CHIMERA

I stirred from my fitful sleep and saw the towering Cliffs of Moher beckoning before me,  the raging waters below mesmerizing my fog-hazy brain as it moved in a dance-like trance.  All at once, I was transported to the entrance of a magnificent castle that had seen centuries of power and prestige, wars and conflicts,  the pomp and circumstance of royal life,  and the passing of sovereignty from one potentate to another.  In a split second, I was in front of the Stone of Eloquence, the Blarney Stone at the Blarney Castle.  Should I kiss it or should I not?  Then coming from afar,  a voice,  indistinct at first, then gathered clarity and definition as it slowly bridged the distance.  It was charming, lyrical, the voice of a master poet.  Through the years, it echoed the once - and still is - artful play of words:
                    "When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
                      And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
                      And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
                      Your eyes had once, and of their shadow deep;"

Ah, the immortal W.B. Yeats!  Yeats, pride of the Irish, lulling me with the beauty of your verses, how well you know my heart!  Will you honor  me with your surreal presence?  Will you step out of a time-capsule fantasy and spellbind my today with your poetic skills that once enthralled the world's literary throng?

But as speedy as it came, the cadence of the verses halted, the crystal-blue waters of the "Emerald Isles" receded, and the illusory castle imploded as the foggy veil of sleep lifted.  As reality dawned,  I saw myself in a familiar, darkened room, the quiet, sonorous hum of the air-conditioner that makes the blistering, triple-digit Vegas temperature comfortable fills the boredom of the quiet night, and my "vagabond" shoes - those "vagabond" pair that always longed to stray far and out into the world - are still anchored undisturbed at the foot of my bed!

Reality!  I felt the ache of disappointment that started two days ago returned as that unapologetic voice of an American Airlines employee callously declared after more than two hours of flight delay:  "Flight 108 to Heathrow (layover before Dublin) CANCELLED"!  The next flight would be the day after which would not suit our tour schedule.  Then home-bound.  An ugly chimera, no less!  Some say there is a reason for everything, so I won't question the stroke, however unexpected, of unerring Providence.  But it's such a downer, no question about it.

Yeats, keep singing your immortal verses.  Let them continue wafting through the soft velvet of the cottony clouds cast forth from your Irish shores.  You are still there.  I know, for greatness does not fade, nor it ceases to be.  I want to feel the indomitable Irish spirit that exudes from those enchanting emerald-green isles of beauty that beacon to the senses to enjoy, to admire, to explore.  Clinging to my illusions, I am sure they will not disappoint.  So, "start spreading the news.  I'm leaving today" (lyrics from New York, New York).  Well, not quite, but soon, soon!