“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

October 10, 1984. Both of us had jobs at the large hospital in my home town of Sayre, Pa., eighteen miles southeast of Elmira, N.Y. The setting and the buildings weren’t like those of the “real” hospital in Sayre, though. It was a gorgeous summer day. Jane was much younger than she’d been when she died at the age of fifty-five. She still had her long jet-black hair, slim active figure and exuberant personality. I could have been my own age, sixty-five. We relaxed upon a large, sloping, very green lawn beside a brick hospital building that was several stories high. Then with great surprise I saw that on top of the near end of the building there sat an old, flat-sided, two-story house with steep roofs, weathered a drab gray and with all of its windows shuttered. Caught in one shutter was a filmy pink garment like a negligee, fluttering in the breeze. Curiously, Jane and I stared up at the house perched so incongruously there, and we talked about trying to get up into it to see what it was like inside.

Again, now think in terms of your plane, bounded by its small spindly set of wires, and my plane on the other side. These, as I have said, have also boundless solidarity and depth, yet in usual terms, to one side the other is transparent. [...]

[...] Your plane could be likened to a small position between four very spindly and thin wires, and my plane could be likened to the small position in the neighboring wires on the other side.

Not only are we on different sides of the same wires, but we are at the same time either above or below, according to your viewpoint. [...]

First I looked at various objects in the living room, such as a vase, a painting on the wall, a plant, and so forth, and tried to let my mind’s eye travel around these objects so that I could clearly picture the far side of them.

[...] Finally I tried to reach out and envelop the feeling of the houses and trees on either side of me — to sense them as if by inner touch, as I passed each one by.

[...] It is so one-sided. [...]

[...] Quite unknowingly, I set one side of myself — the intellectual — as a watchdog against the intuitive portions of the self. [...]

[...] “I used to move from a side bedroom to a front one whenever the mood hit me. [...]