Intellectual by default

Written Thurs 16 Feb 2012

I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally, so my only resort is to operate in the remaining realm that seems to be functioning normally – my intellect. I always have loads of things on my mind at the same time, and today’s no exception. When I’m like this, I have to write. It gives me a feeling of creating order from the chaos.

Today I’m back in bed, the infection having spread to my chest, which means I’ve started coughing, which is really painful, as my throat is still sore. I still have no voice, and my biggest frustration is that I have no money to get to the doctor, so I’m medicating with the flu meds we had at home. I probably need a course of antibiotics to knock this infection.

Yesterday I did one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done, ranking alongside some frivolous purchases and serious relationships (as well as some serious purchases and frivolous relationships!): I went to college, even though I had no voice! I “taught” six classes without speaking, using the chalkboard, whispering to one student who then spoke to the class, and getting them into small groups for reading and discussion. In the last class of the day, my voice started coming back, and I think that using it, even just a little, was an even bigger mistake.

One of the worst enemies of a vocalist is air-conditioning, and I teach with air-con blowing on me all day. It’s a dilemma, because the classroom is stuffy without it, opening the windows lets in hot air, so the obvious solution for the students is switching on the air-con, which is a recipe for disaster for my voice. In fact, I’m probably going to have to make a choice, at some stage – teach (there) or sing. I suppose the temporary nature of my contract takes care of that.

So far today, I’ve taken meds, slept a lot, read a bit, listened to the radio and listened to some music while lying in bed, unable to sleep because of neighbourhood noises.

The music that’s wrapped itself around me, entered my pores and started permeating every cell membrane in my body, for the past few days, is that of the late Amy Winehouse, particularly the album, “Lioness: Hidden Treasures”, a beautiful gift from a friend.

I actually don’t know where to begin, but since I started listening to this, I haven’t wanted to listen to anything else. In the few days since I got it, the music’s become such a part of me, that even when I’m not listening to it, it’s playing in my mind. I saved a few tracks on my phone and listen through my earphones (hate the stuff!) wherever I am. When I’m driving, I listen without the earphones.

Ok, here goes, with my very personal review. Firstly, it’s really hard to reconcile the sound of her full, mature voice with her petite physique. At the risk of sounding politically incorrect, hers is a “big, black voice”! Secondly, the lyrical content of some of her songs suggest a life lived intensely, with considerable risk-taking and a depth of analysis that went way beyond her 27 years. Some of her songs you have to listen to when you’re really low in spirit, as I’ve been recently, because they provide the perfect musical score to your misery. J

On this album, the accompaniment is extremely old-school, like Motown, and I love it. Born it the early Sixties, I’m a complete sucker for this kind of sound. It’s amazing that I never got more into her stuff before. I’d hear odd songs played on the radio, and each time I’d think, “Wow, that’s fantastic!”, but that would be it. The friend who gave me the album wanted me to hear her version of Carole King’s “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”, not realizing that the song that would BLOW me away would be her version of “The Girl From Ipanema”! It’s gutsy, it’s outrageous, and it’s subverted that whole tried-and-tested, jazz-standard interpretation of the song and thrown it out into the world as just another song, open to whatever treatment any artist wants to give it. She definitely situates it in the jazz world, but there’s more, like a cabaret-extravaganza kind of feel. I love it!

But two other songs on the album are the ones I’ve been listening to, almost non-stop, since Saturday, and they are “Tears Dry” and “Wake Up Alone”. I need to find the words to describe how these songs move me. If I’m not mistaken, she uses the F-word in “Tears Dry”, but slips it in so naturally, it just sits there, fitting in perfectly. Haha! Definitely a woman who did things her own way. This song has that 70’s feel, with chorus-girl backing vocals, heavy orchestration, and a drumbeat typical of that era. My son would know how to describe it. It’s a sound they’ve kept throughout the album. Sparse, trebly, stripped-down?

Another song on the album I like listening to is “Half Time”, sung in what I call a hammock voice – ultra-laid-back, smooth, from the solar plexus, also quite throaty.

One of the lines is : “So I sing the standard shit/It pacifies my ache”.

Listening to “Wake Up Alone” now. In six-eight time, very bluesy. Again, sparse backing, this time a beautiful guitar playing a mixture of chords, comping and arpeggios. I’m a huge fan of guitar and voice. The atmosphere of the song is heightened by the subtle sound of brushes, introduced after a few bars. The lyrics, once again, intense, heartrending, sensual, sexual, ending with the repetition of “And I wake up alone”, with special effects giving the voice an increasingly ethereal sound and the percussive instrumentation adding a sense of drama, eventually ending the song unexpectedly, with the musical equivalent of a gasp.

She also does a duet (Body and Soul) with crooner, Tony Bennett, where her voice sounds rich and velvety, with distinct traces of Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday.

It’s impossible to listen to the music of Amy Winehouse without feeling immensely sad about her unnecessary, premature death, last year, at age 27. As I continue to immerse myself in a book I’ve re-read throughout my adult life, “Women Who Run With The Wolves”, I’d hazard a guess that many of Amy’s struggles were the same as those of women all over the world, especially women trying to express themselves through their art, trying to inhabit a world with harsh expectations authentically. It breaks my heart that both she and Whitney Houston (who died last week, aged 48), two of the greatest vocalists of my lifetime, who gave the world such brilliant music, suffered the way they did, turned to drugs as a way of coping, and died as a result of their choices.

I feel these tragedies almost as acutely as if they’d happened to close friends; I believe there is a universality that connects us all, just because we’re human. Anyway, on a very personal level, I know myself well enough to understand that a pattern exists: whenever I’m not verbalizing my strong emotions, I get sick. So right now, laden with issues personal and universal, I’m sick.

I have a terrible track record of ignoring the lessons that life keeps teaching me and remaining stuck; able to intellectualise like crazy, but still remain stuck. Time to break that pattern! High time!

Moonlines

Written on Tuesday, 7 Feb. 2012

Tonight, breaking my usual week-night routine, I went down to the beach and swam. No words could adequately describe the beauty of the night. Even though we got there while it was still light, I could see the full moon as it rose in the sky, its whiteness barely discernable against the bright sky. As the time wore on, however, and the sky dressed itself for the occasion, the moon became more and more prominent, glowing brilliantly against the sunset hues.

Just sitting on the beach was magical, but getting into the water and swimming in the tidal pool with the full moon’s reflection shimmering on the surface, was like an out-of-body experience. I swam up and down a few times, then just frolicked, because tonight wasn’t about counting lengths or even having a workout – tonight was a night for giving thanks. It’s easier for me to give thanks while I’m doing something physical – I feel better when both my mind and body are in on the action.

I gave thanks for my mother, sitting on the beach, soaking up the sunset and the fresh sea air, quietly appreciating the surprise beach picnic. I gave thanks for my son, missing out on the beach because of an after-school programme. I gave thanks for my daughter, another water baby, also in the tidal pool (with her little friend). I gave thanks for my friends and how they’ve stood by me through some of my darkest times, how they’ve motivated me, said things to keep me going, given me bits of practical advice, listened to my rantings, and made me laugh when I thought I’d lost my ability to do so.

But most of all, tonight was about giving thanks for my job. Last Monday I started an 8-week teaching contract at College of Cape Town’s city campus. It’s wonderful to be back there. I don’t know where to start, when it comes to describing what I like about working there. Firstly, when you’ve been unemployed for a while, it feels SO good to be working, period! But there’s so much more that I like about working there. I love working in town, with its City Bowl heat, its hustle and bustle, and the convenience of all the shops. I love the old building, full of character, situated in a precinct of historic buildings, like the City Hall, the Drill Hall (now our city’s Central Library), the District Six Museum and the old Sacks Futeran Building, which now houses the District Six Homecoming Centre and the fascinating Fugard Theatre.

I enjoy the students I teach – their ages anything from 18 to the 30’s – and really enjoy my time there, with one class after the other coming into my room for lessons. This time round, I’m lecturing five different subjects to six different classes. We have to teach 30 lessons a week. That’s a lot of talking!

The staff, a group of people I first worked with for 6 weeks last year, were friendly and welcoming, and I feel relaxed around them. As I hang out with them during the breaks, I’m reminded once more that people are people. In every staff situation, you find similar dynamics. I know that, whether I get involved or not, whether I form friendships or not, whether I chat up a storm or remain silent, life will go on - for them, and for me. I suppose this is another example of how one’s perspective changes as one gets older. And maybe, because I’ve worked at a few different places now, my expectations have changed, and I’m less invested in certain things than I was before. In fact, because I spend my whole day talking, it’s wonderful to just keep quiet during breaks, and sip my green tea.

So the beach visit was a wonderful way to achieve a lot in one go – I hate the phrase “kill two birds with one stone” – and while it did throw us out of our evening routine, we’d all had fun, and got into bed feeling warm and happy, with that wonderful after-the-beach feeling of having reconnected with nature and having restored some sense of balance to our lives.

It was interesting to me that each one of us, at ages 13, 50 and 81, said the same thing, at various stages of the evening: “We should really do this more often.” Considering we live no more than a fifteen-minute drive from the beach, there’s no reason why it can’t become a weekly thing. Having said as much, I have to add, “weather-permitting” – this is Cape Town, after all!

About 11 years ago, I challenged myself (a moongazer, ever since I can remember) to write a song with the word, “ moon” in every line. I did, and called it “Moonlines”. I haven’t sung - or even thought about - it for years.

The Year of the (parad)Ox

Written 27 January 2012

It’s going to be another blisteringly hot day in Cape Town. I’ve just spent an hour in the garden, and I’m sipping a mug of green tea, wallowing in the afterglow of that connection with nature - so simple, yet so profound. Even if you do just an hour every second day, you build up a relationship with your garden, and it becomes a soulful thing, whenever you do connect. I’m more connected to my garden than ever, and this time it’s partly linked to that phenomenon of something taking on more meaning when you stand to lose it: if I don’t sort out my financial situation within the next few months, I have to leave this house. I’ve lived here for 15 years, the longest I’ve ever lived in one house. This is my home. This is my peaceful place. This is my children’s peaceful place.

When I look at the garden, no matter what the weather, I always feel good! It’s still a work in progress, but that’s what makes it so satisfying. In fact, a garden is undeniably one of the greatest life teachers we have.

In the book, “Women Who Run With The Wolves” (my constant companion), the writer (Clarissa Pinkola Estes) recommends that people take up gardening, even if just on a small scale, because of the lessons that nature teaches us. One of the themes throughout her book is what she calls the “Life/Death/Life” cycle, and she says that, when you work with plants, and you do so over time - over seasons and years - you have the best possible exposure to this cycle, and you learn to see and yield to it in other parts of your life.

This month, I’ve learnt that, when you put good plants into the ground, even if they lie dormant for a while (usually due to seasonal cycles), they will resurface when the time is right, and they’ll blossom and bring beauty into your life. I’ve also learnt that you can use an empty container to nurture soil over time, and use it to nourish other plants, when necessary. And finally, I’ve learnt that you can cut little slips off existing plants that are thriving, plant them in empty pots or patches, and with careful love and attention, they’ll take root and flourish – you don’t have to spend money buying new plants. I suppose the theme is the same throughout – with time, love and patience, you can turn what was once barren into something thriving.

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Last night I did my first (but definitely not last!) concert at a new venue in Cape Town, called iBuyambo. I worked with my good friend, guitarist Keith Tabisher. This was the first time I’d done a concert of my originals with Keith; we also did five of his beautiful instrumental compositions. Despite some frustrations – namely, technology (aargh!) and a fairly small audience – we got through the two sets, and people seemed to enjoy the music. It’s often hard to tell.

Sometimes, I get such conflicting feedback from audience members (friends whose honesty I can rely on), that I find it best to simply come right back to basics: to trust my instincts, make the choices that feel right for me, and move forward with conviction. I am 50 years old - this is not the time of my life to be making decisions about my art based on the subjectivity of others. I value and respect their comments, because they give me an idea as to how the audience perceives what’s happening on stage. But when it comes to the subjectivity of how I feel on stage when I do certain things, I have to be true to myself.

I made a lot of mistakes on stage, last night, and while I’d like to blame everything under the sun, I choose to take responsibility for them, to learn from the experience, and to be more aware, the next time, of the dynamics that distract me.

You know how, in little things we do every day, we each know exactly how we like things done - whether it’s the way an egg is fried or a bed is made? Well, it’s exactly the same for me as a performer – I know the set of factors I need, in order to feel satisfied. Last night’s delay with the setting up of the sound caused us to start more than 30 minutes late, which is not ok. It’s not ok for the audience, and it’s not ok for the artists. But, these things happen. That’s what being professional is all about – when things aren’t perfect, you shouldn’t be thrown too much off your centre; you still have to give your performance your best shot, because that’s what you’re there for, and that’s what people have come to listen to.

Tonight, I’ll be doing one set on my own, at The Taxi (online radio station). They’ve started regular Friday night performances, called “Taxi Nights”. I feel very privileged to be on the programme, and I’m looking forward to it immensely. I’ll be doing only originals (why not?! J) and I think it will be easier than last night, because I spend a lot of time practising on my own, so solo performances feel more natural and comfortable, now. When I work with other musicians, there are two things that happen: firstly, they bring extra dimensions to my songs, because the accompaniment is fuller, and they also lengthen the songs, because we slot in instrumental solos; and secondly, I have to be a lot more alert, because I’m not the only one generating the sound, and I have to stick to what’s on the page and not go off on a tangent, adding an extra chorus, or changing the ending, as the mood takes me. Then, again, that doesn’t bother every guitarist I work with. Some people are more “in the moment” than others. Different strokes, etc. In the end, my performance life is enriched by every person I work with. I’m privileged to have the options I do, privileged to know – and have worked with - so many great musicians.

What was nice, was being asked to come back and do another show, in a couple of weeks, so I suppose that was a vote of confidence. It was also reassuring that, even though we took the gig on the (risky) basis of splitting the door takings with the owner, we walked away with an acceptable amount each - relatively speaking! ;-)

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Still without enough of an income to get me through the month without borrowing, I’m the biggest paradOx I know: I have all kinds of pressing financial concerns, and yet I have a deep-seated feeling of peace and tranquility, some kind of knowledge outside the realm of logic, that reassures me that everything is as it’s meant to be, and that this current poverty cycle will soon end. My marketing and other efforts I put into sorting out my situation will soon bear fruit.

I look forward, with great anticipation, to having both this inner peace AND enough money to live with dignity. Oh, how I do!

Oh, one more thing: I have a refreshing new drink that gets me through my sugar cravings and cools me down on hot days. As a family, we’ve been drinking green tea for just over a year, and we all love it. We also drink a lot of water, each one getting through at least 1,5litres a day, but this latest addition is thirst-quenchingly yummy:

in a ratio of 2:1:3 (or whichever proportions make you smile): chilled green tea, berry juice, and water. Serve chilled. If you have fresh mint or lemon, add one or both of them. But don’t buy the ready-made iced tea – make your own.

Mmmmmm……

Illogically happy

Written 23 January 2012

It’s a beautiful day – cool, grey and rainy. This morning, my children and I were pleasantly surprised to hear the sound of the rain, and oohed and aahed about how lovely it was. This is after a week of such intense heat in Cape Town, that many people behaved as though it had never happened before, with regular references made to global warming. The truth is, February might be our hottest month, but we have very hot weather from mid-January every year. How do I know? I keep diaries!

In fact, on a nostalgia trip this past week, I’ve been reading the diaries I’ve kept for my children. I started my son’s one when he was born, which means I’ve been writing to him for about 17 years. My daughter’s journals started when I was four weeks into my pregnancy, so I’ve been writing to her for about fourteen years. When they were babies and toddlers I wrote a lot, and some of the entries are hilarious. I’m so glad I kept the diaries, because one forgets all those precious little things, as time passes.

From about 2009 to 2011, there wasn’t much journaling to them, for some reason or other, but I’m back – with a mission! I’ve been writing regularly since November, and enjoying that part of my writing life again. All along, the plan was to give them the diaries when they turned 18, but, for Nick, that’s in 11 months’ time, and I don’t feel ready yet, so I’ve decided that 21 will be the handover age. Knowing me, I’ll continue writing to them after their 21^st birthdays, and just let them know where to find the diaries when I die. That is, of course, assuming they have their 21st and a good couple of other birthdays before I die!

Funny how hard it is to write, “die”, when everything inside me screams for a euphemism. It’s the one thing in life we KNOW will happen to us, but oh how we avoid the topic. We prepare for everything else, except that. I want to write out my wishes for my funeral, because I know exactly what I want and what I don’t. It would be such a lie for me to have a church service, with hymns and prayers, because that’s not part of my life now. Music, definitely. Poetry, too. People sharing with people. Cremation. And a party. With more food than we had at my dad’s funeral, please! In the vulnerability of the moment, my family had underestimated the turn-out at my dad’s funeral, and not only was the church hopelessly too small for the crowd, but the eats disappeared in minutes, with many people not getting a thing. There’s a time for modesty, and a time for practicality. He was a popular guy, well-known and well-liked. Besides, he was what I’d call a “great funeral-goer”, always at someone’s funeral, like that was his Saturday thing, so I think people also reciprocated, because he’d been to so many of their family funerals.

But, I digress.

Back to the subject of this post. In a way that’s hard - very hard - to explain to most people, I am happier than I’ve been in a long time. And yet, given my employment predicament, with the resulting financial crisis, it’s completely illogical. When I did Psychology, many years ago, I was fascinated by the term, “compartmentalize”, because it was something I had always been able to do, so I thought everyone did it. I’ve always been able to enjoy and appreciate the ‘blessings’ in one part of my life, without being blind to the severe challenges in another. It’s a way of going through life that has brought me through many, many dark patches. In Psychology, it’s often referred to in the context of coping mechanisms during or after trauma, where survivors block out unpleasant thoughts, in order to cope with the demands of everyday life. I suppose that is exactly what I’m doing, after all! J

I was talking to someone, the other day, who was stressing about his teenage son, and I said that he needed to sit it out, because it would pass - it was a normal teenage phase. I said the boy was going through a transition, and that it was like going through a tunnel: when you’re in it, everything’s amplified, the sounds, the darkness, the fears, the imagined horrors, and the feeling that it will never end; but, just when you think you’re going to stay in it forever, you’re plunged into the bright light of daytime, and it’s so intense, at first, that it almost blinds you – but then you adjust to it, and your new reality is filled with light, clarity and direction.

So why am I so happy? I have two incredible children, who never cease to fascinate me, and who’ve given me insights into modern life that I probably wouldn’t’ve had, had I not had them in my life. They’ve introduced me to music I never would’ve listened to, like Linkin Park, Thirty Seconds To Mars and Panic At the Disco! I don’t necessarily like all their music, but the point is my world’s opened up because of them and what they listen to. At the same time, I’ve just loaded onto my laptop two of my son’s CDs – The John Scofield Band, and Chick Corea! He also loves the a capella band I listened to fanatically in my twenties, “Take 6”, and it’s eerie to hear him sing the same songs I’ve known every note of, for decades!

I’m happy, because I’m comfortable with a level of spirituality and faith that’s not about church or any of those institutionalized conventions. It’s linked to nature, and gives me a sense of peace that transcends the fear-based, do-it-right-or-God-will-punish-you socialization many of us had (and continue to pass on, unquestioningly, to the next unsuspecting generation). It doesn’t make me oblivious to my problems or lull me into a false sense of security, based on a promise of a better life in the hereafter – that rhetoric hasn’t resonated with me for at least twenty years. But it does give me a deep sense of connectedness to people, especially people who don’t have easy lives, and equips me with an understanding and non-judgemental attitude towards them.

I’m happy, because I have friends and family who love me. I needed to sink very low, in my spirit, as a result of my financial situation, in order for me to look up and see, clearly, what surrounded me – unconditional love and acceptance.

I’m happy, because I’m free. It feels like everything I’ve experienced, for the past 50 years, has brought me to where I am today – crystal clear about who I am and what I’m prepared to welcome into my life, and what I won’t go near. It’s a good space to be in, for my art, my world of work, and for relationships. I have the freedom to grow into whom I was always meant to be, and I hadn’t realised how being in a dysfunctional relationship - which we never perceive it as, when we’re in it – had caused me to stagnate.

So, after three decades and three long-term relationships which, in different ways, contributed to the Trudy I am today, I am easing into my new-found life as a single person, and finding that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. It’s exciting finding how different life is, when you’re single, and just how much space you have, physically and emotionally, to flex yourself, to spread your wings, and to venture much further from the nest. Accepting invitations to formal celebrations, and choosing to go unaccompanied, is another experience altogether.

I do have some serious issues in my life, and I spend a lot of time trying to sort them out, always conscious that the economic climate in South Africa (and the world) does not necessarily favour my chosen path. But, with a fierce belief in the inevitability of that light at the end of the tunnel, I journey on.

In the 1980’s, I had a wonderful landlord, who was blessed, not only with a long, happy life and a loving family, but also with a wife who was his soul mate, and a true woman of substance: Mr. Bloemetje. I lived on their premises for a total of seven years. He used to call me, when I was studying two degree courses a year, part-time, a “steady plodder”. He also loved the saying, “The darkest hour comes just before the dawn.” He was a wise old man, and I loved chatting to him.

Maybe more of his words of wisdom took root than we’d both realised.