I AM TIRED / MAYBE I EXIST IN THE DIRT / WE EXIST IN THE DIRT.
“Each Monday morning, fellows gather for SEED SOURCING: a shared "storytelling" practice. In the fictional, parallel plane of this story-space, the familiar social and physical laws are suspended. Each fellow is invited to speak from the most direct contact with their inner world - offering story, vision, image, or language that arises from the deeper current beneath surface experience. The practice is oriented toward the sourcing of the seed: that initial pulse of freedom, imagination, desire and possibility from which creation emerges.”
PART 1 //
I am tired.
Let’s start with that.
I am tired of the many thoughts in my head
the archive of ideas that never land.
The fire in my heart, excessively burning,
but there’s 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 that never wants to leave my lover’s embrace.
A part by the river, in the forest, by the sea.
A part collected in notebooks I read again, and never again.
A part always driving around.
A part of me listening to the same songs on repeat
just to feel deeper.
To feel the hurt more.
Feel the love more.
Feel
More.
I am all of them.
In all those places.
All of them, scattered,
Running away and longing for a center.
PART 2 //
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 beginnings
out of broken middles.
Being scattered
is not distraction.
It’s surviving.
It’s learning how to move through the dark
and stitch yourself back together.
I exist in the dirt.
where endings compost into beginnings.
where the world above forgets,
and the soil remembers.
PART 3 //
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.
