19 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

D:

(green)

Entry 000000000000000001:

I can’t believe i got sent to this weird shithole. This planet is so wet and warm and cold at the same time. I miss the comfort of home's thick gasses. I mean, are you kidding me? 3000 years of travel (and without a functioning status chamber so I was awake the whole fucking time) just to come here and what? Observe? Report back? Not much to report. 

It’s been so long.

I don’t even know if this project is still funded back home. 

Whatever.

I guess I’ll get to it.

There are millions of what appear to be the planets primary inhabitants. They are tall and thin. They all stand together, way too close to each other in my opinion.

From my readings they communicate via a root structure just beneath the surface which is also where they consume. 

Oh speaking of consumption there is this absolutely DISGUSTING liquid all over the planet made of oxygen and hydrogen. I hate it. It’s wet. If anything makes me miss the comfort of a 2536 degree gas bath more, it is this wet stuff that is everywhere here.

Okay anyway, this predominant species…

they never go anywhere by the way, they just stand there and sometime sway, barely making a sound.

Idiots.

They also drink up this liquid. 

The only thing i kind of admire is that they use the nearest star’s radiation to convert into energy to grow even taller. I mean they tend to be about 3 times my height and they keep trying to grow taller.

However there are these three immense monsters here with four limbs and straight teeth who are wreaking havoc on the local population.

J: (Fishbowl)

The city had seemingly disappeared this morning 

There was a thick fog that consumed the peripheral vision of this little yellow house 

All the windows were met with a grey wall of water particles 

très épais

We woke up in this cloud 

It felt quite new 

The field of vision is turning 

Has turned inward 

Breathing underwater is a cue my subconscious mind gives me when it wants to wake me up in the dream realm. It felt like I was breathing underwater this morning. Does that mean I need to wake up here?

I feel as though I have been living multiple versions and timelines of myself.

Vivididly.

So vivid that some are moments are or aren't 

I cannot discern realities 

I woke up in sweat 

Beads of sweat bringing my body back to this plane

Seems my adrenal glands are clearly over stimulated, over working, over.

This is reflected to me in many waking moments but also in the subconscious dream realm.

The fog has lifted since we woke up

The luminosity is high and the sky is clear 

New moon energy feels close 

Im thinking alot about consistency

If I can be consistent with myself and how I speak to myself

Consistent in the thoughts that vibrate a trust towards life

E: Shiney

There is a crown on my head.

I did not put it there.

And this morning I am painted in gold light with golden dust surrounding me. 

I am holding my neck just so. 

I am holding my neck just so -

because I cannot turn my head. 

(the crown will fall). 

In truth, I cannot turn my head, because I have injured my neck. 

(it is the cost of too much determination.)

I ask myself, “what are you making with this life of yours?”

I answer, “Denis has arrived, I gave him a hug this morning. I felt I could. He seemed already one with this place, like he belonged there where he was in the kitchen.”

I ask the chair, “what do you remember of who I was as an infant when my mother held me while nursing, and I drank and I drank and I drank in rhythm with the rocking?” 

The chair answers, “you were very serious, and very determined.” 

Some things to do not change.

The crown falls and splits open.

I understand it is the nature of orifices, of portals and gateways and openings -

to eventually split open or close up. 

There is blinding sunshine in January.

There is an unlikely fire in the stove. 

I left my head in the florida keys.

It seems right that a chain of subtropical islands should be called keys.

Especially in the sunshine of January. 

I must imagine I know nothing about what will happen.

I must imagine I know nothing about any of you.

And then I will proceed by smell.

(As in the beach-date of yesterday.)

I want to teach the others how to eat litchies the way that Samuel taught me in chinatown when I was 19.

Bite the shell (only the shell) in half. Rip off the upper head like a jewelry box with a hinge. 

Squeeze from the stem til it comes into your mouth on its own.

Til it comes in on its own. 

L : He couldn’t get up.He couldn’t get up on his back legs.The things I felt and thought in that first minute after.I went from mother, to friend, to lover, to doula, to nurse, to alone.Anam Cara, that is the celtic word for Soul friend.Anam means soul cara means friend.A soulfriend is a frequency match.Born from the same egg. 

Boiled from the same soup.Moulded out of the same clay.But he, in particular, is so much of a soulfriendThat when he will no longer be here 

I’m afraid my soul might want to leave with his friend.He has been my savior.He saved me from giving up on love and friendship.We are one organism.I breathe him inHe breathes me outI breath him outHe breathes me in. I do not know where he endsand i beginand it is thé most beautiful thing.

R: distortussion….. distortion….. confusion…. Concussion…. Cusion

I stand in front of you.

-Don’t call her ocean!

-Don’t call her nature!

-Don’t call her wild!

She cuts heads.

Hanging out by the ocean. We are in an artist residency and we are trying various things… it’s good. It is a good thing to do this. It is at least harmless.

She cuts heads.

I went with my honest, open heart and there was no revelation.

She cuts heads.

-Why do you act like this?

Fotia asks:

-Why did you abandon me? Do you not like me? Do you not love me? Don’t you like to play with me?

I go on a date and I open my heart. Forest Gump.

She is too much, too smart,

too swift, too vast.

I feel retarded.

Why did you abandon me? One may ask in the moment of torment.

Like on the cross…

One can feel crushed by the cold immensity of the world.

I am in love. She loves me. The whole world is mine. I am at home everywhere and anyone is my brother.

She doesn’t see me, she doesn’t care. She is not interested. She doesn’t want to play with me. The world is a vast thorny bush. I am in danger everywhere. I am stepping on shards with all the child soles of my feet.

A child is humiliated no somewhere in Australia. Someone says to someone else.. I don’t like you anymore. I just don’t like you anymore.

So, I go again to the sea… I find my ground:

- Can you help me create such a world in which there is no such possibility… that no one can ever feel this: to not be loved… a world in which this is not the case…

And I was prepared for any answer. I wrote my possible replies on a paper.

If she says yes. I say: Ok, I trust you and I will put my whole being in your hands if you can help me achieve this!

If she says no, I will put my headphones on.

I wasn’t interested in you anyhow… I was interested in the B Boys… so fuck you ma’man!

H:Tapistries

tapis d’orient

rugs with the color of pomegranates and threads softer than a cat’s fur.

My mind has been full of tapestries. I once visited a berber’s village in Morocco and found myself in the little house of a tapestry weaver. Her room was covered from top to bottom in woven art.Most of the sounds were muted because of this- isolation.I want a room of my own like this. Virginia woolf would be proud.

A little sanctum covered with intricate patterns and soft wool.

Also, Zo’s and Eli’s words about tapestries keep dancing in my muted mind. The spirit line. The flaw in the pattern to not contend with God.

I ordered maybe too much tapestries on catawiki yesterday as a birthday present for myself. A garden of textile.

I cannot wait. They show “signs of use”; little threads hanging loose, color faded, sometimes even small tears. I will mend them, use gold thread, silk, and make them my own. 

Just so I can lie down in my nesting of rugs and…breathe out.

ROUND 2

D:

Entry 000000000000000238

Okay okay okay okay okay

Update on these three giant monsters. You know the ones with the straight teeth and the four feet?

So I got a closer look today and it was horrendous!

They are eating the predominant species! 

But like not whole.

They bring their enormous heads down and open their jaws, clamping down on a group of the predominant species and then they crush their bodies midway.

Biting through their torsos and ripping off to only consume their upper halves. 

Leaving the rest of them behind.

It so fucking gruesome.

And the dumbass beings, they don’t like run away or anything. They just stand there and take it.

I mean I despise them and all but they really don’t deserve such treatment. 

And yeah yeah I hate this stupid planet, sure.

Its not as good as my wonderfully smelling gassy home, but I admit, I’ve started to warm to a few minor things here.

For example, and just to be clear, this place still absolutely sucks. I’ll never not believe that. 

But for example, they have this other bipedal beings here who are mostly furless who are oddly obsessed with generating this material that I can’t get enough of called “pollution”

It kind of reminds me a bit of the comfort of home.

J:

Non combustible 

Non resistant 

Still see myself speaking in the non, knowing what I desire by knowing, saying what I don't desire.

I desire to be neutral,

Non judgemental 

Non identified with conditioned behavior

Not wired by habitable habits

Habits that pull me down, spiraling downward 

I desire the upward spiral

A consistent open heart

A consistent curiosity for life's miraculous unfoldings

I desire to be shifted out of duality already

I'm not even that interested in polarities anymore 

In the extremity of all or nothing 

I think this is a deep survival instinct I've learned which I desire to unlearn 

I desire an unwavering trust and belief in the life that is unfolding around me for the fog to lift

This memory appeared

I was on a road trip with my first girlfriend in the karoo desert

We were going to neiu-bethesda, to see the owl house

We were driving slower than intended because it was dark and we were surrounded by this thick fog that didn't give us more than 1 or 2 meters of visibility ahead of us. 

The next day when we drove back on the same road, the fog had lifted and we could see that we were driving on the edge of a very steep mountain pass. Very steep.

I've also been thinking about partnering with the wild and my deepest desire is to be back in the wild of the south african landscape. I desire to tap into this sense of wildness. 

E:

Even the friendliest chairs, I cannot abide. 

I am not ready.

I am not ready for wanting. 

My right eye is twitching. 

My jaw is clamped. 

I will just put my feet in the ocean. In the mercy of a grey ocean and a grey sky and a grey beach full of grey stones of all various sizes and shades. 

I drove with Lies through an endless fog in the Normandy snow of midday. 

I described this, too, as mercy. It was the only word I could find. 

Like the forces conspired to give me exactly what I long for : less. 

Less information.

Less information.

I’m almost certain that this neurodegenerative condition with which I contend is the result of a flood of information that my body does not know how to process, structure, digest or organize. 

There are two possibilities: it is the breadth of flow, the scale of current… as Radu would say: bandwidth. 

Or -

it is a species of information that I am not yet adapted to touch or track or know. 

There is a lot of it, this information. 

If I write a prayer, I could say: God, grant me the constellation of body needed to know and love this information until it becomes one with my being.

This is a possible definition of love : the doing that makes some other one with you. 

Let me love this information. Let me love it in as a good mother runs to embrace her child at the airport after a business trip.

Let me love it in as as the two hands of two spouses become one hand in the end of life confession of that one affair that just needed to be known so that it could be forgiven in this life. Let me find this forgiveness of my nerves for making the ache. 

My heart is here with Lies and Nes. 

I feel privileged to know them in their love at this exact moment of their union-ing differently. 

May I have again a furry-bodied being make a moon of their body around my feet in the winter morning while writing. 

I will find the faith that makes a factory for churning out the courage, the fragrance of courage I will need for welcoming the information that I do not yet know. It has been waiting to be known for over ten years. Surely it is time, to welcome it in. Pain is resistance. Pain is resistance. May I be hospitable. May I be a warm fur-bodied being making a moon at their toes on this winter morning.

L  :

Yesterday evening Diana was out late; she seemed a bit disoriented.She felt softer than she does during the day.Kinder.No walls, no surviving strategies or loud defensive voice.She felt feminine. She felt vulnerable feminine, the way women sometimes feel like girls, longing to be held in safe armsShe felt like she had a deep need to curl herself up on my lap.To be sung to. To receive gestures for her heart.A lullaby ringing softly through her body,soft like the silk touch of her feathers.

I fell asleep with the image of me on one side of the fenceand Diana on the other.I was humming to her; she came so closeI could feel the pressure of her graceful bodypressing against the other side of the fence.

She rested her head against my backto feel the vibration of the humming, like a tuning fork.Regulating.We were both regulating.And I drifted off to sleep.Synchronized breathing with the black furry goose in my bed. We fell a sleep while we held Diana in our hearts.

R:

Three black Lincoln SUVs arriving in the courtyard.

This is how all ancient myths start.

I want to be a porn movie director. The first one I will do will be the sex between Myth and Science Fiction…

What bodies will they have?

One is the swamp from the Lord of the Rings… where they got lost…. Myth might feel like this.

Maybe the mores on the Mt D’arree...misty, wet, shrouded in mystery and dark and….

What body will the science fiction have?

Maybe like the greenshouse… only larger, complex, geometrical, elegant….. made of plasma… moving through matter… like a spaceship… going anywhere…

So, how do they make love?

Myth is the deep past. Sci fi is the deep future. Deep utopia.

How do they make love?

Why would they?

Do they want one another in some way? Do they wish to create together?

Not to live a life, but to create a life… a world… and would I want to be born out of their union?

It would be a world where myth is not technologically retarded and the future is not losing the spirit dimensions but rather actualizing and sharing them seamlessly…

So, what body would I have if I were to be born out of this monstrous sex?

A swamp of milk alluminium.

Why?

I’m tired, boss.

H:What if I could weave my own tapestry? That is what I want.

Turn into some weird spider woman, and start a pattern.Also, I could spin people that I don’t like into silk cocoons- neat! 

Or maybe that’s their kink? Some people are weird.Dangling.

Dangling and gliding down from the ancient wooden beams that Radu loves so much,

and landing straight into someone’s soup.Oh no. Chaos. They can’t eat this soup anymore. Because, Ieew, spiders.“Don’t squash it! Get a box and put her outside!”But have you seen spider art? Their patterns? Amazing little eight-legged geniuses!Let’s wrap stuff in silk. I will cocoon things that I want to keep. Or hide. Or that I am just not ready to lose yet.Can we make a silk mandala with the pattern of the spider and the narrative of the garden of Eden, like my newly ordered old rugs? Please? I swear I won’t land in your soup anymore. It needed more spice anyway.

ROUND 3

D:

Entry 000000010000005633

I am feeling a sense of dread.

I was reading old entries yesterday and reflecting on how my perspective here has changed.

Turns out the project did loose funding before I even arrived but then some years later, an upstart politician and former accountant recognized there was a surplus in the budget back home so about a 2800 years ago they sent a team to come check up on my progress here. 

They should be arriving any year now.

As you know, this place has grown on me. A while back , the bipedals successfully destroyed the rest of the crap here that I despised and then they died off too. 

After that I really started to feel in my own for a few million years. There was nothing but gorgeous chemical sludge and this gassy air. Like home. Like being enveloped in the warm flatulence of a parent. 

It was so nice. 

There was barely anything else alive so I didn’t feel crowded.

I had written at that time of me meeting another eight legged creature here and befriending and then wedding them. They made these elegant silky webs that at first I found aesthetically off-putting but grew to also love.

With time, eventually my love Agnes dried up and died and I was all lone amongst the sluge and gas 

And I learned of this feeling of loneliness

And the strangest thing.

I started to miss this place.

What it used to be like.

I remember hating it.

But maybe I just didn’t understand it.

I fear my report will land on deaf “ears”

J: Action towards finding the faith that makes a factory for churning out the courage, the fragrance of courage I will need for welcoming the information that I do not yet know.

I will take myself out for a jog today, the sun feels nice.

I want to experience the sensation of all the stagnant energy in my body releasing and changing form. 

The form of endorphins, in action, energy, hormones, brain function, spinal fluid.

I will invite more oxygen into my system, more blood into my muscles.

Out of my brain and into my beating heart.

Less shock, survival mode, less panic. 

Out of the tightening of the hips, the psoas locked. Unlock please, kindly and gently.

Freedom in the postural muscles.

I want my legs to be strong again, my quads and thighs and hamstrings to wake up and remind them of their power.

Moulded out of the same clay.

Moulding clay. I have started. This can be consistent. 

My hands, moulding.

E:

Quality time with Nes does not constrain itself to the human notion of continuity. 

One hand on the shoulder. 

One moment of looking deeply.

Or breathing together.

One thought sent through my window into Lies’ nest, landing just above her altar. 

It is a great relief to be known by him (as I trust he knows me as humans cannot). 

Is it too uninteresting to say : I will have more faith in myself this week? 

I have recently become aware (again)  that in my functioning definition of the divine, I am the only thing not included. This is, of course, an oversight, a blindspot, an achilles heel, a corner of neglect, a mad - and convenient - delusion. The wrong flavor of ice cream. 

I cannot logic my way into faith. 

Even in myself. 

I cannot strategize a redrawing of the perimeter. 

I made a good fire. 

Stop. 

There are far away places - the US, Russia, Iran, the Carribean, the Arctic, Poland, and the Canary Islands. (in no particular order). 

Stop. 

There are farther away places - forgiveness, yielding, a love of orange, learning to drive, a life without fire. 

Have you ever opened a milkweed pod?

Life will feel like this. This week, life will feel like opening a milkweed pod. 

There will be a basket of them here on the rug. 

And in the toilet (where one cannot run away). 

And in the center of the courtyard (the forgotten altar). 

And in the fog. 

I can become more like fog by separating all that surrounds me, and blanketing it in gauzy white.

Like a wedding. 

Like a broken leg. 

Like a dish placed in the moving box marked “kitchen”. 

I will take my future and wrap it in gauzy white. 

I will take the futures of the US, and Russia, and Iran, and yielding, and orange, and fire - and wrap them in a gauzy white. 

And Lies and I and Nes will drive through and speak about the orgasmic nature of the most inexplicable miracles. 

And we will speculate on new names for sexualities in which arousal is made more by awe than by person.

L.  I will take one of the black SUVs in the courtyard and drive to the set of The Sex Between Myth and Science Fiction, which I hope the director will give a new title, because this one is kind of lame. Although I do like it when the word ‘the’ is put in front of the word sex. To keep things clear, I’m not a porn star. I’m intrigued by the body that could be born from the lovemaking between Myth - the deep past - and Sci-Fi - the deep future -. I am also a concerned lover who wants to make sure the mores give consent for anything that happens. I’m not saying that porn movie directors cannot be trusted; I’m saying that people have a history of taking what they want without consent. Myth and sci-fi are not theories, but simultaneous timelines. They should not be reduced to a blend, but understood as different dimensions happening at once.

R:

Ok… real things coming up.

Oh, it was such a full week… It was quite an effort to really convince the mores to play in the movie… and also the greenhouse.

I spoke to Zo, that week, about… the feeling of powerlessness before political matters… just like being overwhelmed in front of the ocean… How does one stand in front of these enormous matters? What is our ground of sovereignty, of dignity… it can only be love…

“It may sound cheesy, but love is the answer…” No one here can guess who said these words… Maybe Eli, if she opened the link I sent.

That week…. Oh how I partnered the wild… like Nes and the rug.

Like the earthworm that got stuck onto my aprin yesterday.

One vow I make.

I step into madness.

This is my vow to Fotia:

Like any lover:

I will not accept this life without you.

Like Lies to Nes.

Like R to E…

I will die if I cannot be with you.

I go to the ocean this week… seriously, like Lies serious. With the van and everything. With the fuck you attitude in her hair. With the serious colourful patches of clothes and the scarf and the mythical nes by her side. That’s how you go to make love with the monster.

And I will do.

Like Romeo and Juliet.

I will not take no for an answer.

I will say to the ocean:

If this love is not possible I will destroy everything…

Not like Van Gogh.

Not with a gun pointed at my chest.

I will destroy the entire structure of this culture if it makes our love impossible.

I will tell her:

You cannot be like that to my friends!

I will tame you with a new logic of existence.

I will take the milk alluminium that will be somehow ejaculated by the greenhouse onto the mores and I will make a harness capable to tame the ocean.

Is that harmless enough for you.

And the ending scene…

Forest Gump finds out he has a child.

He is afraid, worried…

He steps back, he cries… he asks…

Is he…? Is he retarded, like me? – No, he is the best in his class...

And the ocean says:

Take it! It is a shark egg… Your new body. Plasma shark.

Is the actor that played the child of Forest Gump the same that played in Denis the menace?

H: I should be a vegetarian spider, I guess.No way that I could eat moths or night butterflies.I don’t want to show favoritism, but I do like moths. Everyone knows by this point, I guess.

There was a hummingbird hawkmoth taking refuge in my car for a few weeks. Hiding from winter. She should have migrated, but lingered too long. Lingering. Missing her flight home.Everytime I turned up the heating, she would buzz through my car. I named her Arlette, after a Jack Russell puppy that I met, all enthusiasm and disaster,who tore my stockings to shreds.God damn it, that had been expensive black silk, a beautiful pattern ruined! Good thing my spider-self can weave new ones.

Last week, I couldn’t find moth Arlette anymore. Did she fly out at one point? Or is she still hibernating in my car somewhere? Hidden. Silent. I should have given her sugar water. I miss the buzzing.She reminds me; there is always an invisible thread, even when you’re not a spider.An invisible thread home. The tug, asking to be followed. To a room lined with rugs.

Ps: Also, fuck frogs. They are the Rick’s of the spider world.