“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

Last night, at Rob’s suggestion, I looked over my notebook of sinful-self stuff with related material, hoping of course that it might trigger some important impetus or clue that would give me insight into my own position.

In any case, she wanted Dr. Sobel to look me over Friday (tomorrow at 2:45 pm). Then we were to get together when the blood tests results came, to discuss treatment, even if the vasculitis showed no further appearance, she disclaimed, it very well could invisibly attack the body, affecting internal organs in the most disastrous fashion. So taking a drug to prevent such a future development seemed the better side of wisdom to her—but not to me, not to Rob. How could my body have gotten so bad again in one fucking week—or had it? My fingers had been red before, though never that blue, when I’d been typing, and the condition vanished. But all of a sudden my physical condition did seem horrendous, and I looked at her kindly concerned face, I’m sure, with appalling dismay.

The material did have impact, though. Though—I could feel it again. I read almost all of it. On the topside the reasons for my position and physical condition seemed so dumb that it was hard to believe they did have that much impetus. They made less sense to Rob, who I felt found them utterly without reason.

(9:44.) That summer also seemed to be a time of crisis, as Rob pressed me, it certainly seemed to me, to seek medical attention. I’d gained a reprieve, but the reprieve didn’t gain positive results. As I read the notes I began to see some sense in the hospital situation. I must have gotten to the point where I thought, “Okay, if you’re afraid to trust yourself completely, and your own life, let’s take a taste of what it’s like to have no other place to turn but the world of conventional medicine and beliefs.” And my God, talk about fatal flaws! I’m not denying that such a framework has its good points, but the overall picture is really far worse than I’d imagined.

It’s Friday morning now as Rob writes down these notes for me. It was a week ago yesterday that the finger suddenly turned so dark—nearly black —and I realized something else: the condition with the finger had happened as I explained to Peggy Gallagher how Rob and I had trusted our lives to our intuitions in the flood of ‘72. Peggy was going to use some of the material for a newspaper anniversary article. In that case I had trusted myself—not for example taking tetanus shots, though early radio medical advice insisted upon the shots as an emergency procedure.

I guess I feel now that anything that one can do to better the situation in the world is bound to help, where before I wanted everything completed ahead of time in some fashion. So I do feel a new kind of inner motion, and of course I’m grateful to Rob for writing these notes down for me.