13 October 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:

In my mind's eye

I am centred, grounded and calibrated to my present physical reality.

It's from this place I can give without expecting to receive. 

In this state receiving and giving are all sides of all the coins.

Currency is energetic abundance, vibrating in all forms of joy.

Im my lizard brain, Im in a state of urgency, panic, the heat has risen to my head.

I feel isolated, alone and fearful of being stuck in a perpetual state of darkness.

I can't still the mind here. 

When I wak, my reptilian brain wakes to… the state between deep sleep and how the upcoming day will look, what will I do?

Will I achieve something?

Will I be able to function? 

Also where am I? 

In the depth of my being I exist without comment from the mind, my nervous system is healed in the space of collective beingness, oneness and grace.

Today, I practice grace with gratitude.

I am scattered and yet I am here.

Mantra

Mantra mantra 

Mantra 

Mantra 

Mantra

Which neural pathways do I wish to carve out deeper in this vast landscape of possibility.

T:I am an animal. 

And i feed other animals

A lot of the times i have acted as a bridge between someone’s past and their future self.

Many times those people have continued on their own journey without me

I was their doula.

My Parts.

Since some years I discovered I am made of parts.

Someone dear to me walked me through several inner journeys to meet them.

I became acquainted with many of them,

And it was my truest soul desire to integrate them in each session in the way they all wanted or needed at the time.

I am my own doula.

It is the nature of the Soul to want to ‘religare’

The latin word for binding

To web up what was dispersed

To make sense of broken bits

To create order, and structure, and meaning, and beauty, and love

Welcoming everyone home like a big mamma for dinner

Ahhh the mother.

My mother.

I’ve been my mother’s mother and my own mother.

When there are thunder storms outside I go inside my self where i have created a very comfortable, safe and soft space …to thrive and rest and be

I didn’t know I would live all of this internal life process as an external creature in the world

Do animals live this? Or are they that already?

E:

my spine is a ladder.

the bottom rungs have snapped. 

it is too far to jump.

No matter.

There is a pool in the pelvic bone of perfectly warm liquid petals.

And a candle in the center beneath the surface. 

Climbing is not for now. 

I have been trying for days to find the exact word ….

for the diffuse heat and bone-soft mellow of

just after a nap run over

or just after the sunline shore with its iodine air 

or just after a cascade of climax

or just after the long pink breathless sky

There is a source of heat that makes all architecture run wild and slow.

wild and slow. 

As the perfect aloneness of childhood empty hours. 

I could take the street cleaners thundering and hold it against my pelvis

and feel exactly that. 

I could take the grey of a bodiless sky and sip it

until the petalled pool colored it countless and unnameable. 

There are children running to school. 

And some assorted dog walkers.

And they, too, have not found this word,

though they have the same place at the bottom of the ladder 

to drift into

when the body can’t be bothered into fear. 

Zo

The perspective  

Or  

The hallucination every body lives in!  

The chroma  

The blue I see  

Is just inside of me!  

Seems kind of betrayal  

Or separation  

In very within!L. I don’t really feel like participating anymore.I don’t know where I want to be or what I want to do.I’m so ridiculously tired of this life–not of the earth, not of being alive,but of what we call life.

I’m tired of corporate systemsand indoctrinated truths.Maybe I’m burned outbut what does that even mean?

That’s just another capitalistic term saying:You’re not managing to contributein the ways expected of you.There must be something wrong with you.You need to get healthier, happier, more focused.You need to find a purpose.

Because for a good life,for you to be worthy,you need to thrive,you need to be someone,you need to contribute something.

Terms and diagnoses make me angry.They all imply individual problems.

My mental and physical wellbeingis not an individualistic problem!!!

Words like burnout, depression, autoimmune disease; none of them come even closeto describing the big nigredowe are experiencing as a collective.

The blackening.

Not of separate souls,

but of systems collapsing under their own weight.

A mourning for what we were told to be.

A quiet refusal

to keep pretending

this was ever living.

R: 

I am here, with this page, these signs …

this feels more real than being together in flesh… 

• oh, surely this is just a metaphor! How can writing on the phone be more real than being in the kitchen with the others? 

• Think of Antoine de Saint Exupery… when he wrote “The little Prince”… he was, in that moment, truly together with all the ones that read and will read, and being profoundly touched and shaped by the words… he could have chosen, maybe, to go in the park with his child (hypothetically). Instead, he stood in front of a paper… but actually was playing with millions of children, in such vast, complex ways…

Yesterday, Radu read the message of David on Signal… which was life happening… Radu wanted to respond in an adequate way, but for him the structures of common speech are just labyrinths… he wanted to go into the field, taking his hurt and confusion to the divine playground…

But then, remembered the story document was opened… and it was as vast, and free, and generous as the field…

So Radu chose to live fully on the page because he longs for full transparency… for advanced transparency, advanced work, advanced art of revealing… not just honesty… honesty can be very distorted if the difficult work is not done…

So he lived his struggle on the story document, yesterday, realizing how revolutionary this simple domain of signs is… 

Brest. Airport…

I’m done anyways 

ROUND 2

J:

Second 

Second coming 

I hold myself

My old self 

My higher self

My selfless self 

in my own arms.

I am the neutral nurturer

That expects nothing in return

The simply does what need to be done in each passing moment 

We are all neural here

When it rains

We all received the blessings of the rain

We drink together the blessings from the clouds

We receive the electric joy from the wildness of the sky

We receive the primal energy from the land 

The sun

The moon

The stars

The blue 

We photosynthesis together 

Become more connected through this alchemical process 

Our neural pathways rejoice in the firing of new patterns and habits

We formulate them collectively because to do it alone is far too grand for an individual human.

Also we are all one.

T:

Every morning I wake up and am the steward of my Breath

My breath is … everything

I once told a friend that the only thing I believe in is Breath

That loud voice that once dictated me to be good, to be better, to be more healed has completely died down and gone off to the land of nothing

The emptiness

That is what I remember when I think back to my days of infancy

I would become enthralled by the lightbulb above me while i drank the milk my mother gave me in a bottle

Later, I remember looking at my hands and meeting them with pure astonishment and zero thoughts.

I had no log of thoughts in my system then, those came much later with language and things I heard people say and repeat.

I remember state zero

Meditation helps

But the faster track is self compassion

Self compassion

Then that’s the equivalent of grandma taking you in her neutral arms of agape love

Being.

And that’s an art.

I breathe in and settle into feeling an internal cartography of somatic experience

I go there with the inbreath,

And settle even further with the outbreath

I forget who i am for the world

I forget that i am supposed to have a name or a place in society

The blessed sideproduct of being.

E:

You have skin like warm supple glass with fields of subtle and nearly unseeable moss growing all over.

And you are glad when I do this: When I press your cheek to my cheek. When I place my thumbs under each of your feet. When I hum my mouth against your crown. When I tell you a story about the other miracles as if you are a million hungry and listening with unmitigated hope. 

And you smile your big world smile, and laugh your everlasting laugh. 

And there is nothing else. 

The cost of care is too high.

(I hear the chorus.)

The cost of care is too high. 

(Says the man making too much noise)

(Says the knife searching its wound)

(Says the pill bottle opening in the dark)

(Says the suit-monger counting his staples)

(Says the scad of those who have given up

or have not known life in the first place)

I will flick a penny into their well to remind them

that the splash at the bottom is the sound of water welcoming

wealth without complication. 

Giving can be easy. 

(But it costs. But it costs.)

I will have the root in my hand to hear the sap slowing in autumn.

I will have my lips parted toward the sky and ask if the clouds want a penny too. 

I am done with hope. It is cheap.

(And so too disappointment.)

I am all in on wonder. 

Which is only to say:

exactly this and exactly now

and it was all already and always here

the unthinkable beauty.

A revolution begun by hope will only make a mirror of now.

A revolution begun by marvel…

that’s an as yet unknown story

(that I, for one, would like to live). 

Zo:

The sadness in your eyesThe pain you carried alonesoso far.

I have no words before itJust a deep wish or cravefor giving a hug.

L.This life was never living.It was an extensive giving.

Because the machine just takes.It never gives back.It only comes back for more.

And I gave all, because I care.Not about the machine,but about everyone in the mouth of it.Gripping onto its iron teeth.Refusing to be swallowed.Or not aware they are about to be swallowed.

And for the ones in the belly;I ache for them.Those already half human, half machine.

In the belly, what we knew rustsinto memory,into myth,into story.

In the belly, we have no voice.We need oil for voice.In the belly, there is no oil.So we forget.In the belly, there are no stories.So we starve.

In the belly, it’s all screws and gears and bolts.

That’s all there is to chew on.

So slowly, our bodies become tools.And slowly, our minds become programs.And slowly, we become robot.

And the machine shits our hearts.And slowly, the pile of hearts grows cities.And slowly, they take over our wild.

…Where do we go now?

ROUND 3

J:Clearing.

Releasing the sound of the overheating machine.

Can the hands work while the mind is clearing itself?

Can the fear exist here in this state of buzzing?

The mouth

the space 

of nurture 

of Nature.

I suddenly remembered the wasps living our room, 

We did not threaten them. 

They did not threaten us.

We co-existed in the harshness of the desert landscape.

We all took refuge together in the animated wooden cabin.

Each day they would fly out the window, 

gather mud to build their nest,

gather food to feed their young

I wonder if the wasp knows how feared it is?

The buzz.

Can you all feel your frequency shifting?

Does this assist in letting go of the stagnant repetitive thought patterns?

We are all surviving.

It's our nature.

How can we support each other to thrive?

T:There was a storm, a violent unconscious shadow came wanting for itself

As per usual in the scheme of realms we chose to incarnate.

Some of us froze

Some of us ran

Some of us fought

Some of us played dead or pretty (as the newest iteration of the software program in modernity)

After the pain there is always the choice to take the energy of the moment and fuel the growth

I am a plant

As a plant i hid myself most my seed life in the darkness 

Protecting myself against the predators

Distractions of soul are the predators

As i come out of the cave

I find the remnants of the traitor’s deeds

Traitor = tradere, it’s latin etymological root is to bring

He brought us all something

Some of us choose to see

Some of us choose to go blind

Some of us chose to grip onto the pain

Some of us chose to chew it, take it apart, integrate it

For the sake of growth

And for resilience

And to be inside the deeper game of being Gaian.

I hum and hum and system is more at ease

Alpha waves

Alive, aware, at ease

Beta waves

Focused, feeling, perceiving

The dance between chemistry, emotion and thoughts.

E:

A handful of berries from the bush that grows only on rock

where roots are sharper than a mason’s drill and slow like the constancy of steeples. 

I take the leaves of the whimsy tree and rub them all over your hands.

I take the pollen from the blooming poise-flower, and dust your unclothed chest with what the bees long for most. Communion. 

I peel a bit of bark from off the mild trunk of the prayer tree, smelling of frankness and sugar.

And make of it a plate

on which I serve the feast of dream-budded and chlorophyll-coiled love 

from the soul stash in my harvest pocket.

How can I tell you that it is kept safe - your joy? 

That the vault of sky has been guarding our valuables.

The treasury of peak and seedling. 

The wild foliage.

There are blankets everywhere.

For hiding and for keeping warm.

And we can gather under one.

Like this.

Quilted of impossible pain - for the needle must be sharp

to pierce the fiber of all we live. 

They are tough, these fibers.

But they keep us warm

when the blankets are for huddling under stars,

or the color-cave sharing of tender thirsts.

Zo

Birds sing?

Birds sound?  

Or birds speak toward?  

If everything is vibration,  

why and what  

are we trying to talk about?

L. There will be a birth.There has to be a birth. 

It will be a C-section.The belly will be cut open.There will be a blood bath of oil.Oil will be spilled.

We will make iron bottles of the machine.We will fill them with the oil.There will be food banks.Like vampires, we will drink-Drink ourselves back into voice.

We will smear our tongues.We will open our throats to the world.Our voices will summon rivers,rivers to wash away our time in the belly,to carry off the rust,the imprints of iron teeth.

The oil will stain our hands,but it will mark us as alive,as witnesses,as voices returned.

We will ask: What do we build now?