1 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:

L: GROOVES / QUARRIES

Grooves dug by lives lived.Pathways off the map.Carved in wood and stone.In a different body. 

A larger body that holds our own .

Scratched out from the inside

In quarries

Natural resources. Dark caves in the heart of our hearts.

Damp and wet.Fountain 

Feral 

Love

S:

Yes, this feels good. Sam didn't think that, as he felt the cotton, but if he was in a thinking mode it's probably what he would have thought. He touched the different parts of the cushion. He liked the feeling of all of them. Some a bit more then others, but all of them he liked well enough. 

Then he felt the suede. He didn't like that. He wondered if anyone genuinely did. How anyone genuinely could. 

He went over to the book on the table. A book about algae. He liked algae. He wondered if it was okay for him to open it and look through. Whether that was an appropriate thing to do in this ten minute exercise. He opened it anyway, and liked the pictures inside. 

Later on, after looking at various things, and touching various things, he went over to the bookshelf and looked at the section of art books. And then it struck him. When he was back in America, he could go to book stores, and look through their collection of art books. An easy way of finding new inspiration. Much more efficient than going gallery to gallery. You could see ten times the number of art pieces by employing the former strategy as opposed to the latter. 

The Sam in the present moment reflected on his writing style. Where does this come from? It feels so much more formal than how I think. So much more formal than how I feel. So much more formal than how I speak. At least I hope. Why does writing bring out this formal side of me? 

The earlier Sam reflected on his idea. His art store idea. Would it actually pan out in real life? Would he really find art that he liked? Or would it be a dead end. Would a better way to find art he liked be to simply make it himself. Well, past Sam didn't actually think that second thing. That was present Sam. Thinking as he wrote. 

Present Sam started thinking about something else. Something he had been thinking about the previous day. Balancing inner and outer focus. To what degree is journeying inward beneficial? To what degree is it a wild goose chase. Maybe that depends on where you're at. 

R:

Terrain. First day of school.

I take the heavy, new backpack and I walk on the sidewalk… I am alone, no one is taking me to school.

There are no thoughts, as I walk.

-What will it be like? How will it be? What will happen there? How will I feel?

Maybe I won’t like it, maybe it will be horrible. I hope it will be beautiful. I don’t know anyone there… Will I find good friends?

I need to jump in the water… All are watching. I cannot return. I cannot turn back. I have to jump. I am afraid. The water is cold.

The concrete of the sidewalk is cold and strange. The water is like the asphalt.

What is this place? What are these people?

T:

The child part engaged, took the instructions and surrendered to curiosity, so much so that a life from long ago she visited, as a child, middle ages, fifteen century France, a part of a noble family she was, same theme - outsider who knows and feels more ahead of her time.Sadness prevails. A type of sadness that engages. Again and again. In deeper realms of interactivity with the  known and the unknown. Led by invisible senses seldomly used by normality. 

Anything but normal. Everything and… embracing the irregularity of Being different and sensitive

Different and sensitive…

Different… and yet so… sensitive.

Why does she still visit?

Why does she still live?

What is her message? Her purpose? Is she divine or unworldly? What does she want of the world? Sometimes I cannot understand the nag of her existence. Tamara might not really want to take care of her. But she forces Tamara into softness with life by being a dear part of her inner world. Softness yet firmness of a loving adult. Tamara is the leader. She visits different timelines within. Slowly, steadily, assessing wisdom to take steps for the child.

Tamara sometimes feels tired to see life through the eyes of the child. Annoyance.

Deeeeeeeeeep breath in………………………………………… patience charging. This is a training ground. For? It is not. It is what it is. A training ground. For what? It is , just is.

Tamar does not believe that she must become a better human anymore. This used to drive her. Goodness now being a total facade, a fantasy that turns to swamp.

What is real? Are feelings really real? Tamara is sure she can provoke any feelings she wants.

That is not the anchor. Is there an anchor? To reality?

Yes. the existence beyond the automatisms.

E: Realm

Every globe has continents. 

These have been made by the touch of many hands over many years

to reveal the concentric fibers of the underlying matter.

The underlying matter. 

Eli takes this word “realm” into her hands the globe, the model of world, the sphere of a grape plucked and ready to be dropped into the mouth of a larger being. 

(Her mouth is too small for this realm, so she must rely on larger beings.)

Eli is less and less preoccupied by the treachery of hope. 

Light, sound and smell.

The new constitutional elements of a new realm - and the matter she has vowed to work with from here -

light, sound and smell.

Coordinates on the three axes of three dimensional space, and the only ones that matter in unearthing the underlying matter of what’s already happening.

Eli tried, moments ago, to lift the chimney stone upon her shoulders.

It seemed noble, the posture created by this attempt. (“We attempt the impossible for the uplifting of the spirit.” says the weight of the stone.)

She felt like a little girl moving a house. 

There will be digging, and layers, and mud all over, soon. 

There will be cut wires, and loose limbs, and broken roots.

There will be threadbare carpets, and dirty feet, and wet noses.

The ingredients of realm.

But now - there are the 6 in their conjoined caves catching a whiff of wet stone and oil lamp wafting in the corridors. 

And a taste for miracle. 

H: 

Grains and seeds and circles

in fall

knots- are you tangled in a good way?

Let it melt softly. 

Old stones soothe, new souls heal 

Helena is here for a lesson. Not sure yet which one. Counting on the unexpected. But that is already expecting everything.

ROUND 2:

L:Human or element.To sit on a cliff and sing for the ocean.Or to jump, into the mouth of a siren’s songComposing rocks and waves.Roar fearless.To kiss the surfaceOr make love the ocean.Aphrodite. 

S:

What do you long for? 

On some level, there is no longing for anything. There is a feeling that it's all okay. That all is as it's meant to be. That every struggle, every difficulty, every thing that I want to be different, that all these things are there for some intelligent karmic reason. That they will all dissolve when they are meant to. 

But that's just the sentiment in a certain state of mind. In others, there is a deep longing. A longing for less fear. Less discomfort. Less looping thoughts. They've looped for so long. So long that I sometimes feel insane. Scenes from my past. Scenes from movies. Scenes from TV shows. I'd often like less of them. And yet it also feels as though I am the one who is clinging to them. That I am the one who is keeping them around. Is it voluntary or involuntary? Probably a bit of both. And what's the solution, if there is one? Another dark retreat? Or to simply be more in the external world. Maybe if I focus on other things for long enough, the loops will simply fall away. 

What else do I long for? So often, throughout my life, it has felt like the energy is there, but that outlet is not. I've spent so many hours wanting to be doing something other than what I've been forced to be doing. So many hour spent sitting in class, dreaming about playing soccer instead. I'm guessing most people are the same way, to some degree. 

But yeah, outlets. To always be able to transmit the energy that is within me into form. Well, not always. That might be asking a lot. 

To have the knowledge, and the skills, to make the internal external. 

An then of course for the right partner. The partner that would exist if you took my favorite attributes from the past ones and somehow put it all together into one person. 

The past one's have all felt like soccer teams that all had some glaring weakness. One had a very strong defense, but a weak offense. Others had a strong offense and defense, but a bad goalie. Others had a great goalie and offense, but bad defense. Figuratively. I hope all the good players join forces someday. 

R: Some 3 fellows walking on the road, surrounded by fields.

Radu has invited them in a quest for wild beasts of possibility.

Through various honest sentences, Radu is able to connect with what he longs for the most.

There are forces that contribute to shaping history. There are forces that inspire and guide great creators in history. I want to discern them and have them here.

Radu likes Cypress Hill and Beastie Boys. There are very specific forces manifesting in their music.

The 3 fellows advance each in discerning one such force…

Eli is discerning the force of Joseph Beuys.

Sam is longing for the force of Johnny Cash.

Each of them has an entire field to contemplate the vast presence of the spirit force they long for…

It’s Radu’s turn… He takes them to a fence, made of wood pillars and barbed wire.. this fence is keeping the cows contained… The fence has also electricity…

Radu contemplates the nature of electricity… its joyous and sharp nature… yes, this is one of the qualities I long for and I find it in their music. Sharp, energetic joy… and he starts touching the barbed wire…

T:

Longing… to enter a realm of existing in rhythm.

Rhythm of curious vitality and gentle momentum.

Ease, flow and aloe-like smoothness

Rhythm mixed with accents

Meeting people one layer at a time. Subtle exchange of heart essence, with grace

Discovering realms underneath my rocks

Sustaining a pace for creation.

Gentleness with Self, enjoyment of Self

More meditation and less lists. To experience the joy of the flow between the points.

That my lists become experience, lived and loved.

Coherence in the Method.

To experience the coherence of choice + words emitted + actions permitted

All in the driver’s seat

With popcorn and kombucha

Curious kitten Santosha – contentment

E: the first day of school

Eli has no idea what will happen. 

Eli has a backpack full of books,

No. Full of little glass vials with caps gradually filled up. 

They click and chime against one another as she walks with her enormous backpack. 

She walks buoyantly. She will not break them. 

The collection.

The collection of essences. 

Eli will find God by gathering the essential matter. 

Vial by vial. 

Sam’s snack waiting in the kitchen is an essential matter. The frustration of an unmet craving, an impulse that received No. 

Fotia, Radu’s daughter of 6 years, is starting school today. Eli sent her big sister, Sofia, an animated gif this morning. New beginnings are an essential matter. So is the nervous thrill of doing-something-I-haven’t-done yet. 

(How to capture this molecular knowledge?)

Eli is already building a darkroom for Helena in the laundry room in her mind. This is an essential matter : a shared endeavor, a shared making-possible.

Nestor is pawing the air while dreaming. This is an essential matter - the reality lived by the mind (and thereby also the body) but in the private reality of sleep. The joy and dangers of an unlimited world. 

Eli is sampling creation. 

She means to make life with it. 

She means to know God with it. 

She means to rip the curtain from the hidey-hole and wear it like a holy robe. 

Eli is gathering the voices.

Her backpack of God. The great big backpack of God

on the first day of school. 

H: Can I borrow this backpack from you? Fill it with beautiful things.Meeting new souls (old and new) making new stories. I will give it back. It will be as light as wind, guiding us in all directions we want to go. All at once, everywhere at once, nothing in between. We’re here to guide one another. 

We’re here to create

To breathe

To live

To experience

To intertwine

To drift and float

Tidepools

Let the pathways be revealed as I walk them with you. 

ROUND 3:

L: Manual for not getting stuck in longing, but become the dreaming.

No lists, no expectations but spells.

Invite the death over for tea, daily.

Create sound for the land and let its song sing through you.

Whisper the names of the other fellows before bed;

weave their names into a dreamcatching web.

Spend enough time roaming the in-between.

Return and share with others what you’ve seen.

Ask questions, stay curious.

Tell me, I want to know:

What story lives in your bones

 I want to know you in the unseen in the voice behind your voice, in the silence, in the way your body leans toward the world. I want to read you through how you hold this place, the landscapes imprinted in your eyes. I want to hear the telepathic whispers, the invisible thread that moves between us. I want to meet you where language cannot reach, where presence itself becomes the story.

That is my love language.Teach me yours

S: 

What will happen this week? 

Many emails to send. It feels so nice. Knowing exactly what needs to happen, and feeling totally confident in my ability to do it. Such sharp contrast to how I spent so much of my life feeling. 

Lists? I don’t really do those anymore. I try to just trust that if I’m meant to do something, I’ll remember to do it. Definitely a bit of a luxury of the life that reality seems to be asking me to live. I’ll take it. There are many other aspects of this path, or journey, or whatever you want to call it, that are less luxurious. So funny. The contrast between what people think I have, and what I actually have. Not to sound self indulgent, but it’s the truth. But I digress. Long story short, I’ll take what I can get. 

What needs to happen to make the rest of it happen? I think sequence is very important. That word has been on my mind a fair amount over the past couple years. That concept I guess you could say. I think so many of the things that feel impossible become possible once we have done something else. Once something else has shifted. If you’re struggling to write your book, it might be because there are a bunch of paintings that you need to do first. Before they’re out, the book will probably never come. Or vis versa. At least that’s the theory. The more I live, the more evidence I see to support it. Sometimes it’s different. I’m remembering the story of a famous song writer whose songwriting ability suddenly emerged immediately after the death of his father. The two didn’t even has a bad relationship. It’s not like the Dad was telling the son to do something other than songwriting. That’s just how it happened. 

So what needs to shift? What needs to shift for the desires to become manifest? Maybe nothing. It feels like they are all coming along. Maybe not as fast as I’d like them to, but so much faster than they used to. 

R:

Radu wakes up in the morning, it is still dark.

The walls are like walls, the floor, the chairs, the other fellows are in their rooms.

Radu has already created an image of each… Lies, Helena, Tamara, Sam, Eli. Nestor not yet.

Radu has a clear image of what this place is, with the buildings, trees, stones, etc.

Radu has an image of his daughters in Paris, his brother and parents…

All of these beloved beings… Radu wants to find true love.

Radu knows better than to hope… he puts his cheap headphones on and chooses the album Ill Communication. There is such a force of revolt there.

Radu moves in the spacious bathroom… He moves in such a way as to destroy the images of each.

It is kinda weird what he does.

How can you summon violent, joyous revolt to attack the image you have of your daughter? 

Yes, and I want to practice it systematically. I want to commit to destroying, every morning, as much as I can from these plastic statues I create for all of you. And the trees, and the plastic birds with their plastic songs. The plastic Sam I create, The plastic Eli, the plastic Nestor I will surely create.

It is a simple thing. It is hard work.

I will engage this work systematically… the walls, the valley, the stables, the car, the ocean… all burnt every morning… hopefully, by the end of the week I will reach the newspaper of space and the radio noise of time. Also the silly caricature of the great big serious universe.

T:

Ok, bringing it down to the 3D.

The practice of body + mind training continues: daily yoga asanas + meditation. Get on with the new zone of time.

Combined with the pauses of contemplation spread through the week gear up the deep focus times of creation where:

Daily Morning writing of the Methodology prevails. 

The writing becomes even more supported by reads and conversation.

This week draws a map of action for the next weeks.

This week makes contact with network through conscious feeling and excitement that sprouts for it.

This week meets the worlds of others like me.

I see colors, colors see me.

Tamara begins to embed herself in the realms of the local network of dancers.

Bureaucratic worldly affairs completed by Friday: bank, phone number, new account for ordering things.

Getting materials sorted: canva, acrylics, space set up. Colors, dear colors come to me. In dreams in vision, through my Heart, help me tell the story I came here to tell. May my body be the living canvas of the dreams of Love.

E:

The dark hours of the morning will happen this week. 

At last. 

The tyranny of summer mornings is over.

(Mercy.)

The night flood. The night floods. 

Eli will float under the rain in the clear-watered swimming pool, even now that summer is over. Even better now that summer is finally over.

Eli will go to the ocean and Radu will cover her in the smoothest, softest stones. They will all be larger than her fist. The tide will rise. Just enough to get her wet but not enough to drown her. 

Eli will cry into the salt water and give the ocean back her heartache. She will show her fragility to the fellows. Eli will show her fragility to the fellows - who are quickly, who will quickly, who are quickly becoming kindred, and they will hold her gracefully in her being-herself-beyond-what’s-expected. She will be touched. And grateful. To be uncontained.

There will be making-on-paper. There will be reading-aloud. There will be more laughter than raindrops on the roof of the veranda. There will be satisfied sighs of relief - everywhere, like a swarm. And great rushes of clarity and trust. There will be trust like the swelling grapes nearly ready for harvest in the southern sun. And we will gather the baskets and barrels for the reaping. We will prepare what is needed for the squeezing and pressing and fermenting of the trust grown abundant in the coming time. We will make wine with the fruits of summer. And spice is warm in the winter for the fire lit in the chimney whose ghost is even with us now. Warmth. Undeniable warmth, and all the candlelit cave corridors it will open in the mystery of shared solitude. 

Eli will buy her vials. And ready her backpack. And start her archive. And walk and speak with everyone about these most essential matters of being-alive. 

H:First week of September - Harvest

I need to taste the land.

Apples, the last elderberries, sea and air. 

Again, visiting tidepools. (mini worlds - globes?) like the visit to my grandmother that was long overdue.

so much things to harvest;

chopping, picking, cutting - no. Slowly.

Gathering, collecting, choosing.

Fern parade, seaweed samples, moss collection

And giving back to each one in turn

In the darkroom light will be harvested with nature.

Let’s start experimenting with the land, the harvest, to see what it hides. (and let some mysteries remain)