It’s been a while.
But, I’m back.
Back from the incessant tribulations and trials that is life as a student in 2011. Yes, I am studying what I am most passionate about, which is probably more than could be said for some, but even passionate flames dim in the mist that envelops our lives from time to time. And it’s that flame that lights the way for me in everything I do on a daily basis. It’s my guiding sceptre to cross through the valley of the shadow of death.
And it’s when that little flame dims that I start becoming unsure of where I want to go next, and inadvertently, I can lose sight of where I am, who I am and what I am.
The term “ruin” is one of my favourite words in the English language. Not only do I appreciate the phonetic quality that it possesses, but up until a month ago, I have always had a fascination with ruins of any kind. It has always interested me as to how they became the ruins they are today and I always try to imagine how they looked before they were ruined.
That’s not the right word, though, is it?
‘Ruined’?
Ruined refers to something losing complete means, position or hope.
And more often than not, this is not the case with most ruins, is it?
Life is a constant construction site. At any given time, we are building houses, structures, friendships, careers, relationships, children, finances, reputation and so on and so forth.
And from our Sunday School days we have learnt to always build our houses on strong solid foundations. ‘Build your house on the rock and you will prosper’, my teacher would say. ‘Don’t build your house on the sand like the foolish man’.
And so we would find the most fantastic mound of rock and we would start building on that firm foundation. Even heavy rains couldn’t knock us down. We weather the storms, we fight the hurricanes and we survive the tsunamis, because our house is built on the rock, like the wise old proverb teaches us.
But then the earthquake hits.
We run around our shattered dream of a sturdy structure and we yell and we scream and we curse and we wonder why we had never made provision for an earthquake – something so intense it has cracked and broken the core of what our structure was built on.
Maybe the earthquake in our life was the scandal we had thought no-one would find out about, the time we cheated on our spouse, the time and money we invested in the wrong enterprise, the time we became friends with the wrong person or even something as small as that time when we stayed quiet when we should have said something or that time when we said something when we should have stayed quiet.
And suddenly we are faced with the ruins of what once was.
And it’s heart-wrenchingly painful – to see the hard work of many years lying in ashes and dust in front of you.
Suddenly you are infuriated at the thought of all of the hurricanes and tsunamis and heavy rains and howling winds that you faced – all of which, now, seem so pointless.
And for a while, there is what is commonly called, the mourning period. The introspective look at how we built wrong, how we might have caused this. The amount of times that it is the fault of the builder is about equivalent to the amount of times it had nothing to do with the builder.
And then comes the big question: does one start afresh somewhere else or does one start rebuilding the ruins, fixing and mending and restoring to its former glory?
My dear readers, this is the question that has been the dagger in my chest for the past 3 weeks.
Sure, I used to love ruins, I loved admiring them. But they were other people’s ruins.
There is something so different about watching your own. It makes it almost impossible to not feel like the world has crashed down alongside your structure.
Therefore, for a while, the first option felt like the best choice. So we start on a clean slate of solid base, making sure that this base is stronger than the one before, and we build a bigger and better structure and we forget about the ruins, the lost memory of the former structure we used to have. Except maybe once a year or so, we go to visit it to remind ourselves where not to go wrong in the future.
We learn from it, but we move on, we start again.
It can be immensely difficult, because we have become so use to the comfort of the location where the ruins now lie, but we ‘suck it up’ and we go on.
I decided that this would be the best choice at first.
I was going to leave the ruins to decay into its own infinity and after that I would never allow it to remind me of its guilt, judgment, shame, dignity or integrity.
I am very good at getting up and moving on. This is something I have learned about myself. Life hasn’t gotten me down yet, it hasn’t pushed me down into its deepest dungeons of despair just yet, and for that I am thankful. But, if ever I should be pushed down there, I am sure I will find my way back again soon.
I might just stay there a while for a moment of indulgence, but that’s neither here nor there.
So, I resigned myself completely to starting the building process somewhere else, using the lessons learnt.
But after a while I realized a huge disadvantage to a new location.
With the old structure, at least I knew what I was up again and I had an approximation of where the boundaries to my structure’s strengths were. With the old structure, I knew that it would take another earthquake to break.
What was it going to be with this new location?
A heavy wind, some rain?
Was I really willing to go through every thing I did before just so I didn’t have to be faced with the mistakes I made on the previous construction site?
And it was then that the notion of ‘ruins’ and ‘ruined’ came to mind.
I was starting to think about the ruined building, the cracked foundation and the hopeless efforts of the house to rebuild itself. And I realized that what I had here was the remains of a once glorious structure, a majestic construction that took blood and sweat and tears to complete.
And it was in ruins.
But it wasn’t ruined.
Let me explain: to be in ruins means to be totally destroyed and unfit for the intended purpose. However, ruined means that is in decay without means, position or hope, right?
So it was then that I came to the realization that my building wasn’t ruined.
It had hope, it had potential, I would just have to pick up the pieces and start again, on the same location.
At least with my ruins, I knew what it could withstand. I knew its strength and I knew its weaknesses.
And maybe the ruins of my once majestic structure have taught me this: that every building has the potential to fall and to break. But it also taught me that, even after the toughest earthquakes, we can rebuild.
I have started picking up the pieces again, I’m not sure how long the building will take, but I know that when it is done, it will be a building that has been built, with the knowledge and experience from before, invested in its every fibre.
Here’s to you, reading this.
I hope it has answered some questions.
Showing posts with label growth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growth. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Hiatus in Experience?
It has been so long since I last wrote a blog, that the very writing of a blog has become a foreign practice to me.
I’m not saying that I didn’t want to write a new blog, I’m merely observing that, in essence, I had nothing on my mind.
This is the premise for any of my blogs, as those of you who follow me, will know. I only write when something is to be said or if I have something that I would like to explore.
Often with me, exploration is a mental activity, a labyrinth of passages leading from into the next and often refusing to end until I have reached the centre and the core of what I want to say.
When I say: mental, I mean as in: ‘of the mind’, not: ‘relating to insanity’.
Although more often than not, the latter is most true.
Recently, I have been trying a new outlook on life, a much more disciplined one, a much more focused one. And as a result, I have started losing weight again, I have started exercising more and I have started to keep a diary planner, the very thought of which used to make me sick to the stomach. Now, in 2011, at the tender age of 21, I have decided that I need to start realizing the responsibilities associated with being an adult and being a professional in my chosen profession.
As one does, when one feels that the time has come to turn over a new leaf, the rest of the book has to be deleted and one has to make space for the new and exciting direction into which one is being pushed.
For me, this started with going through photos and deciding whether these photos were really a part of my brand new focus forward.
Needless to say, I deleted a substantial amount of photos.
And afterwards, I felt kind of sad.
It felt as if I was denying myself the chance to look back on these memories and really re-live them. For a day or so, I tried everything in my power to retrieve the deleted photos, (I had already emptied my recycle bin), but to no avail.
After a period of intense struggling I finally surrendered to the great force of technology and I made peace with the fact that I had lost those photos.
I was angry at myself, angry at my new focus, angry at technology, angry at the world.
The world was an unfair rugby coach and I was a timid, scrawny twelve-year old pushed into the ‘under-21’ scrum.
Later that evening, I watched the stand-up comedy DVD of Dylan Moran, entitled: “Like, totally…”. In it, Dylan made a very poignant observation. He noted and said that we spend an incredible amount of time taking pictures of ourselves on different holidays or at events or next to a celebrity. According to him, a photo was a hiatus in the experience, not a recollection of the experience.
When I racked my brain that evening, lying on my couch, I realized that what Dylan Moran had said, actually had tremendous value.
I decided, then and there, that the human race is slowly losing the ability to experience a moment, a second in time. We have lost the ability to ‘breathe’ in an experience as one would the smell of home cooking.
Why is it that we walk into a store or a restaurant or any public place, and immediately is overcome by a sense of nostalgia, because there is a particular smell that we can associate with a smell from our childhood? Why do we not need a photo to remind us of those moments when our mothers would take a casserole out of the oven and the intoxicating fragrance of rosemary would pervade the air?
Because, my dearest readers, very few of us have photos of those moments and because they were so precious to us when we were experiencing them, we engraved the entire experience: the sight, the smell, the taste and the sound into our memories so that we could always remind ourselves that there was a time when we were truly happy.
So then why is it, in this modern world of ours,that we so desperately need to document every experience we have only in terms of sight?
And now, with the advancement of technology, we have gone one step further and we have invented digital photos where we can delete an unwanted photo and pose to take another one. We have become so obsessed with getting perfect documentation of what it is that we experience on a daily basis that we forget that it’s sometimes the imperfect photos that matter the most, because in imperfect photos, we show the experience for what it truly is.
Personally, I am not a huge fan of a photo. Maybe it is because of my Aquarian nature, but I often feel robbed of my moment by posing for a flash or suddenly just seeing a flash as I was still enveloped in a beautiful sunset.
Almost always, the moment lost can never be regained.
I often find myself adjusting my posture, lifting my chin and forcing a smile whenever a camera is present at a gathering. All of this subconsciously, of course.
But in my mind, I am thinking: I should look good in this memory when I want to look at it later. And in those seconds of subconscious adjustment, I have lost countless irretrievable moments.
On a different note: how many times have we looked back at these photos and thought: was I really THAT happy at that specific moment?
How often is the answer no?
More than we would like to admit, I would say.
When Pres. Barack Obama used to be Sen. Barack Obama in 2005, he met Nelson Mandela, an honor which some have said is deemed higher than meeting the Pope. In a smokey hotel room, the two discussed several topics and Sen. Obama was so intoxicated with the experience of meeting Mr Mandela, that when the time came to take a photo, he refused to pose for one. A bystander then took an amateur photo in which Sen. Obama’s face wasn’t even visible. Years later, Pres. Obama sent that photo, signed, to Nelson Mandela, who now hangs it proudly in his office.
When I saw the photo at first, I was disappointed that no better photo was taken of two of the world’s greatest leaders. Afterwards, I realized that the amateur photo was actually a perfect example of what a photo should be. It should be a true reflection of the moment, not an interruption of it. For Pres. Obama, a photo would have intruded on the intimate moment that he was in with one of the most inspiring people on the face of the earth.
Is this not the mindset we should adopt?
I think so.
So after much deliberation I have decided that I will not cry any more crocodile tears over spilled milk, I refuse to let those photos be the only recollection I have of the memories, and often memoirs, that I have had in my 21 years on this earth.
This coming year I am going to focus on taking more ‘mental’ pictures. And when I say that, once again: mental as in ‘of the mind’ and not as in ‘relating to insanity’.
Although, once again, the latter has its strong potential.
When I take a mental picture, I would like to be fully encroached and engulfed in the sights, sounds, smells and touches of that experience. When I am old and blind one day, I need to have a gallery of pictures from whence I can choose. And when I decide to relive these experiences, I would like to be back in that moment, exactly how I remember it.
That’s the whole idea of re-living, isn’t it?
To ‘live’ a moment again, not just to see a snippet of it on a piece of glossy paper.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that we should stop taking photos. What I am saying is that we need to make sure that we have completely absorbed every aspect of every moment, every sensation, every emotion, every physical feeling; before we decide to document it.
.Maybe then, we will really start living? When we start forcing ourselves to really and truly soak in every sensation of every moment, when we start actually living in that moment, and when we treat every moment as the last one we will ever have.
Only then, when we are old, can we re-live it, not recollect it.
Here’s to a year of ‘mental’ pictures, in both senses of the word.
Say ‘cheese’ !
Barack Obama meeting Nelson Mandela in 2005.
I’m not saying that I didn’t want to write a new blog, I’m merely observing that, in essence, I had nothing on my mind.
This is the premise for any of my blogs, as those of you who follow me, will know. I only write when something is to be said or if I have something that I would like to explore.
Often with me, exploration is a mental activity, a labyrinth of passages leading from into the next and often refusing to end until I have reached the centre and the core of what I want to say.
When I say: mental, I mean as in: ‘of the mind’, not: ‘relating to insanity’.
Although more often than not, the latter is most true.
Recently, I have been trying a new outlook on life, a much more disciplined one, a much more focused one. And as a result, I have started losing weight again, I have started exercising more and I have started to keep a diary planner, the very thought of which used to make me sick to the stomach. Now, in 2011, at the tender age of 21, I have decided that I need to start realizing the responsibilities associated with being an adult and being a professional in my chosen profession.
As one does, when one feels that the time has come to turn over a new leaf, the rest of the book has to be deleted and one has to make space for the new and exciting direction into which one is being pushed.
For me, this started with going through photos and deciding whether these photos were really a part of my brand new focus forward.
Needless to say, I deleted a substantial amount of photos.
And afterwards, I felt kind of sad.
It felt as if I was denying myself the chance to look back on these memories and really re-live them. For a day or so, I tried everything in my power to retrieve the deleted photos, (I had already emptied my recycle bin), but to no avail.
After a period of intense struggling I finally surrendered to the great force of technology and I made peace with the fact that I had lost those photos.
I was angry at myself, angry at my new focus, angry at technology, angry at the world.
The world was an unfair rugby coach and I was a timid, scrawny twelve-year old pushed into the ‘under-21’ scrum.
Later that evening, I watched the stand-up comedy DVD of Dylan Moran, entitled: “Like, totally…”. In it, Dylan made a very poignant observation. He noted and said that we spend an incredible amount of time taking pictures of ourselves on different holidays or at events or next to a celebrity. According to him, a photo was a hiatus in the experience, not a recollection of the experience.
When I racked my brain that evening, lying on my couch, I realized that what Dylan Moran had said, actually had tremendous value.
I decided, then and there, that the human race is slowly losing the ability to experience a moment, a second in time. We have lost the ability to ‘breathe’ in an experience as one would the smell of home cooking.
Why is it that we walk into a store or a restaurant or any public place, and immediately is overcome by a sense of nostalgia, because there is a particular smell that we can associate with a smell from our childhood? Why do we not need a photo to remind us of those moments when our mothers would take a casserole out of the oven and the intoxicating fragrance of rosemary would pervade the air?
Because, my dearest readers, very few of us have photos of those moments and because they were so precious to us when we were experiencing them, we engraved the entire experience: the sight, the smell, the taste and the sound into our memories so that we could always remind ourselves that there was a time when we were truly happy.
So then why is it, in this modern world of ours,that we so desperately need to document every experience we have only in terms of sight?
And now, with the advancement of technology, we have gone one step further and we have invented digital photos where we can delete an unwanted photo and pose to take another one. We have become so obsessed with getting perfect documentation of what it is that we experience on a daily basis that we forget that it’s sometimes the imperfect photos that matter the most, because in imperfect photos, we show the experience for what it truly is.
Personally, I am not a huge fan of a photo. Maybe it is because of my Aquarian nature, but I often feel robbed of my moment by posing for a flash or suddenly just seeing a flash as I was still enveloped in a beautiful sunset.
Almost always, the moment lost can never be regained.
I often find myself adjusting my posture, lifting my chin and forcing a smile whenever a camera is present at a gathering. All of this subconsciously, of course.
But in my mind, I am thinking: I should look good in this memory when I want to look at it later. And in those seconds of subconscious adjustment, I have lost countless irretrievable moments.
On a different note: how many times have we looked back at these photos and thought: was I really THAT happy at that specific moment?
How often is the answer no?
More than we would like to admit, I would say.
When Pres. Barack Obama used to be Sen. Barack Obama in 2005, he met Nelson Mandela, an honor which some have said is deemed higher than meeting the Pope. In a smokey hotel room, the two discussed several topics and Sen. Obama was so intoxicated with the experience of meeting Mr Mandela, that when the time came to take a photo, he refused to pose for one. A bystander then took an amateur photo in which Sen. Obama’s face wasn’t even visible. Years later, Pres. Obama sent that photo, signed, to Nelson Mandela, who now hangs it proudly in his office.
When I saw the photo at first, I was disappointed that no better photo was taken of two of the world’s greatest leaders. Afterwards, I realized that the amateur photo was actually a perfect example of what a photo should be. It should be a true reflection of the moment, not an interruption of it. For Pres. Obama, a photo would have intruded on the intimate moment that he was in with one of the most inspiring people on the face of the earth.
Is this not the mindset we should adopt?
I think so.
So after much deliberation I have decided that I will not cry any more crocodile tears over spilled milk, I refuse to let those photos be the only recollection I have of the memories, and often memoirs, that I have had in my 21 years on this earth.
This coming year I am going to focus on taking more ‘mental’ pictures. And when I say that, once again: mental as in ‘of the mind’ and not as in ‘relating to insanity’.
Although, once again, the latter has its strong potential.
When I take a mental picture, I would like to be fully encroached and engulfed in the sights, sounds, smells and touches of that experience. When I am old and blind one day, I need to have a gallery of pictures from whence I can choose. And when I decide to relive these experiences, I would like to be back in that moment, exactly how I remember it.
That’s the whole idea of re-living, isn’t it?
To ‘live’ a moment again, not just to see a snippet of it on a piece of glossy paper.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that we should stop taking photos. What I am saying is that we need to make sure that we have completely absorbed every aspect of every moment, every sensation, every emotion, every physical feeling; before we decide to document it.
.Maybe then, we will really start living? When we start forcing ourselves to really and truly soak in every sensation of every moment, when we start actually living in that moment, and when we treat every moment as the last one we will ever have.
Only then, when we are old, can we re-live it, not recollect it.
Here’s to a year of ‘mental’ pictures, in both senses of the word.
Say ‘cheese’ !
Barack Obama meeting Nelson Mandela in 2005.
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Firework-Effect
It has been quite a while since I have posted my last blog - and the reason for this has been mainly my work schedule and the very busy December period, but also mainly since I have really felt that I have had very little that I have wanted to say in the last month or so. And those of you that regularly read my blog ( the five of you!) will know that I tend to not write unless I have something that I honestly feel I want to write about.
This will be my last blog of 2010 and I hope to summarize what it is that I have learnt this year – because, for me, this has been one of those years that presents itself in the form of a learning curve. How I hate those.
Katy Perry, for those of you that don't know, she's a pop singer, recently released a song called ''Firework'', a song that is meant to inspire people to show the world what value they have and what value they have to share with others. Roughly, having only heard it once or twice, the lyrics say something along the lines of: ''Baby, you're a firework, go and show them what you're worth...''
For a while, I thought that this was a very interesting song that obviously had the intention of inspiring people to ''stop hiding their talent under a bushel'' as the Bible would say, but later, it had me wondering exactly why she chose ''fireworks'' as a metaphor for a person's inner value.
The reason for this philosophical query was rooted in this: a firework is fleeting.
It loses it's shine. It sparkles for what can be a couple of minutes and after that it fades to dust and ash.
Maybe this is a very good example of how the world we live in has changed?
Does this song imply that we live in a world where it is fine if one only illuminates the night-sky for a very short period, as long as one actually does illuminate?
We live in a world filled with instant fame, instant pop stars, instant fortune, instant coffee and even instant recognition. We hear of so many celebrities ending up in rehab, or even worse, off the radar, and it begs the question: is this what it has all come to? A moment in the sky and forever on the ground?
Wow.
Well, maybe I am reading too much into these lyrics...
And then my brain started digging further into this metaphor, as one does, and I realized that people are only impressed by fireworks for a very short time.
I remember at the end of 2009, I was sitting on Blaauwbergstrand, watching all the fireworks being shot into the harbour from the Waterfront. Yes, a first it was exciting, and ''ooh's'' and ''aah's'' were heard all along the beach, but as more and more of the same started coming along, the novelty started wearing off and it became an ''almost-impressive'' display of lights.
On the other hand, every time I look up at Table Mountain or everytime I look out over the vastness of the ocean, I can sit for hours and hours staring at it's wonderful complexities.
In South Africa, we had the FIFA 2010 World Cup – and what an anticipated firework display that was ! Finally, Africa had the chance to show the world our ''bright lights'' and oh, did we show them! But, was it enough to sustain this shiny image of our country in the eyes of the world?
I would argue no. Months later when reports were heard that a newly-wed British tourist had been killed in the township of Gugulethu, this faded. The ash fell to the ground and the fireworks had, once again, been extinguished.
As for the rest of this year, and now I am referring to things of a more personal nature, the ''firework-effect'' (If Barbara Streisand could have her own effect, then why can't I?) was eminent in my own life and in the lives of those closest to me.
I realized that relationships can burn like fireworks, exciting and adventurous and new at first, but can fade after years and years into a small pile of ash, cold from it's long journey down.
I have learned that an ideal job can become mundane and turn into an effort.
But, most importantly I have learned that I rely on fireworks in my own life and in my relationships with people. People are enthused by me for a short while, but once the sparkle is lost, I am, like everyone else, a pile of burnt-out dust.
An interesting pile of dust... but a pile of dust nonetheless.
This taught me a lot about myself as a performer and as a person. If you've wowed people once, you are going to have to work very hard on your next attempt to make sure that what you are giving isn't going to be more of the same.
So many times I think I have relied on the ''firework'' aspect of my performances, that I have forgotten that people eventually want to sit on a beach and watch the ocean – that fireworks can lose their sparkle. Catch my drift?
And so, as I come to the end of another year, I look back and wonder: for how long are we going to be content with ''lights''?
When are we going to learn that we need to build an impression stone by stone, year after year, performance after performance and work after work?
Is it because the firework-effect is easier than building a reputation and a respectful admiration?
I think so.
I think that the idea and the prospect of having to work to ''show what you are worth'' tends to put a lot of people off. Why do so little of the Idols winners make it in the industry? Is it because they have realized that the ''instant sparkle'' wears off and eventually, when it comes to the nitty-gritty, so many back down?
Have we become too convenient? Have we made it too easy for ourselves to be noticed?
Have we forgotten about times in history when men had to fight in cold-blooded wars, just to be honored with a badge on their uniform? Where singers started singing in pubs and eventually, through hard work and dedication proved themselves to be true artistes?
I think we have forgotten. Conveniently so.
And therefore, my fellow bloggers, as I am sitting here, once again, with a stunning glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, I would like to encourage each and every one of you to stop relying on fireworks. To start relying on a mountain or an ocean or the longevity of any such wonders.
I am certainly going to try to do just that in 2011.
Perhaps it is then that we will be able to really distinguish between those who have talent and those who are talented. Between the ''one-night stands'' and the partners for life. Between the true celebrities and the celebutantes.
So here's to: the ashes of 2010, the foundations of 2011 and the impressive force that will guide us for the years that follow.
May we all rise up to the occasion and may we stop being satisfied with novelties.
Thank you to everyone who has given me such support with this blog over the past year, thank you for the comments, the numerous Facebook messages and the quick texts to say 'thank you' for an inspiration that was derived from reading this. You are the reason I write and will continue writing.
I salute you.
This will be my last blog of 2010 and I hope to summarize what it is that I have learnt this year – because, for me, this has been one of those years that presents itself in the form of a learning curve. How I hate those.
Katy Perry, for those of you that don't know, she's a pop singer, recently released a song called ''Firework'', a song that is meant to inspire people to show the world what value they have and what value they have to share with others. Roughly, having only heard it once or twice, the lyrics say something along the lines of: ''Baby, you're a firework, go and show them what you're worth...''
For a while, I thought that this was a very interesting song that obviously had the intention of inspiring people to ''stop hiding their talent under a bushel'' as the Bible would say, but later, it had me wondering exactly why she chose ''fireworks'' as a metaphor for a person's inner value.
The reason for this philosophical query was rooted in this: a firework is fleeting.
It loses it's shine. It sparkles for what can be a couple of minutes and after that it fades to dust and ash.
Maybe this is a very good example of how the world we live in has changed?
Does this song imply that we live in a world where it is fine if one only illuminates the night-sky for a very short period, as long as one actually does illuminate?
We live in a world filled with instant fame, instant pop stars, instant fortune, instant coffee and even instant recognition. We hear of so many celebrities ending up in rehab, or even worse, off the radar, and it begs the question: is this what it has all come to? A moment in the sky and forever on the ground?
Wow.
Well, maybe I am reading too much into these lyrics...
And then my brain started digging further into this metaphor, as one does, and I realized that people are only impressed by fireworks for a very short time.
I remember at the end of 2009, I was sitting on Blaauwbergstrand, watching all the fireworks being shot into the harbour from the Waterfront. Yes, a first it was exciting, and ''ooh's'' and ''aah's'' were heard all along the beach, but as more and more of the same started coming along, the novelty started wearing off and it became an ''almost-impressive'' display of lights.
On the other hand, every time I look up at Table Mountain or everytime I look out over the vastness of the ocean, I can sit for hours and hours staring at it's wonderful complexities.
In South Africa, we had the FIFA 2010 World Cup – and what an anticipated firework display that was ! Finally, Africa had the chance to show the world our ''bright lights'' and oh, did we show them! But, was it enough to sustain this shiny image of our country in the eyes of the world?
I would argue no. Months later when reports were heard that a newly-wed British tourist had been killed in the township of Gugulethu, this faded. The ash fell to the ground and the fireworks had, once again, been extinguished.
As for the rest of this year, and now I am referring to things of a more personal nature, the ''firework-effect'' (If Barbara Streisand could have her own effect, then why can't I?) was eminent in my own life and in the lives of those closest to me.
I realized that relationships can burn like fireworks, exciting and adventurous and new at first, but can fade after years and years into a small pile of ash, cold from it's long journey down.
I have learned that an ideal job can become mundane and turn into an effort.
But, most importantly I have learned that I rely on fireworks in my own life and in my relationships with people. People are enthused by me for a short while, but once the sparkle is lost, I am, like everyone else, a pile of burnt-out dust.
An interesting pile of dust... but a pile of dust nonetheless.
This taught me a lot about myself as a performer and as a person. If you've wowed people once, you are going to have to work very hard on your next attempt to make sure that what you are giving isn't going to be more of the same.
So many times I think I have relied on the ''firework'' aspect of my performances, that I have forgotten that people eventually want to sit on a beach and watch the ocean – that fireworks can lose their sparkle. Catch my drift?
And so, as I come to the end of another year, I look back and wonder: for how long are we going to be content with ''lights''?
When are we going to learn that we need to build an impression stone by stone, year after year, performance after performance and work after work?
Is it because the firework-effect is easier than building a reputation and a respectful admiration?
I think so.
I think that the idea and the prospect of having to work to ''show what you are worth'' tends to put a lot of people off. Why do so little of the Idols winners make it in the industry? Is it because they have realized that the ''instant sparkle'' wears off and eventually, when it comes to the nitty-gritty, so many back down?
Have we become too convenient? Have we made it too easy for ourselves to be noticed?
Have we forgotten about times in history when men had to fight in cold-blooded wars, just to be honored with a badge on their uniform? Where singers started singing in pubs and eventually, through hard work and dedication proved themselves to be true artistes?
I think we have forgotten. Conveniently so.
And therefore, my fellow bloggers, as I am sitting here, once again, with a stunning glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, I would like to encourage each and every one of you to stop relying on fireworks. To start relying on a mountain or an ocean or the longevity of any such wonders.
I am certainly going to try to do just that in 2011.
Perhaps it is then that we will be able to really distinguish between those who have talent and those who are talented. Between the ''one-night stands'' and the partners for life. Between the true celebrities and the celebutantes.
So here's to: the ashes of 2010, the foundations of 2011 and the impressive force that will guide us for the years that follow.
May we all rise up to the occasion and may we stop being satisfied with novelties.
Thank you to everyone who has given me such support with this blog over the past year, thank you for the comments, the numerous Facebook messages and the quick texts to say 'thank you' for an inspiration that was derived from reading this. You are the reason I write and will continue writing.
I salute you.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Ready, set... wait.
''Life is a highway...''
This particular song, a song that I have heard many times on the radio, has been stuck in my head for the last couple of days. Given the nature of such things, when one repeats a phrase over and over, new meanings develop themselves within the very fibre of the sound of the phrase.
And every time that I have repeated this song, mostly on my scooter on my way somewhere, the phrase has developed into something more.
Driving in the CBD of Cape Town, to those that live here, can be frustrating. Cape Town seems to have robot after robot after robot and it seems, well, to me at least, like most of them are absolutely pointless.
The constant stop and start is a frustration to any motorist. It drives you insane to stop at a robot and wait for the invisible oncoming traffic to cross.
And it got me thinking about that highway again. When the lyricist wrote that song, he obviously envisioned life as a never-ending highway that can lead you anywhere and that offers you the chance to cruise. Let's explore this metaphor some more.
If life is a highway, then I suppose trials and tribulations that come our way are the flat tires or the overheated engine or the shortage of gas in the fuel tank. Once the problem is fixed, one moves on and the cruise continues. The destination is some far-off, desolate place that only the driver knows of and will never share.
A highway is also (I am imagining the stretch of desert on Route 66) a passage that passes you through places to get to where you want to be.
But, for me, this is where the metaphor ends.
Lately, I've been thinking that it would be improbable to say that ''life is a highway'' and only a highway.
It seems that life can more accurately be described as a network of roads, all interjecting, all crossing one another at some stage.
And at the moment, I am driving in that CBD.
My life has had it's ups and it's downs and it's had it's flat tires and it's overheated engines and it has most certainly had it's shortages of fuel, but at the moment, I am not facing anything so dire. Nothing is preventing me from getting to where I want to be, well, nothing major at least.
It just seems like my life is an endless array of waiting for the light to turn green. I know the light will turn green sometime, but when? That is the question that I am plagued with daily.
Every day that I feel like I'm finally cruising, I face yet another robot, another pointless waiting period.
And sometimes, I wish that life was like a highway, with it's major obstacles that stop a destination right in it's tracks, because at least then I could be sure of the fact that that was the end, or the temporary end. Or then at least, I could fix the problem and move on, and learn from it. Now, I'm constantly faced with short, momentary lapses in my cruising, that stops the vehicle from ever being pushed to full throttle.
It feels like every time that I plan on something, I have to yield or I have to wait for something to come through, or some incident to blow over, or some friendship to rekindle it's former glory.
It seems as if everything that I want is a couple of blocks away and I can't get there yet, because I'm stuck in traffic.
Everyone has their dreams a couple of blocks away.
And yet, it frustrates me to think that I cannot physically do anything to help this. I believe this has to do with my lack of patience in achieving what it is I want to do. And I also believe that the fact that I cannot do something about these lapses, if they can be so aptly called, is playing again on the fact that I hate being helpless. I pity helpless people, resent them even, since I always believe that where there is a way there is, almost always, a way.
Yet, I have the will, I am on my way and I still cannot do anything about the fact that I am stuck – until whoever decides that I can now move on.
Thinking about all of these frustrations made me think a little about the reason we have robots. They are there to regulate traffic, to slow down the speed that driver's are driving and to make sure that chaos doesn't ensue because everyone wants their turn.
So, are robots a good thing, then?
I have come to the conclusion, within my limited frame of reference, that they are.
I have come to realize that: just because I want to get to my destination now, does not mean that someone else, perhaps someone who has been on the road longer than I have, does not have the same ambition.
If we all drove without the regulatory codes and the restrictive rules, chaos would definitely ensue, because we live in an age where waiting is not an option. Where everyone wants everything they want now. And to be honest, it would be selfish of me to think that my dreams and goals are any more important than that of my fellow road-user.
So, I have decided to enjoy the 'lapses'.
Yes, it can be frustrating and yes, sometimes we do wish that we were on an open stretch of road where the only thing that limits us is the accelerator.
But, as Harold Pinter would put it, it is in the silences that life unveils itself more.
He believed that, in drama, the silences between the dialogue were just as important, if not more so, than the dialogue itself. And after three years of drama, I think that I am finally starting to understand that.
When we pause, whether it is because we have to or because we choose to, it is a moment where we can take in every little detail of where it is that we are at that moment. A moment where stories can unveil themself to us.
It's then that we notice the missing teeth of the fruit-seller on the corner of the street, the beauty of Table Mountain framing this magnificent city and the smell of exotic food being cooked in the restaurant that we would never have visited or paid any attention to.
Sometimes, it also serves to remind us that our dreams are not always as amazing as we have thought them out to be.
But, more importantly than that, it serves to remind us that: ''good things come to those who wait.''
That reaching the destination is far more worth it, if you had to wait for it.
So, as I am sitting here with my glass of Pinotage pining for a refill, I raise my half-empty glass to those stuck in traffic, to those who have reached their dreams and beyond, to those just starting out their journey, to those who are almost at the destination and to those who, like me, are stuck somewhere at a robot waiting for it to turn green.
May your destinations be worth the wait, may your ''lapses'' be short-lived and may you always have the will to start moving again, when the time comes to do so.
This particular song, a song that I have heard many times on the radio, has been stuck in my head for the last couple of days. Given the nature of such things, when one repeats a phrase over and over, new meanings develop themselves within the very fibre of the sound of the phrase.
And every time that I have repeated this song, mostly on my scooter on my way somewhere, the phrase has developed into something more.
Driving in the CBD of Cape Town, to those that live here, can be frustrating. Cape Town seems to have robot after robot after robot and it seems, well, to me at least, like most of them are absolutely pointless.
The constant stop and start is a frustration to any motorist. It drives you insane to stop at a robot and wait for the invisible oncoming traffic to cross.
And it got me thinking about that highway again. When the lyricist wrote that song, he obviously envisioned life as a never-ending highway that can lead you anywhere and that offers you the chance to cruise. Let's explore this metaphor some more.
If life is a highway, then I suppose trials and tribulations that come our way are the flat tires or the overheated engine or the shortage of gas in the fuel tank. Once the problem is fixed, one moves on and the cruise continues. The destination is some far-off, desolate place that only the driver knows of and will never share.
A highway is also (I am imagining the stretch of desert on Route 66) a passage that passes you through places to get to where you want to be.
But, for me, this is where the metaphor ends.
Lately, I've been thinking that it would be improbable to say that ''life is a highway'' and only a highway.
It seems that life can more accurately be described as a network of roads, all interjecting, all crossing one another at some stage.
And at the moment, I am driving in that CBD.
My life has had it's ups and it's downs and it's had it's flat tires and it's overheated engines and it has most certainly had it's shortages of fuel, but at the moment, I am not facing anything so dire. Nothing is preventing me from getting to where I want to be, well, nothing major at least.
It just seems like my life is an endless array of waiting for the light to turn green. I know the light will turn green sometime, but when? That is the question that I am plagued with daily.
Every day that I feel like I'm finally cruising, I face yet another robot, another pointless waiting period.
And sometimes, I wish that life was like a highway, with it's major obstacles that stop a destination right in it's tracks, because at least then I could be sure of the fact that that was the end, or the temporary end. Or then at least, I could fix the problem and move on, and learn from it. Now, I'm constantly faced with short, momentary lapses in my cruising, that stops the vehicle from ever being pushed to full throttle.
It feels like every time that I plan on something, I have to yield or I have to wait for something to come through, or some incident to blow over, or some friendship to rekindle it's former glory.
It seems as if everything that I want is a couple of blocks away and I can't get there yet, because I'm stuck in traffic.
Everyone has their dreams a couple of blocks away.
And yet, it frustrates me to think that I cannot physically do anything to help this. I believe this has to do with my lack of patience in achieving what it is I want to do. And I also believe that the fact that I cannot do something about these lapses, if they can be so aptly called, is playing again on the fact that I hate being helpless. I pity helpless people, resent them even, since I always believe that where there is a way there is, almost always, a way.
Yet, I have the will, I am on my way and I still cannot do anything about the fact that I am stuck – until whoever decides that I can now move on.
Thinking about all of these frustrations made me think a little about the reason we have robots. They are there to regulate traffic, to slow down the speed that driver's are driving and to make sure that chaos doesn't ensue because everyone wants their turn.
So, are robots a good thing, then?
I have come to the conclusion, within my limited frame of reference, that they are.
I have come to realize that: just because I want to get to my destination now, does not mean that someone else, perhaps someone who has been on the road longer than I have, does not have the same ambition.
If we all drove without the regulatory codes and the restrictive rules, chaos would definitely ensue, because we live in an age where waiting is not an option. Where everyone wants everything they want now. And to be honest, it would be selfish of me to think that my dreams and goals are any more important than that of my fellow road-user.
So, I have decided to enjoy the 'lapses'.
Yes, it can be frustrating and yes, sometimes we do wish that we were on an open stretch of road where the only thing that limits us is the accelerator.
But, as Harold Pinter would put it, it is in the silences that life unveils itself more.
He believed that, in drama, the silences between the dialogue were just as important, if not more so, than the dialogue itself. And after three years of drama, I think that I am finally starting to understand that.
When we pause, whether it is because we have to or because we choose to, it is a moment where we can take in every little detail of where it is that we are at that moment. A moment where stories can unveil themself to us.
It's then that we notice the missing teeth of the fruit-seller on the corner of the street, the beauty of Table Mountain framing this magnificent city and the smell of exotic food being cooked in the restaurant that we would never have visited or paid any attention to.
Sometimes, it also serves to remind us that our dreams are not always as amazing as we have thought them out to be.
But, more importantly than that, it serves to remind us that: ''good things come to those who wait.''
That reaching the destination is far more worth it, if you had to wait for it.
So, as I am sitting here with my glass of Pinotage pining for a refill, I raise my half-empty glass to those stuck in traffic, to those who have reached their dreams and beyond, to those just starting out their journey, to those who are almost at the destination and to those who, like me, are stuck somewhere at a robot waiting for it to turn green.
May your destinations be worth the wait, may your ''lapses'' be short-lived and may you always have the will to start moving again, when the time comes to do so.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Everyone, except...
I have been staying in Cape Town, South Africa now for about 3 years. I have been clothing, feeding, driving myself, working and been going to college for 3 years straight now – without a proper holiday anywhere in-between.
I am tired.
There is no point in telling myself the everlasting lie that “I am fine.” I’m not.
I have come to a point where I sit on the floor of my room, looking at my work uniform – hoping that it would magically and by some strange enchantment disappear into thin air. It doesn’t – and by this time I am already late and have to scramble to get to work, only to arrive exhausted and out of breath, to go home after work, to fall asleep, to wake up tired and to reluctantly get onto that strange rollercoaster once again.
One does tire of it.
And when I think back – when I used to imagine taking care of myself, paying my own way, doing what my heart desired and never having to answer to someone – it’s so different. Not that I didn’t think it would be any different – this is a fact I have long made peace with – nothing is ever as you imagine it. That’s one of the basic rules of life.
But, I guess that I always felt as if I was some sort of exception to that rule.
I thought I was the ‘chosen child’ – the one whose life will be different than the average, the mediocre. Forgive me if I sound at all vain – but I thought I was a unique individual whose life would be one that others are jealous of.
It’s not.
And that’s because I’m not the exception to the rule.
Nobody really is.
Then why is it that I often will find myself elevating myself to such higher pedestals? Is it because I am an idealistic (see last blog) hopeless romantic who believes that life is about lazy Sunday afternoons, long walks on the beach, wine with friends and long conversations about life?
Is it because I have created in my mind this idea that life is easy?
Because I was wrong. It’s not – and as special as I thought I was – I’m really not.
Life is hard, it’s challenging, it’s exhausting and I have very often asked the question: why me?
This whole notion of being a part of the masses has been something that has been plaguing me for some time now, since I’ve devoted my entire life to standing out.
I have been feeling frustrated with the whole idea for a couple of weeks now until something incredible happened.
I was invited to a fund-raiser for Breast Cancer in SA – I was invited to sing – and a woman (who had survived breast cancer) got up to make her speech. That day, something she said struck me as profound. Life-changing, even.
She explained how she had often, during her treatments asked God: “why me?” until she got the answer one day: “why not you?”
This struck me like a bolt of lighting and suddenly the rusty gears in my head started slowly turning again.
Why is it that I feel that life should be an exception to me – when it’s not like that for everyone else?
Life may not offer every one the same problems, some differ, but we all have them at some point.
And maybe it’s this that makes us human? The fact that life is never kind.
I’ve accepted that – I think – I don’t know.
Since that day – with that speech – and that woman’s words, I’ve began looking at things differently.
I would be lying if I said that I am suddenly “loving my life and loving all the trials and tribulations” and “being grateful for the things that happen to me.”
But I have stopped asking: why me?
Baby steps, people.
And I’ve stopped believing that I should be an exception to the rule. Rather now, I have started to believe that if I wanted my life to be exception(al), I was going to have to just live through this for now. It takes a rough diamond to shape a smooth one, or something like that, right?
So - tonight I will climb into bed and think on all those young people out there who still have to learn all of this – and I will be glad that I have been fortunate that life has been a fair teacher so far. I will think of the life that I dream to have and I will start making choices that will ultimately get me that life. And I will be glad for the lessons I have learned up until now.
And, to some extent, I will be glad that I am not the exception to the rule.
I am tired.
There is no point in telling myself the everlasting lie that “I am fine.” I’m not.
I have come to a point where I sit on the floor of my room, looking at my work uniform – hoping that it would magically and by some strange enchantment disappear into thin air. It doesn’t – and by this time I am already late and have to scramble to get to work, only to arrive exhausted and out of breath, to go home after work, to fall asleep, to wake up tired and to reluctantly get onto that strange rollercoaster once again.
One does tire of it.
And when I think back – when I used to imagine taking care of myself, paying my own way, doing what my heart desired and never having to answer to someone – it’s so different. Not that I didn’t think it would be any different – this is a fact I have long made peace with – nothing is ever as you imagine it. That’s one of the basic rules of life.
But, I guess that I always felt as if I was some sort of exception to that rule.
I thought I was the ‘chosen child’ – the one whose life will be different than the average, the mediocre. Forgive me if I sound at all vain – but I thought I was a unique individual whose life would be one that others are jealous of.
It’s not.
And that’s because I’m not the exception to the rule.
Nobody really is.
Then why is it that I often will find myself elevating myself to such higher pedestals? Is it because I am an idealistic (see last blog) hopeless romantic who believes that life is about lazy Sunday afternoons, long walks on the beach, wine with friends and long conversations about life?
Is it because I have created in my mind this idea that life is easy?
Because I was wrong. It’s not – and as special as I thought I was – I’m really not.
Life is hard, it’s challenging, it’s exhausting and I have very often asked the question: why me?
This whole notion of being a part of the masses has been something that has been plaguing me for some time now, since I’ve devoted my entire life to standing out.
I have been feeling frustrated with the whole idea for a couple of weeks now until something incredible happened.
I was invited to a fund-raiser for Breast Cancer in SA – I was invited to sing – and a woman (who had survived breast cancer) got up to make her speech. That day, something she said struck me as profound. Life-changing, even.
She explained how she had often, during her treatments asked God: “why me?” until she got the answer one day: “why not you?”
This struck me like a bolt of lighting and suddenly the rusty gears in my head started slowly turning again.
Why is it that I feel that life should be an exception to me – when it’s not like that for everyone else?
Life may not offer every one the same problems, some differ, but we all have them at some point.
And maybe it’s this that makes us human? The fact that life is never kind.
I’ve accepted that – I think – I don’t know.
Since that day – with that speech – and that woman’s words, I’ve began looking at things differently.
I would be lying if I said that I am suddenly “loving my life and loving all the trials and tribulations” and “being grateful for the things that happen to me.”
But I have stopped asking: why me?
Baby steps, people.
And I’ve stopped believing that I should be an exception to the rule. Rather now, I have started to believe that if I wanted my life to be exception(al), I was going to have to just live through this for now. It takes a rough diamond to shape a smooth one, or something like that, right?
So - tonight I will climb into bed and think on all those young people out there who still have to learn all of this – and I will be glad that I have been fortunate that life has been a fair teacher so far. I will think of the life that I dream to have and I will start making choices that will ultimately get me that life. And I will be glad for the lessons I have learned up until now.
And, to some extent, I will be glad that I am not the exception to the rule.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
''So - deal with it...''
Me:
''Mr Q, the rhythm doesn't right – I sound like I am singing a different beat.''
Jeremy Quickfall:
''Yes Germandt, it's the way this song has been written. The rhythm that I am playing IS different to the rhythm you are singing. So, deal with it.''
Life can be arrhythmical. It tends to be, in fact. And as much as we try to keep up with it – we never do, because ultimately it's not the way it's supposed to be. It's not the way our life's music was written.
Sometimes life is playing an upbeat pop song and all you are capable of, or know how to sing is the blues. And sometimes it's the other way around. But altogether, I am a firm believer in the age-old saying that says: ''things happen for a reason.''
And life has a way of knowing exactly what we need and what could be potentially great for us.
So perhaps, Life, in all its infinite wisdom, knew that the best thing to throw at over-confident, arrogant and self-centred Germandt in his first year at this college, was a musical director who saw right through that and decided to break me down, piece by piece by piece.
Jeremy Quickfall (www.jeremyquickfall.blogspot.com) and I did NOT blend well from day 1, and a lot of this was of my own making. I refused to listen to advice, I refused to surrender to the process and I refused to be told that what I am doing is wrong.
I suppose this is the result of many years of praise and adoration combined with a family line of stubborn people.
Thinking back tonight on what I must've been in 1st year as a musical theatre student and what I am today as a 3rd year musical theatre student, I realise that I must've been a pain in the ass.
A BIG, FAT pain in the ass. (Perhaps I still am)
One day, in his office, Jeremy told me:
''Compared to what you have the potential to be, you are quite average.''
I never told him this, but I actually cried in my room after he had told me that.
And you would think that a hefty comment like that would make someone sit up and listen?
No.
In fact, if anything, it made me more resistant. I started disliking him altogether, disliking his classes, disliking the process, the college, basically: everything that had anything to do with singing or musical theatre, I started resenting.
But, those of you who know Jeremy, will know that: when you start fighting, Jeremy fights back even harder. When you resist, he pushes harder.
And he did.
He fought back and refused to let me rest on my laurels.
And, looking back on it today, I am so grateful that he didn't stop.
The great thing about Jeremy is that he believes in students, and this is evident in the progress my entire class has made from our first singing class to today's lunch-time concert for the Musical Theatre Department.
Once a year, every student entering a Trinity Musical Theatre Exam gets to ''show-off'' one of their songs to the rest of the college in a lunchtime concert format. It is probably the most prestigious concert for any musical theatre student in the year and therefore we all dress up, look our best, put our best foot forward and, accompanied by Jeremy on the piano, we show them what we've got.
This year was no different.
We showed them what we had.
I physically cried for almost every song in this concert, because they were all tearjerkers and all sung extremely beautifully.
''Don't cry for me, Argentina...'' sung by Kelly, gave me goosebumps, Shelani's ''I'd give my life for you...'' sent tears to my eyes.
Then there was Tarryn with ''Who wants to live forever?'' and Chloe with ''See, I'm smiling'', Robyn with ''There are no mistakes...'', Grace with ''Mama, who bore me...'', Emma with ''A fine, fine line...'' – all extremely emotional moments for me, not only as a performer and a member of the class, but also as a friend.
Listening to other people interpret songs so beautifully makes you forget about yourself and your own song, your own voice and your own perfromance.
Suddenly, you see the bigger picture – and you start seeing that first glimmer of the final product that we have been working so hard towards.
When my song came up, I was, unexpectedly, quite nervous.
''Along the way'' from Edges, is one of the most beautiful songs in musical theatre – and for once I felt incapable of singing this song and doing justice to it.
I walked onto the stage with very little confidence and this showed when I started singing an octave too low. A mistake I would usually never make.
And then, as if time had stood still, I suddenly started getting flashbacks of how Jeremy made me sing songs over and over in my tutorials – made me do less and less, made me sound less and less ''interesting'' – and, when the flashbacks were done, I knew what I had to do.
I finished the song – they applauded – and I walked off the stage, feeling strange. I felt as if I had been let in on a secret for the first time that everyone else had known for such a long time.
Just trust what Jeremy has taught you.
The result of this, was a performance that people really enjoyed. I even had a couple of people come up to me and tell me that they didn't know that I could act like that.
To be honest, neither did I.
For fear of sounding like a sycophant, I would like to dedicate this blog to Jeremy Quickfall tonight.
A man who has never given up on me, always pushed me to be better than I am and always saw through me when I faked it or tried to pretend that I was feeling anything.
You truly are a great man, an extraordinary teacher (albeit unconventional) and, it seems, an inspiring mentor.
I am sorry for not trusting you earlier in my journey. Watching the other people in my class today, I realised that I had missed out on so much.
And, by no means do I think I have reached my destination. I know there is still a long way to go – but thank you for how far we have come.
So - - -when it seems like you are out of rhythm with life, when things feel unnatural, strange and unusual, take Jeremy's advice: ''deal with it''.
Because, inevitably, it's in the moments when we feel like things are crashing down around us that we learn the most. That we grow the most.
Life knows exactly what we need and at what time we need it. So: ''deal with it.''
And who knows, perhaps this rhythm can yield something extraordinary.
Well, in my case, I certainly hope so.
''Mr Q, the rhythm doesn't right – I sound like I am singing a different beat.''
Jeremy Quickfall:
''Yes Germandt, it's the way this song has been written. The rhythm that I am playing IS different to the rhythm you are singing. So, deal with it.''
Life can be arrhythmical. It tends to be, in fact. And as much as we try to keep up with it – we never do, because ultimately it's not the way it's supposed to be. It's not the way our life's music was written.
Sometimes life is playing an upbeat pop song and all you are capable of, or know how to sing is the blues. And sometimes it's the other way around. But altogether, I am a firm believer in the age-old saying that says: ''things happen for a reason.''
And life has a way of knowing exactly what we need and what could be potentially great for us.
So perhaps, Life, in all its infinite wisdom, knew that the best thing to throw at over-confident, arrogant and self-centred Germandt in his first year at this college, was a musical director who saw right through that and decided to break me down, piece by piece by piece.
Jeremy Quickfall (www.jeremyquickfall.blogspot.com) and I did NOT blend well from day 1, and a lot of this was of my own making. I refused to listen to advice, I refused to surrender to the process and I refused to be told that what I am doing is wrong.
I suppose this is the result of many years of praise and adoration combined with a family line of stubborn people.
Thinking back tonight on what I must've been in 1st year as a musical theatre student and what I am today as a 3rd year musical theatre student, I realise that I must've been a pain in the ass.
A BIG, FAT pain in the ass. (Perhaps I still am)
One day, in his office, Jeremy told me:
''Compared to what you have the potential to be, you are quite average.''
I never told him this, but I actually cried in my room after he had told me that.
And you would think that a hefty comment like that would make someone sit up and listen?
No.
In fact, if anything, it made me more resistant. I started disliking him altogether, disliking his classes, disliking the process, the college, basically: everything that had anything to do with singing or musical theatre, I started resenting.
But, those of you who know Jeremy, will know that: when you start fighting, Jeremy fights back even harder. When you resist, he pushes harder.
And he did.
He fought back and refused to let me rest on my laurels.
And, looking back on it today, I am so grateful that he didn't stop.
The great thing about Jeremy is that he believes in students, and this is evident in the progress my entire class has made from our first singing class to today's lunch-time concert for the Musical Theatre Department.
Once a year, every student entering a Trinity Musical Theatre Exam gets to ''show-off'' one of their songs to the rest of the college in a lunchtime concert format. It is probably the most prestigious concert for any musical theatre student in the year and therefore we all dress up, look our best, put our best foot forward and, accompanied by Jeremy on the piano, we show them what we've got.
This year was no different.
We showed them what we had.
I physically cried for almost every song in this concert, because they were all tearjerkers and all sung extremely beautifully.
''Don't cry for me, Argentina...'' sung by Kelly, gave me goosebumps, Shelani's ''I'd give my life for you...'' sent tears to my eyes.
Then there was Tarryn with ''Who wants to live forever?'' and Chloe with ''See, I'm smiling'', Robyn with ''There are no mistakes...'', Grace with ''Mama, who bore me...'', Emma with ''A fine, fine line...'' – all extremely emotional moments for me, not only as a performer and a member of the class, but also as a friend.
Listening to other people interpret songs so beautifully makes you forget about yourself and your own song, your own voice and your own perfromance.
Suddenly, you see the bigger picture – and you start seeing that first glimmer of the final product that we have been working so hard towards.
When my song came up, I was, unexpectedly, quite nervous.
''Along the way'' from Edges, is one of the most beautiful songs in musical theatre – and for once I felt incapable of singing this song and doing justice to it.
I walked onto the stage with very little confidence and this showed when I started singing an octave too low. A mistake I would usually never make.
And then, as if time had stood still, I suddenly started getting flashbacks of how Jeremy made me sing songs over and over in my tutorials – made me do less and less, made me sound less and less ''interesting'' – and, when the flashbacks were done, I knew what I had to do.
I finished the song – they applauded – and I walked off the stage, feeling strange. I felt as if I had been let in on a secret for the first time that everyone else had known for such a long time.
Just trust what Jeremy has taught you.
The result of this, was a performance that people really enjoyed. I even had a couple of people come up to me and tell me that they didn't know that I could act like that.
To be honest, neither did I.
For fear of sounding like a sycophant, I would like to dedicate this blog to Jeremy Quickfall tonight.
A man who has never given up on me, always pushed me to be better than I am and always saw through me when I faked it or tried to pretend that I was feeling anything.
You truly are a great man, an extraordinary teacher (albeit unconventional) and, it seems, an inspiring mentor.
I am sorry for not trusting you earlier in my journey. Watching the other people in my class today, I realised that I had missed out on so much.
And, by no means do I think I have reached my destination. I know there is still a long way to go – but thank you for how far we have come.
So - - -when it seems like you are out of rhythm with life, when things feel unnatural, strange and unusual, take Jeremy's advice: ''deal with it''.
Because, inevitably, it's in the moments when we feel like things are crashing down around us that we learn the most. That we grow the most.
Life knows exactly what we need and at what time we need it. So: ''deal with it.''
And who knows, perhaps this rhythm can yield something extraordinary.
Well, in my case, I certainly hope so.
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