“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

These particular events began Friday though now Monday afternoon I’ve nearly forgotten what Friday was really like. I do recall being awakened by Rob later Friday than usual. He told me that Prentice had called about a radio-phone show and that I was to return the call. I was aware of some dismay. I didn’t want to be bothered; now that I’d recently agreed to do some such shows, everyone it seemed would start calling. Resolutely I replaced the issue in my mind by trying to compose a limerick....

I think it was that late morning that Margaret, our neighbor, dropped in late morning to tell us she and Joe would be heading for their cottage, but somewhere I got it in my head that it would be one of those summer weekends when people prowled around—found excuses to go to malls or visit strange towns or just wander the streets or through public buildings—or visit here, if there were any fans in the nearby locality.

I hemmed and hawed, decided after talking with Rob that I really didn’t want to do any shows at all, so I wrote one letter so informing Prentice. In the meantime I was impatiently waiting Frank Longwell who promised the Tuesday earlier that he’d be here before Sunday with the final plans for extending the living room. He never came.

The phone rang, though. Peg G. from the Star Gazette called; there was a fan from South Africa, just in town from NYC to see me. He was right there waiting, would I talk to him at least—on the phone? My whole arm hurt as I picked up the receiver.... I’d been right about people prowling around all right!

Peg told me he was in his forties; he told her he’d written me but probably left before I could answer the letter. I felt defensive and guilty; he was trying emotional blackmail, and I didn’t want to see him. But I thought of him, a stranger, in the newspaper office of a strange town....

“Hello,” I said when he came to the phone, and his voice was dull and flat, full of self pity; he was sure I wouldn’t see him. And instead of rousing sympathy in me his downcast mood had the opposite effect; I don’t care if you came from Timbuktu by refugee ship, I thought. His call reminded me finally of his letter and my response that I wouldn’t be able to see him during his trip. I said some usual polite things in a usual polite voice and that was that. The next day I learned from Peg that he’d come by bus, had to stay the night, didn’t have much money—his reality, I reminded myself firmly, not mine. Still, vaguely uneasy I called off a half-planned evening of company with friends—luckily before I’d actually invited them, and we had a Seth session instead, still another in an effort to get me out of my own physical problems. This one was at Rob’s suggestion.

Most of the material disappeared instantly, like some dreams, but I did remember that Seth told me to stress pleasure over responsibility and that thought was in my mind as I fell to sleep Friday PM.

Sunday AM it was nearly raining. Rob fixed my hair. Still no Frank Longwell, but that afternoon I suddenly wrote one poem and began another that fascinated me. Was it somehow already translated Sumari? Connected with the Speakers Manuscript, maybe with some other material I’d been getting lately? And I kept scribbling The Pleasure Principle in my small notebook. What did that mean? In the bedroom for a nap I did another verse of the poem and suddenly understood that physically I’d gotten in the habit of identifying myself with pain instead of pleasure. So obvious once I realized it, but the insight made several issues clear at once.