“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(No sooner had we started than Bill Tolbert showed up to start mowing the grass and using his trimmer, which is even noisier than the mower, but Jane persevered after I shut doors and windows, depending on where Bill was working outside. Then Mrs. Austin called about delivering the washing. But all in all this material is good.

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.

Though I haven’t explored this idea yet at all in depth, I got a feeling that by the time I’d finished Mass Events and my God of Jane I’d come to a point of indecision and perhaps certainly some despondency because I had not resolved the issues. My concentration upon the mail had led me to consider more and more the negative aspects of man’s condition. I think it seemed that I could go no further, that I lacked whatever it was that I needed.

Are you going to trust this or that, or a combination of both? In any case I could see how important our ideas were, and how much they were needed—and I hope I began to feel that indeed I could trust my own life when it came down to it, when a choice should be made (all emphatically).

(9:53.) The finger must have darkened as we talked. I probably didn’t want to write any more. I feared I’d lost all inspiration—that 20 years of answers weren’t enough. And that perhaps my life had no place to go if that were the case.

(Very important material all through here....)

I don’t mean to be too hard on myself, either. To be told that you might have a brain tumor, or multiple sclerosis one week, as I was in my early days at the hospital, then be told that I would most probably never be able to put my weight on my feet again without a possible series of long operations. To be told my hearing might possibly be gone for good, or that I might need an instant operation to avoid losing a finger, to be told that it was certainly possible I could lose fingers and toes—all of those suggestions and ideas, with their implications, were hard to take, and in many ways I handled them well.

In spite of all, I feel that my legs are more active, even though I don’t get around any better, and I’m hoping of course that this material itself will help spark further understanding.