“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(Jane looked a bit more at ease when I got to 330. “Don’t touch me,” she said as she lay on her back watching the TV soap opera, The Young and the Restless, as she did every noontime. “I just want to lay here and let the Darvoset take effect …”

(I read her the session at 2:48. Jane was moaning and crying. She didn’t want to hear my notes for the session, or the poem she’d dictated yesterday. I thought it important that she hear the notes, but had no choice except to wait.

(“Okay for now,” Jane said.

(3:03. She was still teary, her voice often choked with emotion. She took the Darvoset to help calm her down. It was raining heavily, just as it had done periodically yesterday afternoon. Reading today’s session, so far, helped. Carla had said last night when she called that Jane was still doing the motions she’d begun yesterday. Now Jane told me a friend had visited earlier. When the motions had started up, Jane had asked her to leave, since she hadn’t wanted to do the motions in front of someone else.

(“Right now,” Jane said, “the fear seems to be that despite myself I’m going to die.”

(Jane had a cigarette. I told her it was important that I read her my notes for yesterday’s session, especially those pertaining to her mother. She finally agreed.

(3:14. I read the notes. Then I read the session for July 30 — at Jane’s request — the first in this series regarding her death, the end of The Way Toward Health, and so forth. I tried to put the situation in perspective: “You’re trying to excise your fears of your mother, which in turn led to your being afraid of the world and your own fears of death, ‘cause you carried your idea of protection from the world so far …”

(3:30. “A little more session,” Jane said. Her delivery was much calmer now.)

It may also be a good idea to read some portions of our late material over, substituting the name Jane rather than Ruburt. He is Jane to himself and to the universe and to you, and to his friends and his readers.

(“Okay,” Jane said at 3:40.

(We were talking at 3:45 when the phone rang. It was John Bumbalo. His father, Joe, had died at 2:00 p.m. John had just left the house, as Jane and I had left the rest home just before my mother died in November, 1973. Jane spoke to John, thanking him for looking after me. John told her I was “a wonderful man.” I felt a surge of emotion, half unbelieving, when she told me. Jane began to hum a song we both knew but couldn’t place — perhaps an aria from an Italian or Spanish opera. She said she thought it was connected to Joe somehow.

(I did no typing last night, but typed this session this morning after taking our cat, Billy, around the house on his morning jaunt. The phone rang at 10:25. It was Georgia. She put Jane on. “No big deal,” my wife said, “but I had a crappy night. Would you come down earlier and maybe eat lunch with me?”

(Georgia said she’d order me a cold ham plate, and Jane and I made arrangements that I’d get there at noon — earlier wasn’t necessary, she said. Jane wasn’t going to hydro this morning, and Georgia was starting to bathe her in bed.