“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

Then I was in an elevator car inside the building, and rising toward the house on the roof. Jane wasn’t with me. Another, older lady was having trouble repairing a small mechanism that was fastened to the wall beside the car’s door. I offered to fix it for her; this involved my turning some large screws into place by hand. While I was doing so, the elevator stopped at a floor and the door opened. The lady left, and I hurriedly inserted the last few screws while the door stayed open. Just as I finished — or perhaps nearly so — the door began to close. I leaped toward it. I wedged my shoulder between the door and its frame and forced the door open enough so that I could squeeze out into a hallway of the hospital. The door shut behind me.

[...] If Ruburt had his way, something would shield you both from the door, also, when you are eating. [...] (As when someone comes to the door at mealtime.) Any corner working place pleases him because it provides for the collection of psychic energy and serves as protection.

[...] Seth suggested that we shield the door to the hallway with a room divider.

A barricade in front of the door is not necessary. Afterwards, as we sat discussing the suggestions, he said, I do not want Ruburt’s energies soaked up in trying to fight these needs. [...]

[...] Rob stacked some bookcases, bought vertical dowels for the top, and arranged the whole affair in front of the door so that we had an inside entry hall. [...]

[...] Miss Cunningham’s apartment door became a stimulus to my constant questions. [...]

“Mrs. Butts, Mrs. Butts,” she’d call, and when I answered my door, she’d say, “Come, see. [...]

[...] I suggested that we open her mail together each day, but then she still insisted that the letters came — slid beneath the door — and, of course, she always misplaced them or lost them. [...]

Then the screen door opened. [...]

[...] We locked the door and closed the blinds but always left the lights on for the sessions. [...]

“Three doors away.”

“She … she lived three doors down the street, in a dark front room. [...]

[...] It was like a sudden opening of a door. [...]

[...] Actually you opened the door out of desire, stimulated by our sessions and out of curiosity, but you were still frightened.

Your feeling of a door or funnel is quite legitimate, however, and if you felt attacked because of the onrush of data that seemed to crash down upon you, it was only because of your inability to control the volume, so to speak. [...]

[...] I hoped the feeling would somehow turn into sound or images, but it didn’t. At least I felt that I hadn’t slammed any ‘interior door’ shut.

While I sleep and lie stretched out,
Eyelids closed and pupils dark,
Who walks wide-eyed downstairs
Through the door in the cold night air,
And travels where I have never been?
Who leaves clear memories in my head
Of people I have never met?
Who takes these trips while I
Never lift one inch from bed?
Who dreams?