“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Tuesday. Last night I had a very interesting, and at the same time almost a bothersome dream: I dreamed that while I was with Margaret and Joe Bumbalo and their son John, I discovered I was a latent homosexual. I don’t know how I found out. Margaret said something to me like, “There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” as all of us sat on a swing on their front porch. In the dream also were an Oriental-looking mother, not too old, with a nice-looking daughter who had beautiful slanting eyes and a very quiet demeanor. It was the kind of dream one returns to several times, and I assume I’ve forgotten portions of it. When I got up at 6:15, with the dream still on my mind, I thought at first that it might have reincarnational overtones, yet I didn’t really think so.

(Jane didn’t go to hydro this morning, since the tank broke down. I did meet Steve, the attendant who takes care of her in hydro. I’d seen him in the corridors often, and he’d seen me—but netiher of us had connected the other with Jane.

(At intervals all afternoon we could hear, even with the door to 330 shut, a woman called Louise call out endlessly, “Help me, help me, help me, help me, help me....” Over and over. I found her cries both fascinating and distracting, as I wondered what kind of mental mechanisms were responsible for her behavior. We’d heard yesterday that she was bothering many people on the floor. The voice seemed at times to be merely an automatic, unaware reaction to whatever obscure mental processes were going on within her mind or brain—vocal signals broadcast out into the world, perhaps without meaning to others but probably of significance to their originator on certain levels. I should have asked Seth to comment.

(Which reminds me that after she left us, Susie went next door to tease at Christina, but for some reason Christina didn’t respond with her own Russian mixture of unintelligible cries and pleadings for Georgia.

(This attitude also fit in with that which Joe had expressed to me during last fall’s World Series in baseball: Looking at the ballplayers with their long hair, mustaches and beards, Joe had asked me where the youth of America was. “You’re looking at it,” I told him. Joe had said it wasn’t right for young men to let themselves go that way. I don’t think he was aware of the humor of the whole situation. I’d described it to Jane at the time.