“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(We searched the glove compartment of the car for paper and a pencil or pen, so that Jane could make notes about some of her perceptual changes — but to my amazement we could find nothing to use in spite of our efforts to keep writing tools in that very place. [...] So, while I busied myself in the familiar market next door, she sat in the car writing — looking quite ordinary, a small black-haired woman with her head bent forward…. [...]

(“Watch it when we go out to the car,” I joked. [...]

[...] A bit later I plan to quote from her own notes some of the details of her transcendent perceptions; but by the time I’d secured the typewriter, then driven over to the supermarket at Langdon Plaza, she didn’t think she could get out of the car. [...]

[...] Each person who passes the car is more than three-dimensional, super-real in this time, but part of a ‘model’ of a greater self … and each person’s reality is obviously and clearly more than three-dimensional. [...]

Also, unfortunately, the “My fair lady” connection… The lights, a tunnel… He intended to travel by car. Did so, part way through the tunnel, but then he parked the car and went by subway.

It seems some connection with cars or transportation. [...]

(“It seems some connection with cars or transportation.” [...]

[...] In any traveling Wendell might have done from his home in Edgewater, NJ, to New York City, trains and cars could very well have been involved.

[...] You were afraid that you were doing everything backward—specifically with “Unknown” Reality, and that the affair would be a disaster—or the car would crash.

[...] Instead, you discover the car does not crash—and not only that, but your father is much more vigorous at the end of the dream than he was in the beginning. [...]

[...] The car, which was the vehicle of expression, would not crash. [...]

[...] The branch did not hit any cars, people, etc. [...]

[...] I not only owned the station which serviced cars, but did the actual work; my clothes were worn and greasy. [...]

[...] I was getting out of a car, with a man, and we were on our way toward a house in which a healer or physician lived. [...]

[...] Then I saw myself wheeling a tire alongside our blue car. The car was parked at the side of the road. [...] I was on the left side of the car, pointing toward the front. [...]

[...] It was held up by a car making a turn beneath the traffic light, and so it paused there with siren screaming until the car moved out of the way. [...]

[...] shudders, like a car trying to start; particularly something trying to drop or extend or lengthen in the right side of my neck between head and shoulders; and my sinus drain / with this, a willingness more to walk, difficult to describe; and I feel LIGHTER ON MY FEET; though I don’t weigh much when I walk I feel very heavy... [...]

(There was no black car connected with her during the stay in Asheville, Lorraine said. But she owned a black car in 1960, while living in Elmira, several years before we met her. This is the only black car she has had, or been closely associated with. [...]

[...] But there is a connection with a car, perhaps a black one. [...]

(Our cat Willy was injured, evidently by a car, a week ago. [...]

(Then, I was directly above a parked car, an older type of sedan with a rounded gray roof. Looking down upon this car, I saw a wiry youngish man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows; hurriedly, he was circling the car, going all around it and peering into the windows. I could not see if the car was on a highway, in a driveway, or where.

[...] He pointed at the car; I could not see into the windows.

“You might dream of going away on a long trip by car, only to find that a tire blew when you were driving too fast. [...]

‘My bursting out of the elevator car, which was lifting me toward the house on the roof of the hospital building, and a new reality, is a close thing as I force my way free. I’m delayed by fixing the mechanism; repairing it means I still have things to do on the earth, as does the lady who was with me in the car. My almost waiting too long to get out of the car also stands for my grief for Jane, and for my intense questioning and speculating about ‘where she is’ now. [...]

‘It was a warm starlit night,’ I later wrote to a friend, ‘just beautiful, and as I got out of the car and looked up into that depthless sky I felt Jane right there, above the car. [...]

Then I was in an elevator car inside the building, and rising toward the house on the roof. [...] Another, older lady was having trouble repairing a small mechanism that was fastened to the wall beside the car’s door. [...]

The stranger who bent his head to our car window was Rob. Ed had recognized my husband’s car and followed us, asking us to go to his house to meet his new work partner, Rob, when I was finished visiting with my mother.

Spring night; my first husband and I just pulled up in front of my mother’s house; the rushing sounds of a car pulling in ahead of us. [...]

The “victim car”—or rather its inhabitants, and the driver of the “killer car” had alike reached out into probabilities, seeking circumstances that would in fact occur. [...]

[...] This does not mean that they arose often to the conventional conscious mind, yet even then there were fairly frequent-enough thoughts, for example: What will happen if I hit another car when I’m driving? [...]

[...] We walked toward our car. [...]

[...] Callista’s husband Buff was killed in a car accident in southern Pennsylvania a few months ago; Jane had a vivid dream giving many details of this event the evening before it happened, although we hadn’t seen the Buffalins for some time previously. [...]

[...] I do not believe Bill Macdonnel was injured, but he was either responsible for the accident or it was his car and the woman with whom he is involved. [...]

[...] Since their home is in the country, and not even close to any other house, the car couldn’t be connected to anyone outside the Colucci family. And of course it was not the dentist’s car, which we are familiar with. [...] When Marie’s father died of a heart attack in NJ, Marie drove her mother back to Jersey in the parental car, then returned to Elmira herself by train.)

[...] And a secondary connection with a car—not close, not a close connection—in which your parents traveled on that occasion.

[...] There were two cars lined up in the driveway. Without intending to, Laurel and Debbie became separated from the rest of us as they stood in back of the car nearest the road, while Winter, Jim, Theresa and I were clustered near the front of the other car as it was pointed toward the house. [...]

[...] We had crawled halfway along the avenue, between its dim corner streetlights, when my car’s headlights brushed over a shadowy feminine figure walking in our direction. [...] Yes, it was Jane Zeh, expressing surprise in a clear musical voice at such a “chance” meeting as she came even with the car. [...]

[...] We met our guests at the Inn the next morning, and the six of us drove in our three cars to a nearby country restaurant for breakfast. Then, with Laurel driving and our friends’ cars following, we traveled up a steep and winding hill just outside the city to not only a fine view but to Quarry Farm, an old-fashioned but large and elegant wooden homestead where Mark Twain had done some of his finest writing. [...]

[...] When we went food shopping, for example, she would sit in the car in the parking lot, perhaps reading, while I pushed the grocery cart up and down the aisles. [...]

[...] Before me was a very large parking lot, full of cars. [...]

[...] The scene reminded me of Clute’s used-car lot here in Elmira, but was not it.

[...] She called to me from a car making a left turn off the Walnut Street bridge, by Water St. Jane & I were standing on the lawn by our apartment house. [...]