“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Jane ate a good lunch. A nurse’s aide brought us a copy of the regular menu, compared to the one for soft foods that Jane has always used, and we discovered that there isn’t all that much difference between the two.

(“You know why?” I asked her. “Because you’re going to do all the work on the book. When you get home, so start getting ready. I’ve always known you were going to do the book. I’ll do an intro if you want, and you can too, or you-know-who can also — but you’re going to be the one who does that book.”

The past, and every moment of the past, are being constantly changed from the operation point of the present. In your terms, the present becomes the past, which is again changed at every considerable point from the latest-present — you may put a hyphen between the last two words, so that the meaning is clear. Yet through all of this immense, continuous creation, there is always a personal sense of continuity: You never really lose your way in the distance between one moment and the next —

(3:43. One of the nurses popped in on her way home to tell us that Georgia Cecce had just been admitted to the hospital — “Down the hall, in room 307.” We’ve known Georgia, Jane’s favorite nurse, ever since my wife entered the hospital in April, 1983.

(Long pause.) Karina has that same kind of orientation. At this point in her life, she has actually refused to concentrate upon languages, which would tend to tie her more tightly to the details of the world. (Long pause, one of many.) She does “return to the past,” remaking it more to her liking. Her latest-present is beginning to show signs of a deterioration. She wants a turning-off point from which to construct other realities, so it is not so much that the latest-present is deteriorating as much as the fact that she is purposely letting her attention wander, and allowing the latest-presents (with the hyphen) to diminish in strength and vitality. She will of course construct a new form from which to operate.

(4:32 p.m. Jane had a cigarette. Yesterday had been one of Karina’s bad days — her worst, in fact, as far as we could tell. She’d cried out unintelligible words steadily all afternoon, until finally her voice had begun to falter and crack by supper time. It had been more than a little disturbing. At the time I’d wondered if she was on the downgrade, for I didn’t remember her calling out so steadily in weeks past. I’d thought her driving herself until she was hoarse was a late — or last — confrontation with a world that she might soon be leaving …)