Vested Interests Wrecking the Planet

 

From the Desk of George Barnard.

“Give The People What They Want!”

Many years ago, and further back in time than I now care to remember, a free-lance commercial artist who complained about having great difficulties feeding his young family approached me for work. Home payments, he said, were cutting deeply into his earnings. He was desperate. But since there was plenty of work I could give him, and since his portfolio of past work assured me we would both come out winning in this new association, he went away happily with his first orders from my little company.

A few days later, and to my dismay, he returned with some “clinically clean”, and most beautiful art work. Alas, this young man had considered not a single aspect of my clients’ clearly explained requirements. The artwork looked great, but it was useless. “I’m the artist!” he told me. “I decide what’s best for the customer!”

I shook my head. “No, my friend,” I told him. “You must give the people what they want, always. They are the ones who pay the bill. Give ’em what they want!”

The angry artist stormed out of my office, and I did not see him again for a number of years. He was doing well now, looking good, and showing me his brand new car. “I owe it all to you, George,” he told me. “I started giving the people exactly what they wanted, just like you said I should.”

Project Zero Emissions.

We were still a small production outfit in the early sixties -- just five of us, using our minds as well as our hands. We were doing well in a somewhat laid-back daily effort of producing all kinds of interesting “goodies” in our small factory. We had time to look around, or visit the neighbors. In the place next door two brilliant-minded engineers were through developing a zero emission pollution control device for motorcars. The Volkswagen engine mounted on their workbench was roaring away at top speed. The paper towel held just half an inch from the exhaust, and for many minutes, was still the purest of pure whites. Their success “roared” like the air-cooled engine did. They spent years thinking about it, months in developing it, then years in promoting it.

Their company went bust, and two dejected inventors held an auction and received less for their near-new machinery than was needed to pay their bills.

“That was a beautiful new toy!” I told them. “What the hell went wrong?”

“Vested Interests,” they told me. “Vested Interests, George. We were even barred from watching the testing procedure. And generations of our kiddies will have asthma and all kinds of respiratory diseases. But the drug companies will fare well.”

They were government engineers who poured the wrong fuel into the Volkswagen engine’s tank, and, reliably, the report told of “Project Zero Emissions’” total failure. Undeniably, it was there in black and white on the official account of the test. An independent scientific report on the remaining fuel from the tank proved sabotage of two great guys’ years of dreaming for a better world to live in.

All requests to the Powers That Be for a follow-up test were denied.

Why should the people have what they want, when there are Vested Interests?

Toting A Gun.

Years ago, he and his family lived on acreage just outside one of our major cities. He called himself a boilermaker. Wrought iron fences were what they made, and these he, and his crew, made so very well.

Strangely, a ten-foot brick wall surrounded his huge workshop and yard, and on top of this wall were big, pointed shards of glass that would have cut any robber to ribbons before letting him enter the grounds. Stranger still, at all times while he did his work, our middle-aged boilermaker toted a handgun. Lashed onto his wide leather belt was a neatly carved leather holster, and in it was a loaded gun.

Most folks would have judged our man, and even his two employees, to have long ago lost the story line. Truly, they were all quite sane. And there was every reason for the ten-foot wall; every reason for the handgun to be there, for powerful, ruthless people wanted what our metalworkers owned.

These three still are the proud owners of an insignificant looking metal box, which, at a guess, stands about thirty-six inches tall. It is about twenty-four inches wide, and less than twenty inches deep. At one end, a single garden hose enters the metal box. At the other end two long hoses emerge, and from it come the gases with which the men do their welding.

“Have you patented your rusty box, Andy?” I asked him with a smile.

“Nope,” he answered me. “I’m not going to tell anyone how the gizmo works either. There are Vested Interests who will ensure it will never be out there, after they pay me a million bucks.” He grimaced. “Ask yourself, young George: What would a boilermaker do with a million bucks? We earn only just enough to pay our water bill.”

I knew he was jesting.

Simple, everyday H2O is welding steel to steel… straight from the tap.

Cooperation All Around.

During the depression of the thirties, Jimmy Davies, not yet a man, was the only breadwinner in a one-parent family of nine. Jimmy would never forget the businessman, “Old Harry”, who gave him his job – gave life to Jimmy’s family – although the young man could hardly be afforded.

Times were tough all around.

In the late eighties, ageing, half-blind, and ailing, Old Harry still owned a transport company that was three quarters of a million dollars into the red. Jimmy Davies ran an independent fuel depot that prospered on paper, but had two million dollars outstanding -- three quarters of a million of this to his benefactor of old.

Old Harry’s transport company was bankrupt, big time, but with Jimmy’s financial support it could live. There was friendship, admiration, and unconditional love, for the sick old man, and I was given carte blanche with Jimmy’s business check account in order to pull the ailing transport firm back into profitability.

As a free-lance troubleshooter in industry, I was never before, and would never again, be so trusted with someone else’s funds. I could sign Jimmy’s checks without his counter signature for up to $50,000.00 and pay Old Harry’s bills.

But there was another reason behind all this seemingly blind, and total, trust. If Old Harry lost his firm, Jimmy, too, would go to the wall. And behind those two firms stood another half dozen business dominoes that would surely topple in turn in that small town of just 20,000. Everyone relied on everyone else. Everyone was a necessary link in a single chain.

All had a Vested Interest. And I cannot remember when a whole town gave me such support in a near-impossible task to right the wrongs of years of neglect and mismanagement.

Even our opposition cooperated where they could to give all the people what they wanted.

A Gallon’s All.

It was in Jimmy Davies’ office that I noticed an old model Customline drive into the yard of this wholesale fuel depot. The driver proceeded to put a little gasoline into the tank, then, to my surprise, he pulled out a garden hose, and filled the tank until it was full.

“What on earth is that guy doing?” I asked Jimmy.

“Keeping his motor running,” Jimmy answered. “And that’s what I don’t like about it. Mark has got to keep the motor running while he refills. Nothing’s that perfect.” The owner of the fuel depot laughed.

“He took just a flipping splotch of gasoline! The rest is all water, Jimmy!”

“A gallon’s all, George. He won’t even let me look under the hood,” Jimmy complained. “Here he comes.”

The owner of the Customline poked his head into the office. “Hi’ye there, Jimbo!”

“G’day, Mark. Nice day, eh? Here’s yer docket.”

The V8 Customline drove out of the yard. It was running smoothly, almost silently.

“He’s got that motor running just fine,” Jimmy Davies remarked with admiration in his voice. “He’s converting one for his wife, too, George. A Subaru, he told me. Yes… yes, he’s got it all worked out. It’s running on water… well, almost. It kind of tells me our days are numbered here. Mark says it’s too dangerous to talk about what he’s doing. People get to be very dead when they know too much.”

The Customline owner is a go-anywhere, do-anything handyman. Mostly he fixes fly screens to doors and windows. It is now eighteen years since I saw that automobile being fuelled up with water, but Jimmy Davies sells more dirty conventional fuel than he ever did. And what we all do is go fishing, boating, and swimming in this planet’s fuel depots we call rivers, lakes and oceans, as we keep on burning fossil fuels.

For there are Vested Interests.

That Was Then.

It was in the late sixties when I met up with the engineers who so diligently worked on the zero emission pollution control device. It was in the mid seventies when Andy, the boilermaker, trusted me with a glance at his rusty metal box. It was in 1988 when I watched the water-driven Customline roll out of Jimmy Davies’ yard.

That was then. This is now.

Times have changed. We now have daily, open contact with the Urantia Midwayers – Primary and Secondary -- who must also know exactly how the Hydrogen can efficiently be separated from the Oxygen of H2O. Even the Planetary Child (or Embryo) of the Supreme is capable of greater realization of Self, and of all the knowledge that comes pouring in, day after day -- yes, millisecond upon millisecond – in this, the Correcting Time.

We also, urgently, need clean emissions on this fuel rich blue planet.

It needs a scientific, engineering-oriented mind to be there when the question is being asked and answered. It may well need a closed community to develop the appropriate machinery, safe from the prying eyes of Vested Interests.

God bless… George Barnard for the 11:11 Angels.

© 11:11 Progress Group.
Toujours au Service de Michael.

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