Here are we, one magical moment, such is the stuff from where dreams are woven.

I'm in church, for God's sake. Of all the places in all the world and in all the times, this is where I find myself? But my dismay soon gives way to curiosity and amusement, for this isn't just any church that I'm in. It's a peculiar kind of church indeed. For starters, it's massive. From where I've been dropped, I can see the cathedral doors that beckon me toward them like a light in a dark tunnel. But when I look inward to the room, the opposite wall appears to be so far into the distance that I can't see them, not even if I squint. The church's innards seem to stretch out across a vast expanse of geographical space with no discernible boundaries.

This is the thing that calls me to go deeper inside. The pews are empty but for a few people who've straggled in ahead of or behind schedule. I walk around the carpeted perimeter, looking up to admire the great, vibrantly coloured stained glass windows. Each window depicts a different station of the cross. A twisted tale of torture, betrayal, love, and death treated with vivid hues and rich dark lines becomes a work of art.

Here are we, one magical movement from Kether to Malkuth. There are you, drive like a demon from station to station.

I follow the story without breaking my gaze and find myself on the other side of the room - now I can no longer see the doors. I'm filled with a slight sense of panic. Flashes of fear, of love, of hatred, of devotion, of indifference are bursting in my brain, but it doesn't feel like they're coming from inside me. It feels like they're being zapped into me from some external, invisible source.

I turn to make my way back in the same direction I came, but something about this place compels me to stay and explore.  Suddenly I'm aware of voices. The sound isn't traveling over my eardrums from outside me, but seems to be occurring inside my brain as if other people could wander in and out of my mind freely. Rather than succumb to the panic I feel rising in my chest, I stop and listen.

The voice is a man's, much older than myself. His inner monologue is telling me he's grateful for the wife standing at his side. I glance around the room and find an elderly man and woman, standing at the pulpit with the priest attending them and their family and friends watching behind them. They're renewing their vows after 50 years of marriage.  I smile at the sweetness of it. 

I'll stick with you baby, for a thousand years. Nothings gonna touch you in these golden years.

(Amusingly bad lip sync attempt, but it's better than a still shot!)

Then the man's voice erupts within my brain again. He's sorry for his unfaithfulness. But the sentiment isn't directed at the beautiful white-haired woman by his side. He's thinking of someone else, from another land.  And his children.  All so far away. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

He moved away to make better money than he could make back home. He sent some money back to his pretty bride and their brood of pretty children, and used the rest to make a habitable place for them all. Someday they would come. Someday he'd save them from that wretched place. Someday he'd be with them again. Someday... but instead, he met the woman by his side.

He bears her no ill will. He was gone so far, and so long, and he has needs; she takes care of them. Gradually his old life fell away and he found himself trapped in a world from which he cannot escape. And oh, how he hates her oatmeal raisin cookies.

The man's thoughts fade out of my brain and I begin to feel that I should leave. Hurriedly this time, I walk back in the direction from whence I came, only to find that the interior of the building has changed. Unsure of which way to go, I run down the nearest aisle only to find that I'm crashing what turns out to be a funeral service. The weeping sobs of a man as he mourns the loss of someone dear to him overtake my brain. Utterly alone, the man prays hard and pleads with God to resurrect his beloved, or else reveal His master plan for him. 

Oh Lord, I kneel and offer you my word on a wing. I'm trying hard to fit among your scheme of things.

His pain is too much for me to bear. I dash away down another aisle and run for what seems like several minutes, only to find that I'm no nearer to an exit. Looking around me I see that I'm now in the midst of a sermon about the myriad vices that this physical world has laid out to ensnare and entrap us weak-willed beings. Alcohol. Drugs. Sex. Television? Television was the worst of the lot. It could suck you right in... no! Convince you to willingly crawl right into it, powering itself off the energy of your soul.

I brought my baby home, she... she sat around forlorn. She saw my TVC one five, my baby's gone, she...She crawled right in, my my... She crawled right in my... So hologramic, oh my TVC one five. Oh, so demonic, oh my TVC one five.

The evangelistic bawling competes with the thoughts of an increasing number of parishioners as they simultaneously lament, rejoice, weep, pray, and exalt within the walls of my cranium.

Holding my head in my hands, I stumble around aimlessly trying to move far enough away from the continuously morphing congregation to dull their voices in my head. As I stumble blindly away, I find that the roar of voices is fading... fading... fading...

Sweet silence. I take my hands from my eyes and open them to find I'm in a temple full of people practicing Islam. I'm happy for the peace and quiet so I stay a moment and watch as they rhythmically kneel and bend, kneel and bend, kneel and bend their way through their prayer.  Turning around to look behind me, I can barely make out a Catholic congregation in the distance as they kneel and stand, kneel and stand, kneel and stand through their own devotional.

It's clear that these two forms of faith coexist within the confines of this building without an awareness that they are under the same roof. It occurs to me that this vast room must be large enough to contain congregations of all kinds from every culture, from every corner of the globe. I wonder what would happen if they knew they were all here together, for the same purpose?

Knowing what I know about the world, I decide that I don't want to find out. I watch the news. (Yeah that's right, on TV. Put that in your crack pipe and fuck it.)

Careful to not disturb the prayer, I tiptoe quietly past, hoping that some kind of exit will find me. Instead, find myself wandering into another congregation. Here I find out that not everyone in this strange place is focused on their prayers or devotions. I hear the voice of a woman lamenting through the tissues of my brain. She's thinking about the object of her affection with a deep sense of regret. Why didn't she ask him to stay?  Why can't she just tell him how she feels? If only she could read his mind. If only, indeed!

Stay... that's what I meant to say or do something. But I can never say stay this time. I really meant to so bad this time. 'Cos you can never really tell when somebody wants something you want, too.

I chuckle at her wish for telepathy, in light of my own newly developed ability. She's right... It sure would solve a lot of problems if we could all hear each other's thoughts, know each other's true intentions.

Realizing that I may never find my way out of this place, the urgency to leave subsides into a kind of acceptance. I continue along the aisle I'm on, and close my eyes to listen to the voices as they fade in and out of my head. Suddenly I feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and a soft breeze in my hair. I hear the gentle rustling of leaves in the trees, and the delightful melody of birds. The ground feels cushiony, like earth and grass, under my feet, and I smell the sweet scent of lilacs and fresh air. I've made it out!

I open my eyes and see what my other senses perceived, but I can also see that this beautiful place seems to be contained within the same building. For though the ceiling and walls have vanished, revealing a pure blue sky and meadows stretching for eons in all directions, I can still make out the faint images of the congregations I've encountered previously. The meadow is dotted with people in meditative poses, still and serene, bathed in a sunlit glow.

Then, a new solitary voice softly whispers in my mind. A girl is having difficulty focusing on her meditation. All she can think about is her beloved and the force with which she loves him.

Like the leaf clings to the tree. Oh my darling, cling to me. For my love is like the wind. And wild is the wind.

I could stay in this beautiful, peaceful place for an eternity, become one with everything here. But in the back of my mind I'd always be afraid that the congregations in the distant reaches of this bizarre edifice might find out about one another and start some kind of war.  Not that it's any safer outside the confines of this place...

I blink and notice shards of light breaking through a shadow cast by an enormous oak tree. Is that...  a way out? I hurtle toward it and push the heavy wood and brass door with all my strength and slip through the crack. 

I'm in the gift shop. Of course. I can see the exit on the other side of the cash counter, but a turnstyle blocks the way. So this is how it is. I'll have to buy something to unlock the turnstyle. Dangling around the me are various amulets on chains representing any and all of the faiths I've encountered on my journey. So someone here is aware that they all co-exist here after all. 

I peruse beautifully photographed postcards that detail the interior in it's various forms. Oddly, I can't find one that depicts the exterior of the building. I select a postcard of the Buddhist meadow and deposit my coin into the turnstyle slot. 

I barely approach the door before I find myself transported outside, back in the dull, grey city, sky overcast, wind downright cold. The door shuts loudly behind me but when I turn to look, there is no building - no church, no temple, no synagogue, no meadow. Just a Starbucks. Grossest coffee in the world. But I could sure use a jolt of caffeine. God help me.

*****

This was a difficult story to tell. I LOVE Station to Station -- presently, it's vying for the title of my favourite Bowie album so far, very close to dethroning Hunky Dory. And yet it takes me to a place that makes me somewhat uncomfortable. I know they say "never talk religion or politics in pleasant company", but since this is where this album has taken me, it's where I have to go, I'm afraid.

My feelings about religious faith and spirituality are difficult and convoluted. In a way, Bowie's stage persona of the Thin White Duke that went along with this time period sort of embodies these feelings. Here's a guy who seems to be searching for Love with a capital L, but only because he doesn't seem to know what it feels like, and isn't sure if he'd even know it if it jumped up and bit him on his skinny arse. (If I've learned anything from 80's rock music is that Love Bites, so that saying is totally appropriate here.) When he's fairly certain he's acquired Love in some form, he accepts it more with resignation than joy -- because he probably can't feel that either. That might actually make him a psychopath, or at the very least a sociopath.

And I think that pretty accurately describes my relationship to spirituality. My current thinking is sort of "ah, fuck it", but there was a time when I wanted to feel something, maybe not so much because I believed, but because I wanted to know what it felt like to believe. And maybe so that I could relate to the people in my life who did believe, and who did feel something, and seemed to really get something meaningful from their faith. I've since learned that it's a waste of time and energy to force it, and my views have changed anyway.

I'm aware that some (if not all?) of the songs on Station to Station were written for the soundtrack to the 1976 film The Man Who Fell To Earth -- in which David Bowie also starred -- but were then not used. The album's thematic focus on the emotion of love, both romantic and spiritual, overlaid with a contrasting theme of emotional detachment and indifference would have suited the film, and Bowie's character, Thomas Jerome Newton, well.

You can read my thoughts on The Man Who Fell To Earth here.

Fascination, sho' nuff, takes a part of me.

I buy a ticket for the plastic soul train and board it with anticipation, excitement, and a little apprehension. 

source

I have no idea where this train will take me, but I love a good mystery tour - the journey is the majority of the fun. So I take my seat and look around... I'm the only one on board. No matter. The doors close and I gaze out the window, watching the world slip behind me as I set off on my way...

...I wake up foggily, feeling as if I've lost time. Only a moment ago I was setting off on this journey, and suddenly everything has stopped. Was there some kind of accident? The sun is blaring through the window across the aisle of the train. I feel sore, stiff, and terribly heavy as I try to get out of my seat, and then I realize that the train car is no longer upright. The window next to me has become the floor, the window across from me a sun roof.

Orientation finds me and I'm able to climb out of my seat, up to the emergency exit. I push it open and pull myself through. Carefully, I slide down the side of the train car to the sandy ground. As I move away from the train, my eyes adjust to the sunlight and I see that I am on a desert island surrounded by a vast blue ocean, with coconut palm trees at the centre of the island.

I wonder how on earth a train could travel to an island when there is clearly no bridge to connect it to the mainland. Then it occurs to me that a soul train doesn't travel the same way as a regular rail train. Wonderment soon gives way to despair, as I realize I am stranded.

The sand zips noisily like a pair of corduroy trousers as I make my way to the island's core in search of shade. As I approach a huddle of palm trees,  I notice something bizarre --even more bizarre than riding a soul train to a desert island and getting derailed there. A record player sits upon the sand in the breezy shade, amusingly plugged into the nearest palm tree for power, with a single record ready and waiting for me on the turntable.

I lift the needle and the record begins to spin. Placing the needle at the edge, I sit down under the palm tree and gaze out to sea, listening as the music begins to play. Ain't there one damn song that can make me break down and cry?

The thing about getting on the soul train to begin with was that I knew it was going someplace different, someplace exotic, someplace foreign to me. I love new places and new experiences. But sometimes it can also be scary, when you don't know the language and you are unable to relate to the locals. As the record continues to play, I find myself falling in and out of daydreams. Can a heartbeat live in a fever?

The brief silence between each song brings me back to reality. I'm still stuck on this island. Night will eventually fall. I should really get around to building myself a shelter, getting a fire going, finding some food. And then the music pulls me back into another daydream. He's got his eye on your soul, his hand on your heart.

It's getting dark. A chill has found its way into the gentle breezes that caress me from my lazy, sandy couch. Suddenly, through spontaneous combustion, a small fire begins to burn,  warming my goosefleshed arms. A coconut drops from a nearby tree and splits open perfectly into two cups, the milk gleaming deliciously in the firelight. I reach over and take the gift in my hands and drink the sweet milk hungrily. I am being taken care of here... the universe has provided. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind, possessing and caressing me.

As the fiery orange sun sets below the expanse of ocean in front of me, the wreckage of the derailed soul train becomes silhouetted in the distance. Instead of feeling sleepy, I begin to feel energized. Getting up off my sandy bed, the need to dance consumes me. It's a Me Party, and I'm the guest of honour. It's not your brain, it's just the flame.

Sunset has given way to blackest night. All I can see is lit by the fire that burns for me only. The Me Party is over and loneliness begins to set in. I begin to wonder what will happen when the album is over. Am I destined to live out the rest of my existence flipping this record over and over and over, slipping in and out of pleasant comas? Does anyone know I'm gone? Is this my new life? Is this who I am now, and until the end of my days? Now can I be real?

The record stops turning and the needle moves back to its cradle. The fire goes out, the wind begins to howl and blow fiercely. Things suddenly seem to be moving in reverse - the sun rises in the west over the ocean, and I'm being sucked against my will back to the soul train, through the emergency exit window, back to my seat. Suddenly the train rights itself and charges backward through space and time in super fast reverse, until I'm back on the platform where I started.

The thing about the soul train is that it'll take you home, but you're never the same.

*****

Young Americans is really still revealing itself to me. At this time, I'm not sure I fully appreciate it for what it is. Rather than compelling me to get out my light sabre microphone and sing along, it seems to put me into a daydreamy kind of state. Daydreaming is fun and I will never fight the opportunity to fall in, but in that state, I end up not entirely listening to the music, which is supposed to be the goal. 

I considered giving myself more time with it to see if it would take me someplace more vivid than the daydreamy exotic island I keep finding myself on, but in the end decided that this is where it took me, and that's okay. I expect that as I continue to listen to it, my perceptions will change - and that's part of what this project is all about.