“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

A pun. It is as you know an extremely difficult topic because of the limits of your own conceptions. Philip may not be able to follow me too well, since he has not heard, nor read, any previous discussions on matter. But this again will not matter.

(This is but the beginning. Today I listened for the noise again but heard nothing. I then continued putting myself in a light trance, suggesting that my subconscious would give me an experiment that would prove the validity of clairvoyance, premonition or prediction for the chapter I was working on. I was thinking in terms of an experiment for the reader to try.

(As soon as I asked this, instantly, I heard the following: “What do you mean, neck? It’s a bad tongue that’s causing the trouble.”

(I then finished my self-induction. Some time later, it seems, I became aware that I was watching a youngish woman in a polka-dot dress, white dots on black or a dark color, climb up three or four back-porch steps and enter a house, with a screen door closing behind her. She might have been carrying something. At the foot of the steps stood a little girl looking up at her disappearing mother. [I do not know how I felt so sure this was mother and daughter.] The little girl, with brown long hair and some kind of short nondescript dress, stood with her back to me. I then heard her say very clearly, in a high-pitched little girl’s voice: “You got the ball? You got the ball?”

(I might add here that this is the first time I remember that while in the state I attempted to deliberately perform a physical act. I think I may have touched the ball; certainly my left hand was curved and grasping as though about to pick up such an object. I have no memory of the little girl’s reaction, or if she heard me. After turning on the bed, I did try to recapture the picture, and asked the girl a question about her name, to which I received no answer.

(Then again, later yet, I heard myself asking: “What’s your name, little girl?” This time a voice, it could have been my own, answered from offstage to my right: “I’m Bonnie Lou Ryerson.” “How old are you?” I asked. The same voice answered: “I’m seven years old.” I did not see anything this time. There was more, but I believe that by this time I was coming out of the desired state and was consciously connecting the name Ryerson with a local teacher by that name whom Jane sees occasionally in connection with the art gallery where she works. I do not know him, or whether he has children.