So, here we are. The week of the show, of the (unofficial) book launch, of the end of five years work christ five whole years that’s a ridiculous amount of time what do I do now and I’m nervous and excited and
I have so much to do. Which is fine. And yet, I am at a loose end. Which is contradictory, but fine, but there is that word, a word which belies a truth less spoken, and I have the words of the show in my head, my own words running through my own head like a song with no melody, lyrics to five years work. What do I do now?
The more we rehearse, the more I can see why I wrote this. Why I wrote Cracking. And it feels big-headed writing this, but my words have gained a resonance since other people have been saying them. I am ready for a change. It has become easier to say goodbye to people, easier to talk to strangers, easier to ignore texts tweets facebook messages emails actual conversations. I’ve started to resent my house, begun to lose the meaning of the word ‘home’ because the concept of it seems out of my reach. Home is not where my parents live or where my friends are or where work is or where I eat or sleep, home is…
FRIDAY, JAN 8 2016 rehearsing in the Playroom, Great Hall Complex, Lancaster University. I get there early, walking through the double doors, past the cafe tables, past the bar, the toilets, the theatre doors, down the sloping corridor, running my hand along the wall and I’m home. This is home. There’s a comfort in this building where I spent the best part of four years, the knowledge that I can wander anywhere in this building and not be lost. This is where I feel home, and it sounds stupid, that home is a building on a university campus, but I can’t ignore the feeling in my stomach. I’m home.
…home is a feeling, and that’s okay.
There’s a line in Cracking. “There’s no home for people like us. It’s not what we do.”
And I guess the “we” is referring to myself. I’m scared of waking up one day and realising that I’ve stayed in the same place for too long, realising that I’ve settled without intending to. The need to fly is becoming unbearable.
So I use my writing as a springboard into space, my wings are letters, spinning and diving and aiming for… what exactly?
I don’t know.
And that’s the best part of it.