Wednesday, April 22, 2009
In the distant mists of what were the days of yore; when Michael Jackson was still black, Henry VIII was a slim young thing that didn't murder women and Moira Stewart was still sexy enough to have a job on TV reading the news; a mummy and a daddy accidentally made a bubble whilst doing the washing-up together. They didn't even notice the bubble; they were too busy finding each other's hands in the suds, looking at each other coyly whilst unsuccessfully trying to ignore the stirring of the tens and thousands of tiny fish that swim in lovers' loins. Minutes later they conceived a human life, one that was born nine months later and grew up, developed a distinct personality, a sense of self and humour, and a remarkable capacity to put others at ease. Meanwhile, the bubble floated around the lovers' apartment trying to attract some attention, watched the mummy and daddy make love on top of the washing machine, floated by the mirror in the bedroom, where it made the painful discovery that it was barely visible. The bubble was prompted out of the bedroom window by a sudden draft and was left at the mercy of the winds outside.
Once outside, the bubble drifted past windows, looking in, it saw people talking, playing, fighting, arguing and working, this made the poor bubble feel deeply envious. The bubble realised that it could never engage with others as long as it was a soapy, transparent sphere, especially as the slightest of touch would burst the bubble. It realised that it coveted the interaction and relationships people have more than anything, the bubble felt sad and frustrated that it did not have the necessary skin for togetherness and if it'd had eyes, it would have cried. Suddenly, a window opened and the bubble was sucked into a child's bedroom where a girl was cutting out pictures of a magazine, the same gust that had forced the bubble in, took hold of an arm that the girl had cut out, and the light glossy paper stuck to the spumescent bulbousness of our bubble. What a revelation!
At first it was confusing, the bubble felt very different indeed, and as it slowly floated out of the room again, it saw that the girl was waving at it, smiling and laughing. As the wind carried the bubble through the town, people were waving and pointing at the lone hand bobbing around in mid air, like a ghostly adieu. Once the bubble had caught sight of itself in a shop window and realised what had happened, it knew that this was the only way for it to achieve its ultimate goal of the lasting human relationship. Discovering a way of using its new arm to steer and propel itself, the bubble made its way back to the girl's house. The girl and her mother were in the kitchen eating dinner and talking about dried foods, and whether they are a boon or a bane in modern cuisine terms. The girl's bedroom window had been left ajar, and so the bubble snuck in as quietly as only a bubble can. Most of the cut out limbs and features had already been used for the picture the girl was making, and had been glued to a piece of wood. These could obviously not be used, so the bubble, who had become feverishly desperate with the prospect of physical acknowledgement, threw itself into the left-over cuttings. Cavorting around in clippings like an animal on heat. When it had finished its febrile, spumy paper rut, the bubble was no longer a bubble, as we know one. As it left the girl's room, the bubble decided that it would be a nice token of its gratitude to name itself after the girl, misreading the name on the girl's bedroom door, the bubble called itself Grabiella and it became a she.
Sadly, the bubble, due to its preoccupation with the inadequacy of its own physicality, had not researched the human form it was emulating sufficiently, and as a consequence has a vast collection of arms. This has enabled Grabiella to keep adding to herself more efficiently, sadly, she is unable to add to herself without taking from others, and it means that poor Grabiella has had immense difficulty attaining her ultimate goal of a lasting human relationship, as people generally can only give a certain quantity of what and who they are away for free. After some time, something must be offered in return, and poor Grabiella has nothing of her own, she is in essence still a bubble, a unit of froth, almost nothing except air, disguised by loose, clunky, rattling pieces of others' hearts, souls, achievements and dreams, and that is all our bubble has become. Pity her from afar, that is my advice.
Mia Tagg 2009®