29 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

Tamara:

I can touch God. 

Can God be touched?Yes.With feelings, 

With certainty

From the words of others that ignite the connection

It doesn't matter the how

It matters that the image and feeling are contemplated

Then it happens

In the breath there is a current that brings me to different dimensions 

The expansion and contraction open the gates of imagery

Cascades of wisdom pours over my life

Filling up my baskets with flavoursome fruits

Dogmas are but debris sprinkled on the floor from which ants feed of

Paintings such as that of lysergic acid become the tapestry of inner sensations

Yes, god is here but indescribable

Only an attempt of doing so now for this exercise

Je peux toucher Dieu

Je peux respirer

Je peux sourir et goûter

Je peux danser sans la permission de personne

E:

In the center of the courtyard is a desert. 

It has infinite folds. Surface is extended by folds. Dunes

are folds of surface. Sand. Sand is continuous fold. 

In the center of the desert is a boat. 

It has always been there. 

The boat has a mast. And on the top of the mast is a crowsnest. 

I have learned to see with my eyes closed. So I climb the mast

and throw my limbs over the rim of the lookout.

The dunes begin undulating.

The desert and ocean are memories of one another. One another’s pasts. 

My eyes are still closed. 

I am in a wheelchair. 

My eyes are still closed.

They are all there with me. They are all holding jars of jam that they canned this fall. 

Every jar is different. 

I also have one in my hands. 

I open it and it sounds the suckling pop of no-looking-back. 

I have also a spoon. 

I reach the spoon into my jar and hold it up until it finds a mouth. The mouth opens. 

I don’t know whose mouth it is. Wind is the only audible thing. 

I open my mouth. The wind tastes like apricot. 

In the center of the courtyard is an ocean. 

It has one wave. An ocean with one wave is actually a well. 

In the center of the courtyard is a well. I jump down. 

They are all there with me. They are holding water in their hands. It is the same water. It does not pour through. 

There was once a dinner in the center of the courtyard. It gave us all everything we wanted. 

Some tables are like this. Listening to everything we want. Some tables are like the hands of a good nurse, or a good friend, or a good house, or a good dream, or a good God. 

My eyes are still closed. 

Once there was love on a bed in the middle of the courtyard. 

R:

 I am in the courtyard… I am carrying a big door, made of massive wood. It is a special door, it seems to have been the door of a church or something… anyway, I move with it and I consider it a part of my own body… and I try to see things around from its perspective…

It feels like a sacred, monumental being…

and I want to be there, in its field of perception…

I cover myself with a white cloth to be sure to stay in that realm… I stay closely with the new anatomy of the new body, its new motions…. A totally new configuration….

It feels like a discovery I want to share… to be able to stabilize so well a certain attitude, a mode of being…. I start to see this better and better… that one cannot radically change their thinking unless everything changes, in the world, but especially one’s own body

P: ​​By my laptop there is a crumb of bread. There is whole universe in that crumb. A fly lands on it. Its sound is annoying, too loud, too demanding. I’d like to kill the fly. I don’t. I fly. I fly far up and my safe small den becomes smaller until its the size of the crumb of bread. I am the fly. 

J:

The soul has separated from the body, there is no fear here…. in this timeline of weightlessness.

There is no resistance to death here in the Kalahari, resources are scarce. 

There are only moments of reprieve from the blazing heat.

Everything is a resource. 

Nothing is wasted.

The land reclaims the bodies that have laid here to rest.

My flesh becomes a resource. 

My matter, my water.

The vultures may circle sensing my death, 

Do I fly above with them, 

Do I eat my remaining flesh to ingest all the grief I carry? 

Does this eradicate the cycle of rebirth?

Do I really need to carry this guilt, this shame, this anxiety when I no longer have a body to house it?

I have nothing left to lose.

The sun will bleach my bones.

The relative present moment.

Here. 

This configuration.

What have I lived?

What have I died?

How many times have already died here, transitioned here, returned to the soil. 

Are these my own bones that I search for in the wind shifting dunes?

How do I see myself from the perspective of the all seeing? 

The one that does not judge, the one that accepts all the multiple iterations and versions of my present incarnation. 

How many incarnations am I currently inhabiting?

My feet feel like they know this land.

I have lost touch with this unspoken knowing when my feet are in the North. 

How do I integrate all the versions of myself that ease the friction in my heart, that consolidate the timelines and strings attached to the web of consciousness that does not need to know what day it is or how much value I place on my existence based on my bank balance.

Is this form of detachment the form that I aim for now?

What is a clear individual responsibility or is that the grand illusion , that any responsibility is in fact individual? Is it all collective responsibility?

Nothing here exists as an island, everything is interwoven and symbiotic. This is the wisdom of what I experience now. 

A wasp just entered. My fear instinct woke up.

H:

(In silent mode - I do not feel like reading today. You can read this in your own internal voice.)The last image that will appear is the sea that bleeds seamlessly into the sky and backwards.

It has no beginning and no end, just like the dying soul.

The water forgets it is water, the sky forgets it is air.

Only an endless pulse remains, a tide without measure.

The soul drifts into that eternal tide, neither lost nor found,

just suspended in the neverending hush where memory no longer matters.

L.

Eyes watching.There are eyes watching.They are everywhere, all around, and I know that I don’t see them.I don’t know them,but they know me.

They think they know me some of them do, I really believe.Some of them only think.But thinking isn’t really a good place for watching;you’ll have your eyes turned toward the back of your head,playing whatever you want on the big screen of your mind.

The eyes I looked into they saw me.I saw them.I don’t know where they lead.

Like the eyes in the bath this morning,in the water turned brown from the clay shampoo —there were eyes luring me in.It looked like a trick from the underworld.

Here’s a photoWhat do you think?

ROUND 2

Tamara:

Is anyone in the world abstained from flaw? Is a Tibetan master meditating his way through to enlightenment in the Himalayas worth the attention for the next round of this writing?

What will he do after he gains enlightenment?

Why haven’t I yet met more enlightened himalayan individuals sharing the liberation path for the mortals everywhere in the world?

Why is this yet not at the top priority in the agendas of Evolution for Earth and Humanity?

It cannot be that they are just keeping these age-old secrets to themselves. 

The plan is flawed. 

It is meant to be that the whole of humanity needs to transcend for IT to work.

It?

Myths. Legends. Stories. Passed on. This is what has kept us going.The Cave. The symbols. They mean something. But with which part we analyze them matters.

So it comes back to me.

With which part do I see

With which part do I feelWith witch

Witch

I am the witch

Shhhh

Ok. witches I do admire. They are hidden in plain sight.They let themselves be “burnt” so that the myth would distract from the real master plan.

So all this time they have been continuing to work.

Behind the scenes

Rearranging all of the strands 

The myths of the “spiritual masters” have all segregated masculine from feminine. The biggest sin is to bring them together.

Why?

Let’s see.

E:

I am lying on the bed in the middle of the courtyard. 

Face down. 

Lying under the bed,

face up, 

is Joan of Arc. 

The bed is transparent. 

The clouds gather above the three of us: me, Joan and the bed,

and strike a bolt of lightning that stitches us together like valves on a new organ transplant

in the open body of the earth. 

Joan is looking at the angel wings of clouds above us

and mistakes me for a vision. 

And then the ocean of sand swallows us all down whole

like a pregnant woman eating earth. 

The organ of us has been accepted. 

The inside of the earth is warm and dark. 

My eyes are finally no longer needed. 

Joan reaches her hands to mine, around the bed that is still between us. 

We lace fingers like distant lovers. 

And I understand how the sun was formed. 

It is a bed between the outstretched hands of distant lovers. 

Because fire is the only obvious outcome

for so much charge. 

I understand now

that Joan and I have been planted to fuse a companion for the molten core of the planet. 

It has been lonely. 

Companion. Com panio. To eat bread - together. 

We eat the bread of darkness. 

We eat the bread of down. 

The bread of destined for and only if and once again and surely this and true. 

Finally, neither of us need armor

anymore.

So we give it like rusted coins to honor the ancient others that move constantly against all our surfaces. 

Down here, we are all only surfaces. 

r:

 Ludwig W is also in the courtyard… he is by the table, wrtiting… Even though he is writing, I know he is paying attention to what I do. I somehow know he sees everything…

I get farther from the courtyard, get closer to the car, carrying the door… I hear strong, firm sound… it was him. He stuck the metal bar into the ground…

Why? Is it related to me? Probably not. But still… why? Did he find the mother lode he was struggling to find in his investigations? Is it despair?

What is it? I will go ask him….

P:

There is a story of two writers I draw inspiration from — Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan — meeting in a cafe in Paris. They express their admiration for each others work. Lenny says to Bobby how much he likes Every Grain of Sand and how it must have taken a long time to write. Bobby says ”no, the lyrics were born in a spur of a moment”. Bobby says to Lenny ”your Tower of Song is so true so beautiful it must have been a Devine inspiration and you captured it” to which Lenny ”It took three years to write”. Every Grain of Sand is about seeing the master’s hand in every grain of sand. Tower of Song is about building your work inspired from those who came before you. There is a wonderful line of Lenny asking Hank Williams, how lonely does it get? But Hank hasn’t answered yet. Lenny hears him coughing all night long a hundred floors above him in the tower of song. 

H:

(Still in silent mode! Please follow the instructions beloooooowwww in the text)There are women in the water of this blue; always blue. Women with soft hands and even softer voices.So read this in your mind, in the softest, most mellifluous voice you can find.In the warm, honeyed voice of your mother when she praised you as a child.And if you no longer find that voice, then borrow the faint echo of a lover’s breath beside your ear. But read it softly. Always softly.

She was always there, never judging,just drifting beside you. A never-ending source of quiet strength,and of vivid inspiration, almost like a genie rising from saltwater mist.

Say, maybe she would take on the form of Florence Welch,all flame-red hair and the thrum of drums, a lot of drums, drums, drums!

There's a drumming noise inside my head

That starts when you're around

I swear that you could hear it

It makes such an almighty soundThis kind of Florence, but perhaps without the shadowed veils of addiction? Or perhaps as Anna Atkins, her baskets with dripping seaweed, turning the water itself into cyan blue paper, cataloguing the secrets of inspiration in her careful hands?

Or maybe someone else altogether,a presence we’ve never yet named,a woman who is neither goddess nor saint, but the companion you’ve always carried with you: a soft-voiced, tender-handed muse who holds you steady.

And you deserve to be loved and you deserve what you are given

L.

Eyes waiting.

In the bath, in the clay-darkened water,

I felt them not as threats,

but as a presence,

A gaze that wanted me to surrender.

I remembered the stories 

Siddhartha, who starved his body,

quieted his mind,

sat at the river until the river spoke.

But the river did not speak

until Siddhartha learned love.

It was love.

Love that pulled him from silence

into the trembling of the heart.

In the bath, clay-dark water swirling,

there were eyes that belonged to her.

Kamala,

the presence of one who teaches through touch,

who reveals the soul not by silence,

but by desire.

I thought of Siddhartha:

how all his fasting, all his meditations,

left him untouched,

until Kamala’s love drew him into the living world.

So too in this bath,

I thought of the underworld,

About Hades reaching not only to capture

but to claim what he could not resist.

Persephone, falling, blooming,

learning that descent is also an opening.

The eyes I saw were not just watchers.

They were invitations.

To fall, to be led,

to let the clay water blur the line

between surface and depth.

summer and winter,

death and return.

Perhaps the underworld is not a prison

but the first touch of love 

when the gaze of another dissolves your solitude

and you are no longer only yourself.

J:

The wasp had left

Nope, it returned.

I invite my higher self into the present moment. I invite yours too.

The part that observes.

Thoughts arise

Thoughts fall

There is no identification

No attachment

No sense of of self identity

The part of me that sees all the ghosts of my past rising from the dead at their last attempt of survival. 

They are built to attach, apparently we are all.

These ghosts are ridden with fear of annihilation because they believe that if they no longer exist through the body I house, they will cease to exist. 

This illusion clings to the cells of my physical body causing immense panic in the system. 

The unchanging observer sees me with full compassion, soft eyes, gentle surrender and non judgment.

It knows in essence that these ghosts will take many other forms and iterations but it reminds me that I can let them pass through me with ease and tell them with clarity and ruthlessness that they are no longer welcome to take refuge in my body. 

They can stay here in this arid landscape and burn out under the blazing sun. 

Please wind, can carry them away and bury them in the dunes where they can finally rest. 

I also want to rest.

I want peace.

I want to feel safe in my heart again.

I want to know this unwavering trust. 

It is me, the unchanging observer, the higher self that can breathe again.

My eyes can soften looking out at this wild endless horizon.

How is it possible that I don't feel lost here?

ROUND 3

Tamara:

The pearls. Joan of Arc almighty. She was burnt. The hall of fame, all the burners. It is like there is pure prestige in being one with the fire. The fire of conversation, of sharing. In spanish we say de tu a tu. Meaning we see eye to eye. I cannot find something more arousing than that.Souls with great trajectories we are.

Each bringing their piece of bread baked from each corner of the universe.

Almost as if we could create ‘We are the world’ all over again with the poetry of masters.What would Persephone bring to the table? A type of elixir I am sure.

A dance move like no otherBob, Moses, Ludwig, all wearing Miranda July’s apparel of this season.

This is really where we are now. We are all one of these even without being televised,

Especially because we are not televised.

This is the real work, behind the scenes,

Without too much flair,

Pulling levers

Painting the walls

Drawing costumes

Performing the most epic of logues …

God as our most real witness.

That’s all we need. That’s all we need…

Tending the fire

The fire as witness.

Of each of our eternities in the passing time that we sprout, live and wilt 

Sprout live and wilt

Wilt

Will

Free Will

We will

We are the world

We are 

Yes we are.

E:

There’s a drumming noise inside my head

That starts when you’re around.

Joan was burned as a witch. 

When I was 11, children at school used to hide around corners and throw water on me. 

They called me a witch

and I have hated that word ever since.

My fever-dreams in the heat of COVID were all of being burned as a witch.

The wasp weaving in and out is Kamala is a witch is Miranda July in a different shirt.

I am the witch. 

And the plan is flawed. 

This morning I spoke to a dear one of prayer as conjuring. 

It is time for the God-lovers and the witches to be one. 

Can we all stop pretending it’s not the same thing.

There’s a drumming noise inside my head

That starts when you’re around.

Holy vision is purely catalysis. 

And womb might be understood as a catalytic converter. 

How honest can we get, Joan?

Interlacing fingers are a vow of honesty 

made skeletal song. 

That’s all prayer is - my own fingers singing. 

I breathe heavy hot on the glass of the bed between us,

and wriggle my nose on the fog.

I want to make you smile, Joan. 

I want to know who you are with the armor off. 

I want to know the fading of the rainbow bruises,

and how you eat words and which toe is your favorite

and the stem you put in your mouth when you were still a farm girl. 

Because there is a witch in you. And ain’t that good. 

I’ve read all about your trial.

Joan, teach me to speak angel. 

Teach me to want like you want,

with feathers off, with nothing to fool you.

You thought I was your vision.

And who am I to say otherwise?

Have some jam. They grow apricots where you were born in Lorraine. 

The trees are heavy with them now. 

Do you feel the boughs bowing under the weight of the fruit? 

Rub your nose on the bed between us. 

Even angels have senses of humor.

R:

The scene is open. The scene of all life transparent… nothing hidden anymore…

the courtyard may very well be the place of revelation, where we are free to reveal ourselves…

There is wittgenstein pretending to write… but he has a highly developed sense of hearing so he can understand everything that happens… he placed the apples there to invite miranda july… they both have a research about the nature of the body, the nature of sensations…. Although they have different approaches..

radu walks with the door in the same place but only now he can see that inside the door there is an immense space… in this space he hears sounds of swords,like a duel. He looks closer...it is eli and joan of arc….its not a duel.. its a training…

radu looks even closer… getting closer to the passionate touch between the blades…

it is not battle, not training… what is it?

The samesound… wittgenstein;s pen touching the paper

the sound of the barbed wire carried by sara

the sound of the stretching of the tshirt of miranda july

precisely the same scent

what is it?

Why name it?

The edges of my sacral bone and some of myt vertebrae still hurt from the love making with the heavy marrow door.

P:

To me Sid, Jo, Lenny, Flor, Bobby, Jesse, et al. are little lost holy molies, fallible (free range) humans who — rather than providing answers — spar me to find questions that matter. I love them for that. 

H:

Silent mode: this part should also be read inside your head, in the voice of all our presences combined.

The last part between the () you can read in the voice of your choosing! I chose Peter Dinklage._____

I read your words while the sea keeps bleeding seamlessly into the sky and backwards.Somewhere between folded dunes, endless Kalahari, a heavy wooden door and a weightless crumb of bread, my tide begins to recognise your desert. 

I feel your courtyard, your jars of jam, your one-wave ocean,your boat with its mast and its crowsnest.I climb the mast with my eyes closed and find in my handsthe same water you are holding in yours.It does not pour through.There still are women in the water of this blue; always blue.Their soft hands are the same hands that offered you apricot jam,that laced fingers with Joan of Arc under the transparent bed,that carried the massive door across the courtyard,that touched the crumb, tickled the fly.

Again, read silently in my mind; not my mother’s exactly, not my lover’s exactly,but the voice of all our presences combined.I say: I can touch God. Can God be touched?Yes. With feelings. With certainty.From the words of others that ignite the connection.

So your desert and my sea are memories of one another.Your sand folds my waves.Your boat contains my well.Your door forms my horizon.Your ghosts are my women-in-blue.Joan of Arc laces fingers with our higher selves under the bed of the earth.

We eat the bread of darkness together.We let the wind taste like apricot.We let the wasp pass without harm.We look through each other’s eyes and, for a moment, nobody is lost.(And in the background, Florence Welch is rolling over the floor in a fist fight with Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan at the same time. It looks like interpretive dance until somebody actually gets punched. I have no idea why. But she’s definitely winning)

 L.

Eyes seeing.Wisdom is incomplete without the experienceof the trembling world of the senses.Every touch is a seed,a pomegranate split open,planting its juice in your veins.Kamala meets Siddhartha in a café in Paris.

The candles flicker like offerings,

A monk and a mistress,

Pilgrims of pleasure

laugh at the gods who once kept them apart.

Do not starve your body.Do not leave life untouched.Live with your tongue out,taste it!the world spills like ripe fruit.

If the water darkens,don’t get out of the bath.It means the river speaks.It means the underworld is opening.It means you are being touched by love.

J:

This temple.

This light in this connection

Grace and gratitude for the space to be together between realities 

Distant. distance.

We vibrate 

this sisterhood,

these witches,

these goddesses, 

All the women with soft voices and kind eyes 

Also my brothers.

Modes of being

Doors are opening

Eyes

The touch

The jars

Sidharta I almost forgot about you.

Your lessons

Your journey

The ground of the courtyard is covered in apples.

Every grain of sand.