nice. Mainly neutral.
I did foresee the absence of distraction will leave me alone with me, which isnât always wise, but Iâve done what seemed necessary, sensible â I didnât bolt and clamber into this at once, there was no rush. I waited, pulled the door wide to let in the light and checked very thoroughly everywhere: each shadow, every corner, not forgetting above.
I am all thatâs here.
Leastways, there is me and there is here â which is a
Flotation Tank
â and, to be perfectly accurate, this isnât really a tank. Not anything like one.
Iâd expected a tank.
Flotation Tank
.
As advertised.
This is more of a room, a cupboard, in fact â a Flotation Damp Cupboard with Light-proof Door. A cupboard right down in the basement, as if they suffer persistent floods and have taken advantage.
No attempt at something futuristic, not a capsule and not a fancy casket affair, heavy lid on a watery grave.
Claustrophobia probably an issue with those options.
Iâm just lying in some brine in a warm, wet cupboard.
Whoâd have thought.
But a warm, wet,
safe
cupboard â Iâve made myself entirely sure of that â just me and the four peaceful walls and the innocent ceiling, some water. Not even too much of that. Inches. Barely shin-deep.
And thatâs good, because now the doorâs shut itâs as dark as nasty thinking and Iâd rather not end up imagining any possible cause for alarm. Iâm naked and lying with something I donât know â with the dark â and this must seem only snug and homely, buoyant: no overtones of drowning, suggestions of creatures that rise from unlikely depths, hints of noise underneath the silence, eager.
Which is more than enough of that.
Plus, itâs thirty quid a session â stupid to waste it. Embarrassing as well: running upstairs to the hippy at the till after eight or nine minutes and saying youâve had to chuck it because of the monsters you brought in with you, as if youâre a kid.
Well, I can be definitive when I state there are no monsters.
Not here.
I checked.
Thereâs only myself in a peaceful setting, peaceful cupboard, with an hour to reflect on the knowledge that I must have more money than sense.
More money than sense â
there are so many meaningless sayings we pass between ourselves.
Donât trust him as far as you can throw him.
There are always two sides to the argument.
Heâs not slow in coming forward.
Sheâs no better than she should be.
This is the way to the flotation tank.
Sometimes, when you hear people talk, youâd imagine that we are in some way obliged to take part in each otherâs dreams, just plunge into lie after lie and wallow about. You could think that on the inside we are mainly fantasy.
Word dreams.
No internal organs, just a mass of unlikely excuses for their absence.
And no way to stop the words.
No, there is, though.
There is.
I am in charge here.
Thatâs right.
And nodding my agreement rocks the heart of everything.
Which is myself. For an hour.
They said doing this would make my head race.
A side effect of the floating.
Sensory deficit: not enough left of feeling to slow me down. Sleepy heart rate, skin quiet, almost disappeared, reality loosened and tepid, at body heat. Iâm increasingly unclear about my edges, may have misplaced, or forgotten where I stop. I could, in fact, be seeping out into the water, could be washing away.
Best to take an inventory of what I am not.
Blinded heat. Scent of wet wood. Oddly substantial presence beneath the limbs â it now feels like a sofa, a mattress, a nothing that lets you hover, tip, spin. Gliding through your own little piece of outer space. No stars, though. Blanket blackness. Numb.
Not that Iâm actually moving. At least I donât think so, I can no longer tell.
Need to be cautious about that.
Oh, and now Iâm remembering that kid at the
I did foresee the absence of distraction will leave me alone with me, which isnât always wise, but Iâve done what seemed necessary, sensible â I didnât bolt and clamber into this at once, there was no rush. I waited, pulled the door wide to let in the light and checked very thoroughly everywhere: each shadow, every corner, not forgetting above.
I am all thatâs here.
Leastways, there is me and there is here â which is a
Flotation Tank
â and, to be perfectly accurate, this isnât really a tank. Not anything like one.
Iâd expected a tank.
Flotation Tank
.
As advertised.
This is more of a room, a cupboard, in fact â a Flotation Damp Cupboard with Light-proof Door. A cupboard right down in the basement, as if they suffer persistent floods and have taken advantage.
No attempt at something futuristic, not a capsule and not a fancy casket affair, heavy lid on a watery grave.
Claustrophobia probably an issue with those options.
Iâm just lying in some brine in a warm, wet cupboard.
Whoâd have thought.
But a warm, wet,
safe
cupboard â Iâve made myself entirely sure of that â just me and the four peaceful walls and the innocent ceiling, some water. Not even too much of that. Inches. Barely shin-deep.
And thatâs good, because now the doorâs shut itâs as dark as nasty thinking and Iâd rather not end up imagining any possible cause for alarm. Iâm naked and lying with something I donât know â with the dark â and this must seem only snug and homely, buoyant: no overtones of drowning, suggestions of creatures that rise from unlikely depths, hints of noise underneath the silence, eager.
Which is more than enough of that.
Plus, itâs thirty quid a session â stupid to waste it. Embarrassing as well: running upstairs to the hippy at the till after eight or nine minutes and saying youâve had to chuck it because of the monsters you brought in with you, as if youâre a kid.
Well, I can be definitive when I state there are no monsters.
Not here.
I checked.
Thereâs only myself in a peaceful setting, peaceful cupboard, with an hour to reflect on the knowledge that I must have more money than sense.
More money than sense â
there are so many meaningless sayings we pass between ourselves.
Donât trust him as far as you can throw him.
There are always two sides to the argument.
Heâs not slow in coming forward.
Sheâs no better than she should be.
This is the way to the flotation tank.
Sometimes, when you hear people talk, youâd imagine that we are in some way obliged to take part in each otherâs dreams, just plunge into lie after lie and wallow about. You could think that on the inside we are mainly fantasy.
Word dreams.
No internal organs, just a mass of unlikely excuses for their absence.
And no way to stop the words.
No, there is, though.
There is.
I am in charge here.
Thatâs right.
And nodding my agreement rocks the heart of everything.
Which is myself. For an hour.
They said doing this would make my head race.
A side effect of the floating.
Sensory deficit: not enough left of feeling to slow me down. Sleepy heart rate, skin quiet, almost disappeared, reality loosened and tepid, at body heat. Iâm increasingly unclear about my edges, may have misplaced, or forgotten where I stop. I could, in fact, be seeping out into the water, could be washing away.
Best to take an inventory of what I am not.
Blinded heat. Scent of wet wood. Oddly substantial presence beneath the limbs â it now feels like a sofa, a mattress, a nothing that lets you hover, tip, spin. Gliding through your own little piece of outer space. No stars, though. Blanket blackness. Numb.
Not that Iâm actually moving. At least I donât think so, I can no longer tell.
Need to be cautious about that.
Oh, and now Iâm remembering that kid at the
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