A few light, but wordy emails sent back and fourth. They're filled with sincere and hopeful intentions. The engine's just sputtered and coughed up enough to slap the rotors to turning.An exchanged snatch of knowledge here, and there, the tiny glitter or two of personal insight is tentatively disclosed. The rich mixture of gas through its veins lurches the whole craft alive.
A small joke, and cautious hints of encouragement are shared and wondered upon - was it the right thing to write? The first hard wheel movements rotate along with an urging from the boisterous buzz from under the hood.
Novel printed curios go across to one another, the short history of one another is discovered and thought about later, the mood is lighter, beginning to be playful and each note is sent in anticipation of a quicker reply. Craft, now moving with ease, you find yourself approaching the much sought after runway, eager to loosen the hold of molten tar lined with long, white stripes.
The replies are gobbled up almost undigested, suspense simmers, bubbling warm and slowly with excitement; smiles are effortless while reading and with vague reason, calendar availability is discussed. The deafening roar has turned to consumable background droning, straps tighten around your waist, nervousness and excitement leave a swallowed taste in your mind as you're lunged forward to a speed that will now deny returning.
Slightly overdressed, he leaned belly first into a mailbox in front of the annointed pub of destiny, drumming with fingers tapping the metal to a different beat, each tap not quite right, but it feels good on the fingers and it's the alternative to walking back and fourth in front of the impatient, waiting in-line overcrowd. Skull packed against the pillow rest, it's take off, and the deep, dizzy feeling of vertigo.
After looking at the time on the cell - the fifth or sixth time, she appears through the right window of his eyeshades. She's smiling, with long hair gracefully bending with the light summer breeze. You're level - cruising altitude; the hardest part is over, all that remains is to rely on years of experience to stay aloft, unwavering in the flight path.
Those emails, the time that moved too quickly or too slowly, those nights of imagination and fantasy brightly colored, the positive feeling of satisfaction - all led to this moment.
No longer a twelve-thirty in the morning blitz of notes, or a daylong reminding bump from the cerebellum that had him stop to think about her at the oddest times, this is culmination - the last paragraphs of chapter one to be written.
Laughed loudly, showed pictures from their phones, danced (she's wiry), imbibed, disclosed deeper, became tender at moments. They somehow made an unintentioned impression on the locals - a complete stranger from a pack in another booth came up to them, put a hand on his shoulder, looked at them both and with a warm smile remarked that they made a perfect couple.
End of evening came much too quickly, and a lingering goodnight was all too brief.
"If we meet again", she asked later via cell text, "Would we have our on-line fantasy destroyed"? He smiled as he touched finger to keypad and replied, "I prefer to think of it as fantasy come to life".
Surely a peak of Atlanta Rhythm Section for me. Always has been. Studio musicians to begin with, their playing is tight but robust and playful. Lately it's played when there's precious few sane hours left before having to get up for work again. The perfect segue before rapid eye movement and the damaging alarm at 5:30AM. Greg Kihn said it best; they don't write like that anymore!
Imaginary lovers, never turn you down
When all the others turn you away, they're around
It's my private pleasure, midnight fantasy
Someone to share my wildest dreams with me
You're mine, anytime
I've never been a fan of 38 Special, but this is one of those 'bubbling under' songs for me. Every other blue moon is enough time between hearing it again. But i'll be damned if this isn't one of the songs that came to mind during those emails. Lyrics are surprisingly tender at times and with just enough Strat to rip it open.
Now, I've had my share
And sometimes I swear
That I've had me enough
You end up in sorrow, broken tomorrows
Love can be tough
But, my mind's eye
Sees a vision of true love
And how it should be
Me and my fantasy girl
Hold on to me
Atlanta Rhythm Section: Best of ARS 
38 Special: Anthology Remastered 
Being out of the light of blogging for the past year and more had not diminished my craving to continue to read what I knew well in the music sphere. A few that I still read, and continued to respect, somehow noticed that I had turned on the lightswitch and kindly took time out to say hello. Who would have thought?
I have the warmth of the (blogging) sun within me tonight.