“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

Afternoon: A strange moment suddenly comes; we’ve just finished lunch. Frank Longwell just went out back again, to finish working; the huge yellow back-hoe moves outside the kitchen window; the air suddenly turns dark; the sun disappears; an odd cast of light covers everything; stormy, evocative. A mourning dove makes its lonely lovely sound; Frank comes in to make a phone call—ordering concrete for later today; Rob is typing in another room, the FM radio station is playing a symphony; outside my side window the green leaves shimmer in the air; and again, everything seems synchronized in its own fashion; everything separate yet together. My head has its own rustlings inside, / shoulders are relaxing; drooping; / everything seems significant—waiting—yet happening at once... my neck feels heavy; Frank comes back into the kitchen for a cool drink... I’m getting very relaxed... too relaxed to type? Something—pressure in my head maybe keeps changing—the bottoms of my feet feel woozy; they throb gently; so does my neck; my breath deepens, ears feel funny—was going to walk around the house or do some other writing but for now at least I’ll have to go along with... whatever’s happening. It feels as if there were tides in my body, rising and falling... this all continues; I feel a twinge of guilt—Rob’s typing reminds me that I was to do my three hours—but this IS writing; cataloging body-mood changes; I want to sketch the men working—eyes, sinuses, ears and neck strongly “working.” Frank comes in for a pencil; the symphony reaches a crescendo... off and on my vision is excellent—sinus drain—

[...] I have a symphony on the radio; am typing James—which is so good—and feel peaceful. [...]

[...] Through your own particular focus, the consciousnesses of the natural world merged to form a synthesis in which, for example, symphonies can emerge. [...]

(Pause.) A musician writing a symphony, however, does not use all of the notes that are available to him. [...]

[...] As he falls asleep some night our grocer, Wilford, might suddenly hear the full strains of a symphony in his head, or instead catch a quick glimpse of a football player; or on the other hand one of the musicians in the symphony orchestra may suddenly find himself thinking about how difficult it would be to have a mistress and a wife at the same time.

When our Wilford dramatically cries out to his mistress: “I am afraid my wife will learn of our affair,” then the symphony playing on another station becomes melodramatic, and the sports program shows that a hero fumbles the football. [...]

[...] From your point of view you could not pick up the grocer’s escapades and the symphony, for instance, if both came through at 8 o’clock in the evening, without switching from one to the other: You would have to choose which program you wanted.

[...] Not that I am comparing myself with a symphony, far from it. [...]

[...] And if I am not to be compared to a symphony, Joseph, you must admit I do well with a figurative baton.

When I speak in terms of counterparts, then, or of reincarnational selves and probable selves, I am saying that in the true symphony of your being you are violins, oboes, cymbals, harps — in other words, you are a living instrument through which you play yourself. [...] You are the composer and the symphony. [...]

[...] The symphony is, probably, Jane’s and my favorite musical composition. [...]

[...] Its validity is dependent upon the other invisible snapshots not taken, even as the given notes that make up a symphony are important because of the implied notes not actually used.

[...] And if I am not to be compared to a symphony, Joseph, you must admit that I do well with a figurative baton.

(10:58.) “Sounds are aware of their own separateness, gloriously unique, yet each one merging into a symphony. [...]