cans, opening and decanting of

I am in a huge warehouse full of canned
goods. I am standing at a table with a
can opener in my hand. My job is to open
every single can and release its contents.
My wrist is very tired. I have just opened
over four-thousand cans labelled "POSTMAN".
The world is full of postmen now. Clouds,
trellises, melancholy, and now postmen are
the only cans I've opened so far. The next
can is labelled "FASCISM". I get the feeling
that I'm doing something wrong, that I should
be opening them in some other order, but my
supervisor isn't around. I can't even picture
what he or she looks like anymore; as far as
I can remember, I've just been opening cans.

I decide to try an experiment. I rip the
label off a can. I use the top of an
already-opened can to make a small cut in
my right index finger. With the blood I write
"GOD" on the side of the can. Then I open it.
Out pops God, looking very annoyed. He scowls
at me and says, "Get back to work." Then he
runs off to play with his postmen and trellises.

© 1997-2001 Narciso Jaramillo first person index | dyslexikon | nj's face