Sailing means you have to ride the waves and, for some incomprehensible reason that fails me even to this day, we as human metamorphosise our expectations of achieving emotional bliss by creating the same duality, envisioning our meager and short little existences as ships sailing into the horizon, sometimes calm and sometimes stormy.
But from what I’ve read, most ships had scurvy…and seamen.
And this blog suffers from the stormy times. I tend to write positively when things are going my way, but in reality it’s more when I think clearer about…stuff.
I use stuff too much as an action word in my reasoning, but stuff is the general optics I use to view goals, ambitions and deadlines as being achievable, while at the same time held staff-like as a category for the whirlpool of situations and events that unfold around me.
The photograph up there? That’s me backstage at in the Zula Bar in Long Street for the Baboon Boogie benefit with Peter Ssewranga in the middle and Christopher Steenkamp, two comedians from Cape Town I’ve had the pleasure of working with. People take it for granted, but shit like that completes me, for I could’ve easily just stayed at home and watched crappy television and be moaned at for not doing something with my life, but instead Chris cleanly roped me into hosting the less-manned upstairs stage and, while I wasn’t as wicked as he succeeded in being without trying, I held my own and was asked back.
And to the right…sad tidings for a comic that’s made his name as an entire city’s comedy scene, and not many can wave that status around like a large penis in a harem. Rustum August isn’t doing too well in the health stakes. For those who are religious, pray for him. For those who aren’t, think about him.
I can’t claim to have known him too well, but a lot of people owe what graciousness they have thanks to him responding to their emails about trying stand-up for the first time or experienced peeps flying over and needing a stage, and I too share that trait with him. And now I co-host with Chris at the Armchair Theatre every Sunday, a honour once held by this person clinging on to dear life.
I’m going to try not to languish, but by golly gosh stuff needs to get better.