After having my leg wrapped up for six weeks, I wanted to treat myself to some sort of sitting-in-water activity. My initial plan was to rent a car and head to Calistoga for a sybaritic weekend of hot tubs and mud baths, but it was too expensive. Remembering how Josh once raved about his time in a sensory deprivation tank, I thought, "Enh, why not?" and signed myself up for an hour in a float tank.
If you've never heard of the idea, it's pretty simple: A windowless plastic tank is filled with half a ton (literally) of epsom salt in about 10 inches of water. You float on your back in complete silence and darkness. The theory is that after about 40 minutes, your brain shifts into theta waves, and you have all kinds of clarity and creativity and breakthroughs, etc. I didn't go in expecting any of that to happen; I was curious about the experience of being completely alone, fetus-style. So here's how it went. (It is going to seem very woo-woo. Sorry. Blame California.)
If it sounds terrifying to step into an enclosed space, close a hatch, and be surrounded by darkness, that's because it is. For the first minute or two, my heart was racing and my claustrophobic ass wanted out. I thought of Buffy's resurrection and then thought, "You are not in a coffin, and you can leave if you really want to, and season six was a difficult but ultimately transformative time for Buffy anyway." That calmed me, and I focused on breathing slowly while my body slowly drifted around the tank.
Because the water is heated to 98 degrees, it's easy to lose sense of your body's boundaries. In theory, anyway. The first thing I will say is possibly TMI, but I put it out here for all the ladies who may consider floating: The salt water will sting your lady parts in ways you did not think possible. It burns, burns, burns, that ring of fire. "Oh my god," I thought. "This is what syphilis must feel like." (When I later mentioned this to the proprietor, Mr. Floaty, he gave me a sheepish look. He said that it was because ladyparts are acidic, and the water is alkaline, and the two don't get along well. He added that not all women experience the sensation, but it's actually a good thing because it means that I'm healthy. And then we both decided to stop talking about my lady parts.)
So! After my delicate bits acclimated to the water, I then felt the tension in my shoulders and the distress of my foot. "This is not comfortable," I thought, wondering if maybe I should have just gone for a massage instead. But after a few minutes, the pain left, and I had nothing physical to focus on.
I knew my body was there, of course but I couldn't tell where it ended and the water began. (At one point, I thought the tips of my fingers were in the water, but they were actually in the air.) It was like being nothing but brain — kind of like Krang from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
"Sensory deprivation tank" isn't the right word for these things, because my senses sharpened after only a few minutes. The absence of sound amplified my breath, and for the first time, I could hear subtleties in exhalation. So quiet. And then, in a bizarre moment, I thought, "What is that sound?" It wasn't coming from the outside, and then realized that I could hear my eyelids as they blinked.
You know that feeling right before falling asleep, when you close your eyes and can sort of see squiggles and flashes against black? Being in the tank was like that, but more intense. With my eyes open, I saw mostly black, but out of the corner of my right eye I felt a white glow like a flashlight shining into a dark night. I looked straight ahead and saw twisting shapes, mostly yellow-white and electric. They became jagged lines and fell into diagonal patterns that came rushing down toward me. It was scary, but I felt like I had to look. So I did, and they kept coming, and tears started sliding into the water. I wasn't thinking about anything, not even my dad, but something about the visuals made me cry.
Then a Jawbreaker song popped into my head (big surprise there) and I was back into my normal rapid-fire mind. Mr. Floaty had told me that as my mind relaxed into nothingness, it would try to snap itself back into focus. It was the mental equivalent of being at a party, having some socially awkward thing happen, and then babbling about nothing to fill up the silence. Again I focused on breathing, and my thoughts drifted away.
I know I didn't fall asleep, but I don't remember anything about being awake, either. It was like disappearing and being somewhere else, but not knowing where that place is. Right before my time was up, I drifted back into consciousness and thought, "It's probably almost over." Immediately I heard the gentle tap-tap of Mr. Floaty's hands on the outside of the tank.
I showered, paid, and decided that doing drugs must be something like that. The outside world felt different, almost dreamlike. At home, I managed to stay awake for only 30 minutes before falling into a deep afternoon nap. Later, Chris and I went out for cocoa. "You seem different," he said.
"Different how?"
"I don't know," he said. "Just different."
Maybe, maybe not. It's not as though I had some Mulderiffic breakthrough that delivered copious amounts of insight or creativity. And I wouldn't say the experience was completely relaxing. It was so intense that I'm only beginning to process it a day later. (I am also completely aware of how oddball the whole thing must seem.) Still, it was a new and unusual experience, so I'm glad I tried it. Even if it sounds bizarre, and especially because it inadvertently inspired a Sunday filled with Johnny Cash songs.
Labels: emo spice, jawbreaker
I've been putting four things on repeat lately: Otis Redding, Girls, Sunny Day Real Estate, and Jawbreaker. (Mostly Jawbreaker — no surprise there.) Today I found this gem and immediately became obsessed with this guy who calls himself The Pyles.
This machine kills folkies? Iron Maiden shirt with that hat? That voice? The balance of earnest singing and the sense that he's holding back a big laugh? It's not big, but it is clever. And his original stuff is great. If I were 23, I'd have been in hugely crushed-out trouble — and that's saying something, considering the presence of both cigarette and mustache. Such a happy find.
*
This machine kills folkies? Iron Maiden shirt with that hat? That voice? The balance of earnest singing and the sense that he's holding back a big laugh? It's not big, but it is clever. And his original stuff is great. If I were 23, I'd have been in hugely crushed-out trouble — and that's saying something, considering the presence of both cigarette and mustache. Such a happy find.
*
Labels: jawbreaker, men i would have dated, music
Longtime readers, all two of you, will remember that I bought a guitar a few years ago. Sadly, my plans to launch a Moss Icon-y (Moss Iconic?) band died before they were born. Which, when you think about it, is right in line with all of the together-for-ten-minutes bands that came out of the mid-90s hardcore scene, so I guess I did that right.
Anyway, I had to sell my guitar to help pay for my move to California. It was unfortunate, but not emotional. In a way, I was happy to see it go, because it represented failure. I wanted to learn how to play guitar well, but my hands always cramped up, and then I got lazy. Typical story. And yet, I missed strumming my cruddy power chords and pretending that I was gonna be in a band. Which is why I bought the Danelectro:
I found it on Craigslist and bought it from a woman in her 40s. She'd put banjo strings on the guitar, so it has a tinny twang. But I love it all the same. I wind up playing it more frequently than I played the old guitar. I'm still a pretty bad guitarist, but I wind up spending hours tinkering around with the thing, and slowly my muscles are remembering chords. So far, I can play these songs from memory and everything:
This list will expand, of course. You can say you knew me when. Just as long as I don't try to join Ghost of Curtis, things should be just fine.
Anyway, I had to sell my guitar to help pay for my move to California. It was unfortunate, but not emotional. In a way, I was happy to see it go, because it represented failure. I wanted to learn how to play guitar well, but my hands always cramped up, and then I got lazy. Typical story. And yet, I missed strumming my cruddy power chords and pretending that I was gonna be in a band. Which is why I bought the Danelectro:
I found it on Craigslist and bought it from a woman in her 40s. She'd put banjo strings on the guitar, so it has a tinny twang. But I love it all the same. I wind up playing it more frequently than I played the old guitar. I'm still a pretty bad guitarist, but I wind up spending hours tinkering around with the thing, and slowly my muscles are remembering chords. So far, I can play these songs from memory and everything:
- "Want": Pathetically, I envision recording this one and giving it to someone who will probably not appreciate it, thereby increasing my misanthropy levels to previously unimagined heights. Tortured artist! (See earlier admission of humiliating love of the original Jawbreaker song.) I also set up the bassline on the 303. Because I am not a very fast guitarist, the song winds up sounding forlorn in its slower pace.
- "Love Will Tear Us Apart" I don't know how it happened, but somehow Joy Division has become my favorite band. I think it's the winning combination of moodiness and beauty. Anyway, the opening chords are so easy to play, and they burst forward shining. I don't have a keyboard for the melody, so I have to sing "DOOOOOO, doo dee doo doo doo doo, DEE doo" like the cut-rate musician that I am. Sabrina is going to learn the bassline, and then Monarchs of Laze will finally be able to complete our first song. Even if it is a cover.
- "Clash City Rockers" My poor downstairs neighbors must have grown so tired of hearing these eight chord-bursts for, like, three hours straight last weekend. Sorry, guys (but, to be fair, I can hear your snoring in the mornings. Call it even.)
- "Ceremony" Jesse showed me part of this song a while ago, so it was easy to delve into the dusty recesses of my brain and produce the necessary plinkings. I still need to look at the tabs for this one, but I only started learning it last night.
This list will expand, of course. You can say you knew me when. Just as long as I don't try to join Ghost of Curtis, things should be just fine.
Labels: jawbreaker, joy division, music, new order, sabs, the clash
I am not superstitious, but I do think that life gives you signs, and if you don't pick up on them, you're going through life half-blind. Yesterday, I had two of them: I sent payment for the last $6.58 of one of my two student loans in the afternoon, and in the evening I crossed the bridge and went to 924 Gilman. The Thorns of Life, the terribly named* but very promising band featuring Blake Schwarzenbach/Aaron Cometbus/Daniela Sea. I'd worried that going to Gilman would make me feel old, or too yuppified, or not punk enough. Instead, everything felt right. (OK, everything but the filthy bathrooms at Gilman.) Things are becoming clearer — even if I can't share how so just yet — and it feels like home again.
* Yes, I know it's a Shelley reference, but the fact that we spent half of our trek to the East Bay trying to remember the name of Charlotte Rae's character on The Facts of Life says something.
* Yes, I know it's a Shelley reference, but the fact that we spent half of our trek to the East Bay trying to remember the name of Charlotte Rae's character on The Facts of Life says something.
Labels: jawbreaker, music, regression to adolescence, thorns of life
Sabrina and I were IMing at the end of the work day, and I said, "We're unfun." And then, because I can't talk about ANYTHING without bringing up some trivial thing about punk rock, I brought up the Jawbreaker album of the same name, and we had a good dance down memory lane. That album contains "Want," the most nervewracking song you could possibly put on a mix tape for a crush. (Do kids make mixes anymore? I doubt it.) Aside from some skeevy slow-jam, is there any other song that's a less subtle admission of a crush? Or any song that would make you melt more? The older I get, the more excited I would be to find this on a mix CD. (See above half-joking transcript for evidence of my shallow, silly and juvenile daydream, which is pretty similar to this.)
One little in-joke is funny. Stretching it to a larger one is inversely so, but I sometimes can't help myself. Sabrina and I talk about starting a band called Monarchs of Laze, heavy on keyboards and bass, and this is the cover of our first seven-inch. You can say you knew us when.
Labels: jawbreaker, milo, sabs
