“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

One woman, another follower, for Ruburt is the leader of this group, pushes a landscape of yours across the floor ahead of her—preserving, you see, your art as well as Ruburt’s. Finally one of the women objects strenuously and decides to stand up and show herself. [...]

[...] At the same time, she had a lot of material in mind from Seth—on the glass experience; a dream I’d had on August 1, in which I’d found her lying on the floor in the bathroom doorway; and a fairly strong earthquake that had struck south of San Francisco, California, this afternoon. [...]

From the parking lot I pointed out to our guests the windows of Apartment 5 as they marched along the side of 458 on the second floor. [...] Next comes the oversized bathroom with its stained glass window, tiled floor, and marble shower with eight nozzles. [...] It had been my studio, and I’d had to insulate the floor. [...]

[...] She’d felt as though she was out of her body some of the time, out on the first floor’s porch roof looking in at herself. [...]

[...] Jimmy (long deceased) was a kind and outgoing landlord and restaurateur who lived with his wife and three children on the second floor of the old converted horse barn and carriage house in back of the apartment house he owned at 458 West Water Street, where Jane and I lived. [...]

[...] Usually on class night, Tuesday, I was secluded in my studio at the back of our second-floor apartment, typing from my notes the session Jane had held for the two of us the night before; then I’d be caught up for the Wednesday-night session to come.

(While telling me this, Jane abruptly remembered that during part of the delivery she seemed to be standing beside the long, floor-to-ceiling bookcase that divides our living room from her workroom. [...]

(Long pause.) When you are dreaming you cannot pinpoint your dream location in the same way that you can determine, say, the chair or the bureau that may sit on the floor by the bed in which you dream. [...]

[...] This wasn’t her really strong voice by any means, yet it echoed from the living room walls; this effect I believe was accentuated because we had taken the rug up from the floor for the summer. [...]

[...] Throughout, her voice has been loud and strong, with an echoing quality engendered by our walls and the rugless floor.

[...] You use the minutes and the hours like a floor. You think they give you support, but the floor can become transparent if you simply look and keep your wits about you. [...]

[...] She is a retired, unmarried school teacher, 74 years old, who for the last fifteen years has lived in the front apartment on the second floor of our apartment house. We also live on the second floor. [...]

[...] I have mentioned before that some part of you knows exactly how much oxygen the lungs breathe, and how much energy it takes to pace a floor, and this is the part of you of which I spoke. [...]

[...] She stood in a room with bare wooden floor and, I believe, talked on a telephone [Rob’s dream of March 13, 1967].)

[...] “Look” I said, “no strings, no cards hidden within cards, no bag of tricks beside me on the floor.” [...]

[...] Getting up and down from the floor, as I knew it would, reawakened muscular memory, you see, and this in turn knocked at the door of his consciousness, jarring him into new recognitions. [...]

My mention of the tree in the kitchen was made because I happen to enjoy seeing it when Ruburt makes his twice-weekly journeys up and down the living room floor. [...]

[...] I hadn’t been home and he’d left a card on the porch floor; eventually I’d answered it. [...]

[...] Suffice it to note that I saw Peg and Bill living in squalor in a crude house on a barge or houseboat, with dirt floors, old furniture, and so forth. [...]

[...] I was afraid of making a fool of myself, but Rob dragged me out on the dance floor. [...]

[...] They stood up, walked across the floor, and disappeared in the crowd. [...]

[...] Your idea of progress is building bigger blocks, like children sitting upon the floor. [...]

[...] A glass of beer hit the floor. [...]

[...] At first David lived across the hall from us on the second floor. Eventually he moved downstairs when a larger apartment right beneath ours became available: Still later, Jane and I rented the apartment he’d had on the second floor, so that we ended up with two apartments, side by side; we needed more room by then, and didn’t want to move.

[...] Someone had lost our menu, made out yesterday; I suspect it happened right here on the third floor. [...]

[...] She’s also being moved to the first floor — Surgical 1. I have a toy unicorn I’ll be giving her tomorrow, along with a verse Jane wrote. [...]

(On February 17, 1964 our neighbor Miss Florence Callahan who lived in the front apartment on the same floor as Jane and I, was taken to the hospital suffering from arteriosclerosis. [...]