22 September 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:

Gosha

Q: How do I distribute my resources wisely

A: In some regards, you are quite resourceful, in some regards, you need some aid from ‘outside’. You are a drained land with a hidden nutritious element. Many amazing creatures and processes can thrive off your energy if you distribute it wisely, nourishing your own needs in order to save some precious bits for the cold days.

To distribute the resource wisely means not to just even out the portions, or develop a transparent system of equal consumption - in the first place it means that there is a resource to distribute. Which logically means that the creation of a sophisticated resource distribution system requires having an organized gathering, processing, archiving, storing - and then distributing, based on the amounts of resources collected, assessed and studied for their characteristics.

Thomas

Q: What is it that you’ve lost that you seek to find from me? 

A: I seek to find the joy that I have lost. I seek to find the child who found joy in the pages of a humble book. To be enchanted by that magic book again, filled with unbridled joy and terror, to pour over each page with that same fascination that comes from merely not being alive for longer than a handful of years. Even as a child I would be convinced I knew the story by heart, but the book would correct me, surprise me with some new variant made privy to me only then. Fill my heart with stories unknown to me, so I can be brave and take control of the story that is all my own. 

P

Q: How can I find lightness in what is heavy, softness in what is hard?

A: By observing / sensing / enjoying the heaviness of what is heavy by nature and the hardness of what is innately hard. 

T: 

Q: With what part of you do you see at any given time and what does it do in you to see through that part? Where are you?A: Sometimes I notice that I have so far gone into being identified with the goggles I am seeing life through that all of a sudden I awake from it like it would be a bad dream and I ask, is this what I want to be doing with my time? With the precious energy I have been gifted this morning?Who is thinking for me? Why are you feeling this way? Where does it come from that you need to be making such a story about life? Ahh, could it be that you really need to exist through that mode of being? You want to exist. Who are you? You are not me because I did not command you to make me think, you did it. Like a hijack. Wow, this all sounds so crazy, but do other people also go through this?Being wrapped up into a story of how things are about something or someone or oneself.The deeper layer is being identified with that train of thought as if it were truth.

Thankfully I have done some things in my life where I then stop in the tracks of this projection and make a real pause. An example? No, I am too scared to get into the tunnel.So if the automatism is running that show, what can I decide to run instead.This morning, earlier when it happened during my meditation, I stopped the meditation altogether. I did something else. I decided consciously to start to think about something more productive for my life. Could it be unprocessed emotions that fuels the more spontaneous thinking? And could I make it so my automated thoughts are for my own benefit or does the nature of the automated thoughts is by default something that is against my own life? Could it be that it started as something that helped me that then became vicious, fuggy, contaminated, like a machine that repeats and then adds error but continues to repeat with incrusted error.

E:

Where is your boat? 

silver scales.

I’ve never wanted to be a fish. Even a mermaid - (it is another way to say that I do not want to be my mother. My mother is a mermaid.)

I have swallowed my boat. 

Whole.

It was necessary to live like this - with the sway in my pelvis like a rocking chair built sideways. 

This is how my body came to be shaped like this - a wide pelvis with a seafaring hull. 

I am built for righting myself in the storm. 

There has been a storm. 

My hull was shaped by felled trees from Eden.

Like yours.

Someone had to do it - cut the tree down like a trap. 

I dangle my legs in the salt water below and the creatures weave figure eights through them like a driver with a learners permit in the parking lot. 

They tickle. 

It is a not-so-often offered sensing of the ocean: it tickles. 

My boat is in my pelvic cradle and I know this because of this tilt in the hips that happens when walking, and when sitting, and when standing. Side to side.

In yeshiva the boys are taught to rock forward and backward to intensify their learning in the presence of God. I am not a boy. 

Side to side does not mean uncertainty. 

The doctors with their plastic pockets and gold fillings call it ‘self-soothing behavior’. 

This morning my prayer started like this: “Eden was a womb.”

And that explains everything. 

My boat is in my body is on an ocean with tides like doubt and mercy for nothing but myself. (which is what - little more than a craft.)

I am not here hoping. I have already swallowed the boat. And like Mary, it has no oars. It has no oars. It has no oars. 

LV: Q: How to survive an open heart? 

A: There is terror in living with an open heart

no shields, no walls, no armor.

It is walking naked across battlefields,

crying over dead bodies

to make the soil beneath moist,

so it can drink the life

and feed on it,

and give back in return.

There are flowers growing.

There are always flowers growing

where something died.

DF:

To where and how far?

The North Star is lost. Absent in a crystal clear night sky. 

So far only thousands across the northern hemisphere have noticed, but soon enough a global catastrophe will alight. Of all the scientists, thought leaders, politicians, clergy, and philosophers who will pontificate and ultimately bloviate on the reasons, not a one will consider Polaris. 

How did Polaris feel? Millenia of burning bright and constant, unmoved so that orientation, navigation, transport and trade could carve the earth with organized efficient movement. Trillions of other celestial bodies moving freely about day and night, but Polaris stayed. Put. Put upon to support a species once admired. Polaris saw how far things had come, how much destruction built upon her initial gift. She saw the lack of appreciation. Who needs a star when they all have gps. 

She left. Polaris got fed up and left us all. 

HS: Q:Tell me of your spine: does it stand like a resolute tree rooted in truth, or does it bend and whisper?A: I think my spine is like that of a cat, more flexible than I imagined. Or perhaps it is closer to that of a sphinx: defined, regal, carved in stone. Until someone dares to answer my riddles incorrectly. Then it becomes all whip and claw and coil. 

R: How do I get a hold of the thin golden thread?

R: Ok, so to respond precisely… enter story.

This body walks… this boy walks into the forest…

It is a relentless wind, so a giant tree falls with all the knives of splinters and enters thoroughly through bone, through marrow, through flesh, through stomach, through brain, through heart, through thoughts, through feelings, through memories, through the ticket in the pocket, through the chocolate, through the wish for a white dog in the future.

F: How do I angel?

F: Doamne Doamne e cel mai tare si cel mai puternic din lume.

Si ingerii…

(translation: God (in a diminutive form) is the strongest in the world.

Also the angels...)

Zo

Q:  

How long does it take to know you?

A:

How much patience do you have?

How much dare do you have to stay in the realm of unknown?

In the coldness in the heart of a void?

ROUND 2 : 

Gosha

The North Star is lost.

It is a new moon today, and tomorrow there will be a new me. I am being refreshed like a webpage on a daily basis as I am updating my visa application status on the embassy website. I’m trying not to spend too much energy on that because I think that it’s useless to worry about something that I have no control over. I’d rather focus on gathering and preserving my patience to endure the winter.

Thomas: 

“you are quite resourceful, in some regards, you need some aid from ‘outside’.”-Gosha 

We are all the boy who longs for the magic book. We are all the boy struggling to hold on to the magic golden thread. 

Sometimes the boy feels naked and afraid in the cold forest, afraid he didn’t pack enough, has lost the thread, has lost the plot. 

That joy is not entirely made from ourselves, it is not a monolith, that joy comes from the hope that others give us. 

The boy was terrified of asking for help. To ask for help meant trouble, to fall prey to the unknown agendas  of others, to reveal that maybe the boy didn’t know what he was doing, that maybe he was foolish. It never occurred to him that the knowledge of the golden thread, the source of new stories, the source of a joy lost long ago could be found in the eyes and hands of others. The boy had simply been too afraid to dream, that reservoir was only nightmares and memories that faded into stories that did not serve him anymore. When he is brave enough to ask for help, then he will be able to get out of the dark forest. 

T:  Angels

I call upon the angels to come here to this realm 

To touch me

To touch my thoughts and imbibe them with divine frequency

The higher realms call for a type of silence that is the steady connection to all

They say all is love 

And love is all

There are no steps towards enlightenment

It is or it is not

To transcend the duality

To live beyond the black and the white

Angels,

Be a bridge to what lies dormant in me that is more me than what I have ever known

Awaken the me beyond the forms

Bring me closer to God Source Divine 

Love

Agape

Contentment

Santosha

E: filled with unbridled joy

Life can feel like a horse running. Like two horses running. Because they can. Because their bodies are built to enjoy the sound of hooves on autumn frosted ground. There is steam spouting from the nostrils, and neck motions like the tail of a seahorse. 

Unbridled

lives definitively in the rocking hull of my pelvis

which has not known freedom for … 

Freedom cannot survive as a memory.

I will sample it from elsewhere. 

I will sample it like a good little archivist with her white gloves and acid-free envelopes and little ticket tags for reference code. 

Eyelashs. The horses, unbridled, move like my eyelashes closing in the unapologetic coastal winds. 

Like children standing in a circle piling their hands one on top of the other to make the many-hearted promises of in-it-together. 

Like the woodfire returning borrowed light from the sun. 

Like honey squeezing from an overfilled hive. 

My grandfather, the beekeeper, returns in his netted keeper’s hat.

This is a power that he has that his absence remains as potent as he was in life. 

He had joy in his hives. 

He had pure joy in the gushing combs of his heart.

L : This body walks; not sure it feels.Not sure what it feels.It feels like a parasite.It feels when it is attachedto another lifeform.Does it feel by itself?Can it make warmth alone?It waits.It clings.It absorbs.It gives back.It attaches because it wants to give back.Is the giving ever its own?

This body is full of echoes,empty sounds,overly shared storiesthat are not its own.Did they really happen?

It wonders if it will ever feel,or if feeling is always borrowed.It wonders if giving can becomesomething other than reflection,than memory,than survival,than strategy.It wonders where body heat comes from.I repeat. Can it make warmth alone?

Also, does a shadow have eyes?  and can light  be found in those eyes?  

DF:

It is a not-so-often offered sensing of the ocean: it tickles. The shores are delighted and itched by the change. All the seas seemingly coordinated with inflated tides. Wave after wave of a message. The moon has noticed the absence and the moon is communicating. To mostly deaf ears. 

The ocean responds but only as much as he has to. Lazy, heavy, and full, the ocean is mostly dead weight. The moon pushes and pulls, trying to wake up the lethargic old wet mass but the most he can be bothered to move is not enough to awaken. For a brief century, the ocean was annoyed at the moon. The moon was content and relented to get even any reaction, but then he rolled over his waves and continued with the bare minimum.HS: 

I feel for Polaris: she was right to leave. But have you heard of Aldebaran and Altaïr? Or Benetnasch and Canopus? Names like nightly incantations, their echoes still floating around, even during the day. Did you know that sphinxes are actually expert astronomers? Out there in the desert night, they have little else to do but stretch their feline, stone-carved spines and devour the occasional dense man.

Let me share a fragment of sphinx-star wisdom with you. This comes from a guardian sphinx; yes, one of the good ones. Not the devouring, seducing kind.

The sphinx says: The galaxy bleeds into the ocean. Into every surface of water, really. The stars double there without effort. So if you ever lose your way in the night, don’t only look upward. Submerge, into the galaxy shimmering below.

R:

There is terror in living with an open heart…

Whose terror?

Is there terror in the moment when the trunk, the splinters enter flesh?

Let’s see…

Actually it happened like this: the perfume of freshly split wood missed the perfume of blood.

Actually, it happened like that : this was the most extraordinary thing that could happen in a human destiny.

Actually, it happened like that : the boy is alive and sees now with every branch and every part of wood. The boy is anywhere there is wood.

Actually, it happened like that: the boy was no ordinary boy.

Actually, the ordinary boy is the myth.

There is no ordinary you.

F:

Zo:

“The North Star is lost.”

some claws in my middle part,

constantly opening and closing

or 

squeezing my soft…