A Post on Spring

Writing back to social media.

Feb 12, 2026

Lucas Cranach the Younger, *Nymph of the Spring*, 1545-50, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Dear Friends,

As the news swirls constantly around us, I continue my practice of writing back to posts on social media. It seems I’ve been doing this for a year!

It’s a form of play that helps me reclaim my attention and connect to my sense of being.

I invite you to do the same!

— Sal

A Post

A post on spring

It’s coming, it’s coming some day but not today. Spring is a book with a pretty cover and can be pre-ordered now. You can help spring by placing an order, that way they know how much to print. Tell me about the demand for spring, is it strong this year? Is it up, or down? The book is already blooming floridly in artificial pastels. It contains the power of language. There is some formal daring in all this blooming, but remember it’s not in our hands yet.

A Post on Centrists

They are doing it again. Spinning like a compass in a magnetic null zone. They have lost the center. They have forgotten where the heart is. We, in the streets, have one way of speaking, and they in the tanks, in the think tanks, do not want it. They are begging their own, but we are not their own. The tanks are in the streets, and the militias, the gas and the guns. Whose streets? say the ordinary bodies. Our streets.

A Post on the Gyre

Boy, someone says, that gyre keeps getting wider. Far away, my mind is in the desert, where the sand still remembers itself and the shadows are at their longest. I will not sleep, I will not sleep.

A Post on Throwing

What he threw was his Leica. And then he threw his phone. And they were caught for him and saved. The protection he had chosen for his lungs was bright pink, but it had been knocked away. Tear-maker in the face, pepper in the face. All this from inside the dark forest of legs. A tree would not do this, you say. And it’s true, a tree would never do this. Nowhere in the photograph can I see a tree.

A Post from Another Hemisphere

Itʻs warm today, and the fire danger is high. Here by the river, it is hard to imagine fire, waterfowl in the green-gray water, grassy banks, promising trees. There is the shadow of a ridge railing on the river, and someone we canʻt see has paused between one place and another. Even though the fire danger is high, they want us to enjoy the day.

A Post on Tools

The user of the tool is a cow, a brown cow with a wide nose and only a mouth to hold her broom. She prefers the bristles for the hide of her back and the stick end for her udder and belly. Oh, now the itches are scratched! Oh the delicate and unreachable parts of the body. Meanwhile her human friend is learning patience, calmness, contentment, and gentleness.

A Post on the Movies

It’s lunchtime and in the picture there are low hills behind a dirty once-white van. A man stands behind the van, the very definition of a protagonist. It would be easy to think we knew all about him, that his particular sorrow is a universal emotion. There’s a mound of dirt, and maybe he’s just left a body there, by the small bare tree. It could all be like that. The pleasure is in watching, and the pleasure is in imagining the watching, and the pleasure is in reading the imagining.

A Post on Robert Rauschenberg

He was born, and there were animals he loved: Laika the dog, Rocky the turtle, Sweetie the kinkajou, who walked across the art. There was goat chow and monkey chow. He was never distracted. Everything he heard, he became. I like to think all the animals live now in the beautiful Merzbarn of Kurt Schwitters, there among the forms.

A Post on a Posset

Repetition has guided her to a place of acceptance.

A Post on the Festival of Lights

I, too, have been to the place where sweets are rulers. What a country that is. The fudges are beneficent and the carrots have transformed themselves into leaders of the faithful. O, milk of milks, who knew you were such sugar. And this, I said to myself, could be our city, yes, yours and mine, no matter what we believe and how.

A Post on Demolition

There is nothing subtle about the destruction, and no tender hand I can raise. I can raise my hand, but, as in a dream I am too far away. As in a dream I am shouting but no sound comes and there is nothing but dust in the air. Dust in the air. Nothing but dust in the air.