6 October 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

Thomas 

I do not want love to be merely a practice to be talked about, I am tried of dreaming, my eyes are drowsy from the sleep of dreaming, its incoherence, its unsure meanings. The strings of words that fall from dream mouths vaporize into fine thin smoke. There is so little value in now, always a hope for the future that could be given to the present. The future is uncertain and frightening, like the menacing skylines from futuristic silent films. What is the difference between now and the future, when now is all we have? The future infuriates me. 

Gosha

My reality is shaped by my need to make a new home somewhere. My desire to find some place to call home. To fill it with things that I need everyday, things that make my life feel comfortable. To walk through new pathways, make them feel habitual. To establish new healthy habits. To extend my family ties. To feel safe and confident. I’d like my new home to resemble tiny bits of what I remember from the past, replace memories, rewrite the past into the future perspectives. I want my home to also be a home and a safe refuge for other displaced individuals if needed.

Zo

Disappointment!

again.

It’s here

breathing beneath my tender skin.

It seems it’s always there,

like fire beneath the ashes.

No matter

how much I try to turn it off,

how much I build fantasies

and pour imagination into circumstances!

it creeps,

slowly,

and suddenly it’s here again,

gazing into my eyes

with a bitter smile.

burning all of what I tried to construct!

R: STAIR STARE

I wanna be real with these people.

I was embracing the stairs earlier. We can be in so many other ways in this life.

Yesterday we opened a space of totally free movement in the library… it was me, Sara and Tamara…

I wanted more… I was moving in such a way that this space… this ;logical space we create together is more generous than the cheap definition of present moment and physical locality…

So I took a chair to help me…

It was teaching me a new logic of being… (thank you chair)

So I made Eli present… I wanted to understand how she would move and how the room would feel in her body, with her kingdoms of experience and ancestors…

Because I had a chair on my head… I thought of Wittgenstein… I long for his presence… what is this presence: well higher cultural responsibility… a thinker that shaped our civilization… I want this to happen here… world shaping… and it can only happen if I can stabilize this sweet electric desire in my heart and in all the rats eating grapes in the sewers of my heart.

I still have 3 min left.

I will confess.

I thought of Elon Musk

(and… the choir of outrage of everyone else...whatever…)

I am precise. My heart is precise… when I love I am clear in what I love…

Not Elon Musk as a hallucination of a person. I don’t believe in what humans consider to be a person.

I believe in exact qualities, stabilized by advanced faculties of discernment.

So, the quality of managing industries…

I would wish to find a seed of such a capacity in me…

But it’s always eaten by that dog…

and I’m not even capable to manage the red car properly.

At least I have a camera.  

E: Fallen Doors

There are doors filed side by side like encyclopedia volumes - exactly where they will not do what they are built to do (this is precisely the thing we call longing). The wind knocks them over like a bully in the schoolyard. They fall - fathers in a wreck. Clamorous loud. All in a clatter. 

On either side of the window, there are doors painted shut. Inside are sealed evidences of prior inhabitants. The stash slot for all that should be nearest to flee. Ease of escape is the love song of the city dweller.  The window is tilted open like a ballad. I sing to the plastic plant that sits on the window sill. I sing to it daily to remind it of its privilege. It didn’t believe me at first. It is sat to stare directly at the massive brazen maple in its leaf-shimmying nimbus. Now the tree knows better. Days later the tree asks the plastic plant in the window, “how do you do what you do?”

“I need no sun. I need no rain. And I will not lose my leaves. And they will not lose their color. And I will not grow. And I will not change for centuries.”

The tree is humbled by the constancy of such a specimen. 

“Teach me,” he pleads. “Teach me to need nothing.”

“I cannot. Needing nothing grows nothing. And you are the striving kind.”

L :

I am tired.Let’s start with that.

I am tired of the many thoughts in my headthe archive of ideas that never land.

The fire in my heart, excessively burning,but no ground to build on.No stability,no time,no focus,no resources.

Is being a nomad a distraction?Motion keeps me inspired–but it also keeps me from doing.

There is this restlessness.

Fuck.

I have stuff everywhere.I am literally all over the place.

There’s a part of me eating cake in my mother’s kitchen.A part in my lover’s bed.A part by the river, in the forest, by the sea.A part collected in notebooks I read again, and never again.A part still wandering on public transport.A part driving without destination.A part of me at the source, the one in Brittany.A part of me listening to the same songs on repeat—just to feel deeper.To feel the hurt more.Feel the love more.FeelMore.

I am all of them.In all those places.All of them, scattered,Running away and longing for a center.Where do I exist? 

T:

Believing is experiencingGetting hookedExploring Radical Existence. But how far? I feel the edges around.Better stay quiet, better not exist. Drawing too much attention will not be helpful.Self censorship is the safest way.I would really like to be living in California.But the rents there are so high.Can I make the entire world like California just by taking it in my stride?Maybe I will I feel that I cannot bounce off of anyone. Where is my truest self? This is a test.This is a social test once again. Zero eighty 2025

ROUND 2

Thomas- 

Disappointment!

again.

It’s here

breathing beneath my tender skin.

Is disappointment a sea or a fire? Is the ocean on fire? Or is it an ocean of fire? how do I build a bodysuit to protect my tender skin? My vulnerability. I am reassured that this is an important asset to my personality, yet that tender skin gets burned over and over again, the burns heal but I can’t ignore the scars they leave behind anymore. What will the suit be made of? Rubber? Fruit-skins? Will it be treated with fire proofed chemicals? You can’t use asbestos anymore, that causes cancer. How do I find water in a dry hot terrain? My mind is biblical punishment, how do I make this punishment stop? 

Gosha

There is this restlessness.

I am longing to see whatever tomorrow brings, but I know that most of what is possible tomorrow is rooted in today - not yesterday. So I am putting a good effort into maintaining my focus on whatever is in front of me right now. And in front of me is a muddy river, pushing anything out of its’ way; a silent mountain; plenty of colors; full-grown pomegranates opening up their seeds; unfinished buildings; abandoned fishing spots; a whole lot of wasted time and resources; a lot more of promising prospects; five notebooks full of writings and drawings; two computers set up for processing two different languages; a drop of spilled water; a pair of wool socks from Finland; and five hand-painted pebbles.

Zo

"I am tired of dreaming

my eyes are drowsy from the sleep of dreaming, its incoherence, its unsure meanings"

I am wounded of dreaming.

The tendency of getting lost in the worlds

that just exist in my mind

just flows in my heart.

I would lost,

I would lose the threads of what they call reality.

What is the reality?

and then

somebody slaps me,

something smacks,

scatter the clouds I’m living in.

and I am wounded,

and lonely.

How should I again long for?

R: Fuck.

This was a sentence in Lies text.

I was curious of how she will say it. I think she managed to say it very well.

I generally don’t…

Fuck.

I think of the library in Paris… not in naive ways…

THE BNF – Bibliotheque Nationale de France

I am a Husserl friend, so when I talk about something, I talk about the phenomena of something and I take responsibility of how this phenomenon is shaped in me.

BNF is a highly elegant, severe, vast temple of knowledge. I tasted there ecstasies of unbearable subtlety and unbearable cultural desire, the boiling love for the body of the world….

Ok… time is short. There is the body of the BNF…

But there are also the fields here.. all these voluptuous fields constantly caressed by the mystical tractor gods. Fields are a very advanced contemplative territory… Highly advanced…

But… still.. the raw experience of all the people that lived here, and the animals…

the ancestral agricultural being… stuff like this

all of this

the body of the fields…

FUCK.

Oh, how I long to be in the event of the BNF coming here… all of its kingdoms and territories, all of its pages….

And falling madly in love with this land…

oh, the steel, the stainless steel swimming through the perfumes of the freshly ploughed soil…

this is what I long for

The National Library of France to be in love making with the fields here…

E:

There are no doors filed outside. 

I made them up. 

I needed to watch a small disaster so I could feel like the sole witness of an unintended event. 

Get them out. Pull them out. 

The volumes of doors. 

Where is my courage? 

I want to say: there is a world here, and it’s magnificent. But no more magnificent than exactly what’s there too. And how can I explain the perfection of things as they are. And how can I summon the procession of images that will give you all a glimpse of the love I already feel.

Yes, for you. 

I carry you with me.

I carry you with me in my tilted window.

It is true. 

I can make you up - here - like the filed doors. 

I can host you in my room for a bedtop tea party. 

I can serve you scottish shortbread and milky tea and together

we can impersonate bagpipes until the upstairs neighbors call the cops. 

Don’t worry. We’ll tell them we’re foreigners. 

Don’t worry. There is nothing lost. 

Don’t worry. You are exactly right. 

Don’t worry - there is more love than any of us know what to do with. 

The choir of outrage of everyone else … whatever) I am precise. My heart is precise. 

I carry you with me in the gift of the tilted window and the maple tree, with its leaves like doors and their stems like hinges. A choir of doors flapping in the rain. The applause of an audience to our triumph.

Don’t worry. Yesterday was a victory. 

Don’t worry. It’s all true - every bit that you feel.

Don’t worry. The seeds are nearly ready to open. The dark soil has danced them to life.

Don’t worry. There is time and sleep 

and all the pieces of you are one with each room that holds them. 

We are all one with the maple doors to all the rooms that hold all of our fragments. 

[We are] all of them. 

In all those places.

L.

Maybe I exist in the dirt.The dirt is another world,one of many realities.

Yes,I exist in the dirt.I am a worm.Sometimes a half-worm.Sometimes a triple half-worm.

I re-worm.I grow back.I’m chopped in half again.

The scatteredness was never only me.It’s the weeders;treading without watching,weeding without caring,cutting through what I was becoming.They split me open,leaving me to learn how to make new beginningsout of broken middles.

Being scatteredis not distraction.It’s surviving.It’s learning how to move through the darkand stitch yourself back together.

I exist in the dirt.where endings compost into beginnings.where the world above forgets,and the soil remembers.

T:

I am doing this to activate and turn on Free movement can help 

The longing is about Being in the purest formAnd connection , like parts of an atom

The longing is about being and longing = be-longing

But it’s not sad

It’s even a bit boring

To think that it’s not already here

The action will reinstate and rehinge

To find a different color in the same revised palate is an art

Choosing to slide down the stares is an art

Staying in my center while in the whirlwind of feelings around … is an art

Reclaiming. My own. Story.

Since everything is a story, what story do I choose to tell?

The one where the woman loses her inherited identity, of course.

ROUND 3

Thomas-

Before I got COVID, the first week I came here, I dreamt of a little man who met me outside while I was smoking a cigarette. His face was frightening, similar to a toddlers, but with the knowing sinister grin of perverse adulthood. It was a seedy, malformed face. He wore a long leather coat, black shoes that curled at the end with two little bells that tinkled when he walked. He spoke an odd language, Gaelic maybe? Something ancient. But he readjusted to English. Tricksters always know how to cater to their audience. 

“I can give you whatever you want” he said, “anything you ask I can deliver. As long as you promise me something in return.” 

How I yearn for something to come easy in this existence. Nothing comes easy or naturally in this life anymore. It is all forced, pure production. How tempting, a shortcut home through the woods instead of this endless toiling path. He tempted me with easier routes, familiar destinies, funny how none of the wishes he saw in my soul involved riches and fame. I finished my cigarette and told him no. I knew it was all a devils bargain, I have enough debt as it is. 

Gosha

My vision is a radical invitation to everyone in this reality who experienced or will experience any form of displacement to be my guest, be a part of my kin, my tribe, my family. In reality, I am building bridges, I am establishing links and connections, I am engaging in all kinds of exchanges to experience real love, a sense of attachment, a sense of belonging, a sense of connection. None of it is given to none of us as we are not tourists, always  hungry for ready-made attractions, quick shots of dopamine and adrenaline to make it through another excruciating day on this planet; we have an intention to stay and withstand, so we need to take care of and nourish what’s already here.

ZO

There is always a difference,

between the possibility of the world I create

and the time the present reality needs

to move through the process of happening.

There is always

a dissonance

between the pace of my creativity

and the capacity of reality.

There is always time in between

sometimes،  days,

sometimes،  weeks,

months,

years,

even centuries.

There is always time in between,

and I have no patience!

I know

I should eliminate “I.”

I should forget about it

and just live like an obedient leaf.

how?

There’s an elusive key.

I would find it every night,

with so many hardships!

and lose it every morning,

Like a lucid dream.

 R:

Yesterday was a victorY

I took a bag of potatoes from the field.

A gift from the tractor gods….

Seriously now…

What will I actually do with this vision of holy fuck….

Well, first I need to reactivate the dimension of cultural responsibility in my walks… which was a bit ignored lately. I have cared more for the fields of beauty than for the electric poles of intelligence.

So… I have to make them meet.

To fall in love with one another…

To make Paris fall in love with rural fields…

I will do…

Also… I feel this disappointment… I have also this tendency…

but this is of the old world… the old world with the old definition of identity…

fuck that

versatile word.

My new world has a new definition of identity…

so, I will discern the qualities of BNF… that is great cultural awareness, responsibility…

in each one here…

and in any object…

and I will discern the quality of ancestral… of the bare naked, raw field,

in anyone here...Merce...gosha, Lies, Eli, Zo, Thomas, Petri, David, Sara, Tamara, Helena, Nestor,

I will find them like Merce on a hunt for scents

like an army of tractors

and when I find them I will introduce them one to the other….

And will read all the books about their love…

Example?

The chair… such a silly design…

raw, fierce massive oak wood…

how do those meet?

L.

We exist in the dirt.The soil remembers what we forget.

Manchán Magan wrote ‘Listen to the Land Speak.’He died a few days ago.A great dreamer. A great feeler. A great writer.I wish for our world to be animated by his spirit,For him to embody us from the other side.May we carry his myth into the fabric of our being.

He said: Every root, every bog, every forgotten field has a language.

I am a worm, a triple half-worm, chopped in pieces,growing back from memory buried deep. Like the land that keeps speaking in many languages; I am part of a continuous conversation.

Manchán Magan also wrote ‘Thirty-Two Words for Field.’I wonder when Radu’s birthday is. 21 MAYI’m thinking about giving him this book as a gift to extend his love language for his conversations with the fields.

T:

I made my now very big and started to go into the future.That was even more tiring.The big machines are consistent today, shaking up the outhouse.I am finding ways to escape the noise that turns into earthquake.Is there something else I need to know about this?slowly slowly incessantly making a bit of a fissure in the status quo

Just like the flotillas, But then, what kind of fissure begets a new reality Choosing battles at this stage is of high importance

What is already in the dense is sooo hard to change

The only real chance to change remains in the subtle realms.