August 12, 2006
Flight
I was reading Daredevil Aces pulp lit and Tom Swift instead of Proust when I was ten.
So, instead of becoming a philosopher, I flew four-engine bombers for Uncle Sugar’s navy during the Great Middle War [aka WWII]. Having enough of that by the time it was over, I took up geology so I could become a millionaire. Not wanting to seem fickle, I confess that music was all along and remains my true vocation, so I went to seminary as a matter of penance and, of course, that being no place to become a millionaire unless you get a coif and a limp Bible and go into evangelism, I had at least to find some form of support in the face of the considerable competition among professional musicians.
Flying as a means of getting from one place to another had pretty well lost any appeal I’d got from reading Daredevil Aces by the time I landed a navy bomber for the last time. There have been any number of unappealing flights since then, but always at the hand of some other person for whom the motivation apparently continued.
But now that the enfants terrible are doing everything they can to discourage us from flying, I’ll cooperate in any way I can, even if it seems unpatriotic. The new rules they’ve provoked that mean I not only have to have my shoes inspected, but that I can’t take my toothpaste did the trick. I don’t mind growing a beard, but the possibility of having to shave my teeth is more than I even want to think about.
So, I quit. From now on, it’s either stay at home or find some other way of taking my Crest and my handy little Swiss army knife with me. I haven’t either got around to Proust yet, but now with all this travel time on my hands, one never knows. I have a copy of something he wrote somewhere on one of our bookshelves, and already I have learned how to pronounce his name.