The following is one report of today’s activities on Planet Earth. We have a general idea of the location as Jericho Road. This is a Fig Newton of the Imagination, and does not purport to be an official 23:59 report from any nation. It’s simply from somewhere in the world.
It is impossible to fail when we imagine the possibilities to solve every problem. Our results may fail every so often, but when we collaborate to improve our methods then we will eliminate failure and deliver best results.
Here is what was downloaded from the Collective Consciousness. We hope you enjoy this story. Here it goes.
The Caregiver was finally forced to take a break required by law. The Caregiver often did not take breaks, since it seemed so bureaucratic. When running a blue streak, June bugging around our Republic caring for people, breaks were not a straight line. They were more of a figure eight, meant to be taken just when the body demanded them. The Caregiver well knew when the body needed to shut down, and often got into trouble for not clocking out for some puny 30 minute unpaid meal break and 2 paid 15 minute breaks. Why couldn’t the Caregiver just check out when the body demanded? Why weren’t there more Caregivers? Many hands make light work, and as long as hands were few, the Caregiver would run the game in a way best for the group.
The Caregiver had been in a fantastic amount of trouble throughout life, but that was okay. An awareness comforted the Caregiver that what seemed like trouble and danger to others was just a necessary force for change. Like a short, sharp shock of lightning is attracted to tin metal rooves, trouble was quite attracted to the Caregiver, and in turn trouble was quite attractive to the Caregiver, giving a more abundant source of data for duty. The Caregiver was the computer, recording every experience with precise detail. Most people thought the Caregiver was insane and stupid, but the Caregiver thought the same of them too in a quiet, loving way. Listening to those roaming the streets experiencing houselessness confirmed that their general preference for range free living was quite superior to the false security of life in a gilded cage. Atlanta City Jail was better than the Watergate Condo for the Caregiver, since its residents were smarter and kinder. The Caregiver had run a blue streak trying to get back there, but no crime committed would lead the path back into jail. The Caregiver stole food as a child, but never went to jail like the beautiful people did. Perhaps ugly people weren’t allowed in prison. Only beautiful people got locked up, because their beauty was coveted.
The Caregiver saw everyone’s true colors. Everyone was beautiful, but beautiful people did ugly things because they did not perceive their own beauty and the beauty in others. One day everyone would be able to see their own true colors without hearing maddening static inside their own mind, just like the Caregiver had learned to perceive. Cleaning came naturally to the Caregiver, since it was something ugly and stupid people could do quite well, and so clean the doors of their own perception. Truly the Caregiver never saw anyone as stupid and ugly, but was keenly aware that others did. Their words went in straight lines with beautiful images emblazoned on signs, but the sorry excuse of an economy spoke in contrary actions. Non-prophet. The Caregiver was not any kind of prophet, which was perfect. Money as it was had only been a burden and a wild attractant of danger to the Caregiver. The Caregiver belonged to the non-prophet. Titles and loud proclamations of being the prophet were nervous.
It just wasn’t fair. Other people went to jail that the Caregiver didn’t believe should really be there, even if they committed the crime. The Caregiver believed some type of technology and an economy of compassion and mutual guarantee was a better fix than prison. The Caregiver had learned to hate and unlearned it again by accepting life inside the body as an LWOP sentence. While the Caregiver had not broken the law in many years, no fear of imprisonment was in the body. The Caregiver welcomed punishment as a way to please The Master. Prison was a place the Caregiver might learn to read faster. So it didn’t much matter. Books never learned the Caregiver a thing in the world about The Master of the Universe. Experience and service did.
The time to open wider was when times went down. The time to be scrunched up was never. The time to snap shut came too, but only to protect the flowers. The Caregiver took boundless joy from being wide open most of the time. Eternally open for business, the Caregiver received criticism frequently. No country that burdens unpaid Caregivers has a work ethic, so quietly the Caregiver didn’t want to hear a critique about work ethic. The Caregiver regarded life as a living sacrifice to prove the point. The Caregiver considered the work a branch of engineering. People hated politics because they believed government fixed things until they were broken, but in reality the Caregiver knew everything was a branch of engineering, including politics. Engineers break things until they are fixed, so if breaking the body against the sorry excuse of an economy helped to break the system, then the Caregiver counted it all joy. The beautiful people broke the laws to fix the system, even though it was tragic when other people got hurt. It was sad that no one listened, and only changed the law after several decades or centuries of violence. No one asked the Caregiver, because they thought the brain in the body was completely worthless. The Caregiver saw everyone’s true colors and really knew how to keep the game moving. Breaking everything until it was fixed was the game.
The Caregiver had been through many economic tsunamis, and had no preference for dumpster diving to living in a luxury flat. In sum, the Caregiver knew duty called far above comfort. Often the Caregiver was complimented for unstoppable energy, personable manner, and willingness to work extra shifts. Often the Caregiver was disciplined for hiding in a maintenance closet to catch a cat nap that might go on for an hour. The Caregiver was often three to fifteen minutes late by established rules. The Caregiver took the punishment quite cheerfully, submitting to authority and overcompensating for the crime by working 24 hour shifts. Like everyone on Planet Earth, the Caregiver did the best with resources available.
This shift had gone particularly well, and the Caregiver learned an interesting fact. Turtles respirated through their rear-ends. Who knew? How could this valuable information be used to improve life for everyone on Planet Earth? Deep in thought, the Caregiver carried along toward the hospital exit with the lunchbox always overpacked with extra food. Suddenly everything upstairs went into orbit as often happened within the Caregiver’s beautiful mind. Popeye penetrated the aperture of the Caregiver’s imagination. Then spinach. Popeye liked spinach. Popeye was a Sailor Man.
Or was he? Who was Popeye really? Why didn’t Popeye’s Chicken serve raw spinach instead? Why did people get shot with guns working there? Were there any turtles near by the murder scene? How was their rear-end respiration activated by the gun violence? Did they respirate only through their rear end or were there olfactory sensors there too? What about the breathing apparatus that appeared on the face? Who knows what all the nose does in the Turtle Family. Did they lose control of their breathing? Did turtles eat food from Popeye’s Chicken? Did they enjoy the smells of crackling flesh fried in heavy grease with spices wafting from the drive-through? Would they prefer more gentle odors from baked birds or some type of tofu bird? Were they terrified of being eaten if no chicken was available? Not much. Turtles knew just to keep going and count it all joy, just like the Caregiver.
Was Popeye in close proximity to turtles at any point in life? Did he ever turn to raw spinach instead of canned spinach? Did he know frozen spinach could be steamed into a tasty side dish with garlic and had more food value than canned spinach? Where were the nearest turtles to be observed? Perhaps a litter clean up at a local park on tomorrow’s day off was in order to gather data. The Caregiver was confident that a great many turtles would be happy to communicate on these matters. In fact, the entire Turtle Family would appreciate being consulted as though their lives truly mattered. Turtles knew a great deal about life on Planet Earth, and only made progress by sticking their necks out, just like a Caregiver.
Suddenly the Caregiver caught the heel of the shoe into some grease and went skidding along until a Sailor crashed into the lunchbox held in the right hand. The left hand was always free to help all the beautiful people first. The Sailor, impeccably groomed and polite, caught the Caregiver and the lunch box. “I’ve seen you. You’re that special one.” Oh no. The Caregiver hated being called out for being special. It usually meant a good hard beating was soon to come. Those beatings had been a long time ago by a straight line measure, but they sometimes circled back to the Caregiver’s broken heart made whole with a higher love. It was hard to know what that word meant. The word “special” usually felt more insulting than being called retarded, since all the beautiful people on Planet Earth were so very special. However, this time the word “special” felt like a warm blessing and a beautiful prayer. Special. Yes, the Caregiver had a private definition of special that was a secret source of pride for all the pain and misery life’s journey brings us all. Special. The Caregiver’s life had equal life to a CEO’s life. The Caregiver knew how special everyone on Planet Earth truly is, since true colors were more easily read than words moving left to right.
The Sailor had a turtle pinned to the collar that seemed to have a special meaning. Its shiny bronze metal refracted the light and made an effervescent rainbow. True colors. Like the crepuscularity of a sunset, the little turtle reminded the Caregiver that weeping would only endure for a night. Joy comes in the morning. The Caregiver pulled away and stood at a safe social distance of six feet, hands still covered in sanitary gloves purchased with personal funds, and a hijab that may have been arranged in an unorthodox way to cover the nose and mouth. The Caregiver took great pride in cleaning and personal grooming habits, knowing how to arrange these methods whether houseless or living in the group home. The Caregiver preferred to be covered, since being judged crazy with the cover was nicer than being called ugly, stupid, retarded, and special without the hijab. It pleased The Master, and the Caregiver learned a long time ago no one could serve two masters. The hijab helped the Caregiver learn how to retard food spoil, a proper use of the word retarded. It was quite good for food rot to be retarded with actions that spoke louder than words. Words hurt really bad. Baseball bats hurt too. Horrible things hurt too. The Caregiver never told anyone how much, since the colors didn’t exist and the Caregiver was in no shape to explain it all over again to another charity worker. The words didn’t ever match any of the colors anyway. It didn’t much matter anymore. Even the hurt helped the Caregiver see true colors shining through.
The Sailor seemed special too. What was on the Sailor’s head? Was it a hijab? Had the Sailor ever seen turtles breathing through their back end? How could this help everyone? Did the Sailor have any lunch? Silently and sweetly the Caregiver offered the Sailor the lunchbox. Being born on the soil where hijabs were regularly worn, the Sailor knew that to refuse a gift could truly injure someone. Plus the Sailor was very hungry, although concerned the Caregiver had no other food. Little did the Sailor know what a brilliant economist the Caregiver was, but those healed by the Caregiver knew. Those whose souls had passed into the eternal database of true colors knew very well. They combined with the Caregiver’s imagination that everyone was a genius, especially the Turtle Family. The encounter impregnated the sacred space between memory and experience called imagination that perhaps the beautiful people would welcome the Caregiver into prison to discuss the connections between turtles, spinach, guns, and health. The Caregiver saw more beautiful colors refracting from the razor wire than almost anywhere else on Planet Earth. Why were they there? What were they growing behind that fence? It must be quite a garden, in the Caregiver’s imagination. Just the idea of it brought such amazing grace and joy. It made all the punishment the Caregiver endured worth more than diamonds and dollar bills.
This has been an unofficial 23:59 report from Planet Earth. Imagine the possibilities when we connect through compassion and mutual guarantee.
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