not light fires for fuck sake

because they are a safety risk, are living on a sports field in the middle of winter.

These people, who work amongst you, go home to a sports field in the middle of winter.

A sports field is their temporary home for an undetermined time.

From their sports field where they live worse than the dogs that snuggle at your fires, your heaters, your stoves, your electric blankets, your carpets, your underfloor heating, and bark at your curtains made from imported fabric and sewn to fit just right in your double glazed windows,

They see the gentle smoke from your double chimney.

They see your electric gates open and close to swallow and then regurgitate your 4x4s.

They see you fall out of your cars and slam, slam dash indoors.

They see you with armloads of shopping, dressed in bundles of clothing.

These people who live on a sports field in the middle of winter.

And you want to know why they are angry, desperate and uncontained?

You can’t believe how they could burn what they have?

You don’t understand why they aren’t lying down quietly under that second hand blanket you gave them for charity when the fires happened in March?

Maybe its because they are living on a sports field in the middle of winter.

NT Live, and theatrical thoughts

I hope you have noticed that I have been writing reviews for Weekend Special, Cape Town’s newest and most comprehensive online arts and lifestyle magazine, started and curated by Karen Rutter and Jane Mayne, two vital and veteran arts journos, contributors, editors and theatre and music lovers. It has been an honour writing for the website that has made an enormous impression on the arts in Cape Town since it started up in December.

I have written about plays, movies, series and even a restaurant, and it has been such fun. One of the best parts has been that I have gone to preview screenings of the NT Live productions. I was absolutely transformed by St Joan, and Hedda Gabler, was awe struck by Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, and have a few on my list that I am so excited about (tomorrow I will see Emelda Staunton in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?).

What has been such an eye opener has been that even the famous, experienced and visionary theatre makers in the UK don’t always get it right. Last week I saw Obsession, directed by the amazing Ivo van Hove, with Jude Law, and it was truly horrible. It was agonisingly horrible. And without sounding like I am gloating, there is something so comforting in knowing that even the masters get it wrong.

Of course, the lesson is that we can all fail when trying to make theatre (or any art actually), but it is the trying that is so important. Here, at home the rules of engagement are so different, and so much of the theatre (and film) we make is terribly, boringly safe. Safety can be in what is expected of us, or it can be in having a proper, paying job, or it can be doing the same thing over and over again. Safety is low risk, low challenge, low stakes theatre, to get by. Low risk theatre is easy to make, needs short rehearsal times, and short cuts on everything including the massive commitment needed to make a show. And then, add meek critics to this; those that would rather not say if something is bad because they don’t want what tiny audience there is to stay away, and theatre is dead in the water. Nobody wants to see stuff that hardly blows air up your skirt.

Now, before everyone gets hysterical, I am totally generalising, because it is a miracle that so much great theatre IS made here, in spite of how ball achingly hard it is, and how we have none of the support, money, sponsorship, subsidy, history and culture of theatre attendance and theatre vocabulary that the UK has. I know. But there is something so extraordinary about a spectacular failure, as opposed to a whimper. And I just don’t see that here.

 

The Woman Next Door

I have broken a reading dry spell by devouring The Woman Next Door by Yewande Omotoso in just under a week.

This extraordinary novel is set in a terribly familiar Cape Town, but its angle on the issues of land restitution, racism, culture and aging are so original and thought provoking I will never think about these things in the old way again.

The protagonists are two old ladies, next door neighbours, who live in a sheltered, gated community in Constantia. They hate each other vehemently, but are forced, by circumstances both beyond and in their control to negotiate a relationship.

Through their backstories we get to know each of them and their secrets, lies, and special shames, and then they are brought forward and thrown together, exposing their relationship to a post-Apartheid Cape Town that challenges them in different ways.

I think that there is something so brave in choosing two eighty year olds to be the leads in a story. It is a high risk that pays off though. I was drawn into Hortensia’s stuck ways, and grumpy oldness from the beginning. Marion was also deeply familiar to me, with her broken Jewish background and dysfunctional family.

Mostly, what hooked me and kept me attached to every page, paragraph, sentence and word was Omotoso’s writing. It is beautiful, simple, direct, haunting, deliberate, light, clever, funny and achingly moving.

It is a book that will stay with me for a long time, and I will turn the words and ideas, about loss, and love, and being a stranger, over and over in my mind and heart.

Reimagining Meganshead

I hate the idea of this blog fizzling out, but lately I have been struggling to commit to writing the thoughts in my head out, and down.

I don’t know why the world has become a ‘less to write about place’ for me, especially since there is so much going on, and I have such strong opinions about everything. I guess it’s because I am irritated by the strong and contentious opinions I see around me, from people who, in general, know very little about the topic at hand. So much so, I have become suspicious of every Facebum status update, and I keep checking the hoax sites for proof that the latest crime warning scam, or water purity concern, or WhatsApp neighbourhood watch group freak out (did you read the one about plastic bags tied in trees FFS?) are all bullshit.

Somehow this tiny form of the bigger picture of fake news has left me a little fearful of my own voice in a ‘do I dare?’ kind of way. I feel safer amongst the words of others.

But, I miss writing here. I love the space I have created here. I love this particular sound of my own voice. So, bear with me. I am busy reimagining the space. I think it is about to become a creative space again, and I am going to start with the challenge of writing something, even if it is just a tiny poem or paragraph or single thought, every single day for a month. I might also go back to some video stuff. Funny stuff. See you soon.

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