“What of it?” I’ll say, then my mind will drift back to Armagh, that city to which I referred so fondly as home for a time.  The first day I stepped foot in that city, I took off my shoes and felt its stone beneath my feet.  I was a stranger in a strange land on that day, but the strangeness has now faded away.

When I’m home I will tell my family and friends about the street names and symbols carved into the ground, the memories branded within the city’s deep history.  I will, of course, miss the church steeples peeking over other buildings, I’ll miss potato bread and the striped chairs of Ember’s restaurant.  I’ll miss seeing Saint Patrick’s Catholic Cathedral from my habitual place in the hostel’s quiet room, and the way it gently faded into the darkness when the late Irish night set in.  I’ll miss daily ice creams, and the garden that became my inspiration, and the absolute majesty of the sacred hill at Navan.  I’ll miss having time set aside to write, and having people to bounce ideas off, and I’ll miss my stack of books at the Irish Studies’ Library, which remained always in their place on the table, waiting in vain for my final return.  What I might miss most is the church bells, echoing every fifteen minutes across Armagh’s seven hills.  The sound became more and more faded as my time in the city passed, but even as I stood watching my last Irish sunset, I tuned my ears to their music.

There is one thing, however, I will miss more than even those beloved bells.

Though this journey was all about practicing the craft of storytelling, no words could suffice to express what remains; so I will end this tale, not with an epitaph or a last pithy phrase, but with the only thing that can speak a thousand words.

This is what I shall miss above all else.

Happy journeys, my friends.  May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind always be at your back, may the suns shine warm upon your face, and may the rains fall softly upon your fields.

Earlier in the day I had the pleasure of attending a poetry reading of Tess Gallagher, whom I unwittingly sat next to at breakfast when I was just trying to find a place to eat my potato bread.  Her poems created beautiful images and told captivating stories. Though I failed to talk to her while absently munching my bread, I thoroughly enjoyed just being in the presence of Gallagher.

Tomorrow marks the end of the festival, and I’m certain the event will close with a bang. It seems like days only have passed since stepping off the plane in Dublin, and the Hewitt has passed in a fantastic blur—but every day is a new memory for which I can account and a new bunch of stories to tell and be to told.

*Please note this blog was posted one day late, because wordpress was not being cooperative.

I particularly enjoyed poet Iggy McGovern, whose comedic poems somehow managed to incorporate literary jokes into odes to mathematics and science without sounding the least bit pretentious.  His carefully crafted poems earned wild laughter from the audience.  As someone who never takes themselves too seriously, it’s good to know that there are some serious poets out there doing the same.

Another interesting part of the day was a discussion with journalist Malachi O’Doherty about the political future of Northern Ireland and the United Kingdom. I’ll admit that some of what he said went securely over my head, but the conversation was more urgent and more concrete than the poetry and prose readings that occupied the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, my day came to a dismal end when I forgot to buy dinner and was resigned to eating two day left over garlic chips.  Despite all attempts, they just don’t taste the same when you reheat them.  Of course, not amount of stale chips could ruin the enjoyment and stimulation of the festival.

Though it may feel like the hardest work is done, our time here is not finished.  We still have three more days of marvelous events at the John Hewitt Summer School. Though today I failed to attend as many programs as I would have liked on account of preparation for our showcase, I very much enjoyed the morning’s poetry reading.  Bernard O’Donoghue gave a good performance, but I was more captivated by Hannah Lowe’s poems and the unique perspectives she offered as the product of Afro-Jamaican, Chinese, and English culture.  Her work was both charming and telling of what it was like to grow up in a culturally and racially unique environment.

In truth, I think the highlight of the day for me (other than the finale of our performance, which yet again ended with me writhing on the ground) was the reception which followed our showcase.  It was wonderful to talk with our audience and receive feedback, and yes, praise for our hard work.  Irish Blogger June Caldwell, who is very quickly becoming my rock at the Hewitt, granted me several compliments on my performance, which I received in my awkward, heart-felt way.  It would seem I successfully convinced everyone that I am an actress, despite having virtually no clue what I was doing on stage.

After all the stress and the wine and the repeated conversations with kindhearted audience members, tomorrow will come as a bit of a relief.  Of course, as one patron told me after our show tonight, the festival is structured so that it builds as it progresses, so I can only assume tomorrow will be even more interesting than today.

The Hewitt festival can be a bit daunting, especially when you’re probably the youngest writer there and feel dwarfed in the shadow of the greats—but as the day went on and I attended more events, I was constantly reminded that I was in the company of peers and friends. In my crime fiction workshop I was surprised to find that a lot of the other attendees were very new to writing—despite their age some of them had been writing for less time than I had. Everyone I met seemed friendly, and even the big-wig writers who’ve clawed their way onto the best sellers list were down to earth (well, as down to earth as any writer ever was) and completely willing to chat with anyone who happened to wander into the room.

The bombardment (and I mean that in the best way possible) of prose, poetry, and politics has just begun, and I can’t wait to see what tomorrow’s lineup has in store—especially since there will be a very special performance. *cough* The ieiMedia showcase is at seven. *cough* This is a shameless plug. *cough*

The city, at least for me, has been a challenge since day one—a challenge to explore, to have new experiences, and to unearth every secret hidden within its many walls—but in the interval that has passed Aramgh has become a comfort, too.  There is a security that comes from the ringing of Armagh’s bells, and though the place is no longer mysterious, a fantastic sense of wonder can still be conjured when looking down on the rest of the world from one of the city’s seven hills.  I’ve discovered many places in Armagh, from the friary ruins to the mall, the observatory to the rolling country roads.  I’ve walked the streets in the morning, and explored the forests at dusk.  In the colder nights I have looked up at the stars and seen more than I ever imagined could be lurking in the heavens.

My first impressions of the stony city have not changed, but they have grown and developed the way a child grows; the innocence and the mystery of the place have diminished, but a more rounded, honest personality has emerged.  I will always remember Armagh as my home, even if it was only for a moment in a lifetime.

Hearing a work read out loud with just the right rhythm and emotion brings an entirely new aspect to any piece of work.  Rehearsing takes the raw emotion of a cold read and refines it, sometimes changes it, until it becomes something greater than its original self. It’s collaborative and personal at the same time, for the performer must reach within themselves to find what makes a piece work, but also relies on the director and/or fellow actors to complete the picture created.  A written work may be beautiful on paper, but when uttered lifelessly in a monotone voice, it instantly loses its splendor.

For me, rehearsing has been about discovering the characters within myself.  When I read my own work, I get to project the vison I have of my world—the sounds and emotions that only I can hear and feel suddenly are released for all to experience.  Acting in plays written by other people is an even more complex processes, as it involves understanding what they wanted out of the piece and adding a personal interpretation.  Rehearsing essentially creates an intimate relationship with a piece of work, and then breaks the intimacy down when the performance is shared.

Sometimes you’ve got to writhe on the ground to make it work, but that’s what rehearsing is all about.

Eventually I learned to love the audience for the energy they brought to a performance.  Years after that first performance I developed the confidence to step in front of hundreds of people and perform as if I was in a small room of friends.  The butterflies never left my stomach, but they flapped their wings a little slower, and gave me more courage than fear. An audience is a special thing—their disdain can destroy confidence, and their applause can fulfill weeks or months of hard work in an instant.

With a few rare exceptions, all the times I’ve been on stage, I’ve been saying someone else’s words—sure, the motions and the sounds were mine, but it was someone else’s voice with which I spoke. This time it’ll be different.  This time, the approval or rejection I receive will not be skin-deep, for it will be my words that I speak in my voice, with my own fervor and heart. I will be judged on everything I am and everything I have to say, and I can only hope I will be accepted.

Without an audience, of course, I will always be wonderful, but only to myself.  The audience isn’t just a force to pass judgement, it is a testing ground to discover what moves people and what comes out as simple purposeless words. It is a force for refinement, and a means for making artistic work grow.

The audience is as necessary to the story as the clauses and sentences themselves, because it is through the people who hear the author’s words that the story lives on.  Words will die on paper if no one is there to hear them.  So yes, I am afraid to step onto that stage and profess my own gospel, but failure to do so would be far worse—it would be to condemn my creation to nothingness.

The man was 34 years old and a father of three. He had a wife and many siblings, including a twin.  He’d just finished building a new house, and was excited to move in and make it a home.  And he died because he was a Catholic, and someone else was a Protestant.

This isn’t a shocking article to be found in an Irish newspaper.  I imagine if I’d taken more time to leaf through the massive collection held at the Irish Studies Library, I would’ve found dozens of like articles where Protestants killed Catholics or Catholics killed Protestants.  The families would always be sad, the funerals would be highly attended, and the leaders of the holy communities would be outraged and preach for peace, though there would always be another tragedy lurking around the corner.  It’s no different in American newspapers, either.  There is always someone being killed because of their beliefs, or the color of their skin, or the gang with whom they associate.  But why?

Why spread violence?  One man kills another man’s father, so the son of the second man kills the first, and the first man’s son kills the second son, and so on and so forth until everyone finds themselves buried in the ground with no explanation other than hate.

I can’t cure the human condition or redeem thousands of years of violence—better people than me have tried and failed—but I can tell this story:  There was a 34 year old man, with three children and a wife and a twin brother.  He didn’t have to die, but he did, because of hate.

Next time, perhaps, love will win out instead.

I sped ahead, disregarding my growing fatigue and the rain which continued to cause my weary tires to scream in aggravation at every attempted stop, until I reached the man in the yellow jacket, panting and more than a little disheveled.

“Sorry to bother,” I said, “But could you tell me how to get to Belfast City Center?”

“Sure,” he said, “Just keep on the trail.”  I, of course, hadn’t even realized I’d found the trail again.  My uncertainty must have been written plainly across my face, for he added graciously, “I’m headed that way if you’d like to follow with me.”

Thankful, I joined the man.

We chatted quite a bit while we rode, as the city center was a ways away and I was barely keeping pace after my long day.  The man in the yellow jacket told me a story. I’ll admit that my memory of the tale may be warped by my fatigue at the time, but I’ll attempt to recount it with as much accuracy (and as little ambiguity) as possible.

There is a small river that runs through a neighborhood just north of Belfast, one that perhaps more aptly could be called a creek or a stream.  Legend has it that once a man of great wealth dumped a box of silver coins into the river.  The children who live near the creek grow up hearing of the riches in the river, and so every summer they go through the water in search of the precious coins.  They never seem to find any, but they always keep looking.  I believe, if I recall correctly, they call the creek Silver River.

The man told me another story—a young boy in Belfast wrote his name on a rubber ball and tossed it into the bay.  It was discovered by a fisherman in the Mediterranean. So many years had passed, that the boy had grown up and had a job and a family.  He’d forgotten all about his ball, and yet half a lifetime and hundreds of miles later it had come back to him.

The man in the yellow jacket escorted me all the way into downtown Belfast, and offered to take me farther, though by then I recognized my surroundings and was confident in my ability to get back to the apartment that my fellow young writers and I were using as a crash pad for the weekend. When it rained, he offered me his waterproof jacket, which I politely declined, though I appreciated the gesture.

It would seem to me that the man in the yellow jacket was a truly remarkable person. He was willing to help someone who was lost find their way, and the stories he told were full of hope and good old fashioned Irish character. He was a kind man, and a good cyclist too. I should hope there are more people like him riding about in the world.

We shook hands and exchanged names before we parted, and I told him about this blog.  He smiled and said he’d read it (which I sincerely hope he does) and he said, if I should write about him, to simply call him the man in the yellow jacket.