People have a drink and they say things they don't mean, do things they'll regret. It's part of being human. And enthusiastic. And, often, English - you don't want to speak your mind, best say yes for now, and get out the door.
So I was at that lecture, having had too much wines, too many wine... drunk too much and someone called Zavick is saying we should take the show to his studio - he's an artist. Yeaaaah! Let's do that!!!! That will be great. Yessssssss.
And then it's the next day and a man I don't know is trying to friend me up on facebook. Who the hell is... he's the artist from last night. Okay. Fine.
A few days later I'm walking over to Gardens where his studio is to have a look round. He really is an artist and he really does have a big studio, with other artists renting space and a fabulous thing called toilet cubicalism going on (see the attached photo). We talk about the show, about the art he makes, about his recent clear-out which has helped him get back to the art he wants to make. My gut fills with the thought of my stuff-bound flat, lots of that stuff being my sister's belongings, some of it still in boxes, and my terrible, miserable inertia, my inability to get rid of things or even move them, look at them... the way I hide from them, which is not easy as they surround me, day in, day out....
While I've been lost in thought, Zavick has made some tea is looking at possible dates on his wall planner, he's got started on making an event page on facebook. He has the energy of a five year old. He doesn't seem even to have developed the ennui of a nine year old yet, he's in very bright toddlerdom; he has much more energy than my roommate, who's not yet eight months. I wonder whether I've ever met a person of his age with this much energy. I guess that he is, depressingly, about my age. It's depressing and impressive. He is also very dyslexic and so I take over for a bit at the computer, writing whatever copy we agree on, and we agree quickly, just getting on with it. We are both excited about the show coming to Studio41. I'm not sure what Martin will think.... but he's on holiday in Namibia, very short on mobile phone coverage let alone interweb, and I decide we'll do the show whatever and Martin will think whatever he thinks, but he'll get on with it too. I'm pretty sure he'll like Zavick.
In general Cape Town is starting to spin around me, gently at first, but with increasing urgency as I approach the date when I will be sucked out of the plughole and hurled back onto the road towards Johannesburg. It affects my sense of proportion and already pretty poor ability to make decisions. My mother and aunt will arrive before we leave, we'll do the Studio41 gig, we'll have a little gathering at the flat for a few of the fabulous people we've met on our time here. And then we'll leave.
I knew this would happen and that it would happen like this: I'll've been here two months and some of the weeks have dragged out... not necessarily unpleasantly, but languorously, as if they were going to last forever. I've known all along that they would not, and they knew it too. We have both known that time would speed up and I'd be stuffing experiences and people and sights and sounds and hopes into the vanishing hours like the burglar does into his bag in a nice Cape Town flat, fear of missing out on something great bearing down on us both; knowing that even if we do come back, the flat will not be the same as it is today. Today provides only today's experiences.
I've endured the heartbreak and confusion it threw me into, I'm starting to rise, vulture-like, from the ashes of my hope, ready to feed on the carrion of the next car crash in my life. Feeling this raw confusion I wander the city seeing all kinds of work in the huge festival that is Infecting the City. Once a year the city is overrun with art, lots of it performance art, but also visual art. Frustratingly I miss shows or can't find venues, but I also see lots of things, some by mistake, bump into people I know, get a black eye helping someone up onto a wall - it's like any other visit to the theatre. I even get to see an UK director I know who has made one of the pieces - small performing world. It's not like any festival I've been to before and is all the more marvelous for it.
The night before the Studio41 show, four new tyres down, Jacques and Martin arrive back in Cape Town, with tales of the desert, some stones they've lifted and a pile of washing. For me the performance is yet another great experience. Zavick has brought some great people together and a few of my mates come, and it's like no other show I've done. I have to be careful not to touch the audience, so close are they, but also not to destroy the art behind my back. I spend more time sitting down that usual.
Afterwards, yet again, I meet such interesting people people who have suffered, people what feel so strongly about theatre, art, South Africa. Even though my mother and aunt land tomorrow for a three-week holiday, including a few days off for me, even though I am longing for Johannesburg, my first love, even though I want to leave this place which has broken my heart, I can feel the regret, I am missing Cape Town already. I'm still here and I'm missing it. Why can't I just be here and enjoy it and deal with the change when I leave? What is wrong with me? Naturally over-acquainted with grief, that's my diagnosis, too ready to anticipate it. My musicality, my skills as a show-off and my feelings of loss when simply contemplating something I love, let alone someone: these were all bequeathed to me by my father, the last one because he was too full of life himself to live past 42, or at least that's how he fills my memories.
People gather in the flat on the Thursday evening, our last night in Cape Town. Mark and Ikeraam and my tiny roommate have already left for our holidayette, and so I am hosting a bit of a do in their flat. These are very nice people, I wonder why I ever wanted to leave: the sun sets and every new position it takes makes yet another preternaturally beautiful scene out of the city spread before and below us. One friend who attends has not been to this building since she tried to blow it up in the 1990s, another tells her that it's good to meet her, that she was out on the street protesting to get her released from prison.
Well, at least I'm not leaving South Africa.
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