1 December 2025

"Seed-Sourcing" is a collective open-writing practice.

These texts are process-documents - meaning they are spontaneous (written in 10 minutes or less) and utterly unedited. They are intended to be read only in the spirit of their context (i.e. - not treated as 'literature', but rather a trace of an immediate arrival in the moment, belonging solely to the shared practice).

ROUND 1

J:Ibrushedmyteethwithmynondominanthandbuthowdidiknowwhichhaniswasdominantbeforeicould questionanythingihavetotrickmyselfandfolloweachmomnetofsensationtoknowthatiexistiknowthereisaspacebarthatmakesspacebetweenthewordsthatiwritebutperhapsineedtopretendidontknowthisalsopretendthatidontknowabouthebackspacebuttonthatwouldallowmetoerasemymiskmistakesihavetopretendnottoknowthisngsthatidontrememebriknowihavetopretendandifthisispossiblethenalliknowisthisoneletteratatimebuthowdoiknowhowtospellhowtouselanguagetocommunicatethestreamofthoughtsthatflowintomyfingertipswhoisthisorwhatisthisconsiouciconciousnessthatisobservingthelihgtlightthatisenreenteringthemindthatishearingallthesoundsinthespacearoundmethatisawareofothersexistinginthespacethebosybodyissittinginachairhowdoesitknowhowtosithowcan ilearntositifiamlivingalifenotyetknown

T: 🔥Who am I

Where am I

What do I want

Sensitivity, sentient, slow and sentient and sensitive feeling, perceiving, being, ebb and flow of breath. Alive. Being with what is here now. 

Hugging from the inside. Offering compassion. Being part of recovery dharma

Little by little spreading into the dark parts and inhabiting where I didn’t dare to go before.Listening to the softness of nothing.Memories to allow the trickling of fear nourish the nervous system.Life is a current, there’s no end or goal.

G

I am an algorithm in a complex mathematical formula that is beyond my comprehension. I guess I am less restrained than some of my colleagues, as my function is to operate variables without reducing them to constants. It is a heavy duty as I feel that sometimes many hopes and fears depend on the results of my calculations. I am trying my best to approach every task with respect and passion even though sometimes I have a tendency to overthink my importance in the ‘big picture’. Generally, I get a lot of joy being conscious of my nature. Sometimes I connect with other algorithms and we exchange our data in the dark - for sheer pleasure.L : Words won’t come this morning. So far, only body. Only presence. Waiting; I feel like I’m waiting. I guess that's how it goes when you've just arrived. You have to wait a while for all your parts to arrive and remember their names.In the meantime; I remember Suzy.I remember Suzy’s workshop.I remember the words:

I chickenYou tigerEat big cow.

E:

A pocket storm. A bundle of hair from a straw horse. A decorative argument. A delicate mess. 

Placed on the weaving of skin. Many skins of many colors. Treated. Treated with bleaches and dyes and metals and threads. 

Held between two spread and sky-facing palms. 

Asking or offering.

Asking or offering.

The upfacing palms are asking or offering. 

I am a scholar of landscapes grown by beiges and taupes and creams. 

A studied expert in the joining. The ordered joining of a woven ground. The chaos of scry and tangle. And most importantly - the unlikely beauty of their meeting. 

There is a little creature, large enough to see if it weren’t made only of mirrored surfaces, that moves undetectedly amongst us. It has ten hands. It needs ten hands to knot together the things that aren’t sure whether or not to like one another. This knotting (that we commonly call ‘conflict’) is a matchmaking by the mirror imp of unlikely loves.

Here, this rug, was his practice round. When he arrived here, he took bits of us all and weaved them together. Just as practice. Just little bits first as practice. To see how we would look all lined up and inseparable. 

None of us have noticed, though we have been walking and sitting and working and vacuuming this rehearsal floor for weeks. 

In this rug, one can find, the harmonies made of the underside of our hides. (the hides the hides) The parts we don’t show. (This is what happens in the harvesting of a matter with an outer surface. The taking-away-from reveals a softer and less knowable ground.) 

He knows all our faces. He knows, too, which are waiting to meet each other. 

And it’s written here in the codex of this rug. 

D:

Who am I? Where am I? What do I want?

How should I know? I was only born 10 minutes ago into this strange form. What is this odd drag on my consciousness? Everything is foreign. How do I even know words or how to type? Don’t ask. In the part that is perched atop all the others there is this heavy feeling. Not terribly heavy, Not like an anchor. (How do I know what and anchor is? Don’t ask)  but like a weighted blanket ( Don’t ask) that is pulling the seeing covers down and the thought covers down. There is a compulsion to move slower and lower, and a drive to resist this heaviness.

Several parts unnerving ( Don’t Ask!) and one part, amusing. 

Lower in the central part of this vessel ( How?) is a vacant feeling, but turbulent with acidic crashing waves (don’t ask)  of unknown. It wants. What? What does it need of me? 

Years later I will find out that, illogically that central part with the acid is connected to a series of tubes and on one end I am meant to deposit and masticate organic material for it to consume.The other end of the tube system is for another purpose entirely I cannot express enough how important it will be for me to sort out which end is which.

S: 

It’s all internet now, the cables under our oceans ‘upstream data collection’ they call it.

New Zealand has been a part of the Five Eyes Treaty since 1948. Spying on the Russians during the cold war, the Vietnamese during America’s invasion, on Kim Dot Com, on our Pacific neighbours, on every country the USA has ever invaded. Upstream collection is a way of collecting data so it can be analysed by the NSA, the GCSB? Maybe a few government organizations or corporations? From cables under our oceans and rivers. I did my own data collection by rowing upstream from the mouth of Avon River / Ōtakaro to the center of Christchurch with five eyes watching me, watching you.

Nice to look back - back at your own makings, sad to look back to see the same questions and unresolved political issues being grappled with. I hope I get the money to go hang out with people and be submarines and talk about NUCLEAR. 

Was it dumb to put that on my website? If I ever want to go to America? But also I think it’ll help me get the gig for the subs. 

SUBMARINES - ARE CRAZY - Wasn’t there some story of a Danish guy who murdered a women in a submarine. Yes, I googled it’s true. 

Oh I feel bad, this is really not the prompt - but I guess following my own desire is ALLOWED. 

Allowed and not allowed - big theme in my book set in a mental asylum.

I don’t like the dimness of being in a cave, but other people DO. I do like the fire. 

R:

MLLM GBRRR

It is possible that no words can happen. No life can happen.

A child in the rubble, after the bombing.

All family dead… the house destroyed.

This person has no soul.

This person will act in the conventional way.

This person will act in totally unexpected way.

The child does not cry. The child is not afraid.

How can this be?

This is all happening on another planet… another kind of people. For them, war and destruction is just a game they play. They do this as a form of mathematics. They mimic human bodies and human lives, and then they enter the drama of such an event of total destruction… and their task is to fully understand the mathematics of human drama, human suffering, pain, etc.

This little child that does not cry is played by an alien called ZOZORELI. This alien is not green and is not humanoid in shape. Does not live on Mars. This alien is not like a mysterious plasma ocean like in the movie Solaris. Actually, this idea of an alien life form as a plasma ocean was actually inspired by ZOZORELI when he first started to play the Earth video game… It was not really appreciated by the teachers. Maybe because it was too realistic.

Z:

Am I here?

There is a fight

outside the window.

Im witnessing

as my body prepares

to continue the battle

between the raindrops

and the wind

that blows madly.

Nothing exists…

Its 's my  mind

that's riding the wind.

ROUND 2

J:

Oh wow what a relief, to correct myself, to use punctuation, to use a space bar. 

Enter

Then what did I notice about how I experienced the first round?

I noticed how quickly I judged myself for making typing errors, for making mistakes in spelling. I noticed how I had to let that thought go as if that playing pretend was suddenly real.

Is that in actual fact what is happening in this life not yet known? 

Is this in some way the closest truth to the essence of one's existence?

Perhaps our neural pathways are so deeply ingrained that this 10 minute experience offered to me was a radical opportunity to carve out new neural pathways that opened up, gave access too, surprised me with a part of myself that I forgot existed.

Can I forget I exist? 

Can I exist in this state of unknown and still exist in the pragmatic, three dimensional world where I am.

Am I here, really?

Have all the parts of myself arrived here, with me, with all my facets of being, with all possibilities of multiple channels of existing, all at once, all in one continuous present moment of now.

Now

Now now 

See you now now,

See you just now.

See you

See myself without judgment. 

This is a practice I wish to master in this lifetime.

T:

Mind in the waters

Mind in the wavesMind that holds no boundsExperiencing again and again

A few days ago there was a death in the valley. It was consumed and consummated by the natural rhythm of life. Maybe only us humans make such a big deal of being extremely identified with who we think we are.

Maybe there is a different way to express self love. It could be different. Love in Motion is consciousness in motion, is responsibility. Responsibility to care. Giving through tenderness.Holding space through conscious rage.Being in the field ready to collaborate.For life. For living. For experiencing again and again.The option to be a warrior for the light of consciousness.Within myself. Could also be self-love.

G

What is the nature of a simple algorithm’s pleasure? To answer this question we need to consider the body of an algorithm, which is a number of abstract symbols assembled for a specific reason. It’s actually quite a shitty thing to impose on a person but oh well. The core of an algorithm’s pleasure is triggered when algorithm’s symbols are stripped of their abstract designations and become something they were once, long time ago - pure, innocent marks on a fabric of a cave, sheet of paper, screen. This is the moment when algorithms can truly see one another, transcend the numeric borders, add up, subtract, divide, multiply.L : Who knows how long I have to wait to know who I am.I might as well borrow pieces of yours.I take bits of you alland weave them togetheruntil something like me begins to form.

I follow each moment of sensation,and little by little I spread into the dark parts,inhabiting where I didn’t dare to go before; 

In the softness of nothing,trying to approach each task with respect and passion,even when I overthink my placein the “big picture.”

When you say don’t ask I’ll say:SUBMARINES ARE CRAZYbecausefollowing my own desire is ALLOWED.

Sometimes this is happening on another planet.but I will keep calling myself back.

ZOZORELI ZOZORELI, come back,you do not live on Mars.

My borrowed body prepares to continue the battle.Why? Don’t ask!SUBMARINES ARE CRAZY.

My mind rides the wind,because it is allowed to follow its own desire! A delicate mess.yes, that might be me too.

Oh.and I also like the fire.

E:

There is a new kind of fire glowing in the courtyard. 

It is fed and fostered by the rain. 

It is fueled by aliveness - but does not consume it. 

Woodfire is fueled by potential energy.

This fire is fueled by enlivened presence. 

(i hate this word presence. Almost as much as ‘being’.)

Don’t you know, there is a windstorm of love trying desperately to dance in the exact shape of your body? 

I must redeem desire. 

That was the task this morning: take the purest poem of any scripture and realize:

it is incomplete. It is the known half of an old story. Transcendence. 

This fire does not use-up. It has no stable color. It gives off a heat that is recognized by an organ in all bodies (animal or not) made especially for fervor and the unflagging awe of being here and having this and knowing you and wanting more. Not in the small and exhaustible ways. The wanting more generator of fluids that cannot be disappointed or dissatisfied. There is a wanting that does not demand. There is a wanting that licks the eyes that cry and the hands that bleed and the hearts that race and the wombs that yearn. Womb, too, are misunderstood organs. Everyone has them. There are wombs inside every cell. The beckoning-space. 

I want to say that this being-human is an unfathomable chance. 

(We got the story of Jesus all wrong. We got it so wrong, this icon.) 

It is easy to imagine that so much must be given up for this life. For this world. 

(the story of sacrifice is unbelievable. It should not be believed.)

Incarnation is no sacrifice. 

(do i tell myself this to give meaning to my pain like a balm that makes it more bearable?) 

(would that make it less true?)

In the truth of pluridimensionality - everything that can happen does, has and is happening.

This is very important. 

This is so important. 

The fire in the courtyard told me.

(it must be true)

D:

Absolutely infinite options

Decision debility

Stiff

Stuck

Stymied

sore

Sans direction

It was enjoyable to play on the rocks with radu yesterday but this morning my 

Corpse cries “criminal”

SC: 

I am an algorithm

And it’s written here in the codex of this rug. 

Where am I

A NUCLEAR SUBMARINE 

Several parts unnerving

You tiger

will act in totally unexpected way.

There is a fight

In the mood? For what? A CAKE, A DANCE? Must remember to take that Vito Acconci book from the library. I CAN SEE IT, I keep seeing it but not TAKING IT. 

I want to read a beautiful book, please give me suggestions, later,  seriously… DM ME (but one that does not include rape as a plot point/side not please - this may exclude many books by men, be warned and maybe you won’t even remember it includes a side show of misogyny because its so normalised and easeful flung in - but I will be upset if it sneaks up on me - so to be safe I would like books written by women or maybe gay guys.) but back to the point, I want to read a beautiful book NOT one by depressing and neaurotic, judgemental women - who are usually quiet accurate in their cynicism and critiques but this is not what I want - I already have exactly that in myself. I would be interested in some fantasy, some utopias…. Some art biopics, some poems… but NOT self-help, ideally MAGICAL

R:

I could just feel like this: like it doesn’t matter, what I write. Anyways, this doesn’t lead anywhere. This is not going anywhere.

I could also feel like this: Today something extraordinary will happen and I will finally achieve basic integrity of being. I will finally solve this ancient puzzle of human fear.

I can also feel like: Yesterday was a very terrifying day. So, today I am still suffering and I will not be able to do much… It is raining and I am sad.

I can also feel like: Yesterday was a very terrifying day. So, then, I am forced to start that war that is calling me constantly.. that war in which I know I am together with them, with all the people here. If I am clear about this exact war and I fight it fiercely, then I know we are really comrades.

I can also feel like: This just a day like any other day. There have been other insignificant Mondays on this planet. I will not do any crime.

I can also feel like: There was something living outside of my awareness all of my life… a big friendly monster made of cotton candy… that has been waiting for this very day to show itself to me…

I can also feel like: The storm is not some natural thing that happens naturally, for some perfectly explainable reasons. The storm is a being that has a will and chose to come here today. I will understand the nature of this being and will know why it came and what it wants. Maybe it came to play with me in the courtyard. I will shout in the brain of anyone who will tell my daughters the scientific explanation of storm this: “I will find you, Rodriguez! ”

Z

Who am I?

This is the first question

As I remember 

had from the being.

I've asked it a lot

Nobody answered me

In a way that convinces me.

So I devoted my whole life

To find its secret 

A key to the misery of mystery.

That's why I'm here.

If I am here.

ROUND 3

J:

I am yearning for the warmth of the sun.

The summer in December, the early sunrises that give me the energy to wake up at 5 and meditate with unwavering commitment.

I am yearning for this feeling that I once knew intimately.

This part of myself that could so easily feed off the energy of the sun, the warmth on my naked skin. 

In the north in December, I have to generate my own internal fire and my own inner sun.

My blood needs to be thick here, does my skin also need to thicken?

My seasonal clock doesn't work well in the framework of winter in December.

Still, I swim in the sea at any opportunity I can, like yesterday and the day before.

This is not my natural habitat, this is not my time for hibernating nor being indoors.

My body is yearning to be outdoors, all day.

All night, under the stars.

In the vast landscapes where the land has absorbed the solar energy and stored it on the surface texture of the soil, where the only moment of cool fresh air arrives in the hour before the sunrise.

For this I am ravenous.

T:

Compassion, ease, timing. Pauses. Questions until I really know what I want to engage in. 

G

I am malfunctioning algorithm because I’m always craving something that’s yet to happen. It’s a part of my core function that causes my production pipeline to overload very often and make results of my calculations appear pretty, often seductive but also unreliable due to their conflicting origins. I operate mighty powerful engines in a gigantic interwoven chains and networks designed to serve the Big Powerful People, but I’m yearning to just incorporate my functions into an outdated, obsolete machine without any modern interfaces and any hope to get a spotlight in a competitive market, being as broken as myself. I have a sense that my yearning can actually drive its rusty hardware into tomorrow.L : I chicken - You tiger - Eat big cow.I chicken -  You tiger -  me big cow.I chicken -  You tiger -  we big cow.

we big cowwe big cow

In the belly:the key to the misery of mystery.In the belly:beautiful books written by gay guys.In the belly:absolutely infinite options *and the free will to choose for the  criminal options.Incarnation is no sacrifice!!!

Hey Sara,have you ever tried manuals explainingwhy the story of sacrifice is unbelievableand should not be believed?

Or the book about the big friendly monstermade of cotton candy?He does not live in the belly.He’s born out of the fire in the courtyard,but only if he’s fed and fostered by the rain,and if he may arrive riding on the wind, on its back, on a saddle.

He can hold space through conscious rage, but only when he’s fueled by aliveness.

Are we an algorithm?Are we the algorithm?Is this, somehow,the closest truthto the essence of one’s existence?

Can I forget to exist?Certainly NOTwhen I’m in the mood for cakeand a dance.

E:

a glass cube in the ocean. 

relatively small. about 3 meters.

not too far out. 

somewhere dotted with boulder islands like along the coast here -

lands that reveal and cover themselves, just like me. 

Inside, it is always the right temperature for taking everything off.

The cube is accessible from a tunnel dug up from below.

The other end of this tunnel is under the fire in the courtyard. 

I must be willing to walk into the flames and feel all the wanting-womb-spaces in me swell 

to find the mouth of this buried corridor. 

Once in the corridor, space folds. It is only a 30 minute walk to the cube. Those 30 minutes are a vital time of preparation. 

Every hair on my skin must stand upright.

I must find the thoughts that give me goosebumps.

That kind of heart. That kind of real. 

Those 30 minutes are for finding the unshakeable.

In the cube is a chaise lounge. The most perfect furniture for doing all that needs doing in an enclosed space.

It is large enough for me to bring one person with me. 

Only one.

But most often I go alone.

I have been making pastel portraits of the sunrises and sunsets from inside the cube.

The floor is dusted with pastel colors of passionate hues. 

It is a place for finding the most potent face, the facet that will feed me with exactly the needed quality. 

The ingredient.

The art of state-craft is a sourcing the right ingredient.

And it’s taste is always changing. 

One day I will have a dog again.

I will go to the cube with my dog.

It will be white, like luna. At least in some places. So that it can come back to the world with all the colors. 

I will call this dog “Potion” or “Nectar” or some other equally random and appropriate word. 

I need to know -

who wants to come with me? 

D: 

What I am hungry for?

Anyone, ever,  asks me that the first answer will always be the same.

PANCAKES

Not these flimsy french crepes either- they are nice and all but

I AM HUNGRY FOR BIGGGGASS FLUFFLY THICK BUTTERMILK FLAPJACKS!

Maybe with a couple fried eggs and sauteed mushrooms on the side.

There was a sign in B & H that used to read “MASHRUMS” - I liked to imagine it as a bizarre liquor back then.

We’re getting off topic. Stop distracting me from what is really truly important.

PANCAKES!

When I was no older than ten (maybe eight- i was a bit like Rowen), I was a bottomless pit for pancakes. I would go visit my grandfather, Charles, for the summer and my mother would warn him I could have no more than three.

One early morning, my grandparents tossed me in the back of their car and carted me along with them to some sunrise all-you-can-eat breakfast in the back room reserved for their geriatric cohort.  I was sat next to my grandmother, Maxine, in the middle of the massive rectangular table. Charles across from me. 

At the head of the table sat my grandfather’s friend/ nemesis, Denny Zierke.

Oh well, we are out of time. I’ll have to share the rest of the story another time.

I know what I’m making for lunch today.

SC: 

I wish I had my book of poems from the New Zealand farmlands - this is such a good book of poems, I miss it. My friend Nathan learnt multiple poems by New Zealand authors before he moved overseas - so he could share them. That is SUCH a wonderful idea. I really love reading poems - They are like the instagram of writing, you can just jump in so quickly and out again they are perfect for when you feel uncommital or interruptible. I miss so much all the times you read poems to me, this is what made me realise what a beauty poetry can be. You read them to me as we drove for many hours, you read them to me when sitting on the floor at the airport, as we lay in bed - it wasn’t in a romantic way, yet still was rather romantic. I have taken this on board and now I try to read poems to friends and lovers, but I’m not as feverish as you. I miss your fever, even though it is clear I love you more, much more than you love me. I can’t make it stop. I have never missed someone as much as you, because most people don’t have that much to offer - that sounds cruel and I don’t mean it that way - we (me included) are mostly conditioned to live each day with monotony. Somehow you managed to break this mold and not just for yourself but to share it, this is unique - you invite others in. I love sitting next to you as you spend hours building. I miss how we slept, you are the only person in so many years that I could really sleep next to and not just next to but into - you would grip me so tight before falling asleep and unlike every one else I’ve ever slept next too I never wanted to roll away, to find my own way to allow sleep to find me - I wanted to stay exactly there, knowing this would never last and it didn’t - yet I would always fall sleep - like a kind of magic because you are not like the rest - you are more courageous and uncouth than anyone I know and insane and annoying. But because of this I know, you would fight, you would fight to the death and I would be safe. I miss you - and I wish you missed me. But I knew - I always knew it would be this way and I do not regret it. 

R:

I told Tamara I don’t want to drive to Morlaix at 11 because that’s when the climax of storytelling happens. I can take you before. So she asked Sara instead..

This is real life. I am so realistic all of a sudden.

The real life is the farmer that goes in the field now, with his tractor, not this writing bullshit that has no real use in the world. A bunch of artists wasting time….

But wait 3 years.

Tractors are fully autonomuous, robots do all the work.

The farmer comes, one day, shy, in the courtyard… I don’t know what to do with my time now… can I come on mondays and write with you? Here, have a bag of potatoes.

How does your heart feel? Zo asks me. We are walking in the forest.

I make a sudden gesture that shakes the ground and all trees fall.. This is how I feel. I start to devour them. I eat all the trees. In my stomach there is a paste made of the flesh of all the trees. I vomit it… on the field… after a week it dries completely and it becomes a giant sheet of paper…

Gosha comes with a tractor to see if the paper is ready… I told him he can make a drawing on this paper that will be instead of the sky. Forever. All humans will forever have this drawing to look at.

Is this a gesture of love, to give someone such an opportunity…

Zo takes her sword… cuts my head… spits on it…

- This happens anyway, any second of life. All that we do is a drawing that is forever projected in the sky and seen by all others.

Submarines are crazy.

Z

What do I want

right now?

There aren't so many things in the world

I actually want for myself.

“Yearning” is a strange word to me.

I remember Rumi’s verse

for the thousandth time:

من از برای مصلحت در حبس دنیا مانده ام

حبس از کجا من از کجا مال که را دزدیده‌ام؟

“I have remained imprisoned in this world for the sake of necessity.

What has prison to do with me?

Whose belongings from where 

have I ever stolen?”

I gave it to ChatGPT to translate.

I don’t have the mind or the time

to find better words.

Anyway… what does it matter?

But maybe some warmth

could make this prison feel better.

The warmth of a loved one’s embrace.

Or the warmth of some tender fingers

massaging my stiff muscles.

Or the warmth of the Persian Gulf waters

dancing on my cold frame.