It’s a strange experience to see the exact same thing whether your eyes are open or closed. You can turn out all the lights in a room and your eyes will eventually adjust, at least a little. But last Thursday I was in a place so pitch-black mine never did.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
I was pretty nervous about getting in the tank. I can become overwhelmed to the point of panic by the vastness of a night sky in the middle of nowhere, and I was afraid being confined in the nothingness of the tank might have the same effect. I also have a mild dream phobia–I’m scared of what my mind will think of when left to run wild. But my summer housemate is an avid floater, and when he comes home from a session he looks completely blissed out. So I went ahead and checked the box next to the statement “I am fully responsible for my thoughts and actions.”
He said he’d knock on the door of the tank when the hour was up, and I’d emerge into the glow of a heat lamp–its red light would let me know that it was time, that I wasn’t hearing an “unofficial knock.” Um, “unofficial knock”? I was afraid to ask.
Polcyn told me the hour would go by both fast and slow, but it crawled. Starship’s “We Built This City” was stuck in my head almost the whole time, which was the opposite of relaxing. It felt similar to being on a tanning bed–holding still in a small, enclosed space and letting your mind wander. But while the tank was boring, at times excruciatingly so, tanning is all danger, sizzle, and stimulation, the crackly hot yang to floating’s gentle yin. But reentering the atmosphere after a tanning session makes everything feel sharp and cold and slow by comparison. After my experience in the flotation tank, I emerged to a world of softened corners and hazy light, possessed by stillness.
I watched them wiggle a little to Sonic Youth’s lackluster set, but they mostly chatted with each other. If they weren’t interested in the music, why were they even there?
