THE REGINA FARMERS' MARKET: A TOOTHY CLOWN AND DRAGON'S TEETH

To begin my blog entry for this week:

I abhor buskers who do not adhere to common-sense etiquette, having complete disregard and disrespect for the sisterhood and brotherhood members of the profession.

Searching for the best buskspot, I started my stroll down the REGINA FARMERS' MARKET at exactly nine o’clock a.m.  Surprise, surprise … I picked a place near the same spot I chose last week, and the week before, and the week before that, and … I really am a creature of habit!.  My chosen spot seems always to be near the vendors who smile and welcome me every Saturday: 

Angela of ANGELA’S OWN HOMESTYLE ORIGINALS, Greg and Valerie of ASHER DESIGNS, Dave of PURE T ORGANICS, Chuck at MAGNETIC THERAPY JEWELRY, and Dallas of SASK HILLBILLIES.

Betwixt Dave and Chuck, I was thrumming and humming by 9:30.  It was a bit windy but the air was warm and the sun was shining bright.  Just before 10 o’clock a carrot-top clown with a very shiny and bulbous red nose, a big red grin and perfect picket teeth arrived (suddenly) at my side.  He requested that I play Puff the Magic Dragon while he sang.  Following his strict musical guidelines of strumming only in G, C, and C, I did just that.  And then he wanted me strum  Little Old Lady Who Swallowed the Fly.   

Hmmm …

Detecting my reluctance to play for his imaginary kiddies’ parade, he eventually thanked me and left.  I like clowns, but whilst I am busking in my attempt to represent the quintessential Americana strummer and harp blower, I did not want to be bracketed as a clown.

And then came some real DRAGON'S TEETH.  He was short and slight and twenty-something, with his long hair sticking out from under his gray hoodie, and he was wearing green army pants and knee-high black army boots.  He set up with his acoustic guitar within fifteen feet of my station.  What to do.  I let it ride while deciding on my strategy to rid my audio space this buskerhood imposter brother.  

Hmmm ...

And then she came along.  Of similar dress in army fatigues, she nary gave me a glance as the started to sing along with her hooded companion.  What to do.  I let it ride, ride, ride. 

Hmmm ...

Within ten minutes, Hoodie Boy and his girlfriend abandoned their spot to go for a back massage, right next to where I was set up.  As he drew near, I gave him the thumbs up, thinking he’d decided to ditch his space as a gesture of respect.  This is what I thought.  

Hmmm ...

And then they came.  Two blue-stocking ladies, in the age range of emerging adults, traipsed by, one carrying an accordion, the other carrying a conga.  They set up exactly where the hoodie guitarist and his companion left off, and left the acoustic guitar, case still open.  Strangely, I watched the two girls greet and high five Hoody Boy and his girlfriend.  One of the girls picked up the acoustic and began strumming, while the other one pounded the conga.  And in a blink, the hooded one and his girlfriend returned to their busk spot and resounded together in strong song.   

Hmmm …

I temporarily packed up my guitar, leaving it with Chuck, while I searched for either Dee or Ada, the Market directors.  Explaining my situation to Dee, she walked with me back to my busk spot, to personally inspect my complaint.

Dee did tell them to change locations out of respect for the other acoustic busker – me, and also requested they pay their ten dollar busking fee, which they knew nothing about.  Peace at last, I thought, even when Hoodie Boy, to whom I had given the thumbs up, began to glare at me.  It was not terribly disconcerting and … I pretended not to notice.  

Hmmm ...

They left and so did Dee.  However, shortly after they returned and Dee did not.  They returned with a guitar and the two ladies in duo melody (I hate to admit in great melody) sang Leaving on a Jet Plane.  

Hmmm …

Getting close to noon I decided to take flight rather than fight.  (My consumers were munificent – my take suffice.)  However, I could not help myself; seeking Dee on my exit I explained their dastardly behavior. (I like this word, dastardly; it connotes a kind of evil in 50’s melodramatic fashion.)  Dee, obviously upset, suggested that I ought to approach them. For one shining brilliant, bullying moment, I thought about it.  In might-is-right manner I seriously considered the confrontation.  After all, my bona fides as a busker (strumming on sidewalks in Western Canada and Western Europe) and my busker alterity (tough-guy-cowboy wannabee) for the past decade ought to intimidate.

Hmmm … 

Though fists clenched, reason prevailed, and like a good Buddhist, I decided to follow my ahimsa (I am presenting to be a Zen Buddhist – I remind the reader that I enjoy the academia of Zen, but am not an avid disciple.)

I suggested to Dee that for me to do so would just be regarded as confrontational, and that she should be the one to do it because … it was Market business and she was the Director.   

Hmmm …

Later at home and still annoyed, I checked the REGINA FARMERS’ MARKET website and found the rules for BUSKERS:  

Regina Farmers' Market Busker Policies

At our Market we choose to have quality goods, and expect those that wish to busk at the Market to offer the same quality performance for the enjoyment of the public that attends Market. Buskers can show up at the beginning of Market and start right away, but be aware that we have some new busking policies. The Manager maintains the Street Closure for the Market area, and thus is in control of what is presented at Regina Farmers' Market.

Buskers will only perform their own music.  This is due to Tariff fees charged by SOCAN on copyrighted music from other artists. You are allowed to sell CD's of your music at the Market. No other items will be allowed.

Buskers (whether in a group or an individual) will pay $10.00 for their space each Market. The Manager will come around to collect sometime after mid-day of the Market. 

Buskers must change positions from their positions at the last Market. This way other vendors and customers will get a chance to hear something different each Market.

Buskers must ask all vendors within a 50 foot radius of the spot you have chosen for permission to play in that area. (Please be considerate that some vendors are losing their hearing and have trouble if you play by them.)

There will be no profanity allowed in your performance.

Management reserves the right to suspend your attendance to the Market for any reason. You will be notified of this by a paper notice. Please note that typically the largest complaint the Manager hears is that Buskers only know a few songs, try to improve your repertoire before you receive your notice.

Thank you! Happy busking!

Hmmm … 

Hoodie boy and his comrades asked no one for permission.  Hoodie boy and his comrades sang only covers.  Clearly, these actions were in direct violation of the REGINA FARMERS’ MARKET BUSKER POLICIES.

In VICTORIA, BRITISH COLUMBIA, where I sometimes busk, the rules are few and simple and REGULATED. 

• Amplification is NOT allowed.   

• Only one busker per block is allowed. 

• Buskers are allowed just two hour sets, and then must move. 

• All buskers require a busking license, of which the accompanying tag must be displayed while busking. 

Not so strangely, these rules are pretty much the same in every tourist destination. 

My proposal for the REGINA FARMERS’ MARKET is a simple one.  Respecting the present Market policies (the board members’ best laid plans to date), I shall formally request the following guidelines be added and adhered.

• Keep a respectful distance, especially between musical acts. (A musical act and a non-musical one can be closer together, but should be careful not to interfere with one another’s visibility/traffic flow.)

• Respect a captive audience. If your location is such that everyone who hears you is just passing by, then you can be as repetitious as you want.  If you are close to market vendors, change your tunes.

• If you amplify your music, keep it at a decent volume. 

• Be sure to keep the pedestrian traffic flow readily accessible to your nearby vendors.

• All musical performers must audition for a license to busk at the market.  Upon success, the license tag must be worn at all times whilst busking.

I abhor buskers who do not adhere to common-sense etiquette, having complete disregard and disrespect for the sisterhood and brotherhood members of the profession.

There ... I have pulled the Dragon's Teeth ... having vented my anger in my wordswords! 

 

   

GOING SOLO: A STRANGER COMES TO TOWN

STEVE MCQUEEN AS TOM HORN

Drizzmal.  

The perfect word to describe such an imperfect day for busking.  The weather for the Saturday FARMERS' MARKET was ... drizzmal.  

Instead of busking, I had some band business with GRANT FREW, manager of the BUSHWAKKER BREW PUB in Regina.

We (PHANTOM TIDE) have been there before (see my blog entry PHANTOM TIDE:  THE MAKING OF A BAR BAND … Saturday March 8^th).  At that time Grant had on his marketing poster,  PHANTOM TIDE … A FOLK TRIO WITH A PERVASIVE MARITIME SWAY OF ORIGINAL SONGS – MIXING THEMES OF LOST LOVES AND OPEN ROADS.

PHANTOM TIDE is booked again at the BUSHWAKKEER BREW PUB in just a couple weeks, Wednesday, September 24^th to be exact.  Our previous gig there included Whitney on vocals, Ray on bass, Darren, of course, on guitar and vocals, and I on guitar and vocals.  All our original songs were written by either Darren or me.  Well that was then and this is now.

Whitney has a new career and is busy, busy, busy; Ray has an urgent appointment he cannot postpone; and Darren may be flying back to Cape Breton on short notice.  When I spoke with Grant today he convinced me to go solo.

“You’re a busker, Neil.  I’ve seen the videos.  You’ll be fine.”  He said.

Hmmm …

I am a busker, not a solo stage performer.

Hmmm …

I used to be a singer in the band, SHARIE AND THE SHADES.

Hmmm …

I’ve played and sung solo on the streets, first time registered in downtown Victoria as SEAHORSE.

Hmmm …

I’ve strummed and sung for over a dozen years with the GRAND TRUNK TROUBADOURS (GTT).

Hmmm …

I’ve played in a bar before (at the MERCURY), along with my GTT band mates, Eric on fiddle, and Nick on guitar.

Hmmm …

I’ve strummed and sung for years on the sidewalks in the CANADIAN WEST and lately on those in WESTERN EUROPE.

Hmmm …

I really am a busker, really not a solo stage performer.

However, come September 24^th, just days away, I’ll be slinging my guitar and harp, solo onto the stage at the BUSHWAKKER BREWPUB.

This shall be the classic story of A STRANGER-COMES-TO-TOWN.  The stranger-comes-to-town plotline is most evident in the Western genre (see any duster starring Randall Scott, Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood, or Steve McQueen).  Here is the skinny:  A tall, dark, stranger with an unknown past rides into town (save for McQueen who was blonde); the stranger is always mighty handy with a six-gun; and the mystery surrounding that stranger creates an important part of the mood.

Meanwhile back at Bushwakkers ...  I’ll be that stranger-come-to-town.  I am tall, dark (hair colored chest-nut), and strikingly handsome.  I will be a stranger to those in that dining and drinking crowd , save for the few who will recognize me as a street corner guitar busker, or street portrait artist, who is mighty handy, not with a six-gun, but rather a twelve-string, and to boot, well known for a lightning draw, taking no longer than fifteen minutes to sketch any stranger who dares stand up to him.

The STRANGER-COMES- TO -TOWN is loved partly because of his air of mystery, and partly because of the apparent cracks in his armour.

Meanwhile back at Bushwakkers ... Right at the stage get-go I’ll be found out. My simple game plan relies on a simple presentation.  My playlist (as is the regular PHANTOM TIDE playlist), set up abecedarian, rather than by theme.

FACTOID:  In my abecedarian fashion, my first song shall be AFRAID TO FLY, fashioned after a local girl whom I truly hope is sitting in the audience.  She did not like the idea of HER SONG, but eventually conceded to allowing me to publicly post it.  (Check it out by clicking on my Youtube account in the right margin of this blog header.  My band mate, Darren, is singing it.) I'll keep my fingers crossed that the darkly theme of Afraid To Fly does not adumbrate any further events during my solo course of the evening.

Meanwhile back at Bushwakkers ... I imagine myself to be seated atop a tall stool at centre stage.   I’ll have a single microphone and my twelve-string Seagull acoustic shall be plugged.  For me, the quintessential busker is a solo guy with messy hair, t-shirt and faded jeans, blowing his harp and strumming an acoustic.  And it makes sense for me then, to imagine the quintessential folk singer-songwriter as one who sits leg stretched on a stool, spilling elequent anecdotes about each of the songs presented.   

Cap-a-pie in my stage alterity, I shall not be unlike the costume in my stark reality: windswept-looked hair, tailored white or black long-sleeved cotton shirt with collar, fitted denim jeans, and on my feet a pair of polished black leather boots.

To satisfy my fandom, adding to the stranger’s interest, will be the few dropped clues from a past being made apparent.  Fans just may get to find out his story.  This stranger must come to town for one reason or another.  His arrival must have a strong sense of purpose.

Meanwhile back at Bushwakkers ... I imagine there will be some whispers when I walk onto that stage.  Some will no doubt know me from the street; others will know me from work.  Close friends and colleagues from my workplace will be there to cheer me on (pun intended), and they will know other people in the bar and therefore between, or more realistically during, songs, offer drams of gossip of who I really am.

The ending of the stranger-comes-to-town in the Western theatre is usually bittersweet. After a satisfying resolution of sorts, the stranger decidedly cannot stay.  As surely as this stranger arrives, he must so leave.  The stranger-comes-to-town must ride off into the sunset, to the trail of who-knows-where, and truly breaking at least one missy’s heart in his exit.  Pardon my sexism, ma’am, stated with a ten-gallon hat in hand. 

Meanwhile back at Bushwakkers ... Whether I am a solo hit or not, I do know from studying English Literature and being quite the movie critic of especially Westerns, it is better to wound the reader or movie goer than to induce a slow but steady sleeps.  Really, dear reader, I am not that delusional cowboy riding his steed out of Dodge and into the sunset; rather, dear reader, I am an alleycat’s paw taking a solo swipe at a brew pub.  'Tis bittersweet because though I'll miss my bandmates, I shall psychologically survive enough to tell about it. 

I will ride in, and I will ride out.  And when I do ride out, hopefully at worst I leave an audience experiencing only flesh wounds, rather than the mark of Zzzzzzz’s -- (and again, pun intended).

 

THE LAST RACE: THE TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A MARATHON RUNNER

On Saturday the REGINA FARMER’S MARKET was the place to be ... for a busker.  On Saturday the sky was blue, the air warm and windless, and my guitar strings gleaming in the brightness of the morning sun.

Cap-a-pie I was hatless, a long-sleeved collarless dark fitted shirt, a pair of Jack & Jones walking shorts purchased in Amsterdam, and I wore sandals.  It was a glorious Saturday and my consumers were munificent.

Even so, the three and half hours that I stood and strummed, I kept wondering what my blog topic of today would be.  Dear reader, please know that I usually post my blog entry on a Sunday, but ofttimes do not have my topic until Saturday, the day before.  Once my topic has been decided, I create a snappy title and then off I go, rising at 5 o’clock Sunday morning to make a first draft.  I knew the QUEEN CITY MARATHON would be blocking the Regina roadways starting this morning at six a.m. (preventing me from my morning run), and could not for the life of me think of a snappy title … that is until this morning while not running, but instead sipping Americanos with cream and sugar.

The QUEEN CITY MARATHON is running right now while I type (pun intended).  I remember when I use to run marathons and I remember the moment I quit running marathons.  First, dear reader, without seeming the braggadocio and very much for the record, here is a brief history of my bona fide credentials for this quick commentary on running, hoping to convince you that I am much more than just a handsome scrivener, more than just eye candy atop a pair running shoes.

In 1977, the year it was published, I read THE COMPLETE BOOK OF RUNNING by JIM FIXX.  At the time I was enrolled at CARIBOO COLLEGE (now THOMPSON RIVERS UNIVERSITY) in Kamloops, British Columbia taking a scuba diving certificate through the NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF UNDERWATER INSTRUCTORS (NAUI).  I smoked at the time. 

After reading THE COMPLETE BOOK OF RUNNING I took up running and decidedly had to quit smoking.  One cannot be a long-distance runner and a Players pack-a-day smoker.  (I must mention that one can be a scuba diver and a Players pack-a-day smoker, as was my instructor at the time.)   

Those years I mostly ran MCARTHUR ISLAND PARK and RIVERSIDE PARK both situated right in the city, though McArthur Island was in North Kamloops, and Riverside right along the South Thompson in downtown Kamloops.  Those were glorious years.

Moving to Regina I ran in WASCANA PARK, the second largest urban park in North America, bigger than CENTRAL PARK in New York, but smaller than STANLEY PARK in VANCOUVER.  Running WASCANA PARK changed my life.

My teaching assignment was as a GUIDANCE COUNSELLOR at BALFOUR TECHNICAL SCHOOL (now officially BALFOUR COLLEGIATE).  During my six year stay at Balfour, each morning I ran five miles to work, then ran around WASCANA LAKE every noon hour, and then ran five miles home.  At that time I was running at least thirteen miles each weekday. 

On weekends I did not run Saturdays, but rain or shine, frigid or humid, every Sunday I ran ten miles with my friend, BURT GIBSON.  Burt was the real marathon man.  Each year he ran not only the SASKATCHEWAN MARATHON, but also every year ran in the MANITOBA MARATHON and … the HONOLULU MARATHON.  Burt and I ran ten miles together every Sunday for over twenty-five years!

From Balfour I was transferred to the SALVATION ARMY YOUTH RESOURCE CENTRE (which officially came to be THE HOUSE OF CONCORD), an open-custody facility for young offenders sixteen years old and upward.  At Concord we (the twelve youth in custody and I) ran three and half miles every morning before lunch and before ENGLISH and ART classes.

I had been invited by my REGINA SCHOOL DIVISION DIRECTOR and the MINISTRY OF EDUCATION (SASKATCHEWAN) to create an academic program for young offenders (of which there was not one at the time).  The program that I introduced was based upon that of JIM DEATHERAGE’S READING, ‘RITING, and RUNNING.  Jim was an American English teacher that had been written about in RUNNER’S WORLD MAGAZINE, of which I was a subscriber.  I phoned Jim and he graciously gave me the spiel of what exactly he did to promote such a program. 

Shortly after several discussions with Jim, I worked and ran out of the HOUSE OF CONCORD for seven years, during which I wrote my Master's thesis, ONE HUNDRED DAYS AT THE HOUSE OF CONCORD:   An Ethnographic Study of Young Offenders in an Exercise Programme (and defended such in 1994).  

While assigned to those seven years at the House of Concord, Burt joined me and the students (those young offenders) to run in the ECHO LAKE ROAD RACE, a half-marathon run around Echo Lake, hosted each May by the town of Fort Qu’Appelle chamber of commerce.  Burt and I had run that race at least twenty times together.

Besides having run many ECHO LAKE ROAD RACES, my running years with Burt also included several WASCANA RELAYS (one of which we ran four times just to have a marathon run that day), and two twenty-six mile SASKATCHEWAN MARATHON races, held in SASKATOON, SASKATCHEWAN.  (I remember one marathon it was raining at the start line, snowing near the wall, then the sun shining brightly over the finish line.)

Back to ECHO LAKE.  Every Echo Lake Road Race, Burt and I would drive out together, register and pay our fee at the start line.  The race was always agog with hundreds of runners, mostly rabid, some nondescript, and some panjandrum, and then side-by-side we would run the thirteen miles, just the two of us, yakking and solving the same ol’ same ol’ political state of the province and country and planet we did as every other weekend we ran together.  After every Echo Lake race we would sit next to one another in the town hall during the winner awards ceremony, wearing our Echo Lake running caps and munching on oleaginous beer sausages (both free gratis with the registration fee).  Following the awards ceremony where all the same runners year after year won the same awards for finishing first, while others like Burt and me would sometimes win a watch in a random draw (these races were in part sponsored by TIMEX), and before driving the hour back to Regina from Fort Qu’Appelle, we would ritually make our way to the local ice cream stand, sit outside at the lonely picnic table, and lick our delicious made-with-dairy-product treats.

One particular May long weekend, I picked up Burt for our drive to the Qu’Appelle Valley for another Echo Lake Half Marathon Road Race.  A few minutes outside Regina I posed to Burt this question: 

"Are we training for something?"

Burt replied, "What do you mean?"

To which I replied,  "Are we training for something?  Here we are driving out to Fort Qu’Appelle again for another run, a run where we run together and chat and solve all the world problems.  Except this time, we have to pay.  We are paying to do the same thing we do every weekend, save for that ugly runner’s cap and greasy sausage we get for signing up."

Burt:  "Hmmm …"

Self:  "Hmmm …"

I turned the car around, with Burt’s permission of course, and we ran ten miles through Wascana Park, after which we did not snack on a sausage, nor sport a new running cap.

For the both of us, that was our last official road race.

  

‘Tis bittersweet for me to write that I am still running, though ever leery of slipping on the ice, substituting JACOB’S LADDER for running until the ice has melted. 

‘Tis bittersweet because in 1984 my writing and running hero, Jim Fixx, died in a ditch in Vermont while on his daily ten mile run. 

‘Tis bittersweet because in 2011 my long time running mate, Burt Gibson, had a heart attack and has not run since.

 

THE REAL MARATHON MAN

HYPNOTHERAPY: THE SKINNY, THE SMOKE, AND THE MIRRORS

Yesterday the SASKATCHEWAN ROUGH RIDERS won their LABOUR DAY CLASSIC against the WINNIPEG BLUE BOMBERS, and I was there at game end, busking at KINGSWARD exit, reaping the munificence of my consumers, half of the 30,000 as they passed by, basking in their glorious cheers of victory (pun intended) ‘neath the summer five o’clock sun.

As I said my thank-yous, Thanks man, Thanks ma’am, Thanks a lot, Thank you … thank you … thank you, my mind was not there, but elsewhere, thinking about my brand new HYPNOTHERAPY PRIVATE PRACTICE.

I WANT TEN VOLUNTEERS WHO WISH TO LOSE WEIGHT OR STOP SMOKING.

GET SKINNY OR BREATHE FREELY THROUGH HYPNOSIS.

CALL NEIL CHILD (HYPNOTHERAPIST) AT (306) 591 – 7131.

This is the advertisement I’ll be running in KIJIJI over the next few days.  I’ve already had several volunteers from my workplace, females wanting to lose weight, one male wanting to stop smoking.

My advertisement could have read: 

YOUR LIFE IS ONE OF RUNNING IN CIRCLES?   

DO YOU LACK CONTROL IN YOUR LIFE?   

TRY HYPNOTHERAPY.

HYPNOTHERAPY can help you change the way you think about things, the way you feel about things, and the way you behave about things.

Here is my Q & A skinny on HYPNOSIS and HYPNOTHERAPY:

• WHAT IS HYPNOSIS?

HYPNOSIS is a contrived (but based on a natural) induced state of deep relaxation and focused attention. Subjectively engrossed in a good book or television program, a mind adrift in day dream, the automaticity of driving home, are all habitual and natural occurrences and very much akin, if not examples, of hypnosis.  The action of Hypnosis is to enter an altered state and then receive suggestions, as designed by both the therapist and client.

• WHAT IS HYPNOTHERAPY? 

HYPNOTHERAPY is abstruse, simply, it is a psychotherapy that uses hypnosis as part of the treatment.

• CAN ANYONE BE HYPNOTIZED?

Yes, anyone can be hypnotized as long as they are willing.  You need only to be smart enough to achieve concentration and clever enough to know what is good for you to be hypnotized.   

• WILL I REMAIN IN CONTROL IN HYPNOSIS?  

Yes, when you are hypnotized you are aware constantly and will succumb to activities you desire, and succumb only to what is consistent with your belief system.  You will neither permit nor act upon any suggestions that are against your personal values.

However, if you go to a stage hypnotist, you might embarrass yourself, quack like a duck, get your hand stuck on a wall, do the moon walk, that sort of thing.  A stage hypnotist is there to give the audience members a good time at your expense.  A hypnotherapist is there to help you change direction in your life. 

Stage hypnosis is not a profanation of clinical hypnosis, but rather just that other road in the wood, the one most people take on the hypnagogic highway; HYPNOTHERAPY rather, represents that road less traveled by, the one that has the potential to make all the difference in a person’s life.

• HOW DEEP WILL I BE WHEN IN A HYPNOTIC TRANCE?

In a hypnotic trance, you are not sleeping.  You are conscious of everything around you.  You are awake. You are alert.  You are responding to the suggestions of the hypnotherapist, who is in turn, merely responding to your own suggestions of your life improvement (that have been discussed beforehand).  When you acquiesce to hypnosis, your immediate actions and behaviors are never the whims of the hypnotherapist, but rather the responses to the whims of yourself.

• HOW MANY SESSIONS WILL I NEED?

Unlike conventional therapies where four to six sessions is the norm, Hypnotherapy, typically, takes just one session. Smoking is a one-time session.  Weight loss could be a couple sessions. Other desired changes take certainly no more than four sessions.

• WHAT IS THE FREQUENCY OF SESSIONS? 

Ideally, sessions should be spaced a week apart. Each session is usually 60 to 90 minutes. 

• HOW WILL YOU KNOW IF IT WORKS? 

Your success is your proof.  If you accomplish what you intended to, then you were hypnotized.

And now, my skinny on my five stages of HYPNOTHERAPY:

• STAGE ONE:

Each session begins with a bright-line, so as to provide an unambiguous guideline for both hypnotherapist and client. This is the INTRODUCTION, a PRE-RELAXATION, a phatic chat to get on with …

• STAGE TWO:

This is a DELIBERATION, a DISCUSSION and DETAIL OF SCRIPTS to be employed during the session.

• STAGE THREE:

This will be an actual hypnotic INDUCTION, a formal RELAXATION cadenced one-versation focused on RELAX … RELAX … RELAX…

• STAGE FOUR:

This stage is a DEEPENING of the INDUCTION, where the prescribed SCRIPTS are ENACTED, UTILIZING an ALTERNATE REALITY through cap-a-pie IMAGINATIVE IMAGERY, the light or energy on your body from head to toe for example.  

• STAGE FIVE:

This is the RE-AWAKENING, usually to wherever left during a preliminary INDUCTION SCRIPT.

HYPNOTHERAPY is both a cathexis and a catharsis, demanding an investment of emotional energy and imagination, whilst purging an habitual defective behaviour in exchange for a psychological benefit.  Very few individuals have nothing in their lives they wish to improve upon.

HYPNOTHERAPISTS WANT ONLY FOR THE CLIENTS WHAT THE CLIENTS WANT FOR THEMSELVES.

The bread-and butter-client-market for hypnotherapy, the two improvements most people desire seem to be are to STOP SMOKING and to LOSE WEIGHT.

Everyone knows that smoking is bad for the health.  Smoking, like most maladies, is an addiction, and one that can be overcome mostly by changes in behavior.

Everyone knows that skinny has been the glam in the last few decades of our commercial world.

LOSE WEIGHT means to change eating habits.  

Hypnotherapy will help clients resist cravings for nicotine.  Hypnotherapy will help clients develop a more relaxed relationship with food.  Hypnotherapy will help clients develop new habits that will become part of their everyday lives.

TRUE CONFESSIONS: 

I’ve a couple of acquaintances (and so do you), both of which are female, who WANT to get SKINNY, not so much for their physical health, but for their physical and sexual presentation (surprise, surprise); one an Elizabethan beauty, the other an Amazon warrior.  Both regard themselves as zaftig, one says she is “chunky” the other says she is “fat.”   And having several discussions with each, both want skinny for reasons sensual and sexual.

Your past is a ghost.  Each new day is a tabula rasa for personal success.  Stop smoking.  Get skinny.  Look in the mirror.  Mirror, mirror ...  on the wall .... who has the power ... to fix it all.  

IT WAS YOU ALL ALONG!