20 October 2025

Eli Gold
Oct 23
12 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

I, start life strong, today, with direct pierce through question. Nevertheless, show me the caliber.

The question happens before anything else gets to exist.

The electric tree inside my bones asks.

This question has no place in life because it contains life.

Anyways.

The answer comes. I love large diamond pure shapes interacting, dancing, concentration, understanding, care. Here, I sit like no one, like nothing on the airport - with people on it - waiting bench. Uncomfortable.

“Sometimes I think I’m just not good for people.

You know, that it’s not good for them to be around me

I wear’em down.” Rust Cole

Wooden grain with a hint of goldThe balance swaying in a soft rhythm of surrender and guidanceI touch smooth surface but cannot reach the heartwoodMy soles are aching for moreGently loweringLand again on the red tiled floorsacred pigment beneath my feet

Heavy and cold.

The truth of the heavy and cold and how it is needed

Now. Exactly now.

Against my face.

I have, for lifetimes, dreamt of being buried (lovingly) by ocean stones.

One at a time.

Only by the hands of someone who knows

that mineral calling,

the voice of forever and effortlessly here and arrived

through whatever means and without

deciding.

“Water,” the stone calls.

I give it my mouth.

I kiss it how words must be kissed to come alive through the hollow of a land insufficiently traveled

(except by dentists… who are decidedly not lovers… of stone. (Or …Zo -

is a lover of stone))

I am wrong.

I am allowed to be wrong.

“Water,” the stone calls.

I give it my mouth.

And my cheeks.

And my neck.

And my chest.

And then, learning at last - I walk to the kitchen sink.

Water, friend.

Water, ally, fiend and uncle. Comrade. Bedfellow.

Water - for you.

And I tell you with no fancy fibbing that this stone drank the water down in minutes.

Until it was dry again.

And it made a song of soaking in.

The near-mechanical sound of bubbles rising, popping open (like vows) as air and water vie for the same shafts and rifts and chasms.

And then, again, was the thirst.

“Water,” the stone calls.

I give it my tongue.

“Water,” the stone calls.

I give it my rain.

“Water,” the stone calls.

Until I understand that this is the only word for all that can be asked.

They are a crusty wrinkled people.

Oblong. Nearly, egg-shaped. Hardened exteriors.

No visible optical sensor. No orifices whatsoever. No appendages.

A population in appearance of single-serving upright, rock-hard diminutive disembodied scrota-like beings. (Small, though. As if from an anti-Tanuki)

It tracks that they prefer to travel in pairs wherever they go. Some move in something like a rolling motion. Others nudge and creep along as if to take tiny steps.

There is a prevailing well- repeated myth of the population that ages ago there was one (some say it was a pair) among them could travel by levitation.

As I danced my body into free movement and allowed its intelligence to take over my mind, I felt the vibration within me, a vibration that comes from elsewhere, it comes from my ancestors through the strands of DNA, and it also comes from a cosmic family, connecting through my energy and subtle bodies.I am buried deep in my center. This means pure stability that emits deep essence.I am also composed of the ideas, desires, longings of who came before me.

And am connected to a family of beings originating from other stars and dimensions.

The words are “I will stand in this power of being alive until the day I die.”

I laid my head on their porch.Rows upon rows, they stood in silence.Bodies wrapped in covers.

Spines bearing strange symbols.Insides coded with the same strange signs and symbols.

They have names-at least, I think.Some of them carry the same symbols on their backs.Are they from the same tribe?Is it the same entity, in different forms?

Have I found the secrets of the world,yet to be discovered?Do they ever open?Do they open themselves?And when?And for whom?Are they the elders of this planetancient, dusty, but alive with memory.

B; Globally

Captured

Changing grain by grain

Subject to movement

Never really taking any form at all

Me staring…connecting…

Mentally moving into…

“Experiencing understanding”

Without any way of actually physically connecting at all.

I could look into

Even through

Move out of way

Create and destroy

Manipulate

No grain was ever waste

Without even an instant of even moving into something like taste.

ROUND 2

Still not aboard.

The question, is it still there? In the place of true choice.

What is this place? It’s like an organ. Undiscovered.

But we can.

I wish to send a cloud of piercing, unbreakable trust.

To rain over my friends.

We can.

As the night approaches,

I can hear it’s voice

Calling out for feeding, for rich, shimmering oils and minerals and salt

I am a nourisher

Let me fill every drought with sweetness.

Let me kneel beneath your branches,

Let me press the juice against your tongue.

A thousand more voices calling out in the dark

For endless banquets and lush feasts,

open for the taste of life

For the red sweetness of torn pomegranates

for precious salt from the earth,

for sweet honey from the comb,

for milk warm from the body’s heart.

At the beginning was home.

And the home was water.

And it’s no wonder that it’s all you can ask for and the only word to ask for anything.

One day, the water ran off.

And beneath it, islands.

And suddenly - air.

And you were inside, so you didn’t notice.

You were inside of what we now call a mountain or a quarry or a mine or a graveyard -

in any case - under.

So you didn’t notice.

(That’s why I’m telling you now, because you deserve to know where the world was before you could see it.)

And the mountain faced rains and winds - which is only the ocean longing to rise again and cover everything. Because it missed itself. And needed to leave to come home again. As we all do.

And in the rains and winds and coming home - you eventually surfaced.

With countless other you’s. Born into light.

As we all are.

It was thrilling. Light and the differences made by it.

So you rolled from the mountain, and stumbled, and scored and murdered little creatures unknowingly, and fell into canyons with great speed, and tallied your chances like a monk with his piles of counted rice.

You rolled and clobbed and hammered and slid

all the way down.

Until you found home.

In the sea.

Then I came

and stole you away from it

like a childknapper with a ransom note.

So you ask me for water. And I listen, while believing I can fulfill your only prayer.

Home.

I will take you back and lay you easy and light in the bosom, as we all must do with every bit that’s been thieved away.

Gently Lowering…down to a gossamer cushion. Rest your, um, self… upon the soft fabric and try to feel. Your rigid shell shields but also shrouds your ‘inside-of-you.’ Though it may seem impossible, try to relax as I tell you the story of the one who never relaxed. They rolled one morning at great speed to see just how fast they could wobbly roll. So fast in fact, they were unable to slow or stop and they kept gaining momentum until they lost control and impacted a surface, unbelievably more hard than their own skin. The force was so great that upon impact their shell broke open and their inside spilled out. Also hard, but not quite as. Their rawness open for all to see, nutty, chewy, flavorful. Beloved more than they ever could have hoped.

Deeply inside yourself, where the realms are pure vibration of beingness and potential there is a type of longing that creates. That’s the spark of God. The only words from a human that can produce the image and connection to what is really happening there, which transcends the capacity of a human.

I heard once that we are beings in the universe who have only a small amount of life invested in them. Can you imagine the beings having more life in them? What is it like to be them? I would think it is like the most perfect papaya-pineapple fresh smoothie bursting taste on a bright sunny beach day! but in a continuum, not just the first gulp. Where all the senses are at their highest possible activation and all of the neurotransmitters in the body are in perfect sync. I imagine it’s like having the kind of telepathy that can access the most remote part of the universe in any timeline and connect to the highest source of Love. At all times.I would say it is to live connected to a wavering field of being an individual and a collective at the same time. Or having direct access to having tea and cuddles with God in the universe’s most ancient and life-circling forests in Planets that have been alive and only alive forever.Maybe those being’s mitochondrias are a big non-stop party of existence in a way we’ve never experienced before.Wow. Is that what we are navigating humanity into?I also heard that this place, the Earth, sits at the extreme of the universe the farthest away from the light of Source, meaning that we are swimming in mostly shadow. and that the whole meaning of us souls having incarnated here is to drive the planetary collective to cultivate more and more light, to take more and more space lighting up the shadows and collecting them for Love-Source-God.So, deeply inside the Earth, where the realms are pure vibration of beingness and potential there is a type of longing that creates. That’s the spark of God.

You can go to sleep now.Books.It’s books, right?Books is what you’re called?

I’ll read from you.I mean, to you.I mean, I’ll open youso I can read you to sleep,so I can read you,to you?

Wait.If I read from you to you,and lend it my voice,does it mean you can read me too?

When your words crawl into melike tiny moving creatures,and roll from my lipsinto the gesture of a story being told-does that make me a book?

Wait.Who is holding whom here?Who is reading whom here?Who is the receiver here?

When I read to you, your eyes close.When I read in you, my eyes open.

I turn your page,and you turn something in me.

I open the first page.It is coded.

Help me out here books,What do the symbolsL . O . V . EMean?

Wooden grain with a hint of gold

Please don’t mind me looking through

You can go to rest on your own demand

Aren’t we all the same without a brand

Standing still and weighing down

Without a wrinkle or a frown

It equals like the level water

Surfaces revealed from inside out

Though still no connection with what’s within

Cause within is out and out is in

ROUND 3

ROUND 3: Be as wild as wanted

So you want wild?

Wild never asked for this, though.

It’s like- oh, shit, not this one again.

Let’s see what happens this time.

Time is wild, wild is time.

Wild is free

but freedom is not always wild.

Wild is tearing into purple figs with abandon and hoping there won’t be any choking happening on the little seeds (those tiny bastards almost killed grandma once)

But who cares?

Let’s have a feast of more, more wildness, more abandon, more drums thundering around the table, chairs toppling over and chandeliers swaying like a pirate ship

Heyho and a bottle vin du merde

Don’t ask me why, but I didn’t understand until now that your ancestors are responsible for the warmth on my face that you sip from my skin when your cold becomes mine.

Heavy and cold.

Walls that make inside inside and outside out.

Stone, do you want to fly?

Do you want to know neither earth nor water, neither light and neither dark.

(I am pretty sure that falling is neither light nor dark.)

That’s it.

I will throw you from a cliff

(unless you’ll find it too bold of me. unless you’ll find it rash.)

I’d like to be daring.

It has been said that the blood of a maker can be seen in the shade of their audacity.

The more red, the more oxygen in the blood.

The more oxygen in the flame, the higher it grows and the hotter it burns.

I’d like to be daring.

I will throw you through a window.

Like Helena suggested this morning

for waking everyone who isn’t here.

We could all do with a little love like this.

Stones thrown through windows for waking us up.

A little love like crash.

A little love like shard and brittle shatter.

That which lets light through breaks easy.

Not like your ancestors. They’ve been piled up and ground down to make these walls.

That do not let light through.

They break slow.

They break long and blunt.

So I will break Zo’s window as say,

“Hey! I heard dentists are stone-lovers! And this stone wanted to fly! And nevermind the sharp, pointy bits. Nevermind the wind. Who would deny a stone its hunger?”

The story of the levitator (or levitators), you remember them? Yeah well apparently when this happened there was a whole schism within the population of small single scrotums. While only a handful claimed to have witnessed this transportation, more than half the population called bullshit. These skeptics raised valid criticism of the accounts, such as: Since none of us have any powers of observation, how did the few ever even become aware of this forward flotation? Nevertheless, the other half formulated a fervor over the notion. A cult of levitation grew and established into a fully integrated tax exempt religion. Eventually, those believers who worshipped the levitators, who gave a name to the one (or pair) of Nathan ( Or Nathans) and they called themselves, as worshippers Leviathans.

The Leviathans grew to be such an influential sect of society, manipulating resource-allocation and swaying opinion in their favor they became the figurative form of their accidental namesake.

Ah ab Jub HA aha gugu soos Codes.To call you all.In 2020 I found the protocol for encounters of the 5th kind. That is humans calling upon cosmic family to make contact.I clearly do not know if these entities have agendas or what kind.But at the time I felt totally determined to make contact with entities that would clearly have a different and perhaps an advantageous point of view over Earth and things that humanity ignores.Clearly nobody really knows what is happening here.We wing it in our lives.Saying yes to ridiculous standards and bureaucratic fantasies.Adapt to the imposition of frameworks, go through 8 prisons of schooling our wilderness and secluding our souls. I think of some of the African communities, or lands that contain different ways to relate to life being taken over by imposed shiny objects.All this talk about reptilian races and different species is total and pure speculation.But at least it made the story a little bit more exciting!Fantasy lands

Fantasy scripts

Fantasy talesDisney illusions and collective outrage

Is it distraction or the intent of re-building the essence of our innate magic?

The way we sat at the fire making puppets with our hands on the wall of the cave and believing it so deeply that we scared ourselves!Have we ever left the cave?Is our neurology a cave?This is what drives me to say, bi=izz bup bap gguggah KáLet’s have a talk, entertain our wilderness again.

I think I’m leaking.

Words pour out of me,spill into the floor,climb the shelf like vines.

Every spine opens an eye.opens a mouth.They all hum the same code: L.O.V.E.L.O.V.E.L.O.V.E.

I sound it out.Again and again.The atmosphere changesThe shelves shift.Something opensnot a door, not a page,something else.

The letters start to move.They peel off from the paperand circle me like small white creatures,pressing themselves against my skin.

I think the room is breathing faster.I think I am the room.

A voice falls out of one of you, saying:

“The girl has no particular beauty, nor does she look like one particular girl; there is something about her, something both simple and eternal. I turn to her and say: WHAT?! Do you say Moby Dick isn’t a good book? That is so silly! She opens her eyes and smiles, and both of us understand that I said what I said only to arouse a certain relationship between us.” ( quoted from Life as a Parable from Pinhas Sadeh) I think I am inside it now. I think the shelves are lungs. I think the dust is dreaming.

Did she just smile at methe girl from the book.Or maybe it was mewritten on her page.

Wait.Who is the story now?

I turn the page and find myself standing between the letters.

They whisper:This is how we open

I whisper back:This is how we love.

Wild as wanted

Wait, what is wanted…

Wild wanted

Can a grain be wild

And two grains be wilder

Does a bunch become wanted maybe

And a heep turn into wild life