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Planting Seeds

Aktualisiert: 12. Sept. 2022



Planting seeds. Stomping on these holy grounds, compressing fertile soil below my feet. Pushing my toes into the moist earth, digging for roots that should be growing from the soles of my feet abundantly. Spinning around my own axis until my body wants to throw up all the undigested bullshit I spoon fed myself over decades and centuries. Finding the wisdom and joy, the playfulness in nature led destruction. Remembering the intelligence of the urge to empty, to renew.


Trusting. Disintegrating. Deconstructing. A falling curtain, finally revealing the beauty of cosmic chaos and not knowing. Of decay. Of goo. Of compost, slime and blood.


Shook by my own loud laughter, being taken from behind by the cosmic trickster who’s making my entire body shiver and buzz. A little harder right there. A lot harder you know where. Waves and waves of life affirming pleasure reaching the most remote places of my flesh, even the tips of my eye lashes are kissed by electricity that moves in a generous dance of contraction and expansion. There lives a heartbeat in my genitals, pumping life force through my energetic blood stream right into yours.


Losing it. Fucking it up. Ripping myself to shreds. Dancing on the rotting pieces of my own little lies, my fake identities, my disempowering roles. Being bored to death by flat, dried out demons offering me distractions that are familiar, yet nowhere near exciting. How can they still catch me? Amusement arises about the persistence of their - wait - of MY uncreative bla bla bla, of traditional games that no one seems to enjoy playing anymore. Familiar they are, yes. Innovative though? Sparkling? Alive? True? Connecting? Seducing?

Sedating. Tiring. Almost not worth mentioning. Yet, the bla bla bla continues to be mentioned. It’s nothing more than a habit, a background noise. Its existence is like a tinnitus you get used to, you learn to live with. It carries the signature of pseudo chaos that is actually operating in perfect, draining order, the type that makes you fall into a slumber, a quality of sleep you need to rest from for eons afterwards.


What are we trying to distract ourselves from? What are we unwilling to sink into? What is the societal phobia we seem to have agreed to obey? Who’s the enemy we’ve been trained to either hide from, or outrun?


I don’t feel excited to find a final answer. All I know in my bones right now is that transitions do not exist to be endured or tolerated with shrugging shoulders. They aren’t poorly air conditioned waiting halls at airports, no meaningless spaces in between. Transitions aren’t little, disturbing breaks in between the “actual” happenings of so called “real life”. They are ever present entities, thrilled for us to give each other permission to indulge on them, to marinate in them, to drink them in fully. They are waiting for us to open up to their unfamiliar, bountiful, potent, cyclical nourishment. They can't wait for us to let them turn us on deeply.


The grief that comes with all the deaths we need to die isn’t empty. It has no end point. It needn’t to be feared. It is, in fact, amongst a billion other inexplicable facets, the entry point to a deeper sense of aliveness. Grief is a rich pool of everything we’re unsuccessfully and eagerly searching for elsewhere.

So what if we jump, not to land somewhere “on the other side”, not to arrive, but to dive right into the rich in between, and swim in the lush rivers of the only place that there ever was and will be, which is now, which is here.


Underneath the heavy, conditioned blanket woven from taboos, questions and tears swallowed and hidden, there might be an ancient, deep belonging in the taboo, erotic nature of death. A surprising aliveness in an ignored and silenced space that contains immense richness and plenty of nourishment.

Have a bite. Serve yourself a portion of this not so mysterious of all mysteries - will you?



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