The first ‘thing’ that ever caught my imagination was an aircraft. I remember trying to draw them when I was only a bumpkin. Fascinating stuff, that ability to fly. I even imagined I could float through the air all by myself… a high notion fortified in my dreams, drifting silently over cedars in a state one could only equate to a shaman travelling to another dimension.

Have you ever had that shrinking feeling, just before falling asleep? The body becomes small and weightless, defying gravity. I loved that moment and, as the term in the 60’s had it, grooved on it, hoping to make it last longer… fully experiencing it. Yeah, that’s flying to me.

Sitting in cramped quarters over the wings of a 737 doesn’t quite match that feeling. My mind is on tight shoes, how many drinks I should have and constantly scanning the passengers for suicide bombers or, heaven forbid, foo fighters following us through the clouds. The problem is not being in control of the joystick and pedals. The rudders are not mine. It’s some bored dude instead and that thought bothers me.

Sometimes, I would dream about finding an alien spaceship in a mountain cave, absolutely knowing how to control it and flying off into the vastness of the universe. Yeah… that would be soooo interesting.

The little night fighter in the piccy was painted using a photo in a magazine article and, if that diminishes it, well… tough. I’ve done a lot of airplane paintings in my life and, guess what(?), I’ve none of them left at all. They’re all gone to friends and family who cherish them and what placements are better than that?

It just goes to show that everyone dreams of flying like Superman. It’s an archetype.

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