Safe. Not Saved.

It has been too long. But, today, as I logged into my blog account, I had one of those sentimental sensations. You know, in the movies, when two people haven’t seen each other in a very long time. The long hug, the longing look. The works.

This reunion was not one of those that I had planned for weeks to come. It was more like a spur of the moment, irrationally impulsive decision. And, as I have always said: I will only write when I have something to say.

I recently read a quote by Bob Dylan that really fascinated me. No doubt the man was a genius. He certainly was a poet and he obviously had some profound knowledge of the world around him.
The quote read:
“Don't matter how much money you got, there's only two kinds of people: there's saved people and there's lost people.”


And at first, I didn’t think about the quote, then later as it started to mill around in my head, and as I was contemplating the depth and the complexity of that particular statement, as I riding around Cape Town on my trusty scooter, as one does, I started to really understand it. And, perhaps quite inevitably, I started to ask myself which category I fit into. And it started to become very apparent to me that I don’t fit either category. I’m not lost, well, not that lost, but at the same time, I am nowhere near ‘saved’.
(I don’t mean this in a religious manner at all, so those of you starting to worry about my soul: stop)
The idea of being ‘lost’ to me, always has a strong connection with being lost at sea.
For some reason when I find myself metaphysically ‘lost’, I garner up strong images of a floating raft somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic.

But first, perhaps it's important to talk about being 'lost' first.
At the moment I am participating in the Waterfront Theatre School’s version of ‘Hairspray’ the musical, where I am playing the role of Edna Turnblad. Playing this role has, for me, opened up a lot of fears about myself that I didn’t really know previously existed. Or maybe, I was just hiding them that well. But regardless, I found such a resonance with the character that I am now facing every method-actor’s predicament: that thin line between illusion and reality has become a lot thinner. And I find myself repeating this one line that she says in the musical over and over.
“I am like a half-filled book of green stamps, beyond redemption.”
And so I decided to look at the meaning of “beyond redemption”, because it is quite a profound thing to say.

Essentially, it boils down to: I cannot be saved or redeemed anymore.

I thought, wow, how far must one go into the abyss to get to a point where salvation has become a fairytale?

And it’s exactly this that brought me to my next argument, which, in a sense, if I understand Bob Dylan correctly, will contradict him ever so slightly.

I am neither lost nor saved.

I am neither on board the Titanic, hearing the soft humming of “Nearer my God to Thee”, and I am not drifting at the bottom of the ocean, yet. nor am I home, tucked into my warm soft bed.
So where do I fit in? As usual, with me, this question will have a very complex answer.
(Another Bob Dylan quote: All I can do is be me, whoever that is.)
But, I suspect I might not be the only one whose answer might be a little more complex than the usual

So I thought about the movie “Titanic” and I remember the scene where Jack and Rose are floating on a door in the middle of the ocean. And then I remembered the scene in 'Poseidon' where the entire group was sitting in the red life raft.
And I realized: that is where I am now.
I am in the life raft of my life. I am not lost at all, I am nowhere near the darkness, but I certainly have not been rescued.
I am safe, but I am not saved.

And I am not too sure how I feel about that. Is it nice to know that you are far from danger, but at the same time, still not that far from it?
If you find yourself in the same boat as I do (sic), the only advice I can give is to clutch onto hope. To live in the moment and to, I don’t know, enjoy the scenery.

And that sucks.
But, as always, there are worse things.
I would rather be safe.
Because as much as being ‘safe’ sucks because you have been rescued, being lost sucks infinitely more.
(The most times I have used the word ‘sucks’ in any piece of writing.)
I shall now hop onto my scooter and continue to contemplate the meaning of life.
How bohemian is that? Ha!

Till then.
P.S Be sure to check out my new blog: filled with my favourites in Afrikaans poetry. It's named "Gegrif" as in the Afrikaans word for 'engraved'. (loosely translated)

''It takes a moose to change a life...''

Last night I had the honour of seeing one of the most profound theatrical productions I have ever seen on a South African stage: ''Karoo Moose''. I laughed incessantly, I cried uncontrollably and I was moved and affected.
Some of my friends were unaffected – but most of the people I spoke to were stirred by this beautifully crafted production by director Lara Foot.

It was showcased using a very simple, yet effective set, simple suggestive costuming and a variety of African sounds and imagery. Some of which I am sure will stay with me for a long time to come.

I must be honest – (Rule #1 of a blog: always be honest) – I was apprehensive about seeing the show when I heard the theme and what it was exactly about.
I find South African texts and plays quite stereotypical and discriminating sometimes and I have often felt victimised when I leave a theatre space – just because I am a white Afrikaans-speaking male.

This has made me very disconnected towards many writers, directors and actors who still perform these types of productions – because how are they relevant to me today?
I am not saying at all that I don't want to hear about history or what had happened – but I think the generation that I live in now has come to a point where we are ready to move on.
And it sometimes feels to me like the arts are not yet read to step out of that box because: it works, I guess. Or maybe they are not sure if there are any stories to tell in South Africa that does not have some form of political, historical connection?
In a way – without sounding offensive - I have come to a point where I don't want to hear how bad Apartheid was for black people and how white people were all to blame. I also don't want to be faced with white guilt every time I see a sculpture or a film or a play that depicts a black person being discriminated against somewhere, somehow.
Because, it was not my fault.
I was never there, remember?
I wasn't even born yet.
And I don't think I should have to apologise.

Sometimes - and I don't think I am the only one – I feel extremely un-African. I didn't grow up in extreme poverty, my parents didn't have to struggle to be treated as equals in society, I never wear loin-cloths or goatskins and I never chant and pray to any ancestors. Is this what it means to be African? Am I not African because I speak Afrikaans and I am white?
I grew up in this land too, I have also tasted the riches of this earth, I have also walked the dusty plains of this barren soil – isn't that essentially what it means to call a country your homeland? Not how many ancestors you had living there or who was here first. Whether you are African doesn't depend on what the colour of your skin is or in which language you speak and sing – you are African if what you stand for is equality, acceptance, teamwork and a deeply rooted love for every crack and crevice this country has to offer.

Here is where I think ''Karoo Moose'' has hit the nail on the head – we have so many beautiful stories to tell, but they are not told because we focus too much on what has happened than on what is happening now.
''Karoo Moose'' tells the story of a village of people and how their lives are affected by the coming of a very strange ''wild moose'' to the village. The moose, which was supposed to be transported to a zoo – as a gift to the President – had managed to escape and is now wandering the Karoo in search of somewhere to belong. But, the story doesn't centre around the moose at all – it tells the stories of the people who have witnessed the moose's coming. Beautifully crafted stories displaying the complexities of the human spirit and our amazing ability, as Africans, to be resilient and to fight for what we believe in.
In ''Karoo Moose'', suddenly I didn't feel like a foreigner watching a South African play – I could relate to the stories, the imagery, the hurt, the brutality of life without feeling like any of it was my fault. I saw a white family living harmoniously with a black family – no victimisation, no discrimination. I saw the South Africa that I have grown up in, not the South Africa that Athol Fugard and others have created for us. Not the South Africa that was shoved in my face by older generations. And suddenly, I could relate.

I would like to thank the director, the writer and the performers for opening my eyes again to the wonderful diversity that is our country and for making me feel like an important part of that diversity.
Before last night, I used to feel like a lost white boy running aimlessly, without a home, without somewhere that I can belong in this extreme diversity that is South Africa. (a bit like the moose, I guess)

But, now, I think that that has changed.
I feel in touch, now, with every grain of soil, every mountainside rock, every drop of ocean, every African and their story.
Perhaps now... it is time to tell my own story.