Home. We often think of home as a collection of things. A place, its smells, its objects; the accumulation of which symbolise home. Last month I was given the task of putting into words and action what home really is to me and also learning about other homes, and about other people.
It's still difficult to put into words what my week at the Roundhouse has meant to me. I spent half term creating poetry with nine beautiful people. We participated in organic workshops with facilitators who were also our peers and friends, everything from writing on the walls to passing around a ball of energy! We performed at as many events as could be crammed into six days from Bang Said the Gun! to Tongue Fu and Brighton Fringe, and we had the amazing opportunity to exist in one of the most creatively open spaces - Roundhouse itself.
All of these are amazing memories, shows, master classes, workshops are bookends to a week of silly banter at 2am, to caffeine fueled silence on the steps of Roundhouse, to getting kicked out of Brighton train station for singing Adele, molten halloumi wraps and master class 101 on how to dance to Garage and house music.
What I learnt is that people have many homes, and many ideas of what home should and can be. Some find home written on the backs of old train tickets, some in back pockets. Sometimes home is a collection of people, thrown together with a common objective - to create poetry. At least that's what happened to me.
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