I Love to Fly

In a dream I am making phone calls to dozens of airlines to

find out the exact flight time to cities all over the world

and enjoying the sounds of Amsterdam, Bangkok, San

Francisco, Peking. I gloat at the thought of being in flight,

seated luxuriously in my 747 and drinking vodka martinis,

wines, liqueurs, soda pop, coffee, tea and malteds. I am

many different kinds of persons, you see, because I cannot

contain so much joy in myself alone. Finally, where do I

want to go, these many different persons that I am? Mexico,

Japan, England? Name the country, the city, the open field,

the cliff, the mountain, the riverside, the ocean or the cave.

I am confused; my many different persons make so many

conflicting requests. I should go to Malaysia, but I hear my

other selves sing Hong Kong, Ceylon, Indonesia, France,

Africa. What do I do? It's not a matter of money. Sitting

here and envisioning my trip doesn't need money, but I

want to go to one place at a time, explore it thoroughly and

move on from there. "Malaysia, please. Round trip to

Malaysia." I am confounding all my other voices by decid-

ing on Malaysia, and they are unhappy, which means I

ultimately am unhappy. Could I carry on a life like this, as

for example loving one woman but hearing my voices

suggest a dozen others all at once? This is madness. It certain-

ly isn't middle class, and what do I mean by dreaming all

this? I should awaken and get rid of such temptations.

I should awaken, and all my other voices are in disagree-

ment with me, and I love to fly.