"Your Curriculum Vitae."

[George]

Idaho, US of A, January 6, 2002
Midwayer Kal.
Subject: "Your Curriculum Vitae."

Received by George Barnard

George (reporting): "I've been in meditation for some fifteen minutes. And now, suddenly, there is a blue-green pinpoint of light in front of me. Strange…"

Kal: "That is your Pilot Light. And with IT you can light a fire and fan the flames.

"It is I, who together with many others surround you at this time. You are perceiving some of our kind, but you would be astounded if you could conceive of how many others are present. And again, in addition, I point out to you that it is utterly beyond your ability to comprehend -- to even imagine -- how many eyes and ears are watching and listening to this communication, instanter, and from distances undreamt of by you.

"I am Midwayer, Kal, and I'm a… dear friend of a dear friend of yours."

George (laughing): "You're having fun, Kalson. A pleasure to meet you, Brother."

Kal: "I am having fun, but I have also taken this opportunity to get linked up with the One who dares to carry the greatest amount of responsibility for spiritual progress on this planet (Kal appears to be talking of Machiventa Melchizedek).

"In your stillness this afternoon, something finally "clicked" with you. Earlier this afternoon you referred to an event in 1993 when, because of an advance warning you were given, you were saved from severe injury. You reminded yourself, and others, that immediately after that event, you decided to repay those who had assisted you by making it your freewill choice to "dump" all freewill prerogatives.

"But one of the aspects you discussed earlier this afternoon -- that of not having any secrets whatever from any of those who are here to assist you -- was not a part of that commitment at that eventful time. That is your commitment at this time?"

George: "Sure. That is my unreserved commitment. And I have, for some time already, been looking at what appears to be a thick, leather-bound book that has been handled and read by many. It will now be read and handled by many more?"

Kal: "Yes, that curriculum vitae can now be opened and read by all; those who choose to work with you; those who are chosen by you for you to work with them; and those who are ready to assist you and teach you. This will now make a major change to the configuration of Celestial Individuals that will be able to have contact with you.

"So far, access to the details of you as a potential spiritual being have been limited to but a few. Those in whom you have long had unconditional trust were always but a few. Now your present, past and future, can be read by many, and I thank you for freely allowing this to happen."

George: "OK. Fine."

Kal: "That is all. I am Kal."

Notes: It appears there is a limitation to the number of Celestials who are allowed to reach for the Akashic Records of anyone still residing on this planet. These records are in the safekeeping of your Destiny Guardians. As much as one needs to ask for a Celestial Teacher to be able to have one appointed, one needs to also agree to allow these personal-life details to be released by the Seraphim.

Obviously, closer knowledge of the mortal students will make Celestial Teachers better able to relate to their students.

God bless you and yours… George.

© The 11.11 Progress Group
"Michael est toujours au Volant."

[Budgie]

Dear George

You are so very brave. Nothing to hide? Soooo, how do you really feel about opening your life for scrutiny? Not even a little uneasy?

You're gonna be one huge celebrity on the other side! What am I saying... you already are!

God bless your dear heart George, you move us to tears.

Deepest love,

Budgie.

[George]

Hi there Budgie,

You wrote:

<<< Soooo, how do you really feel about opening your life for scrutiny? Not even a little uneasy? >>>

There have been times when I almost had second thoughts.

Midwayer Kal works with another Progress channeler. This was the first and only time I spoke with him. He comes through like a foghorn, that loud.

God bless....

George.

[Budgie]

Squish! ‘You’re Dead!’

(From the Desk of George Barnard.)

Crossing the now infamous bridge, and turning from his private road onto the narrow country highway, George Mathieu headed the big V8 for the town. In his mind he was rehearsing, over and over, what he needed to tell his family doctor. He needed to be precise, keep his mind with it and not get flustered, so Forthright would once and for all understand what was happening to him.

Should I even be driving this car? Barnard wondered. Yes, I’m fine now. A casual glance in the rear-view mirror showed the road behind him to be without traffic. All the way, as far as he could see ahead, it was clear as well.
Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Barnard became nervous and agitated. Without warning, and seemingly without cause, he had begun to feel like a hunted animal. His mind had instantly switched from total relaxation to hyper alertness and apprehension.
* * * * *
His eyes feverishly scanned the roadside ahead. There were no obstructions on the road, and there was no traffic up ahead. No stray cattle could be seen crossing the road as far as his sight would reach. No broken branches were hanging from the trees after the previous night’s severe wind gusts. All along both sides of the road, it was clear of the big gray kangaroos that tended to wait until you were almost upon them before they bounded into your path. There was no reason for Barnard to be feeling the way he did. Mystery.
Another glance in the rear vision mirror showed a large truck. Straddling the unbroken white center line of the bitumen road, it had seemingly appeared out of the blue, when only seconds before there had been no traffic at all. It was catching up fast. Not for an instant was there any supposition on Barnard’s part that the large truck could easily pass the V8 on the empty road. Unerringly, to all his mind and emotions, the deadly hunt was on.
The truck was the ruthless predator, Barnard’s treasured vehicle the wary game, and only instinct took over as the Guardians’ rookie planted his foot on the accelerator and the powerful engine responded and pressed him back into the driver’s seat.
Still the timber laden eighteen wheeler was catching up and bearing down on its vulnerable prey. Again the rookie prompted the engine to give him more speed to escape from the merciless stalker.
"This is bloody ridiculous," he muttered between his teeth as he quickly checked his speed gauge. "Christ! I’m forty kilometers over the limit now!" He checked once more and noticed the timber truck had gained on him still more. "How fast is that idiot going?" he cried out, as he demanded still more of the V8. She was a lovely car to drive, but it was said she had the nasty habit of lifting and drifting when the two hundred mark was approached. Barnard wouldn’t know about that. He was sane.
But she was lifting now. "Shees sus!"
All of a sudden time seemed to have slowed down, and Barnard experienced the illusion of being crushed inside his car. It felt like an enormous weight was pinning him down between the car’s roof and the seat. Momentarily he was unable to breathe as all the air was expelled from his lungs. He was desperately thirsting for a breath of air.
Squish! came the deafening noise of metal being crushed. "You’re dead!’ said a loud well known voice.
The frightened rookie pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor, and instantly the big car surged ahead. Seconds later it hit its most uncomfortable top speed, and as it did, Barnard almost immediately braked hard. The V8 seemingly turned into an oversized jelly, and skidded to the left and into a side street as the timber truck whizzed by. A timely warning — a spoken warning — and some quick thinking might have once more saved his skin. Or had he overreacted?
* * * * *
"What’s flaming well wrong with you?" he cried out as he paced around the car. "That was downright irrational what you just did back there! You’ve come apart at the bloody seams, Barnard! Jeez!"
He sat down in the grass beside the road and tried to settle his strung-out nerves, quite fearful of getting back into the car. Rattled I am, he thought. The idiot in that truck would have passed me on the little flood plain, just over the rise. What a stupid over-reaction!
He looked back at the main road, fully a kilometer away. As if in a trance, George Mathieu had driven to the very far point on a dead-end road. Surrounded only by pastures, trees and some distant homesteads, he slowly regained his composure.
Down on that flood plain the road widens, anyway, he thought. Plenty of space for him to pass me there. I freaked out for nothing. My God, I’ve got to be in a heap of trouble.
He got up again and restlessly paced the deserted road. Yet, I felt what I felt, and I’m still out of breath. He tried to breathe more deeply, ignoring his still painful chest. And I heard what I heard, and I’m hearing him still. It had been the same voice that told Barnard to ‘get off the road’ so long ago. Years ago!
He paced around for a little longer and sighed, "If this was not a blasted dead-end road, I’d still be driving on... forever!" He smiled at the thought and laughed. "I must go home now and change my underwear, you Guys... Just kidding!"
Finally he plucked up the courage to drive away, still wondering why he had not stopped by the side of the road to let the big, wide timber truck go past him.
"That was a warning and a half, you Guys," he grumbled at the Spirit Guardians. "Good grief! I nearly choked on that. You Fellows over-reacted and then some. You blew me away with your fooling around. Took ten years off my life, easy. Pushed me right up a dead-end road, but I’ll forgive you in time. You know me, I never carry a grudge for long... one, two decades at the most."
He turned back onto the highway, rolled up to the rise and stopped in amazement.
There in the flood plain below, the road was littered with big wooden telegraph poles. The timber truck had obviously jack-knifed and was angled across most of the road and into the ditch beside it. The driver, with the help of a motorist, was levering the poles aside. A narrow strip of road next to the disabled truck had almost been cleared to let the waiting vehicles pass.
"I think I might have changed my mind," he sheepishly informed the Eleven-Eleven. "You Guys didn’t overreact. Look at the mess! I would have had all that dropped right into my lap. Minced meat. Minced Barnard. Minced Spirit Guardians’ rookie."
More seriously now, he addressed the Guardians again. "Mugged and beaten and badly hurt I am. Yet, with your help I lead a charmed life. Who am I then? What am I then? Why do you Fellows bother with an accident prone left hander in your platoon? What earthly or ethereal use am I to you now?" He needed to think some more about what he had just said. He had a decision to make, a big decision, and he made it in a flash. "You Guys all know my marriage is on the rocks. It’s just a matter of time now and Jodi will ditch me. Since you Guys just saved my skin, and I have no doubts of that, you own me. I herewith forgo all my free-will prerogatives. That’s final. Tell everyone. I now truly belong to everyone else." He grinned and added, "I’ll write it up, sign it, and stick it in the mail to you tonight. Same old address?"
He waited, but no answer came.
"Very well, I shall have faith. I trust you all with my life. I proved that just now. What? Didn’t you Fellows notice that truck back there? Oh! You missed it then?" He laughed. "Thanks heaps." He guessed only the grimmest of warnings would have got him to act in time.
* * * * *
The closer he came to the doctor’s surgery, the more stressed Barnard became. His short-term memory might be playing up, but it was giving him long-term problems, especially with the ‘all-knowing’ medicos.
The aptly named Frank Forthright got in first, "Jesus Christ, man! You’re bloody well back again. There’s a room full of sick people out there and you’re wasting my time. What’s wrong now?"
Forthright was great at bringing to the fore the very worst of Barnard’s deep-seated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The rookie opened his mouth to tell the doctor about having strayed too far from his cold water drum. He needed to explain about the sudden attack and his losing consciousness for a time. Forthright needed to know that colorful visual disturbances gave him just minutes’ notice of a major fit. But the ‘data storage department’ of George’s brain had suddenly closed its shutters. Soon he would be on his way home, deeply distressed, probably not even remembering where he had been.
"Something is wrong," Barnard tried.
"Something is wrong!" Forthright echoed. "Why don’t you give up smoking, George? You’ll feel a whole lot better."
"Forget the cigarettes, Frank. Something is wrong with my brain. It must be. It stubbornly refuses to do what it used to do on..."
"Nothing wrong with your brain," Forthright chipped in, "It’s your mind, George. Face it. You are emotionally disturbed. Face it, and you’ll heal."
A tear had sprung into Barnard’s eye. He was thinking, I fight. I lose. I all ways lose. At least, here I do.
"What are you crying for, George?" the doctor wanted to know.
"Nothing." Barnard shrugged. "I don’t feel sad." Already the frustration of being re-branded a ‘nutcase’ by this outspoken medical man had blinked from memory.
"Listen to me, Barnard, and listen good. I know you have some court cases coming up. Give them a miss! Get on with your life. Those lawyers will only take your money and do nothing for you."
"I got hurt, Frank. My left arm is almost completely numb... I’m so confused... But it is not a constant. So much pain... Mostly my work goes down the..."
"You are a high-flying company troubleshooter. A perfectionist, who’s been knocked off his little perch, and you can’t take it. You’re not used to handling failure, because you never failed before. You’re mentally disturbed, Barnard."
There was a flash. Just for a moment in time. ‘Dissociative Reaction.’ Yeah, the rookie agreed. That’s what I thought was on his mind. I got that, too.
"There’s more psychology in my numb little pinky than you ever learned from seven lousy pages in your med school curriculum," Barnard told him. "Seriously, Frank, I leave you in the dust on that subject. I keep telling you, it’s not a software failure of my mind, it’s a hardware failure of my brain. That poor illiterate slob who attacked me scrambled my brains. He hurt me, Frank."
Forthright had had enough of his patient’s cheek. "I don’t relate to computers like you do. I refuse to refer to my patients’ brains and minds in term of hardware and software, you hot-headed European import. You have court cases coming up. I will not support you through your upcoming ordeals unless you go psychiatry way."
A heavy arm-twist, Barnard was thinking. Flaming blackmail, more like it! He stood and headed for the door. "Frank, the way you refuse to listen to your patients will ensure that not ever in this present life you will be chosen to become a Graduate of the Great Master’s Golden Flame."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" Forthright demanded to know, then he added, "You are crazy, George!"
"You’ll never know, Frank."
"Come on, you can tell me what a Graduate of the Great Master’s Golden Flame can do," Forthright insisted.
"He’ll read your mind, and know you’re thinking ‘Dissociative Reaction’, and he’ll also know you’ve got it wrong. Knows he needs an anti-convulsive. Urgent!"
It was probably both anger and surprise, tinged with some apprehension that took the color out of Frank Forthright’s face. Probably more anger than anything else. The good doctor had nothing more to say.
"You’re a slow-learner, Frank," said the doctor’s ‘Dissociative Reaction case’ as he walked out of the place for good.
"Saying things like that," Barnard informed the Spirit Guardians, "is what can get people their necks broken, you know. So... let this be a lesson to you all."
And... presumption... who relates to computers? he queried. Not me.
Do not unto others, Frankie.
* * * * *
Jodi Barnard took the loss of their family doctor a lot more seriously than George Mathieu ever did. That evening, the couple had an almighty row about Barnard’s behavior. And this, with both children at home from their colleges. But George stuck to his guns. He would finally go and find another GP, one with an open mind.
Forthright had acted in a most unethical way in threatening to withhold his support if Barnard’s court cases went ahead. Forthright had long been the Stoddards’ family doctor, and Charles Mead had also visited his surgery, either once or twice. It was an unsavory situation for the rookie to be in. The doctor’s behavior at least smacked a little of coercion. Small country towns...
Much better news came the following morning — early the following morning. In fact, it was precisely twelve minutes after midnight when George Mathieu suddenly awoke, looked at the clock and grinned. Then he laughed, softly, so as not to awaken anyone. "That timber truck must have upset you too, Bzutu," the rookie suggested. "You’re now sixty minutes out of sync with the rest of your Mates." He so enjoyed pulling the Guardian’s leg. Ahbecetutu could wake him at any time if he needed George Mathieu to have another shot at him. "You, too, must have been traumatized by it all. You poor Guy."
Suddenly Barnard realized he had already been awakened at eleven minutes past eleven that evening. Then he realized the wake-up calls might have been going on for a long time. This 12.12 courtesy wake-up call had been there to make him aware of the earlier 11.11 call, and quickly, before the knowledge of it slipped away into that bottomless pit of short-term forgetfulness.
It seemed to take him only a split second to realize Ahbecetutu would have as many as twenty-four 11.11 stations around the globe and the 12.12 signal would not interfere with any of his tasks. It was sixty-one minutes away from 11.11, not sixty. And that one minute difference was plenty of time at the rate this speed-freak Spirit Guardian zapped around the globe.
"Why don’t you wreck my whole night for the fun of it, Bzutu," the mortal suggested. Give me a 1.01, 2.02 and the rest of it, right up to 8.08. Then I’ll sleep in, and you can hit it again at 9.09. After that, I’ll work out something that will really put us in touch around the clock. You watch me. I’m not quite as dense as I may appear to your beady Spirit eyes." Barnard gave a happy grunt, and was instantly fast asleep.
Strangely, there was no 3.03 courtesy wake-up call. The others were there from 1.01 to 7.07. And in the weeks that followed, the remainder were added to them.
All of them, except 3.03.
Other than to conclude the Guardians might be doing a lot of business in India, Bangladesh, and Russia, and could not possibly spare the time around 3.03 local time, Barnard had no idea what was wrong with it. It could also be North America, from Alaska down to Mexico, and then some more, that kept them flat to the boards.
It could also be their lunchtime, or something even better, the irreverent rookie surmised. How would I know what they get up to? It would take him years to find out why there was no 3.03. It would take him still many months to figure out how to use the clock in any way productive of inter-species communication.
He was actually slightly denser than he thought he was.

© 11:11 Progress Group.