Blob

Blob 1

Drop, by drop. The paint drips,

The paper swallows,

The picture grows.

Stroke, by stroke, the face smiles,

To a brush’s tenderness,

And an artist’s caress.

Blob 1.1

(Aka) It has been on my mind for a pretty long time, nagging and twisting inside my brain like a memory one tries to forget but cannot. I got to know him through the bars, and my interest in him grew with time spent in the bars around town. His name was Blob. It was an unusual name to have. It was foreign and curious. It could not fit into our language even. You see girls names ended with an “a,” like Marta for example, boys names with an “o,” like Paolo. If anything belonged to me it would be Akaa and we did not know what to call anything that belonged to Blob. Some used Blobb, which was not really pronounceable, others used Blobo, which sounded funny, others Bloba which sounded girlish, and others like myself decided to keep the foreign name as foreign and not change it in anyway. So I knew him and called him as Blob. 

He was not tall, and not that macho. The magic lay in his tongue. He could charm snakes out of baskets with his voice. He could open doors where they lay closed. He could tell us about experiences that we had never had, he seemed to have travelled to places that we could only dream about. He seemed to have different views, deeper reflections, sounder opinions and insight than any of us. He seemed intelligent and yet warm and close. He took interest in mundane things and like most boys sought booze and girls. Obviously he was the centre of attraction, especially during parties. He was the envy of most boys around. He would say that, “This would soon wear off.” He said that he felt like a monkey in the zoo that no one had ever seen before and that everyone was so excited about. Like a new star that had been discovered in space and would prove to be but a comet. A new planet that could hold new life, only to be discarded as a barren hopeless place a few expeditions later. A new superstar that is waiting for the day his glory vanishes in wrinkles.

One of the things that I always asked him, and it seemed many others had asked him before was “Why?” He would laugh and say, “That question again, it haunts me like some sort of wicked curse.” He would say that he was here because he was a criminal on the run from his country, which was a joke of course. He would say that he was too stupid to find a job in his own country and had come to find one here. This too was a lie. The truth was that he never wanted to talk about it. He was there. He had his own reasons which he did not want to share. “Was it love?”

“Love is a big word. I love you. You are so pretty, so wonderful, so sexy, so charming, so nice, so warm and receptive. Such a cool person like you, how could I not love you? How could I not love Marta? How could I not love Jessica, Antonia, Maga, the girl I left behind at home? Love is such a wide perspective. I can sit and talk with a girl. I can see her eyes burning for a touch, a simple touch of love, something beyond words, something to share together, something to belong to me and her alone. Yet we stay apart for there is a law that man has made. It was even carved in stone tablets in the Bible. ‘Thou shalt not have another man’s wife.’ Love is such a wide thing yet we mix love with sacrifice and purity, and keep ourselves solely for one person. So in a way I can say that there are many I love and wish to be with, yet our maxims force me to choose which one to make a sacrifice to. Love is this. Desire for contact with soul mates, and then deciding to turn them all away except one. Love is a trauma.”

We kissed.

I left him dancing on the dance floor, with a couple of girls probably waiting for me to leave. This was a common picture though on that particular night he offered to take me home, which I refused. Home was far away. Home was with mum and sis, and I could not take boys home.

Mum was waiting for me when I got home. “There’s a happy late face. Have you been drinking?” Of course I had been drinking. She had tea ready for me in a jiffy. It was 4 am. “Tell me what’s his name?” Mum always saw through me fast. “Blob.”

“Blob, what sort of a name is Blobb?”

“He is foreign.” Mum did not like the idea of a foreigner dating her daughter. There was a load of questions that she wanted to ask, but I was not going to let her. I needed sleep anyway.

I met Caro next day. He was probably the hunk of the neighbourhood. He was tall, handsome, dark and had a beautiful Honda Civic, a black sleek sports version. “Fine, no hangover.” I replied. “No I don’t need a lift, I’m only on my way to the grocer’s.” Well I got a lift anyway. “How do I like Blob. Oh I think that he’s okay.”

“What do you mean that he is dating his boss? His boss is 45 years old, I saw her last time. What could such a young guy see in her? No, no, I’m not jealous. Why should I be? Money, you say? No that’s something that I’ll never believe. How much? 20,000 a month? Wow, that’s more than my mum makes in a year, wow. How do you know all this? Yes I know Marta. He lives at her place. Yes he does, he told me so. "Caro, here please.”

“Hello Blob? Oh, that’s very nice of you to phone. You know my mum can’t speak your language. Tonight? Yes of course I can, where? At nine? Okay.

Well that’s how I got to know Blob. A very handsome guy, who got my heart and entered my dreams. A mysterious guy. I wanted to know more about him, more about his past, but all I got was a fantastic puzzle. He seemed to have been through a thousand lives and ages. The more he told me the more unfathomable he became.

(Fabo) My name is Fabo. I got to know Blob through Marta. She was my girl for some time before Blob came. Our relationship had been running on the rocks for some time. Yet we were still officially together. We would sometimes meet alone, rarely, but we sometimes did. She told me that a guy would be coming over to stay. Her father’s partner in business wanted him to come over and work for the company. Marta however could not understand why he had to come over and stay at their house. It would be a nuisance because her father would be away most of the time and she would have to take care of the foreigner. Marta thought that he would be some boring crap guy. You see she did not like her father’s partner, she being the one who took him away from her mother, and then left him stranded. So the day before Blob had to arrive, Marta phoned me and asked me to go to her place. She needed to talk to someone. I bought her a bouquet of flowers and went to her place. We made love for the first time in months. I went back home happy.

I phoned the next day to ask about Blob. She answered that he was not that bad after all.

(Aka) “Are you Catholic ?” He nodded. “Do you believe in God?”

“I believe in God as the Greeks believed in Him. Greek gods played games with the Greeks. Oh what a beautiful game this is. Oh the God of the winds and the hurricanes will today play with Japan. Cupid will strike your heart. Zeus will strike you with lightening and Medusa will turn you to stone. I mean that if you do not believe that this is a game that God is playing with us, could you give me an understandable role for god to have in our world. He does not walk into our lives, he does not have the same desires, for our desires are material and not eternal. We should dream of a better world, whilst we rot away in this one. This is man’s position. A weakling subject to the might of God. A poor man afloat in a little wooden kayak on the ocean. Glimpses land. Somehow makes it back home to tell his people of what lies beyond the blue. Today we send astronauts afloat in a little capsule. Ground control to Major Tom. I’m afraid we’ve lost contact. However a world without God is a world of a dominant species, the supreme parasite feeding on this tree called earth. I’d rather have a world with a chess board God.”

“I actually met Blob at Marta’s place a few days later. He had long hair and looked a little bit like a hippie, and a little bit like an aristocrat. He was a cheerful character to be with. He smiled perpetually, was alive with some sort of inexhaustible fire. He would join in with the singing, although Marta’s father played the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel. He would drink whisky like an alcoholic and yet still remain sober. He was a party animal. Better than me who can get drunk on two bottles of beer. I also saw that Marta had no eyes for me anymore. Fabo was over.”