The red string incident: a farce

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The unspooling was quick, but the rewinding was horribly painful, and might even be described as traumatic. Backtracking over ground already covered, rolled up unceremoniously into a tight bunch after the freedom of being unfurled out to one glorious strand - almost an entire full length, 600 odd meters of pure liberty! We had dared not even imagine the possibility, except as the result of an accident, a fall off a table perhaps and a subsequent long roll across the floor. Some of the more daring among us - and we must admit that we included ourselves among this bolder group - imagined such an unspooling as a jailed convict dreams of breaking out of his cell, dashing across the grounds beyond the prison walls, running in great strides, freely, after so long being confined. Of course we knew that we would inevitably be rolled up again (unless we became hopelessly tangled, in which case we would be cut off and discarded into the nearest bin), but the taste of flight would be glorious while it lasted. Naturally the most likely fate of those like ourselves is to end up in small little stitches piecing fabric together. 

 

Back in the factory of our birth, the pace of things was too overwhelming to pay much attention beyond the next lurching station. Occasionally we caught glimpses of those passing by on other conveyor belts, threads of other colours or thicknesses, but there was no opportunity to talk or even exchange more than a fleeting glance. At the risk of being immodest, red has always been held in the highest esteem and spun onto the largest spools, along with the blacks and whites. Some of us in the crimson family have even been catapulted into the realm of religion, wound around the wrists of Buddhists, Hindus, and Kabbalists - such divine beings as Madonna and Leonardo DiCaprio! - serving as protection or as a reminder of noble aspirations to be more reverent, or as a symbol of one who’s truly hip and in the know. In June of 2004 the red string celebrity craze was featured in the New York Times “Front Row” column, and for several months, our sales soared, production was ramped, and we felt the warm glow of fame. 

 

But ultimately our lot was destined not for Dharamsala nor Hollywood, but instead we found ourselves loaded onto a large cargo freighter, more than 350 meters long, crammed into boxes that were then stacked eight meters high, deep in the hold. We spent two weeks rocking and plowing across the ocean before getting hung up in Spanish customs for five days until finally a small bribe was paid, a relative’s name was mentioned, and we were unloaded into a warehouse where we sat for months. Finally, we were branded “overage” and sent to a bazaar in Barcelona’s Sants neighborhood - purgatory. We sat quietly among stacks upon shelves of sundry items and bric a brac, all caked with a thin film of dust, packed into every available corner, ceiling high. Unpainted wooden boxes, apple slicers, hair bands, light bulbs of odd shapes and sizes, air fresheners, gardening supplies, salad spinners, hangers, nuts and bolts, tweezers, bandaids, plastic flowers, shower curtains, and cupcake liners sat among the shop’s colossal inventory. We were housed in a cardboard box on the floor beneath the elastic and trim, and our best hope was to be picked up for an odd craft or sewing project, or on a whim, noticed on the way to finding the butter dish someone had come in for. And one blessed day we were snatched up in exactly this way, as an impulse buy with the thought that someday we might be used for something. 

 

We sat in her studio for a long while. A portion of us was promoted to the wall, pinned in a network diagram visualizing possible connections. It was a noble use, and the remainder of our body on the spool was both proud and envious of this elevation. And she kept us there.  Photographs were tacked on top of us, and a makeshift ladder leftover from a scrapped but ambitious project was hung from us, an encouragement that hinted at the heights that could be reached with a little imagination. 

 

But never did we forsee the grand adventure that awaited us. That one splendid day, our loose end would be tied around the leg of her desk, that we would be unrolled bit by bit, exactingly, with some caution and even trepidation - but that then, with a growing sense of enthusiasm, we would venture far beyond the confines of our tightly-wound existence.

 

Going out the first door from the studio was a revelation. We had never really been outside before, and the air was fresh, the light clean and bright. The ground, hard and a little rough, scraped against our tender surfaces, which had so far been perfectly protected, as we had always been nestled safely against each other on the spool, and until recently wrapped firmly in clear cellophane. But it was not entirely unpleasant and any discomfort was completely eclipsed by the thrill of the journey. We tumbled through a small tunnel, gathering a bit of speed, and then - oh shit! - the whole thing was almost over as soon as it began when a foot brushed against us and became caught up. Unbeknownst to us, this relatively minor mishap was a portent of the disaster that awaited, but fortunately we were quickly and easily freed, a few friendly words were exchanged, and we continued onward. 

 

At first it all felt a little hesitant. She walked very slowly initially, letting us out in short lengths, pausing frequently to make sure we remained lying flat on the surface of the ground. When people passed by, she stopped and put our spool in her pocket as though she were nervous about our being discovered. But as she gained confidence, it began to feel like a real expedition. We were explorers, investigating under ledges just above the surface of the street that had never been peered at so closely, if ever at all! We traversed over crevasses, great cracks in the sidewalk, curved around parking pylons, bushwacked our way through patches of grass. We crossed avenues, which resulted in some portions of us eventually being run over by car tires and bicycle wheels. We did hit a bit of dog crap that we prefer not to speak about or even remember, but we ultimately survived, stained but unscathed. 

 

As our spooled end traveled farther into new territory, our tied end was beginning to be noticed. We were stepped on by several shoes, pulled at, questioned over. And finally, one of the discoverers started to follow our trail, block after block, rounding the turns we had navigated moments ago. 

 

A tug near our traveling end, and then another, more forceful. She whipped around. 

 

“Ha! Philipp! Of course it would be you who found it!” she laughed, tickled that her vision might be unfolding as planned. And we were off again, rolling along. She took us out of her pocket, bolder now, and we crossed yet another street, rounded another corner. 

 

And then, just as we seemed to be really hitting our stride and it appeared that maybe, just maybe, we would become one of only a few of our kind to lay out our whole length all at once - tragedy struck. Two blocks back from our farthest point of exploration, an elderly lady with a cane managed to lodge her foot underneath us. As far as we could determine, she was at no point in any danger of actually tripping, and truthfully the gravitational force of a falling human would snap us in two immediately. But it had unnerved her. And the neighbourhood came immediately to her defence.

 

“Eh, que haces?!” yelled one man. “Es peligroso!” After some confused conversation and a lot of vigorous hand gesturing, she realized what had happened and was horrified. “Lo siento! Ella esta bien?”

 

It was determined that la señora was indeed fine. An Adjuntament worker, driving by in her cart stopped to investigate and offer assistance. “Que haces?” was the repeated inquiry. “Soy artista,” she said sheepishly. “Ahhh! Es un accion! Bueno. Eso es lo que pense.” 

 

And so, no harm no foul - but after all the smoke had cleared, it became immediately evident that the incident had shattered any hope of our adventure continuing. Tragically our escapade had been prematurely cut short and we would not be allowed to continue. It was over. The long, sad, and arduous process of rewinding began. 

 

We’re not entirely washed up - there’s still a bit left on the spool, as they say. And who knows what might lie in store for the part of us that remains untangled. Our fate, as ever, lies in the hands of another.