The magick of flotation pods: Drowning your monkey mind
When I think about death, I think about floating. I’ve had vivid dreams for years about dying. The dream is always the same: I’m sitting on a raft, floating down a stream. The water and sky share the same colour: a blurred mixture of magenta and hot pink that looks just like the cover to My Bloody Valentine’s “Loveless,” my favourite album. The water is brightly coloured and thick, like I’m surging forward on a vibrating pool of melting lipstick, my raft propelled by the liquid velocity of a million dissolving Nagel prints. All around me little black leaves, like flecks of impurities on pink diamonds, float by as we drift down the river. The sound of a waterfall ahead, hissing like feedback; the raft sails over the frothing edge and then- nothing. I’m floating in the dark until I wake up.
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