24 November 2025

Eli Gold
Nov 24
22 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 want what is not on the menu. I was offered shit on a plate. And in the past I have been very eager to eat whatever is served just so that I can be in the company of whoever. Ah, you want me… so I go there. Survival strategy from the point of origin of “I am not wanted.” or “I am not important.”What if not being wanted or important wasn’t a problem?

What if I started wanting myself?Things are definitely moving within me. Ideal parent figures can be artificially created and inserted in the mind, biohacking is a real possibility. What is real?What is real is this moment. With all the sadness, pain, grief, rage, joy and longing. All of that is real, it’s not right it’s not wrong. It just is. And the heaviness of feeling is real. And most want to escape that. Real problems start there. When fantasies, and swamps all come rushing into the scene to cover up the reality that being alive is a constant navigating of feelings, pain, suffering, self-assessment, growth, maturation, evolution. If we want it.

Almost one month ago, a hurricane came through the island of Jamaica and demolished thousands of people’s homes and their daily lives. The hurricane lasted a total of 12 hours. Twelve hours and you lost your entire belongings, your home, don’t know where some friends are, your car is gone, no more field trips to the next town. Your cards, IDs, maybe your dog or cat couldn’t survive either. You start seeing your surroundings that are vulnerable and people start getting sick easier. Houses were frail because it was easier to build with cheap materials, yes because Jamaica is not a wealthy place. Wealthy? You mean having avocado and mango trees in your back yard is a sign of … poverty? Yea, if you live in a rural area and cannot see homeless skid rows to compare your wealth to it means you’re not worthy of being seen as rich in this grey-scaled modernity. Do you own a yacht just so that you can make putrified reality TV shows about scandalous sex-driven crews? Great progress, humanity! Bravo!Or maybe you own a yacht because you are stuck living in the rigid grid of the Standard Human Intelligence Thoughtware. Also known as SHIT.And that is what was served to me this weekend by yet another attempt of relating and connection. I was served shit on a plate and I choose something that is not on that menu.

Translation is not a service but rather a gift. There’s no bridges between past and future, between one symbolic system and another other than our experiences, collected. It is a dense substance, cold and dark below, illuminated and warm above. For those of us struggling on its surface, it can be unforgiving. For those of us inhabiting the bottom, it’s a cradle and an arena. My contribution to this brew is a slimy fluorescent sweat oozing from the pores of my soft body while I’m gathering weirdly shaped fruits out of their shells in the dark.

And then we speak about compassion, selfless-ness.

Struggle.

Separation.

Perfectionism.

Contracting, holding my breath.

Duty.

My psychic muscles feel extremely fatigued today, the past few days in fact.

Maybe I'm drinking too much coffee?

Maybe I'm hormonal?

Maybe I'm deeply fatigued at feeling misunderstood?

Or tired of trying to understand every nuanced interaction and still feeling suspicious of what ‘it’ is unraveling moment to moment.

Maybe I'm the suspect?

Do I have the capacity to show up in such confusion and be a mirror of light?

There is an alcove on the sole of the foot that licks secret the floor as it walks. It is uncallused. And so when it touches, it touches without friction or gripping or need for impact. It touches in order to simply find. To find. To find the ground. To kiss the ground.

This is home.

There is a moment just before light finds again the sky in which the coldness peaks. Like it must get all of its power out before the fire heats the world again. I often wonder if I am the only one who has noticed. Have you noticed? You are a noticer. We are in that strangely sudden coldest before dawn together.

This is home.

The doors of your cabinets can wait.

There is a river flowing right out of the house.

Catch it.

Plunge your head in the water and say, “Now! You! You are night!” and come out again - drooping with your long and soaking heavy head and say, “Yes! It is day! And that’s fine!” And then laugh hard enough that you startle the frogs. And don’t stop until they come back and join you.

You have books. They are also home. And freckles. And teacups. And dust.

There is so much home in dust.

Lick your finger and rub it in the corner of this new room.

Meet the ancestors.

Meet the people who know the home of this place.

You have made no mistake in coming here.

Let it move awkwardly on your tongue, like a language that your mouth can’t make yet.

The leaves outside that your neighbors are raking into piles in this tidy place - that is not your wild (and that you hate for its tameness) - bring them all into your library. All of them. The unwanted dead and fallen. Introduce the leaves to the pages of your books. Maybe they will find home before you do. Maybe they will teach you how.

Words are not adequate. My words are not adequate.

What a fucking year for them. Especially for her. What courage to stay. The burden to know what she knows and to feel what she feels and to then lose another.

A name that means merry. Happy. Heedless and carefree.

Does that give any kind of added strength?

If so it’s tested.

How?

How can those of us who know and care support and embrace?

How can we from afar wrap them in the coziest of blankets and hold them like a naive child and hope we can lie enough that everything will be ok?

I am a black cat, purring on my sister’s lap.

because in that form, at least, I know I can reach out.

One of the three.

Undecided still…. am I the greedy one who swallows her pains au chocolat without breathing?

The happy, feather-light one who chirps at dust bunnies in the corner?

Or the chaotic one who always pees on her belongings?

(Probably not her.)

But the glutton cat and I… we might have some similarities.

But the most important part is; being there.

Hands buried in fur.Warmth of weight.

A shape of trust.

Leaning in and listening.

We’ve always had cats, it’s a being and language we understand. So I wish to be with you in the form of this being, although I would very much be rather something that could fly.

Anyway, purr away…. in between your relentless work, in which I know you’ve buried yourself into. That moneymaking wall of yours, that I fear, might never come down again.

L :

Hold someone in your heart.

This is how we exist.

This is how we know we exist.

If we hold others in our hearts.

If we think of someone when we find a heart-shaped rock.

If we think of someone when we find poetry in the fields.

If we give our tears back to a place or a song…

this is how we belong.

If we hold others in our heart,

we are with them,

If we hold others in our hearts, we can feel the warmth of their touch on our skin ;

the bond between souls can move into placesour physical bodies cannot go.

diss

Straight into the thoroughly desired.

No time left. There are windows in the skies. Everywhere. Windows through which various beings, various realms can see. The sky is like a large green house, with surfaces of sight in every direction.

I can very well imagine that at some point in history, someone was swearing, on this land, because of having trouble with a tool.

I like to imagine swearing in the ancient breton language. The valley is resounding with the echo.

Anyways. The windows clear in the skies.

A few days ago, in the field document, there was a strong, deep resonance of the voices of desire. I remember Lies and Eli especially. Maybe Friday. It was a strong desire to reconsider everything, the entire structure of existence. There was a mention of Husserl, and that is good, because such revolutionary talk does not have to sound like a sect, like a religion, like woowoo. One can invite Husserl to join this party, this revolution of existence, and suddenly all scientific worlds, all academia has to listen. Because it is widely accepted that philosophy can discuss the grounds onto which science is built, but not the other way around. So we are not playing small or cheap.

Anyways, there was a resonance of desire… A deep one. It was as if we found a shared calling… something that we can share as purpose. I want to reconsider, radically, everything. This is not poetical, or idealistic. Especially in this age, where virtual reality is almost to become vaster, more ancient, more primordial than what we used to call “objective reality”.

Also, yesterday at the beach we have visited various planets.

“I pitty the fool who makes fun of another’s hair style.”

ROUND 2

Symbols, symbolism, it is said that listening is the most powerful tool for being awake in the dormancy of being a human.

Observing, but mostly listening to what comes out of my mouth.

What am I creating when I speak?And who is speaking through me?

Is it the sad child that feels disjointed from their family?

A beggar that will settle for a little side look from anyone.

Or the addict that craves the rush of endo-chemicals from chaos and instability?

Symbols. What do you see when you see?

What do you use to see?

It is said, it is said… By whom?Who nailed this game of being alive?Jesus?Mary Magdalene. Siddhartha, Goenka, Anjuna?

There is no price at the end of this rainbow.

Be the rainbow.Dance in black tutus and pretend to be fine.

Pretend to know something useful and be “respected.”Validation. Admiration. Success. Seen as “wow she really made it in life.”Uninitiated gremlins begging and scamming through gentle manipulation everywhere.

We built entire cities from the emotional fear of being forgotten.

Gaudi died at the mercy of a tram in Barcelona. Memorable death.Not.

We remember because he made beauty within the same grid. The same cage just more beautiful.

So yea, reconsider everything. Radically. Be bold. Drop it all. Put your shit on the table. Self sacrifice. No one wants to be wrong. Until you break the circle and you burn yourself at the stake. To just be reborn into the same human story full of myths, symbols. Trying for the enlightenment part. Or the having children part. Any part that tells the story that “you finally got it.”

I pity the fool who makes fun of another’s hair style.

Here we don’t have hair styles, we don’t know style to be exact. Style is a concept made by the aliens to describe our everyday habits and appearances as if they were encountering some curious little creatures in their breakfast and hoping to earn themselves a name and a bunch of money with their own scientific discovery.

On the other hand, we make fun of ourselves a lot. Various forms of entertainment are warmly welcomed here. We are making fun of each other by gently touching each other’s tender sensory organs with the softest tissues of our bodies, creating waves of fluid sparkles around our magnetic electrical fields. This behaviour is often considered as foolish by other species but we don’t really care as we don’t know their language anyways.

Have fun.

Okay I can do that…. But first, I need caffeine…(maybe chocolate) so I walked downstairs to put the kettle on…. The electrician walked by so that means when we are finished seed sourcing i can continue to work on walls

wallpapering

Walls

Paper

I work on walls

I like to climb walls

This brings me joy

I like to walk between trees

Trees are my dearest and oldest friends

What are new friends like?

Sometimes I wonder if we lived in a reality where it was socially acceptable to act like dogs… where we could sniff each other's butts upon meeting a new friend… could this be the way to collect all the data we need when making new friends?

I had fantasies of stealing the nuns in their sleep and hanging them from their big toes on the branches of the parasol pines overlooking the quicksand.

I left a letter on my bed describing this to them.

In detail.

I collected their secret giggles on my way out. They were, each of them, rather hilarious items. Rather raucous and fervent lunatics. But they didn’t know they weren’t unique. Too tied up by propriety and piety and all the other weirdness we use to wrap our wrists in something promising, falsely, to keep us nestled and cozy under the warm blanket of, “I will not be hated. I will not be alone.”

If we give our tears back to a place or a song - we will recognize that everyone sings to themselves the same guilty-pleasure pop song in secret. And they would rather make their morning commute in the car alone (instead of with ridesharers) so that they can scream the lyrics at the top of their lungs free from shame.

Jackson 5 is following me. This was the windows-down, crooning out of tune, roadtrip track of my childhood. With my mom. And our dogs. And no one else was allowed. She knew all the lyrics. But I was the one who could sing them on key. And that worked.

Now I hear Jackson 5 everywhere.

Like prophets.

When the nuns wrote me to ask why I left so suddenly, I just replied with a youtube link to “Who’s Lovin’ You”.

It is a good question, is it not? Who’s lovin’ you?

In ‘the floodwork’, as it has come to be known (now, even to my new therapist) - I have been living for days and nights in a small skiff floating through the Mediterranean - beyond the truth of death. In a different truth.

The nuns should have known all about it.

The water makes no sound when the tide rises in quick sand.

So I played ocean and wave recordings quietly while I was writing.

I was punished with a tap on the door to remind me that making sound is forbidden.

Will I listen? Why did I listen. I blushed like a bad child. I should have opened the door and squeezed the nun’s breasts and reminded her. She is surrounded by prophets. “Those who have ears to hear, let them hear!” - still requires someone to be making noise.

Tetley, with a loud hiss, cursed her current existence. There’s an intruder in this room. She calls it a butterfly but I think we all know it's really a moth. She has spent the last few hours slowly sneaking, slyly up to the highest point on an adjacent shelf, focused, driven. It is a routine. A repeated sequence of events. Miss Teteley coils her body, cocked back like a loaded spring, her weight almost fully stacked upon her hind legs as her vision is locked in on the blithe intruder,

(Who could blame her? This papillon imposter appeared out of nowhere, without a greeting, without consent to enter, no papers, no identification.) In the opportune moment she rapidly uncoils her spry body and leaps into an attack, only to flounder and fall, missing her prey by millimeters. Back on her scratched rug that was once her companion's heirloom, she lays and utters, “I would very much be rather something that could fly.”

“Straight into the thoroughly desired.”

You know what I really want to do?

Slapping.

Some people genuinely deserve a good slap.

Not out of malice, but out of wanting to bring clarity.

A waking-up slap.

A slap that yeets someone into the fourth dimension and forces them to reconsider their entire worldview.

The true definition of Small and Angry™.

A weird, slightly disturbing, female re-imagining of Lord Farquaad from Shrek, armed with ill-advised vengeance and questionable morals.

Hide your women and children. But above all, hide your men.

I’m particularly furious at some of them.

(Yes, Rik. Again.Among ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooothers. The amounts of O’s in this word are the number of people I want to slap)

But fine, let’s make it efficient.

Form a neat little line, everyone,so I only have to slap onceand hit them all in a glorious, devastating combo.

I’m fine, by the way. No worries. Sometimes anger and frustration is healthy. I think?

A pressure valve, a reminder that something inside still refuses to be walked over or ignored.

->( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHZvUeAdzeI&t=3s )

L :

I want to reconsider, radically, everything.

Because the bond between souls can move

into places our physical bodies cannot go.

I know this to be true.

There are windows in the skies. Everywhere.

Especially where the earth becomes ocean.

Especially where the clouds hover above the water.

Where the world appears like a hall of mirrors.

This is where we want to be.

If we want to reconsider everything,

the first step is to let go of our idea of reality.

To step beyond certainty, to drift

completely disoriented, on the brink of insanity,

in a mirror that could be cloud, or water, or just an infinite blue

will we ever be able to go back,

or is this exactly the point, the necessary point of no return?

Insanity exists only because we have not yet released our grip on reality.

Until we dissolve the borders,

we will not be free to radically reconsider everything.

I want to order something out of the menu. This was quite amazing to hear from Tamara, since it was the motto for the entire car ride to the ocean yesterday.

Anyways…. I make a step out of the story telling business.

I speak plainly.

To the ones concerned.

There is something heavily pleasurable, highly intoxicating, in the drive, impulse to revolution. Especially if it is a cosmic revolution. Jean Luc Marion was speaking about the great pleasure of Theology.

If I speak plainly, directly:

Lies, Eli, do you remember?

(Remembering our visions and our longing is not an easy task.)

Lies, Eli, do you remember? I could also say Zo easily. She plays with this self-pleasuring of the revolutionary also, quite often.

If we could remember this, we could decide a playground. Or a construction site.

What would we build if we could stabilize the ground of this desire for revolution…?

Let’s say a black Lincoln comes suddenly in the courtyard. The doors open. There is Tom Waits. He says:

-You long for a revolution. Well, I am here, so let’s do it. I was sent here to help. And there is other help on the way. This is the first thing I was sent to tell you: “There is no lack of wisdom and there is no lack of ressources. ” I guess it is a riddle. I guess it is up to you to realize what is actually lacking.

What would we build if we could stabilize the ground of this desire for revolution…? “There is no lack of wisdom and there is no lack of ressources. ”

ROUND 3

The revolution is here. Speaking up, taking up space, choosing out of the menu, finding the funding, Sara, I can show you what is waiting for you to tap into for the production of what you are creating in the world, going to prayer retreats to grab nun’s breasts injecting some real life into them, playing ocean sounds, singing like a whale after ecstatic dances, slapping all of our Ricks, becoming the sublimate lover of the night, ripping up the menus of people in their faces while screaming out your latest poem about love, calling out the patriarchy and tearing open its shirt to reveal no hairs on his chest– he was never a good father. Questioning, being bad, bold and anti-bureocratic. Fucking AI and create your own technology to surpass and live outside of the bland general drama triangle boring thoughtware, building a fund so large that governments will not know what to do with you, dropping spotify, making brilliant music for only a few friends, being a proliferant artist and not giving a damn for being well-known. Rethink, refeel, restructure, redo, start over. Get out of your uber in Paris when he crashed another car after he tried to hit on you and walk away with fire in your back with the pleasure of instant karma. Revv O Lution! Lotion for the senses, lube for the fuckery of the nonsense. Be boldly irrational, irresistibly irreverent, feeling intensely through the open wounds of your wide open huge Heart, make unreasonable proposals, stay up all night saying one long last goodbye to your past illusions of safety and romance, grieve it all to its grave. Forget enlightenment. Make an autostop to the next life and do it all over again.

Here we don’t make revolutions anymore. We just don’t call it this way. We did it before, yes, by adapting, extending our bodies to endure the new, hostile environments, growing tentacles, transforming our vision. We’re still changing, sometimes reshaping ourselves to fit into new biomes when the old ones become too polluted because someone needed more resources for their revolutions. Our collected wisdom kept through these repetitive devastating events reminds us that the only changes we need are time-based, silent, unadvertised, internalized. We radicalize ourselves by building nests where we’re not supposed to, and by teaching our bodies to do what we’re not supposed to, by nurturing kinship with the most unlikely allies.

J:Perhaps this is a cynical perspective for such a monday morning but in essence I feel deeply the ‘heathly’ frustration too.

In order to elaborate, in South Africa we have a very descriptive word…

POES KLAP

“Poesklap” is a compound of poes, a vulgar Afrikaans term for female genitalia (used here as a crude intensifier), and klap, meaning “slap.” The word poes has roots in Dutch (where poes can mean “pussy” or “cat”) and was inherited into Afrikaans.

So anyway, un- shamelessly I ask Chat gpt…. Only because I cannot compute such a future at this present moment… I have little faith in the current state of humanity.

Here is what chat gpt says about “What would we build if we could stabilize the ground of this desire for revolution…? “There is no lack of wisdom and there is no lack of ressources. ”

CHAT GPT:

It sounds like you’re asking a philosophical or imaginative question:

If our desire for revolution had a stable ground—if wisdom and resources were not the problem—what could we build?

Here’s one way to think about it:

If desire had ground, and wisdom/resources were abundant…

We could build structures that don’t merely overthrow, but sustain:

1. Communities that make revolt unnecessary

Revolution often responds to unmet needs. With stability, we could create communities where people have autonomy, belonging, and the means to shape their own futures. Not utopia—just enough justice that rebellion becomes transformation instead of rupture.

2. Systems that organize power without reproducing domination

If the ground is stable, then revolution isn’t a fire but a framework. We might build circulatory systems of power—cooperative economies, restorative justice networks, localized governance—that don’t centralize authority in ways that immediately decay.

3. Cultures capable of self-renewal

Revolution is often asked to do the work that culture refuses to do. With resources and wisdom, we could design education, art, discussion spaces, and public institutions that can evolve themselves without collapse.

4. A politics of continuity rather than catastrophe

Stability doesn’t have to mean stagnation. A grounded desire for revolution might produce politics where change is expected, welcomed, and integrated rather than fought or feared.

5. Technologies aligned with human flourishing

With abundant resources and wisdom, technology could be oriented not toward extraction or surveillance but toward:

ecological repair
accessible knowledge
shared creativity
liberating time from survival labor

6. A new concept of “the possible”

Perhaps the most radical thing we could build is a world where imagination is not constantly constrained by scarcity (real or manufactured).Abundance of wisdom and resources suggests that the limits of political imagination are often psychological, historical, or structural—not material.

A different angle:

Your line “There is no lack of wisdom and there is no lack of ressources.” hints at a critique: Maybe our problem isn’t scarcity but coordination, will, and the courage to act.

If so, what we could build is not just institutions or technologies, but a collective capacity to desire differently, to want futures that don’t fit inside current systems.

Hmm… back to Jess speaking.

Bon courage!

We live in our little homes. In our little homes of our private lives. And the privacy of our minds is the revolutionary place we won’t let live. We behave weirdly there. We all behave weirdly there.

And yes, thank goodness we do not act out all our impulses. Right?

School reform:

day-dreaming courses - required.

No more explaining science with formulas and definitions. Only poetry.

Architectural reform:

obviously - there must be a room in every space dedicated to prayer.

(WHY DOES EVERYONE FEEL SO REPULSED BY PRAYER!?)

as if it doesn’t belong to them. Like God.

A Prayer room is a room in which you go to remember that the whole universe lives between your pressed palms. (We have misunderstood this as a gesture of supplication.) Will you dare to peek inside? Will you dare to listen to what speaks between them - your palms? Your hands that know everything.

The rabbi said, every person should have two folded pieces of paper in their pockets at all times. One on the left, one on the right. One reads: “you are nothing,” and the other reads, “this is all for you.”

True.

A desire for revolution. Stabilize the desire for revolution. (Helena’s floating sleepers from her planet and their mattress umbilical cords…); (Gosha’s color-communicators speaking in silence like octopusses…); (David’s post-volcanic sulphurous sputtering colonies…); (Radu’s orgiastic toy riots); (My groping libraries…) …

I guess you just had to be there.

Is it unsatisfying to say that it’s already happening? I feel like it’s already happening…

Dissatisfaction is the blight. The icon of laziness and ineptitude. Take your expectations and feed them to the nuns! They need more of them! They are the only ones that need more of them! Expectations (parading as hope) are desire-generators…. let the nuns feast on them until their rosaries go lost in the depth of their heaving bosoms!

For the rest of us - perhaps there are more potent sources of desire. Than expectation (and its jam-fingered-whining butler : disappointment).

I will dare:

Where is the shared ground of purpose? Where is the shared point of reverence? Can we please address this - because our scattered cat dance is lovely and liberating, but I’m wondering what it is that we all love together. Is there anything more revolutionary than finding something to love together?

(no lack of wisdom, no lack of ressources …. lack of….. devotion? An unpopular word. Like all my words.)

We must get over the plight of the INDIVIDUAL! and the DRAMATIC! and the self-IMPORTANT!

(Radu, sorry - Tom Waits - you are dissatisfied with this response. It is not radical enough.)

I will be the heroine of the subtly radical! I will be the nuance of brave that sneaks up on humanity like a spooning lover 20 minutes before the morning alarm goes off.

My answer will be obvious, plebian…

A world without disparity of privilege. No misogyny, no racism, no capital. No waste, as we know it. A symbiosis with the planet. A reverence for ecologies. No narcissism and ego. A world where every living thing is given equal measure to the next. Where rights are inherited equally, earned, equally, and bestowed equally.

Financial profit will not exist. Money as we know it will not exist. Technology will be a tool, not a faith.

Humans would cease to have the need for religion as we know it. All meaning would be known from our companionship with our environments.

A world where there is no burden to write in 10 minutes which greater minds have articulated so much better at length, before.

Who am I kidding? It would all look and awful lot like the backdrop of Star Trek: The Next Generation

Papillon imposters are among us!

The resistance, the revolutionaries to the behaved brightness of day.

Most flutter loudly and panicky around, seeking light, light, light!

Must. Seek. Light.

I think they might be afraid of the dark, which is ironic for a night creature.

And others seem quite content in the void. Drifting lazily through the dust, just being. Some flap around aimlessly.

But then there are the other night-butterflies,

the rare ones, the ones with the universe powdered over their wings.

Beautiful in appearance, yes, but far more in soul.

Those are the ones you should want to catch, little kitten.

Or, wait! Not to catch. Your claws might hurt them.

Their wings are fragile, made out of flaky dusty scales of memories and gold speckles.

It is better to just look at them, admire them.

You can gather some together, gently herd them to the same moonlit window.

So they might dance.

Moths are avid dancers, you see.

They form celestial diagrams of movement, tracing star maps like a visual language only known to them. They translate the dark blue of your thoughts to the golden words on my tongue.

I know how to say them. They just won’t come out yet.

Be sure to open the window after the moths are done dancing. Release them into the cold winter air, bringing their constellations back among the stars.

L :

“What would we build if we could stabilize the ground of this desire for revolution…?

There is no lack of wisdom and there is no lack of resources.”

Obviously, a treehouse office, built at the very center where the archive of “no lack of resources” runs like a maze of tunnels in the labyrinth of the inner earth.

It would be called: Treehouse to Radically Reinvent Radicality.

Mice would guard the gates as we all know how terrified most people are of mice.

And how secretive our treehouse business is : we cleaaaarly need them.

The first week, we are only allowed to come up with lines that hint at our mission but are not obvious:

The revolution of insanity.

The mutiny of the immovable.

the uprising of the untold

the conspiracy of the courtyard

I always feel like the jackson 5 is watching me, and I have no privacy O ho hohoo.

After the first week, we may begin drawing maps on the ceilings of the treehouse, maps that do not map anything, but instead point to where imagination and rebellion join forces.

Every day, we send snails, wearing derby hats, into the labyrinth with tiny scrolls of instructions that make no literal sense but perfectly encode our intentions.

And when the world asks, “Why?” we only smile - for the world cannot enter the treehouse -and people who smile must be feared- for a smile always hides something.

The council of mice meets every night at midnight to debate strategy, they take this seriously.

Their chosen weapon: the fearsome, legendary slap.

We know that the true revolution is not in taking power,

but in creating the impossible, the absurd,

and the delightfully mad. Mad as Alice’s purple and pink cat.

There’s a sound system in the treehouse that may only be used for announcements or to play Tom Waits.

When we leave the treehouse, we dress like nuns, go to Bar du Kef, and hold menus as if we’re a book club - currently reading ; “The papillon imposter” - From behind our menus, we make fun of people’s hairstyles.

Fiction.

What do I do?

I take Tom to the woods, show him around.

I ask him more about how to be direct, exact straightforward. I actually need to understand what is the nature of his attitude.

Eli has an idea: “We lock him inside a room, so he can find the secret of his power to be direct, the power fo not giving a fuck, the power of being weird…”

After a month we have managed to extract all of his secrets.

We also understood that we were actually imprisoned.

It is hard to speak freely life.

If I say : “Tom Waits comes in a black Lincoln.”

You have a strong tendency to say it is not true. It is fiction.

What do I do? I slap everyone, like Helena. I slap Tom Waits also.

Why are you such a violent bastard?

There is a clear reason.

I need to answer fiercely and once and for all. I am tired of this.

I say: “Tom Waits comes in a black Lincoln.” You say this is fiction because you have a certain model of truth. Truth as correspondence.

Now we ask Wittgenstein to come in. He was in the back seat of the Lincoln

And he gives us a lecture about the misleading paradigm of truth as correspondence. There is nothing in the courtyard that will decide whether the sentence “Tom Waits comes in a black Lincoln.” is true.

Truth is only a matter of convention.

And the mystics say it constantly.

I am tired of this schizophrenia.

Artists do not know what the philosophers know. Can we do something about it?

Philosophers don’t know what the artists know. Why is this?

Seriously. I can shout this in the middle of Paris, if there were any open ears.

So, Tom Waits’ riddle comes with a great burden of responsibility. What is it that is lacking, actually?

L : “Insanity exists only because we have not yet released our grip on reality.”

Lies immediately found the answer to the riddle.

We have the wisdom. That is not the issue.

What is it?

Is it integrity?