4 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

P: Flame is inside. Flame is the source. And flame is a way to prepare what the source gives me so that I can give to others. Sometimes I cannot control the flame. Flame devours me. I burn up and out. Flame is ever present. If I try to put it out I suffocate. Flame needs to be tended, to be taken care of with prescicion. Taking care of the flame takes time, effortless effort. 

(H)Walking backwards - Tracing old memories- watching shadows

Trusting that the ones behind you will move out of your path.

Perhaps being immobile is safer. I’ve been thinking about moss lately. Like, how is it that on one rock, a colony of dozens of moss species can thrive, while on another, barely a meter away, there is nothing. Or just one bossy moss species that dominates the place. A Trumpmoss. or Putin lichen. 

We are our own moss colony. a harmonious place fed with lots of air and water, with a biodiversity of souls. 

E: Alcove

In the east - fire.

In the west - door. 

Each in their alcove. 

It is misleading to imagine that the passage toward the kitchen is a passage toward a kitchen. It will become its own room as soon as that door is locked. 

I feel better facing nearly nothing.

And I know all the dogs and cats that face themselves before a corner, for they all live in me. 

If I stand in the alcove like this, I am a saint in a niche. 

And like this, I am a thief of 6 years old hiding from my pig brother. 

And like this, I’m Houdini in a water tank.

And like this, blasphemer in the oubliette.

And like this, I am Sibyl. 

The myth says she was granted as many years of life as the grains of sand she held in her hand, 

but she forgot to ask for youth. 

So she aged and aged and aged, and shriveling and wrinkled and shrank 

until she became an itty bitty matchstick of a woman, with a red sulphur head, and too far to walk to the open chimney. 

So someone came and put her in a bottle until eventually she was only a voice. 

The whispering oracle that seekers could still consult. 

They passed her round as serious parties with the other bottled spirit stuff. The uncorked spirit. 

She was the wise mad one. Mad in all the important ways. 

R: WingWeight

I walk through space feeling all that can be felt. Traveling through various seeds of experiences that are spread all around.

The wings I practice are fields of experiences. These wings help me find integrity. I want to live in full unity with all forms of life, forms of experience I know of… all moments of past and future, all places, possible or impossible.

It seems to me that there is a channel of pure life in the bones. In the marrow.

It seems to me the marrow is a place for a primordial decision: who is with me right now?

It seems to me that bones can carry such a charge of pure life electricity… that makes sequences of awareness so subtle… that so many forms of experience can happen in a brief time…

I look at the others, in the library. I wish to be so attentive, to discern all various forms of life manifesting through them.

What if… what if… we allow all these wild forms of subtle life to just flow through us… allow them to meet… to see each other, to unite in their unique logics and configurations?

Wouldn’t that be a noble, vast celebration?

L. spider.Lies has to many legs to stay in one place

Lies has to many legs to keep up with what is moved in her legs

To whatever moves her legs

They move in different directions 

Some legs are tired

Some are restless

Some have cataplexy Some are pointing like fingers

Some are hiding in the cave of her mouth

Lies her legs seem to multiply

They fall off

She grows new ones Lies isn’t really a web spider

Unless she’s unweaving

She’s more of a balloon spider Shooting arrows of silk Into the heart of lightning 

Buzzing 

Buzzing 

Buzzing 

Flying Lies is a balloon spider He balloon spider

How about ballooning in circles for a while

How about flying indoors

The roof is your limit

How about popping 

How about reweaving the web you took down Threads are words Silk ones are like golden eggs

Weave a nest of story that does belong to you. Or at least weave a door, or a window, or a chair. And a kitchen, and leave cookies on the counter. 

ROUND 2:

P: To be mad ln all important ways is the sanest I can thing do in this world right now. The world says myths have no meaning, only what has material value does, that fairy tales are for children, that fantasy, imagination are important only in innovations that have commercial value. The world says war is peace, a lie is truth. The world says only what you see is true, only what you can put in an excel is worthwhile. I am mad. You are mad. We all in this room are mad. I want to live and operate in this weird world, being mad in all important ways.

(H) Can you unweave yourself? Untangle. Do you even want to?A lone thread is easily cut. forever moving, trying to dance out of danger. The slightest whisper of wind.Is this restlessness the way to live? Can this eternal movement compare to the art of standing still?

My mind is full of lists, like little lines holding me down from the clouds above. Should I get entangled again, or just float away? I do like spiders. I put them outside, letting them drift away on a line of silver. One line at the time.

E:

The effortless effort of walking backwards

requires too many legs to stay in one place. 

They fall off. 

They all fall off. 

I was a bottle once,

for I had only one opening.

Now I am full of them.

Not even a passage 

(that requires two).

You could call me a junction. 

My mother was raised in a city called Confluence. 

I take this seriously.

My father was raised on the border between East Liberty and Friendship.

I take this seriously. 

Let me gather my horses and ride back to the holy land

where miracles swirled like tumbleweeds in the pink of desert.

Backwards. Tracing old memories. Watching shadows. 

Mother, did you go to the river and lie in the middle to feel what the union of rivers implies? Did it destroy you? No. It fashioned you River, as you are now.

Father, did you go to the border and lie along the gang plank edge to feel what the friction of freedom and friendship implies? Did it destroy you? No. It fashioned you as you are now, part friend and part free and somehow neither. You are not known. 

Mother - you are the sea, and Father - you are the desert. 

Mother - you are blue (like the sea), and Father you are pink (like the desert). 

We must retell the nonsense of colors.

Shadows in the season of fire. The curtains are drawn - for we take the cave grave-like serious here. Here, we be worldless raw for the making of New, and Amen, and all that satisfaction of having-the-final-word.

Today there is desire without aim. 

Today there is path without feet.

Today there is ocean all over, and under forever and always desert -

and they’re fine in their separate corners (the mama and papa),

in their varied shapes of a boat

with their effortless efforts, with their varied shapes of precision and love.

R:

I feel better facing nearly nothing.

Some weeks ago… the story was happening in the courtyard. The story is real.

Radu walks close to the cornfield. Radu pays attention to the elegance, the noble movements of the corn plants. Like an army of highly artful soldiers.

My heart desires an army of fully enlightened friends, fully dedicated to the battle of advanced generosity.

The voice of the world replies: There is no such thing… there are no such beings. This is wishful thinking.

Ok, thank you for stating the name of the method. I reply politely with the politeness of sanity. This body of sanity I have been imprisoned in.

Nonetheless, behind my eyes there are movements of another face, maybe the face of Joaquin Phoenix in the Joker. I can look in the eyes of the world as if setting its retina on fire.

Nevermind…

I stand with the elegant, majestic bodies of the corn plants. When it gets dark they are even more powerful. All the qualities of those enlightened, finally merciful friends I long for… whichever I can stabilize with my attention… can find perfect expression, perfect manifestation in the movements of the leaves of the corn plants.

Especially now, with this wind.

So, why do you say these friends that I long for, are not possible?

L. Mad in all the important ways;

the kind of madness that keeps us alive.

Like a sand storm in the desert,

scattering the certainties of direction,

Like the belly of the sea,

roaring, and spitting salt into the sky.

Like a forest fire,

sparing nothing,

rolling out its carpet of ash

for the feet of tomorrow.

Like the earth trembling,

swallowing city's like Jenga towers

— nothing stands forever.

No one is getting out alive.

And so we learn:

sanity is not silence,

it is permission to crack open,

to howl with the wolves in our chest,

to laugh where the world says we should weep.

Madness is the courage to see what burns,

what drowns,

what falls.

It is listening when the elders speak.

Their voices riding the wind, the smoke and the echo's in the shaking ground.

Screaming.

To be mad is to be alive !

ROUND 3:

P: To operate in this weird world takes carefully chosen words, a few emails, an endless supply of patience and an ability to face rejection, misunderstanding, ignoring, ignorance. There is wisdom in repetition, in not giving up on others even when they may have given up on you. Because most often they haven’t. To be human is to be a mess, all of us are. To be a human is to be a mess with a conscience, a heart. 

(H) Today. But what is today? A word stretched thin between dawn and dusk. Sorry; distraction.

My day might look different from yours.I sometimes even hope it does.Parallel lines never quite touching.

I feel terribly rational today. So rational that I might start listening again to that unfriendly voice in my mind. It speaks in measures and numbers, not in colours or clouds.No dreams or night gardens allowed. Even if I longed for them.

And yet, these remaining hours, they lie before me like frayed edges.Let’s weave the loose threads into a small carpet of purpose. Weave. Knot.But never bind.

Perhaps tomorrow, the carpet will dissolve again, threads scattering like seeds in the wind.But for now, for today, it will hold.

E:

I will hand feed Diana. 

I have not hand fed Diana. 

(you can count my 10 remaining fingers). 

I will trust myself in the image field, on the skin of the wide page,

and presume it as wilderness. 

I will go to the sea. I will make little altars before each of the cars 

with such certain piety that one of them will surely beckon their driver. More bees with honey

than vinegar. More bees with honey, and gold, and sunfire, and a humble open hand.

I will climb on the great gods of granite ocean boulders with another who feels ready to be child for a while. 

I will find the horizon. It is the only matter of mornings now.

“I was there when he set the heavens in place.

    When he marked out the place where the sky meets the sea, I was there.” Proverbs 8:27

(so said Wisdom. The bible is the weirdest read.)

((they will call me ‘Christian’ until they know better, til they see the bones))

(((Yes, I am a woman of faith. But that faith lives in each of the openings. And there are many. Count them. I do.)))

The border between East Liberty and Friendship is here in this house.

The point of Confluence is just under. 

And the sea to the north. And the desert to the south (if you go far enough). 

I will go far enough

to find the trust shaped like a boat in the port with its sail open for patching.

I am there with my needle and thread.

That’s how trust comes -

with a needle and thread. 

I will be patching the holes in our sails.

I don’t stitch pretty.

I stitch like closing a wound.

But it stays shut.

I can promise you - it stays shut. 

R:

Ok… Radu goes in the field and dances madly with the many-winged fierce warriors of noble elegance.

Clash of the Titans, by Cypress Hill, first song in the headphones.

I already know the exact place.

There is a camera… but who needs a camera, since we have established that anything we do, anything we feel, anything we think is perfectly known by all others? This is one of the lines of my manifesto, that I have buried underneath the first possible shovel of ground ever truly desired.

I will find words together with movements.

I will edit a short video and post it on Youtube, so that you have no excuse.

I wonder if I should take some of them and place them in the courtyard… at least 3. I’m sure they would be glad to come. They are not so life-small, life-petty, as humans are.

I will make a painting to show how one can and why one should have the body of a corn plant.

A corn – dinner… with the theme of: reveal the various characters of you… we choose 3 characters that are inside of us and invite them to a corn – potato dinner.

Maybe 3 masks..

With a photo of a place that is most representative to the character. The place where you were when you were most connected to that one..

It can be even half an hour.

21 oclock.

L. How do we make it real?How to make something real if you don’t believe in real.What do they mean by real?

The swallows are real,their lovemaking to the valley looks real.The ferns gathering in colonies of elegance look real.The oak braided with the hair of Medusa looks real.

Real in what realm?Real in what language?Real means listening to what is not said.

But to get real—there is this rebellious lump that builds camp in my throat.It’s a scream, for sure. A real one.Like a REALLY LOUD ANGRY SCREAM.

What feels real to me now is to say: fuck off, silence.Give us our voice back.Enough with believing in silent rebellion.Indoctrinated that silence is more peaceful,we gave up our voices for the promise of legs.But I don’t want legs.They fall off, they grow back, they tangle.

I want my tail back.Now that is real.

Alone at sea,but at last she’s free.Mermaid bluesSorrow turned to soulMourning to musicGod, can she sing.