I’ve often thought about what it means to come home to someone.
When you come home to someone, there’s comfort and consistency. A dog’s tail wagging, rich smells from the kitchen and maybe a kid slamming the screen door to escape outside into the air and wilderness and unknown.
But coming home feels like too many slices of other peoples dreams. I get lost in them. They’re flip books from another era and a different group of people sitting around telling stories of what the good days were like. And I watch my queer community gnaw on coming home and drain its power and its mystique and its joy.
So I’m left uncertain if coming home is my dream and I’m simply afraid of the opinion of my tribe, or if coming home is that third beer, the one that costs a piece of your soul and helps you forget about the direction you didn’t take.
We’re in the final stretch and it’s now a matter of stitching together the pieces and trying to not get lost in the details. The showing Saturday was useful to a degree, but I think a different structure would have suited everyone in perhaps a bit more useful way. I’ve since had some important conversations with my mentors in this process and I feel I have the tools to strengthen the weak spots and bridge some connections.
I want to stay messy, while letting things have a clear voice and the space to be seen.
I want to hear individual voices, while not loosing the craft or the thread or the big picture.
I want to be transparent, while allowing for differing opinions, different themes, and different experiences.
I want two more months. But I must make do with two weeks.