BIENVENIDOS AL OLIMPO

sábado, 23 de febrero de 2008

SMALL TABLES ATTACK ON SUNDAYS


Small Tables attack on Sundays

My name is barakaffe and I am a small table. I wanted to be a gambling table but I did not have enough vitamins and I did not grow too much.
I am living in a special sitting room. Not one of those specially made for guests full of kitsch figures, expensive furniture covered by plastic, only to be showed to neighbors to give them envy.
I respect this very much but I am allergic to bad taste, one of my faults, I imagine...specially living in a world full of bad taste.
My sitting room is full of sculptures and art. The great pictures speak between them about their meanings, the sculptures spit bends at the air and a lovely piano supports a wall for a long time. A lot of books, video films and music...not much more...
But between all, the most important object I am. I am a very old a small table rescued from a great fire in the furniture shop. Probably provocated by the owner to receive the fire insurance’s money. When I was alive, again, my price descended and this woman, no rich, could buy me.
We were living together and I was very happy with her. She never gave me problems. She was living alone and in my opinion (and I am not a gossipy table!) she is a little odd. She is almost never at home, because she works too much but I was thinking she was not very happy. Much daybreak I saw her crying curled up in her favorite armchair.
I was helping her speaking about philosophy every morning and when she was cleaning with the vacuum cleaner I moved away my little legs in noble wood and I cleaned myself the little crumbs that were on me when she ate cookies (Danish cookies) watching some strange and old film in her video.
But one evening she invited home to a special friend. He came from the other country of Europe and polar bears were hanging on his beautiful ears. His eyes had squared melancholy and his skin sang many dreams solidified by cold. Grey clouds were binded to the perfume gone from his neck.
A premonition’s storm was hasty between his hands and with the pretext of freezing wages of the nights they started a north - south dialogue full of "euros" that were evaporating and crushing fjords against new skins without frontiers.
A group of studs were swimming in the carpet’s color that protected a extinguished shirt like one day happened with the true penguins.
His hands woke up under that small dress. A new force from him raised the woman and sat down her on the man in that armchair making fire with the most beautiful midnight sun that combed from the new guest, which name hardly she could pronounce.
Lovely touches were tied to instinct fertilized with the loves´s shoes. They were playing in a sensual orchard scratched in their young bodies.
The new man took off Sara´s dress and he put it on me!! I, of course, grunted a little because the "rag "didn’t allow me to see the exotic show. I didn’t know that I had a voyeur’s soul...
That beautiful man full of power raised the house’s owner and binding her to his arms and without stopping of kissing her, he lay her friend’s small body on the great table. It seemed that everything was hindering because with a sure gesture he took away a modern sculpture that crumbled itself on the floor.
I only could see his back arched against her. What is the matter with this man? And it seemed that it hurts her because sometimes were emigrating strange sounds. But there were not any show of violence. The opposite: she, very sweet, sit up kissing his nude chest and taking off the trousers.
The different tones of pants patches the walls and the pictures were looking each other. A psychotic anxiety was ironing to itself and I didn’t understand any thing .But I continued watching what was happening.
I don’t know very much about human’s anatomies. Well... she usually walks nude at home after the bath and I know her little protuberances. But I didn’t know so many differences between human’s sex...
Well...when the man’s trousers fall down , she fondled the only cloth that was covering one part with which he seemed to be uncomfortable. Perhaps because it was growing too much or the cloth was too much tight.
Suddenly that piece of cloth disappeared and from it went out a special muscle that she caressed between her hands. Perhaps she made this to avoid this muscle to grow more, but I don’t know why this seemed to make more crazy the man.
While she caressed that strange appendix he tacked his hands on this woman’s chest. Sometimes he planted with his mouth kisses on the pink studs. She seemed so happy as I had never seen her before.
She was dominated for that intrusive who not even can speak our language and please...I don’t want to hear that it is not politically correct. I don’t have xenophobia... to be sincere I would hate him in the same way if he was so Spanish like flamenco or corruption.
Suddenly he had between his hands that special vegetable grown from him. He drove it to her body and taking from her a little sigh he sinked it in my friend. I thought he was assaulting her like a warrior full of anxiety with a frenetic dance for two more and more passionate. I was decided to take me out my head in marble and attack him with this but the "hi fi" stereo and the video didn’t allow me to make it.
The carpet was not in his place with that earthquake, the sculpture climbed to the piano’s stool to see every detail of this show and I was full of jealousy.
Sometimes he stopped and kissed her changing his force for a new tenderness very strange. The sweat rebounded pearls on their oysters. My friend’s fragile body was shacked from that man’s force. Her erected bosom staggered and that seemed to make him more and more excited. I had the impression that something would finish soon because the sighs were more and more scandalous. To be sincere I felt shame for them. I thought that it was not moral.
Finally the end arrived with a strange convulsions in them. A furrow of peace walked in the room and they embrace each other saying something in other language... I regretted to have been so lazy to learn languages.
But something was very clear: both of them were happy. I never will understand humans.
From that day this man was almost always here. They were wasting their time looking each other with desire, with tenderness. ..
Now we didn’t have discussions about art, we didn’t watch in the video a Australian film...now I should bear this beautiful man watching football and drinking beer.
Now I was not her special friend...
Every night I had to endure this pursuit: for no reason he touches her, he took off her dress, he manage her to the bed...not necessary in this order.
Sometimes on tiptoe, I went to the bedroom to spy them in the daybreak. I was impressed by the great number of different contortions flying between them.
I decided to eject him. He had to come back to his rich country full of lakes and wonderful countryside. I telephoned to the small tables syndicate. They told me that in my labor contract, I must be on duty from Mondays to Saturdays but on Sundays I was free.
The war started.
The young man usually went out to buy the newspaper on Sunday morning while my dear owner was preparing breakfast like a ordinary mistress forgetting that she was a intellectual. She was dedicated to him like our grandmothers made with their men.
Well, when nobody can see me I moved one of my legs and I trip him up. When he slept in the coach, I prolonged my fingers to him and I ruffled his hair. Or I tickled him. Or I changed his channel in television. Or I pinched his buttocks. Or I was with him while he was having a shower. Or I was flying on his head...
But he knew my strategy and gave me something that made me hysterical: He ignored me. I got desperate.
And I made my great mistake: one Sunday morning, in the daybreak, I was listening a great noise in the bedroom. I went to this room: they were making love again. She swaggered nude on him like a very sensual eel. He clasped her buttocks making sure the push helping her against all fragility. It was beautiful and I was only a small table. And she didn’t cry any more.
He looked at me with his lovely eyes full of thaws and whispered to me:
-Hello Mrs Barakaffe...!-
Something changed: I started to love him also...in other way, of course. And I noticed that my role was in the sitting room in front of the television who was having for me beautiful wings and only for me he was inventing a new channel.
He tickled to me with his remote control which gave me to drink from him also and which was growing also if I touch it sweet, wet and full of mystery...
Now we are engaged to marry soon in secret. We also are making noise in stereo and sometimes he licks me with his parabolic antenna and my marble’s fossils burst and fly in the room during a few seconds that should be a whole life.

1 comentario:

Geraldo dijo...

Hola Sara,
It is a great joy to find one blog
almost dedicated exclusively on a very interesting subject and that it is of my taste. - Mythology. I
believe that you understand a bit of this subject.
I found interesting when you say that Charles Aznavour
is for you a myth. Well in fact I agree with you: either old or new we all have our myths. Kind regards from Brazil
Geraldo