27 October 2025

Eli Gold
1 hour ago
10 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

Tu ris. Je ris. Nous rions.

That damn psoas is tight.

And I sense it

Bloqué

C’est Bloqué

Desperately despite the drogues

Evidently elusive escape

Feeling freely flowing flashes and fancies

Going gaga, gagging for gags.

Hahahahahahhahahahaha.

Modern day love. Life. Modern day life. I can feel the newly incrusted nanotech device in my body. This morning I woke up feeling refreshed from the 9 hours of deep, continuous sleep thanks to the silver-lined grounded linen. The plants are working through me at the molecular level. Biohacked, breath activated, caffeinated. Welcome to Earth 2025. Where we can choose our gameworld, the level of engagement and the depth at which we want to live. Enhance our timeline, neurology, mood, lifespan. Now my body is ready for my life as a neuroacoustic hacking monk who builds possibilities for humanity to dive deeper into our nature, inner and outer. This is part of the intergalactic alliance’s agenda for Earth for the next 5000 years. Earth is at a threshold of continuing the alliance with humans or not. Seems that the experiment that is Humanity had various interceptions by different race species of the Universe to tilt the program of universal evolution. Too much dark shadow unexplored and gene-tampering.

E: chord

This body is a spool. I have assumed that the thread surrounding it is one, long, singular coiled line.

It is not. (as I have said before, and as the magpie reminds me: I am wrong.)

These lines are concealing other lines. There are colors below that strip in layers as if someone is watching.

(who is watching? Beloved - are you watching?)

I am mounted on a spinning axis. Like a top. Like the reel of a kite string. Or a fishing rod.

My spool is full of fishing lines for catching all sorts of unnamed species.

Everything discovered is named.

These species are not yet known.

Perhaps they are covered in fins.

Perhaps they are covered in petals.

Perhaps they have skin like glass so that I can watch like a spying child how their guts do their work.

As the lines spool off - I lay them side by side in parallel ranks.

They are of various lengths (for these fish are various distances from where I am. some are only for catching in the future.)

The spool is empty.

The lines are spread.

When I lay the end of the last line down by his brothers (like a cross walk here in the courtyard) they turn immediately to snakes

and show me what lines all want to do with their bodies.

I follow them.

They squirm and cross and knot - but are miraculously advancing.

I follow them.

They are going up the chestnut tree.

The branches are losing everything.

(I have never been good at climbing.)

The lines will draw new leaves. Winter leaves. That stay.

“What do you hope for?”

he asked.

There is warmth in my heart.

Hurricanes are coming

every day.

Some kill you,

some make you to understand

you are nothing.

Yet I’m still there.

I’m the creator.

I don’t need hope.

I need experience

to expand.

I don’t need perfection.

I have all the time in the world

to make it more pleasant.

I have no demands.

I can play with whatever is there

in my hand.

ROUND 2

The en is silent

Condemn Damn Solemn Hymn

Column. Autumn

But I hear the N in Autumn.

I hear it in Hymns

What are the N words?

moNey

Is it time? Time is the constant we all have.

But I have felt it bend, rush, crawl, break.

I have all the time in the world

How much time does the world have?

How much time is my world?

Easy to focus on the wrong thing at the wrong time.

This is felt deeply but what even is wrong time?

Does time even exist?

The past is gone, the future imaginary

There is no time

Just the now

NOW

the en is silent

pronounced OW

The snake. This is the year of the snake. 2025 has stripped the layers of the psyche in a violent way, twisting and dragging itself through the rocks to get every part of the old dry and crusted skin off. None of the old version can stay, I don’t care if it makes me bleed and exposes the deeper incrustrations of the layers, they all need to come out, evacuate. The beady eyes of the ancient reptile feel no remorse on the process of raw exposure and shedding for it knows that to this dark and abysmal place is where it needs to take your soul. To meet the void.

She’s the messenger. She’s the vessel. She becomes you and you become her for a moment of primordial ache of unbecoming. She’s the gate process through which you become a new era. The paradox is the language here. For none of what you were before can experience what the next chapter is. You must be-come a different receiver. “And my essence?” you may ask.Well, what do you think? Your answer is in your question.The snake is a boa that compresses you into pieces. It’s the hug of the ancient mother, the birth canal. Unbecome the embryo, unbecome the cell, stand as complexity and pure dynamic form.

(((((( born out of the silent N scream ))))))

I would like to really make a plan

for the hurricanes coming every day.

Some kill you.

Good.

It is time to die.

I will die a million times today.

I will laugh at each.

Je ris. Tu ris. Nous rions.

I am silver-lined and grounded linen

stretched over a bed large enough to welcome

all the voices in me.

No.

Only the interesting ones.

I have no wish to be bored.

I am bored by the voices of pain in my body.

I am bored by the fear of heartbreak.

I am bored by the threat of catastrophe.

I am bored by the bureaucrats, and the dictators-in-training.

I am bored by the stuffed pandas, and the clean white sneakers, and the other lies.

I am bored by everything that doesn’t burn.

Bring on the squeaky hinges.

I have a scab. I have a collection of them. On all the places that my legs strike when my feet stop listening to what my eyes know about where we are and what’s happening there.

This does not deserve a medical report. It deserves a stenographer. Who can read back the scabs like a shorthand for my body getting to know where it is.

I will live the passionate doorways encircling me at the culdesac of the corridor that is now.

I will live each of them. Their squeaky hinges will thrill me as I turn their knobs and pull them open. I will play in each of these rooms this week. All seven. I will build heavens. I will understand the light of the second and third day of creation. The light that shone before celestial bodies were made. The mysterious and diffuse light of no origin. I will make shadowpuppets with the light that shines in all directions from everywhere.

You will tell me it’s not possible.

That shadows need directed light.

And I will tell you - like the magpie reminds me - that you are wrong.

The shadows live inside my hands, too, there where I can’t see them.

And like everything else I can’t see - they fascinate me.

Maybe my feet are the same. Maybe they don’t listen to my eyes because they’d rather live in mystery.

Above the valley.

200 m above the valley.

One massive block, almost like a cube, made of something black, velvety.

It is a bit bigger than the main house.

It is positioned in a very slight angle.

It is not a perfect shape… it feels like a stone that has been on the bottom of the ocean for some centuries… or in the hand of someone… maybe it was a perfect shape at some point

Anyways, the black is very dense… almost unreal.

One of the sheep sat perfectly still, in that exact same angle of the cube, 2o cm up in the air…

for 3 days, before the cube appeared.

I think Zo might have seen the sheep but did not tell anyone. I think she considered it a very normal situation.

Anyways… Fotia called me this morning to show it to me… and said:

- Look, dad! There is a new forest there, in the sky! We can climb up the stairs if you wish.

I did not see a forest. I did not see the stairs. I returned to shaving my thoughts as if nothing happened.

The blade was more and more blunt.

T: "The plants are working through me at the molecular level."

I'm the essence of life.

I'm light,

passing through the leaves,

through the green

you humans can see!

I'm beauty

doesn't always come with peace

you imagine should regularly be!

I'm complexity

a connection web

of million ways of possibility

you naively think you can foresee!

ROUND 3

A periodic question for several decades became weekly, and then daily.

Moment to moment

A question before every direct action - will i die today? For this?

The hubris of youth answered: Why not.

Having nearly died for accidents, sloppy medical procedures, careless operations,

why not risk it for any cause? Why not?

I have paused to ask- what difference would this calculated death make?

Is it possible to sacrifice in a ‘noble’ way which also brings laughter?

Is it worth it? Is it better to fight another day?

Is fighting worth it?

Does the moral arc of the universe truly bend?

Is there any fucking moral arc?

I have no answers. Why not?

Only questions

I believe I would die if I believed it mattered.

Dying is living. I am dying every day.

If I didn’t die every second I could not be alive.There are big deaths and small deaths, nonetheless, death is the only constant.I die for living. My ego dies, therefore I exist. The real I. The open Eye. Looking, and while looking making Self exist. Deciding to lay itSelf ouvert upon 3 measurable concomitants: shape, start time, and beyond the possibilities of the small ego, aka default human state. The hybrid human-divinity is the biohacked monk possibility inside each of us. Death by the continuous snake slither, the self-administered poison to the appendix ego. To look within unto the repeated and now very much predictable automatisms. Ahhh but the ego is still somewhat of a strong intelligence that will slither even further from your noticing to allow itself to exist. One tip: to listen to the words you emit. Who is talking when you speak? Is it the Eye or is the default state? Dear Ego honey pie, yes, you , I see you coming through the dna, slithering your way through the cracks of shadow, leaving behind a track of sweet poison that is a trap for those who decide to follow you. Where do you come from? You have a huge role here. Without you I could not become the Eye, therefore I change the myth and decide to dance with you. If it only were so simple.What is real is that this is the dance of eternity. And it’s the widest played game on the planet. On top of it, we enter the game with absolute amnesia. It just gives it an extra groove for pleasure of pain. An acquired taste over the years.

Death as an ally.There are no wars to fight on the outside. There is nothing real to die for. Reserve your Death cards for the inner battle, for inhabiting the subtle realms, from which you can birth other worlds.

E: What would you die for?

I am growing skeptical of death.

If I could only touch the angel’s wings I would know which myths are for trusting.

And then I could tell everyone.

Especially the stones who have looked upon flight with the sharpest desire since their having-been-born.

(That’s why sling shots were invented. It was a mercy.)

I am growing doubtful of death.

May we all learn to sneeze loudly.

I take this as a sign of character.

Those willing to sneeze loudly.

The micro-mimick-of-an-orgasm. (It’s a mystery there aren’t social servants with feathers ready for such a public interest as clearing all the tension from our heads, and erasing mind - for just a second.)

I am growing wary of death.

Suffering surely has a purpose.

(I’ve heard it said this is what art is for).

The doctor in Glasgow told me the my brain is built like it is so I could make art.

It felt like an alibi for not knowing the answer of how to cure me.

I can’t cure you! You wouldn’t make art if your brain were functional! And then who would you be?!

I am growing untrusting of death.

There are miracles everywhere.

Make a vow to watch the sunrise and sunset (and do nothing else) every day for a week and tell me it isn’t true.

I am growing disbelief at death.

I have more love in my pinky finger than the rest of my body knows how to deal with. What would happen if all my cells sang in unison. I would die for the flood of love. (Am I not already dying for the flood of love?)

I am growing leery of death.

I practice my courtesy. I practice my bow. I practice the witty line spoken at the perfect moment.

Ugh.

I practice my giggle fit. I practice my grace-pit of recognition - when the person sat before me has hurt the most tender terrain in my landscape, and I still see their perfection. Somehow.

What I live is what I decide I want everyone to live.

That is my responsibility.

Each moment.

What I live is what I would wish for everyone to live.

That is my responsibility.

I am growing unconvinced of death.

The next couple of days, the sunlight had a very yellow, almost orange hue. A very subtle, persistent fog everywhere.

I don’t know how to explain it… but whatever I may have been doing, seemingly, was irrelevant. The relevant was that every 20 min or so I would go into the courtyard and ingest a stone.

After ingesting it, my body would immediately configure in the same angle of the cube… and the little stone would somehow enter my spine… travel to my skull… into the middle of my brain…. And then I would just lose collapse.

Whenever I did that Fotia was there with her notepad and write her name.

She only writes her name.

Suzie, Gosha, David, Sara, Sofia, Fotia came here, just in time for this event. It doesn’t feel real what is happening. It is a bit more consistent than the real.