“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Like the last deleted session, this one is Jane’s own dictation, not Seth’s. She’d mentioned doing some yesterday, but it hadn’t worked out. “I don’t know what to talk about,” she said at 11:05 AM, “now that you’re here. Something on Rich Bed, or just generally about those feelings I had yesterday after reading your introduction for Dreams....” When I mentioned that she could dictate something for the intro she said she couldn’t—not without reading it again. I didn’t advise that, for yesterday morning she’d ended up very depressed after pursuing it right after breakfast. Her mood had been very despairing for most of the day. “It’s devastating, I guess,” she said about the intro.

(She added: “Now I don’t know whether the hospital experience was worth it or not.” We agreed her energy wasn’t any better than it had seemed before she went in, but at least Dr. Kardon’s treatment was supposed to be in the process of remedying that. [Dr. K is to see us tomorrow, to take blood for a thyroid test that may signal that it’s okay to raise the amount of supplement Jane is now getting.]

(“And your hearing is better than it’s been for what—years?” I continued. Jane agreed. “Yes—I can hear the birds now. Last year I started wondering where all the birds had gone.” “And you’ve had the whole hospital experience to use in the years ahead in your work,” I said. “Creatively. You’ve learned a lot about another way of life, met a lot of people: you’ve got a much wider base now from which to work....”

(11:12 AM.) Last night (Jane said) I felt great when Robbie kissed me, and actually I slept quite well, both in my chair and bed. I felt fairly hopeful this morning, for example, yet now I feel quite sad again (with a tremolo), and I feel as if I want to express myself—but when I try there is some strange block.

I guess I really want to cry. (Long pause.) Maybe its actually when I feel most ambitious that I begin to feel most helpless, since I began to realize how little I’m actually doing. Just to look through a notebook is quite uncomfortable for me. I wonder if I could work with small ink sketches at all now. I could at least give that a try.

I guess I thought that I’d keep up some level of communication if I talked as I am now, and Robbie took the words down. Come to think of it, I did feel fairly hopeful this morning for brief snatches. I was going to record some memories that suddenly came to me yesterday morning. Of the last few months or so I spent at my mother’s house—when she called me time after time during those spring and summer months of 1950: she wanted her pillows turned, she cried out in rage and pain—and here I was some 30 years later, calling out to Rob (voice breaking) to move my pillows or raise my head.

She had some jumbled psychic abilities, I suppose. She was great for reading tea leaves now and then, and I used to think how strange it was that she could do that yet couldn’t walk. She told me that sometime she walked in the night, and that some night she’d turn on the gas jets and kill us both. I really don’t know if it’s such a good idea to go over such memories or not, but since they came to mind I decided finally to have Rob write them down for me.