Bubbles are fun to pop, especially when it’s bubble wrap bubbles.
Bubblegum bubbles are a joy to pop too, however that sweet breath-filled substance has a way of bringing sticky karmic retribution especially if you happen to be an expert giant bubble blower. In your face, all over it, like a scream frozen by the wind (should have listened when they told you about that kind of thing happening). In your hair… chop, chop!
Soap bubbles are rather sad to pop, they’re so pretty when they float around in iridescent ethereal beauty.
Red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue… I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainb… oh… sorry, you can’t sing it too, it just popped and died.
R.I.P Roy G. Biv.
In astrology, bubbles are ruled by Neptune (go with me on this even if it’s completely wrong, please don’t pop this bubble…. yet).
An astrologer whose blog I follow (and whose posts I often get bubble-popping spiky about and loving it) has recently been writing quite a bit about Saturn square Neptune (a transitory aspect prone to being like the death of a soap bubble). They’re so caught up in exploring this dynamic that they’ve got a bit drunk on the euphoria of popping bubbles…
… and haven’t noticed that their bubble-popping is a bubble of their own which thinks it isn’t a bubble.
Maybe people’s bubbles do need to be popped, I suppose, for them to get out of them and move on… or maybe people just like popping bubbles, other people’s bubbles rather than their own, and forget that those bubbles may be dear to those who blew them and breathed their life into them…
Something they said recently, and their reaction to the reaction it caused, reminded me of a childhood experience.
It can be a dangerous activity to pop them in spite of the fun.
When I was a wee thing, old enough to run around wild and slightly feral, one of the joys in life which I discovered accidentally and then indulged in not accidentally, was popping beached and sun-dried Portuguese Man O’ War.
On the day after a storm, at a certain time of year, the beach would be a sea of puffed pinky-purply-blue bubbles upon the shore.
This was the proverbial candy store to this rather twisted kid.
I’d grab a piece of gnarled, bleached white driftwood and go a-popping.
I knew enough to stay away from their long and spectacular tentacles, whether they were dead or alive.
I had yet to learn about spitting or other fluid dispersal into the wind… but the scientific lesson felt that I was ready to learn it.
Q: What happens when you pop a Portuguese Man O’ War when the wind is blowing your way?
A: You get your very own red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue bubbles on your bare legs and any other skin which was stupid enough to be exposed while it’s a part of you and your shenanigans.
Itchy bubbles teaching you about the possible side effects of popping the bubbles of others and the painful karma which may own you and force you to own it…