“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(I’m writing these notes as though for a session, but I have no idea whether a session will develop. As I can note the next day, however, one did develop—so I’m skipping the typing of the sessions for November 8—the second one for that day—and November 9, in order to get right to work on this one. I think it has very important things for us to follow.

(Once again a crisis situation has come about. It’s now 8:30 PM. At about 7 PM, we were eating supper and watching Buck Rogers on TV, when Jane had another panic attack. This one was more extensive. It also took me a bit to realize that it was starting to show itself in the form of hallucinations or disorientation. Right after she’d finished eating, Jane began to ramble, talking about making impossible verbal rituals that she had to carry out before she could eat her ice cream for dessert. These periods were contrasted with examples of lucidity: “I’m going to make it,” although such periods were far in the minority compared to her ramblings about performing these rituals before she could perform any meaningful physical act like eating dessert. I cannot really explain what she said; it was too rapid and varied, and I had no notebook handy. She tried to make sense out of uncommon sense data. At one time Jane thought she was on the commode in the bedroom, and began to pull up her blouse. Another time she thought she was in her writing room while I did the dishes.

(8:35.) These feelings of panic beautifully illustrate several issues, and Ruburt will be able to handle them all right. Take a brief break.

(“All right. I don’t know what I mean by all right, but I think I’m ready.”

(9:14. “He’s right. I’ll try to.... I want to cry, but I need to get more comfortable.” I changed the pillow at her back, which helped. “I feel like screaming,” Jane said, “but it scares me....” I lit a cigarette for her. The moment had passed, I thought.

(“All right—what a relief,” she said at 9:34.

(“Where you are,” she said cryptically. I thought she might be getting ready to erupt, but instead she sat finally with her face almost down to the tabletop. Then: “I’m safe here in the chair, but I’ve got to get back over there somehow.” She meant leaning to her left. But she was very restless. “All right, I’ll see what I can do this time.... I do it every morning—I’ll try to do it now,” she said, restlessly shifting from side to side in the chair. More and more I was concerned about getting her off her ass and into bed, but I was afraid to mention it yet. I turned off the television’s sound.

(Yet, five minutes later she was objecting when, in answer to her question about whether I had any suggestions, I repeated my goal to get her into bed. “Yes, I’ve got something to suggest—that you get off your ass and give your poor, poor body a rest,” I said, with some heat. “You can’t abuse the house you live in like that—your feet and legs are terribly swollen. What gives you the right to do that to your body?”