“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

I do not really waken however but continue dreaming. I’m downtown in the same town, with this group again. One girl asks me if Chuck stayed til nine last night and I say yes. Then one girl, not of the group, is crying. I say something about poetry and she says, well you’d better talk fast because I’ve just about decided to stop writing poetry. She has light brown hair, rather dark circles under her eyes and is somewhat younger than I. I say that you can’t just decide consciously to give up writing poetry, you’d write it anyhow, though you could subconsciously make such a decision and never know about it at all. Then rather dramatically but beautifully I tell her that: “Poetry is your characteristic method of expression, your way of translating the data into physical reality and that even its rhythm is the rhythm of your heartbeat.” Tell her that she can’t give it up.

I run ahead of the other girl, and around her, really hunting her down, yelling again dramatically and accusingly: “I ask myself, where are all my friends who were going to write no matter what, to work no matter what happened. Where are they all and now I work alone?" I almost chanted this, and more that I’ve forgotten. (I don’t think she wanted to hear and that I was making her listen on purpose, for her own good.) She ran, cringing, to hide. Friends gathered about her. One said, she’s in bad shape, or badly off, words to that effect. You’ve made things worse. But I said, “No, you can’t save a part of her (and sacrifice part) you have to save the poetry too.” And she did seem better. Friends comforted her. I said to some of them, “Do you know how to work the pendulum?" As I said this I knew that they did before they answered, yes. “Then check it out," I said and they agreed.