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I had a dream … People won’t you listen now … A crazy dream … So won’t you listen now … Every simple thought that you know … And everything that’s small has to grow … And it always grows … (OK it’s Led Zeppelin, not as Irish as Thin Lizzy, but on St. Pat’s Day the bit fanciful lyrics can still be spun from a dream while sitting underneath a willow tree, even though those wild winds blow around you …)

It was St. Patrick’s Day, sleepy from green beer that’s fake but still potent, and time to dream up a good ditty, so I plopped down next to the waiting roots of a willow tree to conjure up a good nap.

So then this was dreamt …

There we were, a complete eight of us to constitute a good Irish number, although it was implied that only two should square off, but still formed of all my immediate family and I don’t think anyone was missing and also a few of my friends, playing an extended game of cards, poker I think it was, in a big carnival centered around the bit ashen theme, a pocket full of posies set to all fall down. We were all of us — although none Celtic in any way — somehow still sitting partially inside a set of eight half-folded envelopes from which to make our plays, but with hands free so we could indeed cast our crazy but lifesaving cards. Would the loser lose his or her head? Alice in Wonderland lives?

— They are cover girls and boys. Sometimes they are on the glossy mags sitting right next to you on the shelf, or the coffee table. Both of them celeb models. Side by side. But the same person. I have seen this many times. The first time it was Nicole Kidman. With the same hairdo on competing covers, interestingly looking just like the nearby clerk, again then possessing the same “do.” This next time it was Kevin Costner in an “exclusive” talking about listening to his “heart” — then long subhead about personal stories. Both rags used that first emotion-tinged word. There are a couple of flecks of hair out of place. I will bet that the next tell-all-only-here from, on both ends between the sets of staples, is a little-known (now) star (each) called Stelavive Equaravitz. —

The games finished, we all then got in vintage cars and made a grand journey — maybe across all of Ireland — but as we approached the coastline one or two of us behind our wheels slid into right near the waterline … by a bridge with a great big span. Our front two wheels angling toward being slopped down, rather than in a quest for a big fish, one of us mostly — I think it was I — another other nestled into the mud nearer the gravel shoulder of the winding road, had to both be tethered to the other six and pulled out firmly into the craggy hillside.

And so the grand journey continued, with the rest of Ireland waiting to be crossed, hopefully without further ado and accidents and mishaps, and so on and so on …

So maybe next St. Patrick’s Day I should lay off the Guinness … And even if I don’t, refrain from further embellishing the dreams produced. (There was no willow tree whispering in my ear, but the rest is very much truthful.)

However, an also likely explanation is that with my profound, if I can call it that Tourette Syndrome, I am prone to wild dreams that are vivid and graphic, fanciful and sometimes to the point of being nonsensical.

But still silly as one can get from the Harp Lager at Hudson Tap.

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