V!NCE:

I dreamt that I was the proprietor of a two-story theatre known as the O’Cidre Playhouse. (A reference at once to people from Oceanside [“O’siders”], the Cidrehouse from Chekhov’s play, and in some bizarre, Joycean way, to the Irish People.)

Upon the second floor I often played cards with the players of the Company. Ordinarily I was their ringleader, although today I noticed that I was greeted with a cold, collective glare. The Dealer said he knew that I’d been cheating. I pretended not to know how so: that I’d been playing with a Tarot Deck instead of a French Deck, availing myself of twenty-two trump cards rather than the standard two. I played the Fool and then went home.

Downstairs, my wife greeted me, though not with a loving smile. She had gotten wind, apparently, that I had been cheating on her. She decided to leave me for the man who tipped her off. I begged her to stay for just one drink, but she only grimaced and departed. As I ran after her, stopping at the top of the last, dark staircase (for she had escaped into the Catacombs beneath the building) I discovered that within my hand lay not a bottle of wine but a can of Red Bull.

At this moment the door bell rang. I opened it, trembling but eager for company. It was my wife’s informant. He informed me now that I was found guilty of espionage. My wife had sold out my secrets to the National Security Agency. I reached for the scissors, first to stab him, but he drew his wand. I stepped back, held up my free hand, and with a free hand’s style removed my left ear. I pled with this ear, begging him not to take me away or to turn me into something weird. He simply sighed, as the tip of his wand lit up, replying, “you were never so great of a painter as to try that schtick, Vince.”

Dm.A.A.