The New Ireland Gives Up on Friction Power, Dual Carriageway Bridges, Umbrella Headwear, and Fake Babies

This report is based on a dream I dreamed on March 4th of this year (2010). It began outside, in Ireland, somewhere between Dublin and the west country. A ‘high-quality dual carriageway’ bridge was being built over a tiny stream, absurdly tiny, babblingly beautiful. As the project went on, bands of people milled about, interrupting the workers, asking questions, and sitting off in groups of twos and fours to smoke and grouse. There was a lot of sniggering and shaking of heads. Some people were taking country strolls over the bridge, pretending it was a pedestrian boardwalk and tapping their canes on it. I walked all around, touring with my sister, who’d heard that the Irish had just invented a special umbrella that could be fixed to the top of your head like a hat, look all ruffled and gorgeous, then gush out at the push of a button, completely inflated, whenever the drizzle came down. What new rave was this? I wondered. To find out, she and I ran off to a shop where the hat-a-gamps or umbronnets were sold, but the vendor shook her head and rolled her eyes, almost melancholy like: “All outta stock. I’ll be glad if I never see one again. They’re not for Irish people, mind you. Not too practical either.”

The dream’s final scene played out in a house where we were guesting. Instead of depending on the grid, you had to generate your own electric by running your fingers up and down transparent tubes containing some special (secret) liquid. I started feeling out this long tube, squeezing it like a plastic syphon, and following it down a spiral staircase all the way into the cellar. To my dumbfoundment, the bottom of the tube was puffing out particles of fluffy lint and static air, looking like dandelion seed-puffs blown and huffed by some kids. A faint whistling sound filled the room. The tube bifurcated right down to the floor and straight into a pudgy baby lying in a crib. The baby was white, bulgy and bubbly, like it had been moulded from clay or plastic or some weird hardening agent spilling out the end of the tube. In my astonishment, I reached my finger out to touch the baby’s cheek and O no! I noticed that my finger left a wee indentation, as if the baby were really made of clay. I then touched its lips, and, to my horror, the entire mouth disappeared, and the baby’s face began puffing and going blue. What had I done? I frantically touched the spot again to make the mouth come back, but instead erased the whole face with my hands! I turned tail and split, running away from the house.

Whatever Ireland is made of, it isn’t made of big roads, weird hats, static electric and plastic babies. The people don’t seem convinced of that either. The ‘toy stuff’ and material fun ain’t gonna last, and I could almost hear the public sighing, sighing in relief. A lot of low-down, hang-dog depressed ‘rich people’ were going poor again: “Thank God we can get back to life as usual. Don’t mind if we have a drink.”