In our roof garden, large orange and red toadstools have grown, sprinkled with irregular balls that look like rolled-up papers. When November draws in the clouds and starts raining all day long, our toadstools are like living pieces of art, their colours shining through the darkest thoughts.
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Every one of you has a story. Be sure to be telling – so said actress Julie Sharkey in her performance about hard-working ‘An ant called Amy’ by director Rymond Keane. Ant finally stopped rushing so much and found happiness. And we at the end of this play were sending our warm thoughts to people who are special to us. We were sending this in ballon we blow by our imagination. I totally slowed down when I was a volunteer at the Baboró International Art Festival for Children.
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Scattered notes in a notebook. Torn pages for shopping lists, crossed out reflections. But there are more and more poems on the phone. Meanwhile, the red-gold-burgundy is getting closer. And who would have guessed that she is the one who chills out my chaos every year?
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When I go through early autumn Connemara, I see yellow, sheen green, burgundy, beige, and grey in the afternoon light. The mountains have rough brown skin and they resemble elephants like when I was on the hike to Carrauntoohil.
Meanwhile, Connemara of Joan Finnegan’s painting emerges from midnight blue to pink, strong green, turquoise, Venetian red, and clear orange sun – every day new. The hills contain colorful stripes and squares. There is a fuschia road from Inishnee across the sapphire blue water and leading to a turquoise mountain under the watermelon sky.
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The rain is dripping on the cherry laurel leaves in my garden. At the gate, I meet my Japanese neighbors who are carrying large bags of rice. We exchange types of soy sauce, because today I make sushi.
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Oregano, strong green sedge, and pink lobelia are the first plants in my tiny garden, which I create on the balcony. On the wooden floor, I put a mat with a floral motif and beige pillows. In the middle, is a square table like a tray, a bit Japanese style. Stones collected from the ocean are silent next to the pots together with a ceramic owl made by my niece.
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On my birthday, I discover a new strand of gray hair and I’m very happy about it because the color matches my April dress perfectly. Kilkenny wakes up from songs sung in The Field Bar. I love you – I keep humming in my rock & roll mind.
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Oh, my life changes every day in every possible way – The Cranberries sings, and I could notice a young shamrock emerging from the darkness. I see these little boutonnières pinned to hoodies and waterproof jackets. Because today Saint Patrick is cleaning up on the island after winter.
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On Saturday morning, the rain drips into my short Americano, which was made for me by a great barista at Jungle Cafe. The grey beginning of March still keeps me in suspense. Can I finally enjoy my way home?
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Blue wings sprout from my shoulders when I start to write. Then on Saturday morning, I fly for a coffee, even though a hailstorm rages on the streets of Galway. In the Portishead hoody and with the sketches of the texts under the cap, I feel like myself and I know that this time nothing will stop me. Because here I am at the dream reportage course led by Polish journalist Marcin Kącki.
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