12 January 2026

"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

Gosha

This morning I got up very early as usual. It was still dark outside. It is a second day of non-stop raining, and I like it. My neighbour already gone to work, he’s getting up even earlier. Last week I went hiking to find the dolmens in the woods. I didn’t find any but I figured that there was a lot of other stuff to see, to smell, to bask in. I am never bored here, and perhaps it’s temporary, but I’m enjoying every single moment of not knowing, of learning, of nuancing my mental conditions through the lens of this place. I got an old pair of shoes, cleaned and mended it. It was so fun. I fixed an old iPod and gave it to a child as a Christmas present. Kids LOVE mp3 players. I think it’s a positive way of channeling my masculine side - to pursue a utopian desire to fix all the broken things. 

P

It’s like this. Cortisol, adrenalin and other hundreds of known and unknown stress hormones wake up before I do. They alert the system. The system thinks sugar is the savior. The system starts looking for sugar in secret stashes, muscles, liver, etc. Sugars shoot up. I shoot insulin. Sugars go down. I eat. Sugars go up. I shoot insulin. Repeat. It’s a rollercoaster of hormonal imbalance. I may think I’m in charge but I am not. The puzzle is complicated. My doctor said it’s like space science or the depths of the sea. Only a minimal fraction of it is known and ”only a minimal fraction that’s known I know” says my good doctor. A good doctor is an honest doctor. The puzzle is constantly on the move and violent. Sometimes this goes on for a few hours, sometimes for a whole day, sometimes for days. It’s time consuming, it’s tiring. It’s fucked up. Meditation helps to observe the chaos. Words are, in a situation like this, mostly a disturbance. Radical change does not - for me - happen with words, but beyond words. It’s the silence that can shift the present, future and past for me. Silence is freedom. True creation, for me, takes place in the dark, in silence. 

D:

Squeaky squeaky squeaker

Chatty chatty chatter

Giggle giggle giggler

This is Serious Fucking Business y’all

We trying to FUCKING SOURCE the MOTHERFUCKING SEED!

No chatting

No laughing

No squeaking

No Joy, please. 

Attention! Attention!

This is Seed Sergeant HARTMAN!

Stand UP

Get your backs straight!

Feet together

Heads UP!

EYES on the Prize, maggots!

Down and give me 10 minutes!

Hard Man. This Hartman has no Heart, Man.

Now Stand Up!

No Sit Down, you turds

Stand up Again!

Back straight!

Feet together!

Butts OUT!

Now twerk!

Do the watusi

Do it Right!

Do the twist

Do the fly

Do the swim

And do the bird

Well …do the duck

Aaah, and do the monkey

Hey hey, watusi

And a what about the food

Do the mashed potato

What about the boogaloo

Oh, the bony marony

STOP GIGGLING!

SERIOUS

SEED RIRE ROUS

Wait just a goddamn MINUTE!

What is that sound?

Who’s That pounding on his keyboard so loud it’s shaking the whole damn room over here?

Which one of you pissants isn’t muting during the Seed SOURCING?

ALL of you, STAND UP!

Now stand UP MOre!

Levitate!

SOURCE THAT SEED!

Now Down and give me 10 more!

What the fuck is alive in you, maggots?

R:

There are news of war all over the place.

WW3…

One may live war like the child in La Vita e Bella… or like Forrest Gump…

So...yesterday I was in quite a dark place… I was discouraged, paralyzed, cold, with some physical pain…. And I was so vulnerable when going through news online… But somehow I managed to work through it and say to myself: no matter what happens it is your responsibility what you feel and what you do…

I am sure the fight between Sofia and Fotia feels very differently if I am Fotia in the midst of the conflict, or if I am Fotia thinking about it 10 yrs from now… when maybe it will remain just with the sweet taste of the charm of play…

Maybe, in some not too distant future… we can look back at our earlier history, our earlier definitions of ourselves, on our home planet… look at the conflicts between sibling countries and have the same sweet, warm nostalgia…. And maybe even have all the capacities to return and embrace all forms of pain and suffering… all the children crying

H:

Life can begin anew.

My mind has been filled with thoughts of seeds.

Life zipped inside a small, black, glinting kernel.

Not only because of Jessie’s apple seeds, I think.

Maybe it’s the climate here: rarely cold, rarely freezing.

Lush, rich soil.

More fern and moss species than I can count.

I have a list of seeds I want to sow.

Some I collected from plants encountered during my travels.

I went through Canadian border control with morning glory seeds in my pocket,

not very smart. I never said I was smart.

Some seeds come from wild plants, others from urban species.

From movement and travel. I have white hollyhock seeds from Monk’s House;

Virginia Woolf may have looked at the ancestors of these flowers.

Other seeds I harvested myself in Belgium, from my tiny garden that slowly began to take over the neighbours’. And some came from my grandmother, or my father, each with their own little history.

These little dots form a biography.

Show me your seeds and I will tell you who you are.

And don’t forget; take care of the soil.

Keep it warm, airy, and light.

E:

White night. 

There is a concentrated team of electricians who have settled in the nerves of my left face to test the conductivity of this region of my body country. I would like to say it does not matter. They are only doing what’s needed. The electricians do not understand what the earth feels every time they install grounding wires. Or subterranean wind mill batteries. Nobody asks. Maybe it feels good. This could feel good. Power. Power shot straight into the bones. Am I brighter? Do I glow? 

Reading the words of another

is becoming them for a moment. 

I have been becoming an earlier me.

I wish for a future in which we are all nonbinary. 

(I do no feel right when someone calls me a woman. Blessed be. Blessed be the not-knowing where I find it.)

But I cannot find the courage to ask others to change my pronouns. Seems too much a hassle. 

(pardon me, I am scanning channels. looking for the right song.)

Crying all night makes the face rubbery.

I haven’t dared to ask Zo to explain what she knows about what’s happening in Iran. I just know that when I see her or think about it - I begin to tear.

I must go to the grasslands. I must go to the south. To the cave. 

(I am the cave.)

I must go to the cave - and tell Her. 

I will bring Her the book, once it’s printed, in-hand. 

I must read Her story to Her and see how it feels. 

And the grasslands where once there was no one. The birds and the fish, the swimming birds and the flying fish.

There is a house somewhere else full of makers. 

They are writing for themselves each other. 

They use words like the fingertips use ridges. To sense the surface of things. The appearance of what is happening. The words will tell us. The words will decide. Trust them. Trust them.

In the desert I asked if words were animals or buckets. 

What will happen here? 

The aria of this channel. The aria of this channel will resound.

It will be strange. It will be mercifully strange. 

Unprecedented. 

Nes is dreaming about it now. 

The left side of my face knows too. It was telling me all night. 

(The circuitry, the circuitry… the wire song… is transmitting.

I must find a receiver.) 

J:Portals

How temporary and fleeting life’s experiences are. 

I have been lost in this downward spiral pulling or being pulled into a portal that reveals so many dark mirrors. It shows me a version of myself that reflects the ego, the illusion of being in control, the cunning energy that sits at the control booth of the looping roller coaster and deceptively locks in the infinite loop of repetitive narratives that keep me stuck.

I hate rollercosters.  I resist this adrenal overload and the more I resist the more it keeps me in the mental fortress of war against myself.

This veil of perception is a thick smog that is clouding the light.

I know the sun is still shining above the smog, I know its rays can still reach me.

I also know what surrender looks like. 

Like a chinese finger trap. 

Moving towards itself instead of pulling away.

Consolidating.

Acknowledging the chaos.

L :

Hawthorn tea tastes like drinking the sea.It has a strong fishy smell.Fish is also good for the heart, no?

I like the company of hawthorn.I really appreciate hawthorn.Like deeply, deeply appreciate it - How it appears it has weathered everything,

and is still standing.Rooted and braced against storms.Raw and robust,yet endlessly caring.The kind of care that strengthens.Hawthorn works the way the sea doesHawthorn loves the way the sea does.It loves the heart

by teaching it endurance.

ROUND 2

Gosha

I used to be a cobbler. I remember that specific concoction smell of leather, caoutchouc, glue, wax, oil and the old Soviet era machinery that we used in our workshop, the smell of weed that my coworkers smoked. I felt a lot of freedom there knowing I’m making shoes that people will walk in for decades. I never considered my culture(s) as a way to make money, an object to sell. I believe that we need our culture(s) to stay independent. 

P

I listen to my heart. My heart speaks to me in the language of vibrations, in pictures, in moving pictures, in movement of the body, in sounds and in physical sensations. That’s why I became an artist. My heart is merciless. It feels heavy with responsibility of how to serve the gifts that I’m being given in a constant stream, day in and day out, from moment to moment to moment. My heart is light because a gift is a joy. My heart is full of light. 

D:

“Fish is also good for the heart, no?”

This was something she read somewhere a lifetime ago. 

Where was it? In a book or an article in a weekly trashy mag?

No it must’ve been elsewhere.

A box!

Could it have been ?

On a box of frozen fish fingers?

Fish Fingers. This is an idea that evaded her. She could not conceive of any fish with digits.

A box!?

Could it really have been a box?

So what? Did that make it any less true?

Maybe?

Fish. Good. For the Heart.

She was stressing now. Second guessing her decision a decade prior to secure a sketchy surgeon in Chi-town to implant a live guppy in her left ventricle. 

What was that fish in her heart doing now?

Was it good for her heart?

Was it feeding on her tissue?

Maybe it was consuming cholesterol?

Maybe it’s excrement was balancing her insulin?

Maybe it had a flavor?

Excrement. Extra mint?

How long could it LIVE in there?

Was her heart big enough

Big enough to invite a guppy to live the rest of it’s life?

Wait a minute.

When is this fish going to die? 

What happens then? Will its body decompose in her.

She feels nauseous.

She realized now, 11 years in that she never bothered to name the being living IN her and working for her cardiovascular system. 

Okay okay okay….

Umm…

It’s name is “Gill”

No god no that’s lame.

Okay okay okay

Whats in a lame name?

Gill It is.

“Greetings Gill, if you’re still there. Alive in my heart

Good for heart”

R:

Do I have the courage to open my chest, my garden…. Like the cold, empty, broken greenhouse that has become the temple of resonance I longed for?

Ok. The wildest vision. Wildest story.

The story is nothing but how the world feels like… this is the very flesh, the caliber of story.

My body. I can decide.

My body is vast vehicle.

My body is all I truly love and I act in unison, alignemnt with.

This is a better definition of body, of identity… What you act in alignment with. Maggot.

My body feels like two very large rings… let’s say 20-30 km large right now… but they don’t really have to have a physical size. They are rotating… playing with one another… but they rotate in order to move through species of moments, of acts, all across time and space….

So… let’s say I love some historical figures… and I can point to them as a model for a certain pattern of behavior… a certain logic….

And then, with this vast space-craft, made of two rotating interdimensional rings… I can travel through all moments in time and space… that have the same source… the same seed…

And so I can better understand my larger identity, my family...

H:Awww, shit. David just commanded me to levitate.Sir, yes,sir!Well, off I go.WheeeeeeeeeeeeHey birds! These seagulls remind me of a story where a guy slapped™* a gull straight into a packed pub.Chaos erupted! Good times! We go further uuuuuuppppAh, crap, airplane. Sorry, Ryanair.Woooosssh higher, passing clouds- sky whales! Moby Dick that you can’t harpoon.Okay, I’m seeing stars nowAm I doing this right? Ooooh- hello sun, hello Light!See, I knew it.The sun is still shining above the smog.*I think I own this word now?

E:

I am still thinking about what to get for the land’s stocking. What can I give to the land? 

I am just a human. 

What do I know about what the land needs?

Deep in the night, I walked to the fire circle and then to the road, and I stood with the sky.

To listen. 

I have nothing to give to the land. 

I can give it my heart. 

I can give it my admiration. 

I can give it my grief. 

I can give it the power surge in my nerves. 

The owls. 

The huddled mice. 

I will make a large broom of the fallen branches by the stables, (like my ancestors.)

I will use it to comb the reeds in the valley. 

Then I will have something to do with my hands while I’m singing the 3am lullaby to the land. 

I liked this when I was little. I have done this to the aged and dying. 

Singing, and combing my fingers through the hair of the nearly-asleep. 

It is all that we need to rest: feeling dear and safe and sound. Sound. To be sound. 

I miss the sea. 

It has been so long. I will write it a letter. I will write it in stone. Stones tapping together the way that they do when tide-lifted and settled-back with receding waters. 

The world is full of symphony. I must fashion better ears. 

And the smells… the smells…. 

they are countless.

I do not have a child. I have not smelled the crown of the head of my own child. I never will. 

But I have held a new born pup in my cupped hands, held gentle fast to sternum. The smell. The smell of new life. The smell of new life. 

It is all over. 

I will find this signature that makes the heart swell. 

This feeling. 

The newly arrived. The gush of love that comes to welcome

the newly arrived. 

J:Allow words to listen to your heart

Worms and wormholes

Tunnels and burrows 

Assimilating earth 

Assimilating heart

Assimilating love beyond the human form 

Assimilating love as a current, a conduit, a power source that is infinitely online

Face

Facing your own eyes 

Can I/you/we see oneself beyond any form of forms that form pathways, rivers.

Perhaps the water is the source of this love 

To dissolve into the depths of the ocean and return to be that single drop in the infinite ocean.

Only to remember you were never singular to begin with. 

This is the mirror mirror on the wall that tells the illusion of being the fairest of them all.

Life isn't about fairness.

Its karmic, 

Its transactional.

It often feels very personal 

This is part of the illusion.

Our mortal human form cannot fully assimilate this because we don't have access, permission, consciousness to be with the grand scheme of this wide network.

Disillusionment.

Truth is ruthless. 

Grace never disappears.

L : Do I want to love the way the sea does?

Or do I want to love the way the earth does?

Do I want to become ash of bones through resomation?

Or do I want to feed the soil,

give my body back slowly,

become compost,

through time…

So much restoring could be done

if we let the earth have us back.

"Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time.

for we can knock her up,

taste the maggots

in the mind of the universe.

an not be offended"

Decay is not cruel

it is cyclical 

Rot is not failure

it is how we keep loving 

after we die.

“We either rise above it all,

or drown in our own shit. 

Go on, maggot brain.

Go on, maggot brain!”

There are only two questions here:

Would you still love me

if I worked for the worms?

Can we still find beauty in remembering each other

knowing we have maggots in our brains?

ROUND 3

Gosha

This week I have a lot to learn. Five classes of French, very intense. Navigating the electronic shops to get some tools for the performance workshop. Getting ready to move into a new space. Getting ready to live alone. Haven’t done this for years, although this is not gonna be like full solitude, but surely a test for an autonomy. I’ve got a good set of screwdrivers, which allow me to disassemble things, fiddle with what’s inside and assemble them back. When my neighbours see me constantly fixing random things, they giggle and I giggle with them. We are giggling together. I know I’m not allowed to fix things but who can stop me if I’m doing it for my own freedom?

P

I wake up. I start the fire. I close my eyes. I breathe. I observe the sensations, first gross, then subtle and subtler, dividing a big solid chunk into tiny pieces that vibrate. I open my eyes. I watch the fire, my morning news. 

R:

I just surgically choose.

Right in the marrow.

Right now.

Constantly.

What is the caliber of my story now?

I don’t care about any imagination… or anything that is imagined as real.

I just need to care constantly about the caliber of the movie I live in.

Can I really produce a coherent character?

A coherent character would be the one that can stabilize their core, original attitude no matter what happens… one that is not moved by inertial waves

This craft of surgical honesty is so difficult, so elusive… so unobvious.

To be honest. What a feat.

To be honest is something scarier and more monumental than being in a broken atomic bunker after everyone else died after world war 3.

If one tastes the cosmic boring machine that bores through your being in the very attempt at remembering what honest feels like… if one touches that devastating shock… then wars and tragedies feel like toy trains…

Is this exagerated? Is it?

H:Temples of resonance. That everyone might find one of their own.A place full of inspiration that flows freely, without obstacles, circling and dancing.I know mine might be a packed place- dense like a jungle.All worms are welcome there.They are archivists. They know how to handle what has been buried too fast, what was never meant to be preserved whole.Whole.WholesomeHole some?LoathsomeLove someWould you still love me if I was a maggot?

E:

A taste of the vision. 

We are surrounded by stones. They are holding us. They are hands. Our walls are made of mineral hands, making firm the shelter. These stones have come up from below. They know what the world is in a different scale of time. They were once one. They are now many. (Like us.) With little grout lines drawn in between. 

May we be assembled into shelter, like the stones. If we must be many, may we be masoned into whole. 

There is the nose of Nes pressed, breathing hot air against my thigh. He is warmer than the fire. 

Does he know the affection he stirs in me? Does he know the life-respite he offers?

Does he know the gravity of the gift he has been in the sore corners? in the pastel places of unspoken feeling? 

Do you?

I am living a miracle. 

I am living a miracle of stone walls, and warm winters, and intricate, generous souls gathered, ocean-near, no one hunting me, and war-free, and more poetry than I know what to do with each day. 

The pain has nothing to say to this. It is a ripening of recognition for the gift. The gift. The smell of the newly arrived. 

I told radu last night, a delirium recipe. the foundational antidotes:

for despair - take beauty (to remember the miracle)

for fear - take pleasure (to feel living is good)

for pain - take purpose (to settle a scale beyond agony; to give the pain a job). 

It made perfect sense (in the midnight me - too tired for acrobatics, honest in the not-straining). 

Obvious as a streetmap. 

What do you need, friends?

Can I build a dispensary for the soul?

I will build the antidote dispensary.

I already have all the bottles. 

(there are secrets blended in the gifted epiphany oils. there are salves and poems and hopes - there was the seeing each of you in each… and trying… the laboring of the more-than-mind to find exactly right the combination of a perfect answer. I did not make one for myself. I will make one for myself.) 

J: A walking contradiction 

Remain grateful for the lesson of impatience. 

I am grateful for my patience.

I no longer desire to force myself through portals. 

I no longer desire to prove my actions are worthy of recognition.

It seems I can only speak of desire in the negative, what I do not desire, is this the same as using my words to speak of desire in the positive?

Perhaps it's because I have been conditioned to believe that desire only invites more desire, more wish fulfillment, more to achieve, more to accomplish, more to validate, more to feed the ego’s insatiable appetite for end gaining, for attempting to control the world of matter.

The ego is a wormhole, a black hole, a bottomless pit.

Who, what, where, how I am is already not enough so I need to add more concepts and layers and definitions of myself.

This has been the all consuming thought pattern when being asked to step into a state of desire.

I freeze, I shut down, I torment myself with a severe complex of unworthiness.

This archetype, whatever it is named, is leading all my troops to war.

It is the one I desire to fall back, retreat, stand down. 

Your services are no longer required, needed or desired, thank you for your time.

Au revoir, bon voyage et bon courage. 

L : We are just humans.What do we know about what the land needs?

Shouldn’t living on this earth bea form of care, receptiveness, and cultural tending,rather than placing ourselves at the center?

Shouldn’t art be practicedas care, receptiveness, and cultural tending,rather than making the artist the center of importance?

Nothing humbles us the way death and love can.

Shouldn’t we approach the landscape and artwith death and love as our teachers?

As heart man -that could not be that hard, man.

Life could begin anew!And in some not-too-distant future,we can look back at our earlier history,our earlier definitions of ourselves,on our home planet.

Our hearts would’ve proved big enough,and the guppy in our heartswould still be alive.

Good work, Gill.