Lost and Found

George got into my heart. They have an uncanny way of doing that. George (a name I gave the little guy) was wandering around the neighbourhood – terrified. Clearly he wasn’t meant to be a street kid and his well kept coat and clipped nails indicated his life was a safe life.  A stable life. A life behind the walls of a comfortable suburban home.

We asked him to come on in, you know, within the safety of our walls. He came, cautiously. He visibly relaxed once we’d closed the gate. We gave him some water and encouraged him to settle down. We gave him a little sustenance too. He couldn’t tell us where he was from – where he had been. There was no form of identification on him that could help us piece together a bit of story about dear George.

The only thing to do was to get the word out. Somebody must have been missing the little boy George. We live in what people call the information age. Ours is the day of easy communication. But how does one spread the word about a lost soul? Where do you put it? The authorities of course!

‘He’s mostly white, with some black. He’s about two years old, I’d say’

Descriptions. Time of finding. Location. And of course our contact details.

It looked like George was going to be spending the night with us. I wasn’t sure how he would be with our other children, especially the youngest one. How would they feel? How would they react?

We continued as normally as we could. We made dinner – with wine of course – and managed through the eating part with relative ease. Sleeping was the next big thing that needed doing. George seemed pretty cool with most things, as long as we weren’t out of his sight at any stage. This meant he needed to be near us when we slept. So do our other children. This was going to be a problem.

After some debate, it was decided, I’d move into the spare room for the night and George could settle there. While my partner and our kids stayed in our room.

You know that sleep, or not-sleep, where you have one eye on your charge the whole time? While that was me. The little guy slept through though, which was an indication of just how tired he was from his crazy adventure.

I was rather panicky the next day about this poor little fella’s future.

Thankfully, his mom called at 9:00 – distraught.

Turned out his name was really Duke and he went on a little stroll when their gate was left open by their forgetful tenant. His youth and inexperience didn’t help him to keep track of where his home was. He got lost.

I did enjoy George though – in fact I was rather sad when he left. And I have changed my opinion of pitbulls now.

George AKA Duke

Theatregoers (some of my article for iafrica)

The theatre. That thing that so many of us slot boldly into the "interests" section of our CVs and under the "activities" page on our Facebook profiles. Ah yes, "the theatre" has a certain sophisticated ring to it, doesn’t it?

The Gordon Institute for Performing and Creative Arts (known as Gipca) is a body that offers a space to collaborate, debate and better their trade. Recently, Gipca held a Directors and Directing conference which saw a great deal of big wig theatre people coming together to talk about the state of theatre in South Africa. Loads of things were said, but for me, the most important thing to come from this great event, were the questions. The most significant question posed was: where the hell is the audience?

Go to http://lifestyle.iafrica.com/events/747049.html and read the rest.

Lisa and Frank - a scene

LISA and FRANK – a scene

By Jared Kruger

Lisa:       Completely. Perfectly. Completely and perfectly miserable.

Frank:   Ah, babe it’s not that bad. This isn’t SA. We’ll improve it as we go along.

Lisa:       (standing in the kitchen area) There isn’t even enough room for a tea cup in here.

Frank:   We’ll just have to have the kettle and tea stuff in the lounge. (moving towards the tiny couch)

Lisa:       Doesn’t matter we can’t afford tea anyway.

Frank:   Of course we can. (picks up the two grocery bags from next to the front door. Puts them on the tiny counter and starts to unpack – starting with the wine) No more SA wine for you – Chile.

Lisa:       I hate wine.

Frank:   You’ll learn, it’s an acquired taste.

Lisa:       I don’t want to acquire it.

Frank:   (taking out the box of tea) I will take you to Paris and you’ll fall in love with the stuff – you’ll see.

Lisa:       Paris? Perhaps a job first.

Frank:   Babe, you’ll find something.

Lisa:       Recession and all?

Frank:   You’ve got a qualification from Stellenbosch, that’s something and...

Lisa:       Tea?

Frank:   Here you go (throws the box towards Lisa – she drops it)

Lisa:       Frank, stop fooling around.

Frank:   Sorry babe.

Lisa:       (‘jokingly’ and seductively) Make me some tea.

Frank:   Okay, but don’t think that I am going to be your ‘help’ here.

Lisa:       In that case I should be heading straight on back to SA on the next flight.

Frank:   So, the first thing we need to do is sell my bed. And get us a double.

Lisa:       Typical boy – thinking about the sack already.

Frank:   Well... (moving towards her – tries to kiss her)

Lisa:       (Steps back) tea.

Frank:   Right, okay. Not even just a...

Lisa:       How much does a bed cost, about?

Frank:   About a thousand quid.

Lisa:       That’s, 10 000 Rand. Fucking hell.

Frank:   Don’t think in Rand terms. It’ll only make you mad.

Lisa:      You know, I have a perfectly good bed back in Cape Town – perhaps I could ship it out – perhaps it’s cheaper.

Frank:   No, no. Let’s get our own babe – kinda cool to get our own bed – don’t you think?

Lisa:      Stop being sentimental and all mushy. (pause) I suppose my sister needs it – with her kids getting bigger now. (sits on the couch and sighs) I left them. 11 000 kilometres between us now.

Frank:   Skype.

Lisa:      Little Alice is going to grow up so quickly, they do you know. They learn new things everyday and they add centimetres with each hour they sleep. You know, at the airport.

                (Frank tries to caress her, perhaps grabs her bum)

                Hey. You’re going to have to earn that. Get you cold hands off of me.

Frank:   Fucking hell.

Lisa:       What?

Frank:   I thought that. It has been like 4 months Lisa and I’m going a bit crazy.

Lisa:       (taking her mobile phone out) I need to call my mother.

                (Frank drops, and kicks he box of tea and leaves) 

2 Questions about Theatre now

Directors and Directing

A most intimidating and marvellous collection of people in conversation for a whole weekend, and I was there to listen to the conversation. How wonderful!

Jay Pather and GIPCA, thank you. Directors and Directing was a wonderful experience for me. It made me: angry, worried, sad, energised, mobilised and inspired. Today I have a head full of questions. And I truly believe that questions are more important than answers, so I am rather happy then with this head full.

And since I have this head full of questions I thought I’d sift through them all, decide on two of the more important and difficult ones and write them down here. Perhaps putting them down will allow us to continue the conversation. I can’t answer them easily. I need to think, but I wanted to put them into words and out there. So here they are:

Is it possible to try and develop new, young and a strong patronage to theatre in South Africa? And what is the practical role of the director in doing this?

There is no doubt that there is a crisis in theatre, and that crisis lies in the economics of it all. For whatever reason, the ‘bums on seats’ issue is an issue! Why are people not going to see theatre? What can we do, practically, to make things change? And more importantly, after the weekend’s topic, what is the role of the director in doing this?

Then the big one...

Is the weight of race too heavy for the South African stage?

It was clear, that there was tension in the room around this question for most of the weekend... 

Reflection on these questions to come in future writings – time is required for some thought.

Selfish, Yes.

As I look out of this incredibly tiny window on this impressively cramped aeroplane (or is it airplane?), en route to Lanserisa, I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of people on the ground in Cape Town. All those thousands upon thousands of roofs, of cars, buses and streets. Gaining height as quickly as one does in a plane provides a surreal perspective on how vast the human spread is.

And what did I glean from this feeling of being overwhelmed? If there are so many of us; then surely there is enough energy, brain power, goodwill – and all that fuzzy stuff – to make things better down there on the ground? Cliché? So fucking what?

Then I let my brain wonder, which is not difficult to allow. And you know what I thought? What if I could get each one of those people on the ground to want to read my blog, to see my show, to pay me R5 – I’d be rich. Precisely! I just answered my own question... people are too damn selfish to stay with the thought of another for more than three minutes! Our energy is all about ourselves, our brain wants to be an “I” specialist. And goodwill, well that would be good if I can score from it. So the fuzzy stuff seems to be a dream...

Icky, isn’t it?

But, why then do we every now and again have these realisations, these ‘fuzzy’ thoughts, even if only at random moments – like taking off in an aeroplane? We, as humans, do have moments when we aren’t selfish and we think, ‘Gee, what can I do to make this place better?’ I think that it is because we do, essentially, want to do good, to make things right. However, it isn’t easy to be selfless and as humans are essentially lazy, we quickly go back to thinking about ourselves, because it’s so easy. Maybe it is because, just like any really challenging thing, there is effort involved. We procrastinate, and what better way than to spend time satisfying your personal needs, after all, they’re obvious.

And here is the next cliché: we should make the effort! The world needs to be less lazy. We need to try have the realisations more often; and then realise the realisation. Do something! Actually act on the fuzzy stuff.

So, when I get off this plane I am going to...  I hope that there is a coffee shop close to the exit to the airport, I am dying for a latte.

Sigh.

67 Minutes, Hate Speech and Tik

I did my 67 minutes. I wore my purple top proudly and shook my jam can for change to support The Chaeli Campaign. I was under the impression though that this should have made me feel good, you know, fulfilled. My impression was somewhat misguided.

"Madiba day! Any loose change in support of the Chaeli Campaign - children and disability," was my chant.

After about three minutes of canvassing at a robot here in the Southern Suburbs of Cape Town, a bitter old man said through his twisted mouth, out of his cigarette reeking car, "Mandela should have got the death sentence!" Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is what he said. I was so shocked that I didn't have time to respond before he lurched off, in his Mercedes Benz, through the red robot.

I believe I am a relatively resilient, and sometimes quick witted, person, but I started trembling - visibly. I wasn't sure if I was angry or scared. I stepped off to the side of the road, regained my composure and tried to laugh it off. I kept thinking 'he probably isn't a very happy man.'

I waited two or three robot changes and got back in there.

No sooner had I stepped back into it, when a bakkie, with two suspicious characters nearly rode me over. The passenger, stuck his hand out of the car, and there, in broad daylight was a light bulb smouldering with poisonous and vile smoke in his gruby little paw. "Take a hit from the dark side my bru!"

This was just too much for me, and it hadn't even been 20 minutes. I still had 47 minutes to go!

I hugged my tin sheepishly and started walking towards the Pick n Pay, I was sure that I'd be met with a more appreciative audience there. It was better. I mean there wasn't any anti Madiba rants or drug using pushers, but my goodness there were a lot of very unhappy and seriously unfriendly people.

At the end of my 67 minutes I must say I felt a little disheartened and kind of angry that I had thought this would have been an inspiring thing to do.

Back at the office I took some time to think about it all over a really strong coffee.

I am glad I did it. It wasn't easy, but doing the 'right thing'; 'the good thing'; something for somebody else, isn't always easy. But we do still need to do it. Perhaps if more people actually did it, even though it is difficult, this place would be a better place to live.
 

Agaat

A quick reflection on the reading of Marlene van Niekerk’s Agaat

I have just finished, all six hundred and ninety two pages of it. Was it worth it? Yes, yes I think it was. I may need some more time to really answer this. You see, I think that it is one of those books that you need to spend a fair bit of time pondering, especially as a white South African living in the Cape.

The story is narrated by Milla, a white Afrikaaner, who is on her death bed dying of a motor neuron disease. She tells a difficult story of a life on a farm in the Western Cape during the ‘dark days’. There is an abusive husband, an adopted child, a biological child, and a whole lot of internal struggle. But what makes this book interesting is not all this drama. Agaat is an exceptionally unfiltered look at race, and this makes the book a book to spend some time making your way through and then thinking about.

Toni Morrison, possibly one of the most brilliant authors of all time (in my opinion anyway), said of Agaat: ‘I was immediately mesmerized... Its beauty matches its depth and her achievement is as brilliant as it is haunting.’

South Africa is complex, we know this, but sometimes I think that we forget just how haunting our history is. We underestimate the psychological impact of what life was, of what living had to be, not more than one generation back.

Agaat was a rather intense reminder for me of how much healing still needs to happen for South Africa.

Being Sad, No!

So, those of you who know me, are probably not surprised to hear that I was diagnosed with clinical depression earlier this year. Yes, I just said that out loud.

You see, it doesn't really bother me, I mean to tell people. 'Why?', I hear you ask. The answer is simple really, I now know that I am not crazy and that the weight of sadness can be lightened. And that this diagnosis means things can change.

I never really had an opinion on depression as a mental illness, but now that I am going through therapy, taking the right medication, making the changes, and feeling like I am alive and able to do things - I know that it (depression) is fucking real and horribly debilitating.

People would, or should, probably think that I shouldn't have been a candidate for 'depro'. I mean; I have a great and deeply caring lover, a wonderful family and brilliant friends; I was studying and finances are not a huge problem. But, in the words of Jack White, I had 'the rich kid blues' in spite of all the good things in my life.

I was always dreaming, always setting goals and pushing forward, but it felt as if those dreams were useless, that the goals were unattainable and that someone or something was pushing backwards. I was sad, although I knew I should have been happy.

What convinced me to go and see someone about it after years of sadness, I don't really know. It might have been the sadness I was creating for my gorgeous wife, the inability to find a job, the excessive drinking or it might have been the awful and continuous thoughts of dying. Although, it probably was my mom's encouragement. Whatever it was, it was the best decision I have ever made.

I always thought that it was a cliche to wake up, see the sunlight in the trees and say 'damn that's gorgeous'. I don't care for being cliched anymore. The sunlight today is gorgeous.

I am so much better now, and the only real nightmare and fear I have is ever feeling that weight of sadness ever again! I am still at the beginning of my battle against this, but I know the enemy and that makes it so much easier.