10 November 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

G

Wet fur, cold nose, yellow eyes, dry lips, bright skies, missed train.

To be here is a continuation of a long journey of patiently observing and acknowledging every slow and careful step of a bare foot on a sharp rock, wet moss or a smooth sand, every tiny breath, every bold move, every sudden tremble, every click of a keyboard, every drop of sweat, every blink of an eye, every line in a book, every frame in a film, every beat in a song, every file in a cloud storage, every cent in a wallet, every pair of socks, every cup of coffee in the early morning, every inhale of a fresh air with a scent of an unfamiliar flora, every kilometer of daily walks and runs, every document in the dossier, every meeting with a stranger, every symbol written, every word said, every memory lost, every touch felt, every burst of laugh, every wound healed.

H:

Hear hear,

Today I am not here

Then where are you?

I have always been 

but just not here

everywhere all at once

Like a golden spiderweb spanning the universe

And you are just a small speck, rope walking on one of my silken threads.

Will you stay?

Let me follow the echo of your touch through the dark.

Send ripples through the endless weave.

J:

Here, hear.

now , here

By place in,

                     placed in,   in a place here.  

To live in the world but not of this world.

Awake. Wake. wakefulness.

Arriving by grace,            in the body, 

                                                              corporeal, 

here in my feet, in my heart.

In my sitting bones.

In the softness behind the eyes.

In the space between my head and the ceiling.

Am I seated here?

Sitting here.

Is this a sitting?

Are all the parts of me here accounted for, acknowledged, seen and heard?

What do I hear tap tap tapping.

Bird songs. clanking , chewing, breathing. 

Breath. death.

The sound waves that are entering my ear holes, am I whole?

Whole heart.

R:

Here. Now.

The rustling of electricity in the milk I was sucking, as a baby, on the 10^th of November 1986.

My sweaty palm touching the metal railing of the staircase, while descending in a hurry to meet with my friends outside, and play. 10^th of November 1996.

The tip of the pencil piercing through the thin grayish paper while I was drawing, for the 100^th time, the silhouette of the Mother of God, on a 2m high paper, in a workshop at the National Arts University in Bucharest… 10^th of November 2012.

The rush of night perfumes through my nose, my bones, my brain and through the membranes of my scream… 10^th of November 2016 Vincennes, Paris.

The rusty, ancient spears of my sight, coming out of my pupils, like the cranes assisting the lift-off of a stainless steel cathedral going to Mars…. And entering the pupils of Elise. We are in the library, the two of us, 4 o’clock in the morning, storytelling, in front of the fire. Here, 200 Cosquer. 10^th of November, 2023.

Here. Now.

E:

There are shoes better built for running away than the ones sat under the stairs in the kitchen.

There are bodies better built for running away than this one sat on a cushion beside the chimney. 

There are moments better built for running away than this …

I am having the most remarkable experience of asphyxiation. 

It is quietly folded between my collarbones, invisibly nested in a place that no one touches.

I also do not touch this place. 

At least not on purpose. 

I know something about asphyxiation.

13 years ago I presented a performance in which I was (rather lovingly) waterboarded in a performance space in Belgium. Waterboarding, it seems, was actually invented there. 

Breath-control used to be a source of immeasurably exhilaration. 

(the inviting another to decide when you breathe and when you don’t; this asks for an acuity of observation that far surpasses what most human beings ask of one another. I had found such a talented and attentive counterpart.)

Now - enclosed spaces. Even the forest (which, as Lies reminded, is most certainly a dear friend of mine and an avid advocate of my liberation). Being here means hiding. 

Feeling inappropriate.

Feeling inadequate. 

Feeling … without refuge. And it is quiet. 

I ask myself, “how honest can I be?” here.

I ask myself, “write something true. all you need to do is write something true.”

It will make them all uncomfortable. The alienation will deepen.

This finding the way into trust … it is exactly the work I feel we are all here to do. With each. With exactly each other. (Perhaps this is my own preoccupation.) I have the impression this is what serves the surfacing and the great mythic emergence we somehow all said Yes to. Safety is not everything. Safety makes trust impossible. One must be a little unsafe to need to trust - otherwise there’s no use for it. 

I am trusting by writing this.

Say something true. 

I am trusting by writing this. 

Say something honest. 

I don’t know why everyone is here and what they are longing for. And I so wish we would spend more time talking about this. Because I don’t think we know one another until we do. Until we dare to talk about longing. And I think that the shaping of trust is the sharpest carving tool in the sculpting of friendship. And this is still, somehow, the most noble art. Fellowship. Friends of shared purpose. 

I cannot stop thinking about this. 

I cannot even do my own work, my own urgent work, because I can’t stop thinking about this. 

It is already happening. Yes yes, I know. But it could also happen. Something honest. (A risk. A small risk.)

When are we going to talk about love?

T: 

Here / Hear

I awoke into myself.

I could hear the word: I N C A R N A T E

Use the voice to calibrate your presence, buzz and hum and you can be here

Here here! Says the pirate in me.

That is where I want to be. I want to share from deep in my soul to other souls, I want to merge to become a BIG SOUL

Why?! I don’t know! I could come up with noble facts and reasons. It just doesn’t matter. I want the purity of physics to alchemize possibilities in ourselves. To experience states of Flow and find out what else is possible living in this vessel called Human. I want to escape the confinement of words. Could it happen through sound? Yes, guttural sounds as conduits to deeper essence. The sounds that our inner animal makes, bringing us deeper into communion of the origins of life, the mitochondrial powerbanks, the architecture of the cosmos. Light! Knowledge! Beauty! Source!What is real power? The purity beyond the layers of personality, morale, societal normality.

“Some people say you’re crazy” one interviewer said to Bjork

To which she responds“Oh really? Well that’s on them really. When I was around 5 years old I made a decision, I noticed I could go two ways: one way I could take the side of being with morale and act normal and behaved, and the other side I could choose to be anything that I really wanted to do. So I chose to be on that side of the canyon, and I just having a great time.”

Hear Hear! Is the quaker in me – (I hear these people are passionate junkies of truth and fervor.)

Yes I have one of those in me.

And I observe. The listening in me is wide awake. It comes at the moment where my box yet hasn’t formed for the day. It takes seconds for the mind to rush in with thoughts and the daily structure that it remembers how to exist within it. I was able to remain in that gap for a while receiving the next instructions for my Being’s deliveries to the world. N U R T U R A N C E

Embodying my own internal hug.

D:

Here 

hear 

HIER

Yesterday there was blockage.

Unintentional

A morning lost to un restful sleepin-

I hear alerts

I hear the distracting frantic clacking of keyboards punched and fluttered against.

Harrison Burgeron in every moment aware, uncontrollably hearing to the slurps and emissions of eight others. 

Wheezing, scraping, cracking, clacking, smacking.

Distractions abound. 

Oh shit. I’m going to have to read this in front of all them.

Painted into a corner of neurosis and distractions. 

Oh fuck

Oh well.

The sound of my own scratching 

My head and neck are screaming.

Yesterday there was a blockage.

At first un- then intentional.

I hope it brings freedom. 

Sometimes a wall is for protection.

Sometimes a doorway hurts.

L :

Yesterday I existed, as my feet were threading the hills.

Should I document my existence?

Is it more peaceful to be forgotten, or to be remembered?

What does it mean to leave something behind?

Here. Such a small word, here… as if existence could ever belong to one place.

Today, I exist again, after a night that could have been my leaving.

My heart was restless; I felt a little scared, but not like I used to feel scared.

I just wondered if there might be a spare key in the house, so people could find me in bed, not breathing.

There’s a strange comfort in the thought of being missed

That someone, eventually, would come looking.

I think someone would have wondered ;

why I didn’t show up at seed sourcing, the sharing circle, the community dinner.

Someone would have found it odd.

Someone would have come to find me.

Because, as far as they knew, I existed.

The last time they saw me, I was.

If I had died, would I have stopped existing?

Or only here? Or not even here at all?

Maybe the pounding of my heart was the Grim Reaper speaking,

as we met on the hills yesterday,

where I was, then, existing.

Maybe he wanted to meet me on the edge, not to take me,

but to tell me that he felt me too.

Maybe, for a second, I existed last night like those who

nearly die and suddenly see ghosts,

because their fabric has tasted what it means to be one.

Or perhaps simply because, when they returned,

they forgot to close the door behind them.

Zo

Insomnia is here.

My complicated relationship with sleep!

There are weights on my upper eyelids,

And my mind is fucking alert,

Tired

Yet Don’t let my eyes shut down.

My body is locked to the bed,

The middle part is an anchor.

Literally saying, I’m done:

You cannot hear.

ROUND 2

G

Alarm bell rings for the second time.

My toes are gently touching the tip of a large rock somewhere on a land’s end where the ocean is constantly pushing giant cliffs into the abyss. The rock is cold and indifferent to my weak flesh. I am surrounded by travelers in all kinds of shoes, but I’m the only one barefooted here. I am following my breath and taking a first step towards the unknown, watching my foot comforting the unfriendly surface. Turns out, if you allow a certain time to take the space between the stimulus and reaction, your body will follow and adapt and what seems like a sharp edge may turn out to be a warm bed and what starts as a confrontation might grow into profoundness. May the body endure and embrace all.

H:Some people cannot stand the sound of other people breathing.

Apparently it’s a thing? Hating the unintentional sounds others make, just because they are existing. Breathing sighs, smacking sounds, sneezes, coughs…cue aggression!

At least you can try to be tolerant about it? 

I had a colleague once who never answered my cheerily naive ‘goodmornings’He treated the sound of my voice as the buzzing of a fly.It’s a small cruelty dressed as annoyance.

I felt unacknowledgedment. Ignored. And it worked! He knew it pissed me off every morning.

After 6 years with this guy, I wanted to punch him right into his smug face. Almost did. HR had to get involved.

Fuck you, Rik. 

Anyways, safe to say, I like ‘good mornings’. Time to acknowledge everyone. It is a deep inhale after the long night. Everyone is still here. Safe, warm, together. A simple word, a small grace, still trying to meet each other halfway.

J:

Breath Death

Breath out, exhale.

Let gravity do the work.  What does that feel like, to let gravity do all the work?

Where does that new thought bring you?

bring me, 

bring you, 

bring US. 

What happens when gravity no longer binds us to the earth, this plane of existence, this plane of consciousness? 

Did we ever have consciousness to lose? 

Is it ours to claim? 

To be conscious of consciousness, subconsciousness, hyperconsciousness, awareness, wakefulness, alertness, responsiveness, sentience.

Awareness of knowledge of the existence of, alertness to, sensitivity to, realization of, cognizance of, mindfulness of, perception of, apprehension of, recognition of.

of.

What are we truly conscious of? 

How ruthless is truth?

Of.

In search of…

Can it be as simple as being conscious of the breath. 

To breathe out, to let breath in?

Can we control our breath, the rhythm of the pause, the quiet state of nothingness that exists as wholeness.

Did we ever truly separate from the source? Apparently not.

How ruthless is truth.

How simple and clear.

Does the soul need to breathe? I've never thought of that before! Curious.

A place of suspended breath, the space between the last and the first breath. 

Is this death?

R:

A child with legs might as well walk to the forest.

In the forest, what might this child do?

On the path he will skip. Skip like a tornado.

Suddenly the tornado child, stops in front of a big rock.

Just a second to ponder about next.

The next comes and the tornado enters through the skull of the rock in such a surprising manner…

The particles of the stone get projected into various galaxies… but all the memories of the child are holding on to them, to each of the particle..

Who would have thought? A child, in the forest, yes. 

What might he do next?

Finding another child? A little girl? This little girl takes the body of a tree with red, deep red wood, filled with red sap, filled with red perfume. 

If the girl takes the body of a tree, such a fantastic tree… what body will he take?

Maybe a giant rusty, iron, ghost ship… not far from Roscoff… just appearing out of nowehere in the foggy morning of the 10th of November.

Jumping. This giant iron ship… maybe large like the entire Roscoff… just jumps… higher and higher, waves get confused about what were the basic laws, fog gets confused and loses the chart of colors it was supposed to follow. Fuck! David is still in the corner?

The waves get higher and higher… no, not waves of water… waves of stone… the entire coast is waving… Sara is surfing… the waves reach the forest where the little red girl was playing with her giant tree roots in the ground.

Ok! That’s how you wanna play? She says… 

And she becomes a red sky whale… you know, the ones that fly through the skies when no one is watching. Not even Helena can see them. Anyways, the flesh of the whale had the same exact perfume running through veins of the people working in the nuclear plants of her mitochondrias. 

Mitochondrias are also  part of one of the bodies of Tamara. She learnt it in school. Her teacher might as well have been named Rodrigues. Anyways, the point is, it is true. 

E:

If I’m not terrified, I’m not doing it right. 

(Life.)

… there are limitations to this guiding principle. 

sometimes I recognized them. 

sometimes I do not. 

If something called “Soul” decided exactly Here (which includes all and any number of the specificities of this precise circumstance of inner and outer happening), I really want to give it a good ride. 

I am the body of God. 

(This is the truest sentence.)

Meaning: Soul (a God-particle) has been incarnated to give God what can only be experienced with this, Form. Indeed, a slowing down (the well evidenced trick of the matter/energy principle in particle physics).  

I (the confluence of happenings in this body) am living on behalf of God (so that the [everything which overwhelms anything that can be said] is able to know what Creation is).

Okay.

This week I will try to explain the way that I see the creation of God as an Artform. It’s own genre of Art. And prayer is the medium. The continuous creation of God happens through relating to God. (This relating is what I refer to as prayer).  Old forms of prayer make for stale forms of God. Time for new forms. 

I will write this as a PhD research proposal. 

This week. 

(academic cosplay)

There is no death in vision of continuous creation. There isn’t even destruction.

Nothing is irrelevant. Nothing is unconcerned or unaffected.

That’s what makes it closest to divine action. 

I cannot think of a more radical stance on cocreation. 

If I’m not terrified, I’m not doing it right.

(I am hiding)

Maybe this is a measure of radicality. 

Unknown >> Fear (admission of impuissance or a lack of control or a lapse in the delusion of control or a need to admit to the fantasy of control) >> …. surely whatever is radical (meaning unprogrammed, meaning root, primary, Source, unformatted, uninherited, free of expectation, free of disappointment, free of scripting … etc…) must be terrifying. Until control is no longer the source of safety. Control is placing trust only even in my hands. Like saying : I trust only myself. Wanting to control is trusting only myself. 

What a lonely place. 

I miss Luna.

(I am hiding)

Can I make Prayer the most provocative, radical form of art-making? 

Ha!

Let’s see how this goes. 

I am starting a campaign called “Liberate God”

(Kill God?)

No death in continuous creation.

(there is an increase in religiously affiliated young people. almost entirely far-right-wing.)

No no. This is not political. This is political. This is not political.

Has anyone else been following the bombings in Lebanon?

And the new Russia/China agreement? 

What a lonely place. 

(I am hiding.)

Nobody knows how to pray.

Exactly.

That’s exactly the point. 

It is already happening. 

T:

Breath, Death

Something bigger does the work

Therefore, letting go is essential.

To bring back the gold and the bread for the rest to profit

Bon profit! Means bon apetit! Buen provecho. Aprovechar doesn't exist in the modern version of english without making it about taking.

What it’s really about is enjoyment.

Languages that are not meant for business have a meaning closer to the realms of love.

Maybe there’s where we can start talking about love.

From moving our point of origin, using the words that evoke, the sound structures that code reality.

Ancient languages such as Farsi, Hebrew, Sanskrit hold codes that would ignite certain neurological cascades through their enunciation, vibration, frequency, the tongue creating ripples of movement and patterns in the mouth where nadis are.

A full technological adventure.

What do Indo-Aryan, Dravidian, Arameic languages hold hidden about secrets of life, death and the universe?

What realities did they create within us in their now forgotten patterns of sounds and compositions?

The longing for them is real.

Abara cadabra 

According to one theory, the word ‘Abracadabra’ is derived from the Hebrew words ‘ab, ben, ruach hakodesh’, which translates as ‘Father, Son and Holy Spirit’. Thus, the word ‘Abracadabra’ is in fact an invocation of the Holy Trinity.

The argentinian scholar JL Parise describes that Abracadabra originates from Arameic or Hebrew and it literally spells: “I create while I speak” or “Creation happens while pronouncing.”

Have the gold and breath come back. Have us become the creators again, have us connect to the source of Love.

D:

Gravity is breath

How novel.

A decade and a half of mythology about forcing breath-in to realize it was probably misguided nonsense.

I suppose I knew, on a level. 

Breath of fire is alright. Controlling breath is okay.

Sure yeah okay. Its not all a waste.

When does a cult become a cult?

When does the pursuit of nirvana become toxic

When the singular detached focus on self supersedes all else.

Yeah that’s probably part of it.

Supersedes

Super seeds

Super seed sourcing

Super Cede sourcing

Give in to a spring

All the allusions to breath and water in mind this morning make my thoughts evasive of drowning. 

Grow Gills

Gravity gills give gloaming gasps 

Giving in.

L :

“write something true. all you need to do is write something true.”

Testimony of a woman who is scared to breathe.

I often can’t breathe properly.

It feels like I’m always holding my breath,almost always.

Not when making love.Not when singing.Not when walking.

But yeah, breathing

it’s something I have to manage.

I either hold it, or steer it.It rarely just happens.I’ve been finding ways, small ones.

I hide them, but they help me.

for example ;I can breathe better when I turn my upper body slightly to the left,

open my chest like a bird about to sing, and then inhale.

I hold my belly

;I was taught to be monstrous if I didn’t.

I protect my heart; 

by folding forward, so it will not be pierced whole

when the stake arrives,

To breathe freely is to be in danger.

To breathe freely is to be rejected.

To breathe loudly is to be seen.

Breath is the life force.

And I am surviving on gulps of air.

Oh how I love the smell of air.

Breathing could mean death.

But so could not breathing.

Life very inventive

with its paradoxes.

I ask myself, “How honest can I be?

I know this is a weak testimony.

Zo

"It's only our duty to breathe out."

That's why I think

Everybody chooses their own death.

The pause in between…

There are some voices in my head

telling me,

Breathe, Zo,

breathe.

Sometimes I don’t 

unawarely.

I keep my breath.

I don’t breathe out easily.

My way of breathing in this world

is

inconsistently!

As the way I exist…

interruptedly!

I found this fact through others’ reflection.

I surprised them

with the way I don’t breathe continuously.

There were moments in my life I wonder why?

the simplest,

the most basic, automatic act of any living thing,

which is breathing,

seems to be an irregular, disrupted scene to me!

I keep my breath.

I’m the child of death.

That’s true about me!

ROUND 3

G

There might be a productive core in every conflict, come to think of it. For example, I can turn a cold rock warm with just my own palm, or a foot. It will take some time and patience, and as soon as the rock will leave this strange relationships, it will quickly lose the warmth. But for instance, the bone beads that I’m wearing on my neck sometimes, are able to contain my temperature for quite some time. I even believe that they carry the warmth of every person who ever held them and then the warmth of a creature whose body they were supporting and then this creature’s parent and then this creature’s parent’s parent and so on. I know for sure that I am a son of a fearless woman, daughter of a fearless woman, daughter of an ancient rock, cold and silent. Which means there’s a fire in every stone.

H:

I was afraid to love

I am afraid to love

I might be afraid to love.

What is fear? What is love?

Fear is the moment where a leap turns into a fall.

Love is the moment where choosing someone turns into a leap, and then a fall.

Freefalling is a sport of mine.

I have these dreams again, of falling.

It is close to flying, like drifting through the air like those sky whales that seem abundant here. 

I think I am no sky whale. I almost had a bird of prey collide with my car yesterday. Head on. At the last second, it flexed its wings and veered away.

Casual.

I wish I were like that: sure, convicted, elegant in my path through the sky.

But I know I’m not.

My freefalling is not drifting, it’s not flying.

I loose control and there is only this deep drop.

My stomach lurches, my breath stops altogether.

In some dreams, the fall halts just before I hit the ground.

In the bad ones, I feel the crash.

But in others I go through.

Through the earth, through that thin line we call the horizon.

And I’m enveloped by safe earth, by a darkness that is not saturated but is alive with a heartbeat and breath.

I think love is that. Being surrounded after a freefall.

Whispering; you’re safe, welcome home.

J:

The paradox of/between fear and love

I needed to stand up to look at this paradox from a distance.

I have my back pressed up against the wall, my heels are touching the skirting board, I spread my arms out to let my finger nails touch the wall. I am aware of the back of my hands.

I needed my bipedal form to override my multi dimensional formlessness state of existence

Why? Because of this duality, the duality of fear and love is what makes us human. Is that true?

I'm often less inclined to be in my human form.

In this lifetime, I remember the first time I actually felt like a human. 

It was in Iceland. 

Survival there is real. 

One's blood needs to be thick.

An upgrade took place there. 

Beyond duality.

In a state of complacency the blood is viscous, it moves around the body with ease.

There is no need to fear here, but does that mean one is a void of love?

Is it really this simple, is every action/state a choice between fear and love?

K.I.S.S

(Keep it simple stupid)

R:

Some kind matters anyway.

Abruptly irregular and transcendentally inert. Quiet. Quite erroneous. As he used to say.

Who? The child.

The child has a goose. A red goose.

The child no more patience inside. So as the goose inside.

The blue child steps in the iron of adequate life. How does he do that? Like all children. Blue and red.

The goose, at it’s 20^th floor, holds a library of manuscripts of tantric practices.

What are tantric practices? Adequate lies that you so wish to believe.

The very special terms of the world and the lips of someone is not that interesting. The special, mysterious words, that is. Because they are not of the child. Because they are not in the body, in the world.

That is why Wittgenstein does not use fancy words, like other superstars of intellect.

That is why simple words can make the world anew. Like the child in the forest and the red tree with red juice inside that I want to drink.

Fuck you Rik.

The red thick juice I want to squize out of your flesh for the appropriate and urgent reasons, Bjork!

The red thick juice of that book I first managed to digest and turned into a hand.

The color of pomegranates. Beauty can be intellectual. Like Wes Anderson boring. To himself especially. Just like Sara cannot be with her body. The body is defined in very misguided ways. Body is not a simple word and I have nothing to do with it.

How often does a child need to use the word body? He might use the word hand, ass, hair.

Body is a relatively artificial word. Thus, relatively useless. Because the body does not have it in its vocabulary. Because the body is the child. And the body starts with Once upon a time, so don’t tell me about Mitochondria, Rodrigues. Your children do not need to survive.

David is in the cult of cult. 

E:

I don’t buy it. (Am I alone in this? nonsense.)

Fear is evidence of Love. 

(I can’t find another way to think about it.)

I am only afraid when I fear the loss of something I love - and so that fear emerges only by and through and in love.

I can try on other seemingly contradictory dynamics:

apathy. indifference. complacency. objectification. 

If I want to go hunting for a real paradox -  i will grab my gear. 

I will grab the gear of a lepidopterist questing for the only butterfly who has ever belonged in Antarctica. 

True paradoxes are so delicate and so precious and so ……. impossibly …. 

(Ugh! I start to hate this word beauty.)

Paradoxes are Yes. Paradoxes are the countercurrents meeting in my confluence that the parts of me I like the best all sing Yes to. 

So let me find the whirlpool of paradox in my belly. 

Contraction (from fear) is also a coming-to-life. 

I believe in safety because I believe in risk. I do not believe in safety as an optimal or desirable state or condition. I believe in safety on behalf of the things that are dear to me, that are only ever found in conditions that either allow or require or force Risk. 

(I spoke to Jess and Cécile a bit about this on the beach yesterday. 

Thank God for them! And thank God Jess said Yes to leading this morning! God Bless Her and her generous spirit!

This is a funny form of playing pretend. 

(I’m am not this person.)

God Bless You All!

I am ridiculous.)

I understand that there is no opposite to Love. And thus, in my eyes, there is no paradox that includes Love. It is omnipresent - but cannot be so strictly defined or determined such that anything could be in friction or seeming contradiction with it. 

Let’s say: All Experiences (including Emotions) Are Complex. 

There is always more than one thing happening.

And Love is ALWAYS one of the things happening. 

ALWAYS.

the question is: love of what?

What do you Love right now?

What do you love right now by writing what you are writing or doing what you are doing or thinking what you are thinking or sitting how you are sitting? 

What do I Love right now?

Here.

Being in this room all together (Even with Zo in her little heavenly library-annex). 

Writing. 

What a fucking unlikely and lucky fucking life! 

Fire.

Nes. 

Love.

Focus. 

Chai. 

and the endlessly charming symphony of unscored keyboards. 

Who will walk with me this week to talk about God and Love and the great gift of Fear and the great art of Friendship and the great revolution of Reclaiming Prayer for the Liberation of God and the God-awful bombing in Lebanon? 

(Lies is leaving. Who will I walk with?) 

Will I come to believe that my writing is of sufficient interest to the people here, to my fellow fellows, to begin to share it again? (Instead of hiding) 

I say to myself (while brushing my teeth)

Whatever you do - do not be a coward. 

Be anything - but don’t be a coward.

(while folding my blanket)

(while boiling water)

(while petting the dog)

(while feeding the birds)

(while toasting the bread)

(while examining the exact nuance of the sky)

(while responding to mail)

Be anything - but don’t be a coward.

This coming year has announced itself.

It will be the Year of the Albatross. 

T: Paradox between Fear & Love

Galaxies, colors, prayers and other organelles from a text book.

Or the paradoxes of existing for generations yet no one has a clue as to how. 

Every human is trying out something different. Some commit to the following of religions that supply their child ego-state an enough false sense of security to give up their lives, money, time, children and psyche to the spiral of repetition. 

The general rule of thumb is if something doesn’t work: attack it!

If it sticks out, kill it!

This will maintain sanity.

That’s how we extirp organs. Hm, ‘the gallbladder is just an extra, don’t worry about it. Let’s take it out.’

Humans defying nature as if their doctor certificates have any sort of compatibility with truth.

Ah, ‘just take the next pill. Inject this. You’re next, only one year in line for your urgent care.’

Rodrigues was not aware that he was feeding a paradigm of illusions to generations of children. He had a wall of trophies and medals for his 30+ years of being a good samaritan. Little did anyone ever know that being a good samaritan was a way to call out the one in a million case of the samaritan who was not traditionally stingy, mean-hearted and crass. 

No one knows shit.

Just like extirping organs we also have done an excellent job at demonizing our feelings. Fearing fear to the extreme. Or profiting from it through horror films, amusement parks or the abundance of fantasies lived on a daily basis of what life is about, what relating is about, what god is or who we are.

‘Fear is bad. Fear needs to be killed! It will never help you. Fear is the opposite of love!’

New age pseudoscience bullshit.Acknowledging Fear could very well be the gateway of deep internal knowledge, a type of wisdom that would otherwise be essential for evolution out of this deep bloody mess.

D:

Paradox between fear and love

Love welcomes joy. Love invites care

Care demands responsibility

Responsibility welcomes fear

For her safety from others from herself

Love is giving.

Of oneself

The fear of letting another IN is REAL

Are any one of us really worthy of love?

Just a bunch of monstrous meat tubes fending for ourselves.

Creating ..war …destruction. The first stage of building is demo

Even the monks are self-serving. 

What is fear?

Fear is the mind-killer.

What is love?

Baby, don’t hurt me.

Don’t hurt me.

No More.

Ah ah oh wa oh ah.

L:

The paradox between fear and love.

Now that we are all warmed up,

now that we are all holding our breaths,

now that we are all here

Fear and love aren’t opposites.

They exist on the same spectrum.

Both the armor and the offering.

Survival and surrender.

It’s Helena saying fuck you to Rik,

maybe losing her job, but finding her voice.

It’s Sara being dragged in the waves,

but finding the will to live.

It’s Eli, alone in the dark,

turning prayer into the most radical art.

It’s Tamara exposing her own soul,

so the world becomes an internal hug.

It’s Gosha walking barefoot,

so sharp edges become warm beds.

It’s David, finding that sometimes doorways can hurt,

and that when one morning is lost,it’s not all to waste.

It’s Radu sucking electric milk,

growing into the body of a fantastic tree.

It’s Jess living in this world,

taking a seat between breath and death

as a declaration that she is here.

It’s Zo, taking a pause in between,

accepting this is how she exists.

It’s keep going.

It’s keep breathing.

Zo

They say the opposite of love is not hate,

It's fear.

I’m the master of this roller coaster!

Last night I wrote:

"I feel I’m falling in love

with myself!"

I don’t know how you feel about yourself,

but I love

and hate myself

at the same place.

This is the way I’ve been loved

throughout my whole life.

"Inconsistently."

Fear comes from a deep sense of loneliness.

It’s an evolutionary strategy.

To be alone

in a wild world

is equal to death.

The individual struggles just to be

the instinct for survival.

That’s where you are separated,

in the very attempt to be a sole.

The moment you identify with the ego

not the eternal self,

That's where love comes to the end.