15 September 2025

Eli Gold
Sep 23
11 min read

"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:

T L-

Stairwell, I yearn to climb up you to unknown destinations. I yearn for a place inside myself that is unknown to me. Like St. Teresa of Avila, I yearn for the body to be a mansion whose space is undetermined and vast, full of endless mystery. In this mansion will be many rooms of various decor and purposes, full of objects new and objects long lost that have now returned to me. Rooms full of people who never truly left, but simply entered another realm. I have fortified this mansion, the smoke of sage and incense shall purify all rooms, all realms are open in this mansion now and I welcome guests both new and old.

Ciao! Ciao!

Fotia

Sometimes a movie starts with a crash.

A violent death.

My days start like this… I always start the day feeling like a crashed car.

I take parts that I observe, try to understand what they were, what their function was… where they would fit, what was their initial form.

This week seems to start like this also.. Which is fair…

Later… I get to a point… where the despair of not managing to do anything with the parts turns into rage, outrage, determination..

I know this was supposed to be something… What is going on here?

Outrage is an important friend of mine.

Together with this friend, we contemplate the large landscapes of possibility…

We touch the prison bars…

And then we just take turns in crashing with our skulls into the prison bars!

What else to do?

J: unsettling to settle

Is this space a physical space?

A place where we keep objects that remind us of who we are.

What is your space or my space or shared space?

I turn to my bodyspace, sensing what is in my field.

Do I feel settled here, there, where, when?

E: folds

Eli is cataloging her organs-of-meaning.

She can tell there is something living in her that is not hers.

She removes all of them, carefully clamping shut the various valves before extraction.

She lines them up. All tidy in rows, like a school photo.

Like a procession on a holy day.

Like a police lineup. The identity parade.

Eli speaks aloud to herself to confirm her suspicion. “There is something here that is not mine.”

A parasite. A stowaway.

It feeds from her most potent reservoirs, like a worm sipping nacre through a blind mouth.

It pumps toxin to fill the vacancy.

Sometimes the toxin feels like love.

Sometimes it feels like punishment.

What glorious anatomy. Everything wet with meaning. Plucked like ripe fruit just before the birds come.

The organs wear their forceps and hemostats like golden teeth on a pirate’s grin.

Prismatic and slick.

They are happy to be diagrammed.

They are perky and glad for appraisal.

Still there is one, here, who does not belong. One passenger who is licking the inkwell empty. L. Particles particles of stardustparticles of myth

particles of ocean

particles of stoneparticles of dinosaurs

particles of microbes

particles of primates

particles of chickens

particles of banana’s

particles of plastic

particles of child

particles of spermparticles of bloodparticles of wombparticles of milk

particles of mothersparticles of fathersparticles of strangersparticles of sweatparticles of tearsparticles of songparticles of remembering

particles of forgetting

how does one express as self

when one is many I’sI am not oneI am a constellationI am a thousand vanished livesI am a future feastFor worms, for life, for memory.

Zo:

Some little pains...

breathing in head and abdomen.

Urging signals to the whole system

To do something

Yet

the will is off

Or out of fuel.

Who is responsible

for this morning's battles?

ROUND 2:

Somewhere, I don't care where. Paris, Vietnam, Mexico. Any place where you and I can finally be alone, where I don't have to share you with people I don't know, share you with a city full of wild dogs and rotten figs, cigarette ash and unwashed faces. Where I don't have to find you in an endless forest of bureaucratic paperwork that would make Kafka blush, somewhere away from the prying eyes of fascists who spit on our love and the love of those who came before us, away from those who try to deny us what we are entitled to. Somewhere where we can finally be ourselves, somewhere where questions don't feel like hot pokers prodding me like a witch in front of the tribunal. How I longed to kiss you once I saw you again in that country full of prying eyes and disapproving looks, but I knew I couldn't. I never want to fear to love you ever again. One day, we will see each other, beautiful, naked, vulnerable, but brave. Somehow this will all be worth it, and we will laugh at the endless tears shed for so many years apart.

Radu is designing a new identity.

But it’s not just someone else… It is a totally new dimension of being.

In the near future…

The friends, the fierce fellow friends get to have full familiarity, subtle clarity on the world of the other.

What do I want to live.

I go in the courtyard wearing the question: “Can anyone of us attain integrity? There are children dying in Palestine. And I go for a walk to the church…”

Be clear.

There is infinite pain. We have infinite capacities and resources...what the fuck?

I just have no hope that coherent life is possible.

Radu is creating a new identity. This identity will have qualities of Harley Quinn. Precise qualities, not primitive psychological traits or images or forms of behavior.

It’s not about Margot Robbie or the character of Harley Quinn.

I will need also qualities of the Joker of Joaquin Phoenix…

First I need to develop the necessary discipline for us to enter the domain of the subtle and to be able to have full precision about the qualities we handle..

Eventually we will become fully responsible about the full subtle architecture of the characters we create… And then life can begin…

Until then, there is a continuous junkyard happening...

The circuitry has been purged of frayed wires and soldered fresh.

To itself.

A self-contained circuit.

Every petal deserves its own portrait.

It is enough - to paint sky.

It is enough - to cover the floor in little cut papers beyond reason.

It is enough - to watch the branches of the treeline sway from across the hillside and imagine they are all lost lovers whispering, “you know better. you know better.”

It is enough - to lie briefly in the sun with those who remember the universe born from the contact of skin. And to know that when I touch this, I touch all. That every body is every body. I will be with the light falling on the floor as if I am watching a child being born.

And I will cry with the miracle.

It is all unlikely. I will cry with the unlikeliness of the beauty of the light falling on the floor.

And take that essence and meter it into a drop

that can be felled upon the outstretched tongue of a despairing ________.

I must buy a coat for winter.

I must find warmth. Steady warmth. Stable and steady care for winter.

I must train my body to believe it has steady, stable warmth.

I will not wait for my coat before painting the sky.

She is waiting.

She is waiting in the descent to the sea, and all I want is to be one with Her.

Forget the rest.

There is only Her.

Forget the rest.

I will find the little girl fallen on the floor, who needs a new coat for the winter of this life. And I will sew it for her. It will be made of a thousand skins. That was always her favorite story. Allerleirauh. All kinds of fur. A fur of a thousand kinds. She will have a body of a thousand bodies. And they will all be her, because all light is all colors.

The circuit is whole unto itself.

L. Hi Maria / Mary,

I’m so glad you came to visit.I am so sorry that I forgot your last name.It was something like Oskullar or Cosquer, like the name of the street.I should’ve gotten up and written it down.I wanted to get up and write it down.I wanted to get up, write it down, light the candle, and listen to you.But I was halfway between waking and sleeping.I was drifting. I am sorry.I feel like I wasn’t a very good host.I hope you’ll visit again.I hope you know that I was not lazy.I’ve been out of things for a while.I’ve been living in a practical world, involved in other people’s worlds.But I’m getting there.I shouldn’t worry.You’ll return, right?I’m curious.I wonder who you are.

Your presence felt so kind.

The way you planted your name in my head was so gentle — gentle and urgent,as if you really wanted me to know your name.

I’ll speak it aloud, write it down, lay it on my altar.

I wish to live in a state of unwavering devotion to the divine, without fear, without the voice of ego that hijacks this connection again and again, over and over, insisting on the illusive state of separation.

I long to be liberated from the wheel of karma.

I wish to live in the slipstream of the neutral life force.

Without resistance, without the struggle of forging the pathway that I know many have already walked.

I long to exist in the stillness of the depth of the ocean unaffected by the ripples on the surface.

I wish to live as a field of universal truth, soft, clear, quiet and whole.

Zo:

Bounding to now

I long

to not live.

Or if I have to,

I long to be free

like a bird

flying in the fields.

free of borders,

free of boundaries,

And

free of all limitations,

physically,

mentally,

in every aspect, basically!

I long to create my ideas

freely,

free of time,

free of space,

free of all restrictions

In this reality.

Round 3:

I don't know how this vision will become real. How long will it take? It is Poe's heart under the floorboards beating, sometimes I hear it, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I know exactly where it is, other days I have to pry the floorboards open searching, searching for the hope that seems to appear and disappear, a fox in the henhouse of faith. This week will be about accepting what comes. The papers will be filed tomorrow and it is up to the nefarious networks of governments to decide whether my love and I will be reunited. I am walking with half a person, made up of divided phantom limbs and essential organs. I am being kept alive, that is all. There is only so much I can do, only so many forms that can be filled out, insurances to be paid, questions to be answered, birthdays and government names to remember. Where does it lead and what will be the end result? The universe nags me to accept whatever comes. I rarely ask for anything, want anything, but I've never wanted someone so bad in all my life.

S C

I hate writing to make sense, and I certainly don’t like sharing in a document that lives forever. Dyslexic trauma. Maybe if I consider it more of a specific task? And how does one write after something so well-written and full of pains and dreams that are so far from my own? All I have to wish for is for more knowing of everyone and finding more ways of being together that feel unforced and more space for allowing our own languages to become shared.

There is a process of : “going out into the fields…”

When I forget about everything, give up showing others what is possible and no longer wait for anyone else to join.

I go and make it happen.

Maybe the workshop of choosing our team will happen this week. This would be very related to my vision.

But we still have a lot of work to perfect the method.

It is about following our love, admiration, respect, excitement… towards some of the people we know… but just mentioning them, thinking about them as persons is not enough. The crucial thing is how we develop methods for being able to hold in memory very precise spirit qualities. Because if it is understood as such, there is no more metaphysical confusion about us wanting to “call on someone..”

Only our capacity of concentration and the measure of integrity can limit what we can attain and the spirits we can manifest…

Maybe particles… Lies said it well

Spirits are rather particles.

Eden.

(I am obsessed with Eden.)

I will go back to the garden with all who want to join me there

to find what really happened.

She is waiting in the Tree of Life,

Sophia. She is waiting in the Tree of Knowledge, too.

Sophia, I will not apologize for wanting to know God.

I will not apologize for wanting to know You.

I will not apologize for crying when I write this.

It is not beautiful or elegant. It is not new or loud.

It is not impressive.

The garden was not the wilderness. (Or have we been in the wilderness? What was the garden?)

It is not heaven.

I do not want to go back to the garden in order to find heaven.

Perfect is not holy. (Ask Jesus in his moment of doubt on the cross

about the shape of the face of holy. It is not perfect.)

There is only so much I can do.

Sharpen.

I want to go back to the garden the way one goes back to their childhood home decades later with the person they believe is the love of their life. (caution: this can only happen once. the first time is the only time.)

I am standing on the driveway in front of one of the homes of my childhood. We are standing here. I am telling you stories.

No. Not that one. Before. The one before.

Yes - the one in the woods.

I am standing at the clearing of the woods in front of my favorite home of my childhood with you.

We only stayed there in this house for 8 months. But it was heaven. I was 10. I could crawl out of my window and hop to the ground at any night hour. And it was only 7 minutes through the trees to reach the neighbor’s stables. Network. The horse I rode - his name was Network. He had one eye. The other was just an open socket - like an empty bowl left on the kitchen table after breakfast.

I was the only one he trusted.

I will find Network in my pelvic memory.

I will find my seat in the saddle - of the safe and alone in the dark through the woods to the one who trusts me, with an apple hid in my pocket just for him.

I hate writing to make sense.

Forget about everything.

The apple is in my pocket.

Maybe the worm (of the not-mine) is in the apple.

Network will eat the apple with the parasite-particle and digest it gone.

I will not apologize for love.

L. He! how about…okay, never mind.Or yeah, well. Just.Have I mentioned? No, but I should.What, like now?Uh-huh.Or not?I’m used to it…Well, am I? Does it really not hurt?Does it not hurt anymore?The pile warming at my feet.No.It doesn’t.Okay. Well then, go ahead.Be yourself. Be weird and crazy.Be off the hook.Be glorious,gloriously crazy.No shame.No hiding.Come out, come outdone disappearing.But hey, weird girl,Are you thinking about showing your desire?To be crazy is one thing,but to desire, openlythat is crazy.

You know most people aren’t very comfortable with desire…Let alone sensuous desire.Let alone eco-romance.Let alone having landscape lovers.Don’t do it.People won’t understand.

Okay, maybe.There is a question first.Here is the question:

Have you ever looked at a horse?Like, been in the presence of a horse and felt nothing?

If the answer is yes,then you clearly have no idea.And I’ll pray for you.

If you’ve never felt the lovemaking of wind on naked skin,I’ll pray for you.If you’ve never felt stones pressing their memory into your bones,or the river teaching you to shiver.I’ll pray for you.If you’ve never known a love that smells like wet moss and tastes like salt,meadows bathed in silver and dew,if you don’t hear how every corner hums,like a choir vibrating in your chest.If you’ve never walked in the shadow of owl’s wings,wrapping your soul,lifting your body back to the earth…

If you are looking for enlightenment,

turn to the fountain of arousal.

You are invited to drink it all,

to let the world slide down your throat.

If this you have not tasted,

then I’ll pray for you.

To be in the eternal present.

Eternally. Present.

Now now.

Zo:

I give my body permission

to turn back to the skin of life