“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

His present mother was a wife to him when he was overly aggressive, and he chose to be born as her son in this existence in order to pay an old debt. He was unkind to her when she was a wife to him, and here we run into another case where the subconscious knows what it knows.

Sometimes you read me correctly. Mark was one of your children in the existence of which I have spoken. One of Mark’s present brothers was a son of Mark’s when he was a woman in Iowa.

I suggest that you take your break; and again, by all means, let me complicate matters further by commenting on the fact that Mark himself knew you, Joseph, twice before, and perhaps you will recall my comments upon your relationship with your son’s mistresses in Denmark.

You, Joseph, were the pudgy, hairy-chested and lecherous landowner, and the town was Triev. Your son was an artist, and certainly prances up and down now in the person of your Ruburt; and at the time you had no understanding nor use for art as any man’s profession; and let it be said that in this respect Ruburt treats you much better than you treated him.

Nevertheless, in a barn one October evening, a sailor came drunkenly tip-toeing from the fields, Mark being our tipsy sailor. He expected to find his fair damsel there in your son’s arms, and he was quite prepared, having a knife in his belt. He heard the girl’s nervous titter—

—she was a numbskull, hardly worth your notice, and he came rushing in, to find what? Not his contemporary, your son, but a barrel-chested, white-haired and lecherous, lustful old geezer—

You, Joseph, dropped your pretty parcel; this is for the record, so I shan’t note the position in which you had her so tenderly enfolded. There was no light in the barn. Our friend Mark let out a bellowing shriek. You thought the intruder was your son, since the girl was one of his mistresses. In a truly laughable attempt to elicit your son’s sympathy you literally wept in your beard.

You told me this story the next morning when both young men showed up with black eyes, and Mark with a broken wrist. But Mark, out of the goodness of his heart, never told your son who he found first in the barn, and of such small but tasty incidents is the history of the race composed.