DESCRIPTION
Actually the host is dead. It took me a while to notice, but it's true. The host is so dead he has a lot of time to give parties. [581 words]
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Short Biography: Pepijn Sauer Born midnight between the 3rd and 4th of February 1970 in Arnhem, The Netherlands. Studied Japanese, Philosophy and Psychology at the universities of Leiden and Utrecht, finished neither because of tendencies towards the more obscure sides of the above mentioned fields. Paints, does illustrations and translates from Dutch to English and vice versa. (mainly scientific articles). [September 2001]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (8) A Song Of Absence (Short Stories) Absence. Everybody is on the beach but you. Meister Eckhart sunbathing in bright green shorts. Dostojevski and William James play beach volleyball against the Marx Brothers. In the shadow of a palm t... [1,412 words] [Mind] Dis-Appointment (Poetry) Short poem. [12 words] [Romance] For Sofia (Short Stories) You live with the question. Wondering how to proceed, we find ways to make things happen. We do not understand the question. It is there despite our lack of understanding, as are many other things. Fo... [449 words] [Mind] Gravity (Short Stories) I circle the gravity of this situation in elliptical curves. Inside the fences, so fashionably dressed in distractedly elegant drapings of barbed wire, the TV show goes on showing. (White noise. Fragm... [589 words] [Mind] The End Of History And The Last Fish (Short Stories) When Field commander Asinine launched his final all out withdrawal the first one to be killed was major Fuck Up. The loss was grave but they had no time to bury him. [1,168 words] [Mind] The Function Of Criticism (Short Stories) We forget without remembering what. Something started at some point but the point is now almost identical to everything; or rather, it is starting to be, unstoppably, constantly. [774 words] [Mind] The Mind That Is Morning (Short Stories) The mind that is morning swims. As it grows later it will become frosted glass; an empty couch by the window; twelve words; a dolphin blowing rings of air and an empty coffee cup in the sunlight. [459 words] [Mind] Witness (Short Stories) You have seen things. I thank you for describing them to me with so much care and poetic accuracy. Your eyes must be beautiful. As for the things at hand, I am unclear regarding their purpose, if any. [826 words]
Party Pepijn Sauer
The Supreme Being.
This story starts with the announcement: 'God has left the building.' God has many parties to attend. Everybody is drunk. Nobody has a good excuse. Not even God. He is much to busy trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with his self esteem at the time he created man in his own image. Luckily the angels hang around for a while, tap-dancing on my forehead. Then they try to convince me I can fly; which is true of course, but I'm to drunk to remember where I put my wings.
Death.
Actually the host is dead. It took me a while to notice, but it's true. The host is so dead he has a lot of time to give parties.
'This', he tells me, making a serious face, 'is a good thing.'
'It tends to make you feel much more relaxed', he says, grinning like a monkey.
I grin back at him desperately while Gabriel does a Gene Kelly impersonation on my forehead.
'You know, God is dead too, that is why he has so much time to attend parties nowadays.'
Gesundheit.
Friedrich, in the meantime, is trying to make popcorn in the kitchen. He has a cold. Or at least that's what he tells me.
'I have a cold', he says. Then he sneezes.
'Gesundheit', I say.
The Popcorn.
The popcorn tastes like desert sand just before dawn.
Simultaneous.
You are laughing.
Left of me.
Somewhere in the crowd.
It's 3:19.
God comes in.
'The other party was no good.'
'At all.'
People are stuck in the elevator.
Which is full of party snacks.
Some things make sense.
'MORE POPCORN!!'
'Is that my cigar?'
Walking on the piano.
Barefoot.
'CLOSE THE DOOR!'
Breaking glass.
The space ship lands on the roof.
I inhale.
A swat team coming in.
Through the kitchen wall.
Halfway through already.
The president lying in the corner.
Twelve guests are dropping down with the remains of the balcony.
They have just passed the third floor.
Rolled into a Persian carpet.
'Where is my cigar?'
Someone covered in silly putty is stuck to the ceiling.
'More salt.'
'TURN OF THE SMOKE MACHINE!'
Robocop shooting random guests.
Music blazing from the quadraphonic sound system.
The tigers are eating the presidents hat.
With the president inside it.
There is confetti in you hair.
Decisive Action
What shall I do? Save the president? The hat? Go over and kiss you? Body check robocop? Get more popcorn? Put more salt on the popcorn already present? Close the door? There's a microwave in the kitchen... Unstick the elevator? Silly Putty?
Deja Vu
I go get another beer in the kitchen. Nietzsche is in the kitchen. Making popcorn. He sneezes.
'Gesundheit,' I say, ducking a tear gas grenade.
Quoted Saying:
'I think he wants us to take him to our leader.'
'OPEN THE DOOR!'
'So what ... if it is all without any meaning ... except that ... which is already present. Yes I know. Too philosophical.'
'Hell. Why not.'
'Oh, it's only an honorary function, really. It's not like I get to do anything important.'
A 99.74 percent accurate description of you.
Because things somehow have to be relevant you come up with the demons. Carved in obsidian, both of them wear your face.
Dance. Head bent down. Whirling.
The all inclusive. Rats eating the great banquet left unattended on the 7th floor.
Your involvement with the objects of your imagination did not turn out the way you had hoped.
The cold comes in. On small white feet.
Many things have given up on existence. They no longer exist. While you are dancing.
Accuracy is overrated.
Epilogue
You wake up wearing the presidents hat.
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