Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Category: world of work (Page 1 of 14)

A Friend in the Unlikeliest Place

Yesterday just happened to be one of those days that are so incongruous and strange they are a challenge to understand, let alone write down. But it was the kind of day that I believe will shift me and take me down an unexpected path of my journey.

Let me try. Big Friendly is out of town so my day started early, walking, feeding and watering the animals. My first appointment was in Wynberg, to meet with the CJSA (Cape Jewish Seniors Association) for an interesting chat/session. I met with a different branch in Milnerton in July and it had been a success and then I was asked to do the Wynberg one. I am not naive. I was asked because I said yes to the first one. Almost 30 ladies of a certain age (no men this time) were there to find out more about me, and resist playing improv games like I did the last time! I was as prepared as I always am. No idea about what I was going to do or say until I got there.

And then something amazing happened. In my introduction, and emboldened by the clarity Robin DiAngelo has given me about who I am and the enormous edge my White Privilege (not to mention the addition of Jewish Privilege) gives me, I said, by way of introducing myself, “My name is Megan Furniss. I used to be Megan Choritz (nods and sighs of recognition here). I am a writer, actor, director, improvisor. I am Jewish, anti religious, and very political. I want to state here, for the record and so you know, I am anti-Zionist and pro-Palestine.” Can you imagine? There was a massive communal gasp. One brave lady finally swallowed and said, “We don’t have to go there.” There was a shocked and relieved murmur of agreement.

A lot happened in that session. A lot.We jumped through my family and ancestry, flew through my career highlights, touched on Cape Town history, and family, and District Six and Woodstock. We joined dots, dived deep, and even ‘went there’ politically. There were many details, and many moments, and hard questions, and hilarious interludes. There were feelings hurt, and hearts won over. In the group was a shiny, funny, clever, vocal powerhouse of a woman with a lot to say. I haven’t asked her permission to use her name publicly so I won’t, but we got each other. She was excited by me and my points of view, and I was thrilled by her tenacity, and cleverness, and out-there-ness. She was my tribe. I left that time there shifted. As much as I had come to share my stuff with them I felt differently seen by a community that I have constant struggles with. I had to dash, with promises to return.

Then I flew over to the Golden Acre to take part in an hour long interactive improvisation performance called Film Me In as part of Infecting the City. Honestly, from the ridiculous to the incomprehensible. It’s been a while since I performed in the Golden Acre and I had forgotten what an awesome space it is. I was standing there, in the big open space we were performing in, trying to encourage people to participate, when I felt a tap on my head. My new friend from the CJSA meeting had taken a trip to town to see what I was up to! This woman had brought herself to the Golden Acre, a place I can guarantee her fellow community members hadn’t visited in years, to come an check us out. I love her.

My day ended with me falling asleep in front of the insane, hideous and demented impeachment hearings where Americans tore into each other and behaved like lunatics in support of chief batshit crazy, psycho, abuser Donald J. Trump.

Bog

I don’t know how creatives do it; admin, applications, grants, submissions. I can sit at my computer for non stop hours writing, imagining, creating, but the minute I have to pull up my broeks and do admin of any kind, especially the furthering of my ‘career’ kind, I seize up, zone out and develop a paralysis that is only broken by procrastinating and eating.

In fact, writing this blogpost is pretty much me not doing the stuff that urgently, deadlinishly needs to be done. As I write this a deadline is slipping away and it is possible I will not get my application in on time.

Chances are I am going to spend as long as I can on this post, and edit it, and think about it much more than it deserves, and then I will look at the time and it will be Pilates time, shit, I had no idea, and I will dash out of here, and grab things at the last moment, and then I will rush back and have two meetings etc, and I will not do the admin. The bog.

Change

I have always believed that I am one of few people who are comfortable with, or at least used to, change. Having been a ‘freelancer’ my whole life, with no actual proper job, I have gotten used to living with uncertainty. I don’t know any other way. Sometimes my days are full and complicated, and sometimes I have no idea what all those things were that I so badly wanted to do ‘when I had the time’.

Being someone who doesn’t know how the days, weeks and months of the year are going to unfold also means putting things out into the world of work and hoping that some of them take root. Some do. Sometimes at the same time. Sometimes a barren wind blows and nothing grows.

Being an improviser has been the best, and most consistent help. The improvisation philosophy of being in the present is a powerful and positive tool, and it is also the tool that has shaken me out of passive lethargy and into action; sometimes just to do the mundane stuff of exercise or housework.

So the theory is that I should be able to cope well with change. And I do. Ish. I just get stuck when things change and they are worse than they were before, and the change is out of my hands.

A good example would be the change of a board of some or other organisation – let’s say, for argument’s sake and totally hypothetically, the board of a charity I support. Let’s say I have been working with these tired and committed board members because I believe in their cause. And they have sacrificed much. And then a new board takes over, with efficient plans to save money and make money, with comparisons to other charities who do things better elsewhere. All of this is needed, and it makes sense. And they are totally gung-ho, but still, some people leave the organisation, and others stay, not totally fitting into their new skins, And the change is all over – in management style, and tone of voice, and level of commitment. None of it is wrong. It is just different. Relationships are different. And my place is different. And my voice is differently heard, and felt, and maybe, possibly ignored.

This change is so hard for me. This kind of change.

I have no idea why the feeling of this kind of change brings me to this memory. Many, many years ago now, when the passings of our old Taiwanese dogs Bayla and Gally were properly mourned and I started thinking about adopting a new dog into our home I remember seeing a pic of a dog on an animal rescue website and I became convinced he was the one for us. (I am sure I wrote about this on this blog all those years ago). They sent a man to do a house inspection and he decided that our courtyard was too small and we failed the house inspection. No matter how hard I tried to explain that we had no intention ever of keeping the dog in the courtyard, that he would be an inside dog that we would walk every day, mostly twice a day, they refused to hear us.

Sometimes change makes me feel misunderstood.

PS. I have just gone back to those old posts about that time. Yup. Still smarts.

Art as Life

As an artist who plays in many different forms – performance, writing, directing, marketing, facilitating, teaching, I am always preoccupied with whether the work of the arts can make a real and powerful difference, and can bring about fundamental, systemic change.

Art, especially theatre, can be a potent way to deliver commentary on the human condition. The arts change, often with the use of emotion, how audiences think and feel about many things. It’s what happens to those thoughts and feelings afterwards that I am interested in.

This current version of the world is full of distracting fake everything. It is a rigmarole to find out who really said what, and when a thing happened if it, in fact, ever did. It is distraction of the highest order and it makes us feel bogged down, immobile, and also unable – dis-abled. In art we are unburdened by whether something is a fact; we are made to believe the ‘what if it were true?’ notion of things, and then we see the consequences of it, as if it were true.

We test things out in this artist space. We examine these ideas – and they can be anything, from how to rise above childhood trauma, to the apocalypse, to politics and their intersection into community. We rewrite the common view of history, we invent people to go through hell on our behalf, and we make radical choices and ask our audiences to make decisions based on what feels right. The theatre, the gallery, the darkened cinema is an emotional dissection space where politics, science, history, psychology, and the deeply personal are portrayed in a such a way to elicit a response.

This is powerful stuff. This stuff is the emotional juice of any revolution. It is the potential glue of genuine uprising. It is how Vaclav Havel rewrote the history of the Czech Republic. It is how Woodstock was the expression of a shift in the new world order and a total discarding of the old narrative.

Right now fake news on social media, manipulated by big business politics, is our greatest distraction because it keeps us locked into an outrage that feels both helpless and impotent, and then we suffer outrage fatigue. I believe ostrich head in the sand or even true despair and depression come next. We don’t see the point of voting, participating, or even telling people to pick up their litter. In this state they have us where they want us; we are consumers. We consume their information and their products.

This is where art – theatre, film, literature, stories can be the great shifter. Art can introduce a new possibility. It is the least we can do.

 

A dive in to Lost Property

Yesterday afternoon we jumped on the PATH train and exited into a thunderstorm in Jersey City. I kept on thinking about my Thundafund that brought me here. We were drenched by the time we reached the JCTC for the first night of this tiny curated festival of work.

The unassuming door to the space leads off a parking lot so there is no hint to the loveliness that is inside: A gorgeous intimate theatre.

Last night’s piece was an 80 minute monologue called Unbossed and Unbowed, written and performed by Ingrid Griffith and it tells the story of Shirley Chisholm a black woman who became a local politician, a congress woman and a wannabe president of the US, in the 60’s and 70’s. This is herstory I know nothing about. And it is rather extraordinary that the US is still waiting to have a female president.

Tonight’s plays are two 10 minute ones and Lost Property. I am overwhelmingly excited to be part of this, and I can’t wait to get feedback on the work. What an opportunity.

Thank you Thundafunders. Look at me go!

Lost Property in Jersey City

Finally, after 17 days of squirming, my Thundafund campaign is live. It has been a long, uncomfortable wait but now I can confidently ask for help to get me to the USA to be there in person when my play Lost Property has a reading at this little play festival.

I am so proud of this work, and I have to be there in person because I wrote the play very specifically to be performed by me.

I need $1500 to make this trip real, and I need it before I leave on the 22 May. I am offering some fun and fabulous rewards too, so please take a look and then help. Every tiny bit helps.

Go to this link www.thundafund.com/project/lostproperty and please contribute, and share to anyone you think may be able to help.

With love and gratitude.

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