Nowhere. Shampoo. TV. Combat. Boyzone. Slim tie. Showdown. Can't stop.

I'm sitting in a packed theatre. The show is already in progress, and I have no idea what it is that I'm seeing on the stage. Just one man, two empty chairs, and a microphone. Around me, the audience is laughing and clapping, telling me the mood is light. So he's a stand-up comedian, perhaps?

 

Then suddenly, a spotlight is blinding me, shining right down on me, and the man on stage is calling me up.  I'm reluctant to obey, having no knowledge of what was said in the minutes and seconds before I was transported to this seat. I'm quite certain I didn't volunteer for anything.

He calls me again though, and informs us all that my seat number matches the number he's just drawn from his coat pocket. The large monitor behind him shows the seat number 649 on a piece of paper in his hand. I barely have time to check my seat number to make sure it's not some mistake before he sends beckons someone from backstage to come and get me. In my pocket, feel a piece of paper that turns out to be a ticket stub, with the seat number 649 printed on it.

I am guided to the stage by the man's assistant, clutching my arm firmly in case I should decide to flee; I would if I could.

As I climb the stairs to the stage, the man with my seat number in his hand points to one of the two chairs which sit facing each other. I think I have a feeling where this may be going, and I'm not one bit pleased. Perhaps I don't know enough about hypnosis to make an informed judgment about it, and certainly if someone claims to have been helped by it, then I'm happy for them. But for entertainment purposes, I don't believe for a second that I'm capable of going under. I won't give up the wheel without a fight - it's just my nature.

So I suppose I have nothing to worry about, and I relax as I take my seat. The man with my number introduces me as The Person in Seat Number 649, everybody! and the rest of the audience applauds my luck... or theirs. Finally, he asks me my name and I tell him, which he relates to masses.

Now Shelley, have you ever been under hypnosis before? He asks. I simply say no, deciding not to tell him about that time when an amateur practicing friend tried once and failed to crack my resistance. He informs me that it'll be quick and painless, that soon I'll be under, and he promises not to cause me to do anything that might injure me physically. He says nothing about how I might come out of this socially, however. Do I have his consent?

Sure, I tell him, obstinate in my belief that he will not be successful. Not that I wish to embarrass him or anything, I simply am too in control of my mind to...

Nowhere. Shampoo. TV. Combat. Boyzone. Slim tie. Showdown. Can't stop.

I'm sitting on the stage in a chair facing a hypnotist who has just managed to lull me into a trance. I'm here, but I'm not really here. I can't really describe it. I'm a passenger inside my own mind, here for the ride, but not driving. I thought I'd feel violated, angry. But I'm surprisingly okay with it.

The hypnotist tells the audience that he's going to scramble my thoughts and my words - that what I'm saying will make perfect sense to me, but will sound absurd to everyone else. He asks me to tell him a story - something from my life, a recent event.

I begin to tell him about the time I was dancing on a slippery floor at a friend's Hallowe'en party, me in my Special Agent Dana Scully costume, and I slipped in such a way that my feet slid in opposite directions and I did the splits involuntarily, tearing the ligaments in my knee in the process, and then going home with borrowed crutches. I hear the words coming out of my mouth and they sound just as I've described it to you. But all the audience hears is:

"Stinky weather, fat shaky hands, dopey morning doc, grumpy gnomes.  Big screen dolls, tits and explosions, sleepytime, bashful but nude. Intergalactic, see me to be you. It's all in the tablets, sneezy Bhutan. Mars happy nation, sit on my karma, Dame meditation, take me away".

The audience laughs and applauds, and I think to myself "Yeah, I really hurt my knee, but I guess it was pretty funny the way it happened".

The hypnotist hushes the crowd and tells me that he is unscrambling my words. He asks me to tell the story again and I do. This time, the right words come out and in the right order. I'd be amazed if I wasn't, you know, incapable of amazement with him steering my thoughts.

Next, the hypnotist says that he's going to ask me to enter the place in my mind where my memories stretch back to a previous life, or lives, however far back I can go. He tells me to search that place and describe a memory - anything that comes to me, whatever stands out.

I tell him about my life as a Tibetan peasant in the mid 1940's. I want to be better than what I am, but my faith is shaky. I want to believe, but I don't. I try, but I fail, repeatedly, at forcing myself to feel something other than my corporeal self bumbling through the world. I cast off my possessions, only to regret it and acquire new ones. The battle within me rages for the full extent of my life on earth.

What the hypnotist doesn't know is that I made it all up. I didn't really mean to. I told him the story of my past life in earnest, because it felt true, all while the memories seemed to come from some other place, not from inside my brain, but from outside, like some unseen entity feeding them to me. I have no actual recollection of any of the events I have just described.

The hypnotist is content to believe my story. Actually he seems quite pleased with himself. But I can't tell him it's all lies, because he hasn't asked me. And even if he did, he's got control, so I would only be able to tell him what he wants to hear.

The hypnotist knows how to structure his show. With my past life regression out of the way, he decides to lighten the mood. He implores me to do perform a medley of dances: first, a waltz. He may be sitting in the chair, but he's taking the lead, and I follow dutifully, though I've never actually waltzed in my life. Next, I'm doing a foxtrot, then a tango, all at the hypnotists command. For my final number, he calls out the moves to a bizarre line dance, that he calls the Dead Man's Walk. Without any kind of guidance on what the moves should look like, I complete each "step" with a fluid grace:

Gone, gone, gone spinning slack through reality
Dance my way, falling up through the years
Until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly
Losing breath underwater well I'm gone, gone, gone
Spinning slack through reality
Dance my way, falling up through the years
Until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly
Losing breath underwater when I'm gone, gone, gone
Spinning slack through reality

The audience loves it. I sit back down and await further instructions. The hypnotist addresses the audience and tells them that soon he will wake me. When he does, I will be unable to recall anything that has happened here tonight. I will lose the events of this evening to the part of my brain that holds forgotten dreams.

But before he brings me back to consciousness, he has one more stunt for me. He asks me my nationality, and I tell him I'm Canadian. He asks me if Canada has always been my home and I tell him yes. Then he asks me if I like Americans, and I tell him I do. He replies "Not anymore. You're afraid of them".

And suddenly, just like he said, I'm afraid of Americans. This room contains hundreds of people, and any one of them could be American. My heart starts beating like it's going to burst from my chest, and I feel cold. I have to get out of here. What will they do to me if I stay?

With abject terror, I leap down the stairs from the stage and sprint as fast as I can to the door. The hypnotist calls out for the ushers to keep me contained, but it's too late, I'm already through the door and out in the lobby, running faster and faster as I realize that anyone around me could be American. I stop at the door that leads to the street with the realization that it's not safe for me out there. I tremble with fear and search the lobby for a quiet corner.

The hypnotist bursts through the theatre doors and finds me cowering in the corner. As he approaches I tell him to stay back. How do I know he's not American?!

With the word "stop", I become still. He tells me that on the count of five I will wake from my trance and remember nothing that has happened since my seat number was called. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1.

And here I am, back in the realm of the conscious, wondering what on earth I'm doing sitting on the floor in the corner of the lobby. The hypnotist turns and walks away from me without a word. Confused, I leave the building.

As I make my way to the subway to go home, I find I have the sudden urge to dance. Not just an urge, but a compulsion. I descend the stairs to the subway platform. I'm the only one there... so I dance my way, falling up through the years, until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly, losing breath underwater and I'm gone, gone, gone, spinning slack through reality.

*****

Earthling is a super fun album and a much-needed pick-me-up from the disturbed darkness that was Outside. I didn't find it particularly profound, just a really cool fusion of several different kinds of music, cleanly stitched together with Bowie's own unique thread.

I'm totally obsessed with Looking for Satellites. It actually does put me in kind of a hypnotic state; I get totally lost in it, and when it's over I'm sad. The repetition of the words Nowhere...  Shampoo... TV... Combat... Boyzone... Slim tie... Showdown... Can't stop... do something weird and wonderful to my brain, like I'm getting an intra-cranial massage or something.

And Seven Years in Tibet... come on. Way to bring the glam back in such an unexpected way. And Dead Man Walking, with its otherwordly "line dance" called out underneath the main chorus lines. This album has given me a few new favourites for sure.

Upon the first listen, I actually realized I've heard this album before - I'm Afraid of Americans on the radio, for one. But I also remember hearing several of songs from Earthling in the dorm at my university. It was nice to sort of have a wee little tingle of familiarity with it. I'm just glad that now I'm able to appreciate it.