Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Month: December 2019 (Page 1 of 2)

The music of the pathway to the stairs that lead in a more upward direction

I think most people I know listen to and love music. My tastes are eclectic, but at the moment I have fallen back in love with reggae, in the form of a particular reggae/pop/world/hiphop band Dub Inc. I love them. I can’t understand almost anything they sing about because it is in French or Arabic, but there is something about their music that makes me levitate inside. You know that feeling? Where inside is slightly higher, and off the ground and feels light and mystical?

Anyway, here is a song of their’s I love.

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.


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.

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