Saragun Springs

On the Algorithm by The Drifter

(All images by The Drifter)

Instead of only blaming the inventors, propagators and perpetrators of these products, we should turn the blame around once in a while and place it squarely on the individual consumer/s of said products as well. No one is placing a gun against anyone’s head in this matter. Take it from one who once had a gun placed against his head on a Chicago sidewalk. And a switchblade placed right below his eye in a Kansas City tavern. And a frying pan swung (hard) in the direction of his head in the kitchen. (The author of this opinion piece is good at ducking, fleeing, and flying (out the back door), as well as staring people down – or talking them out of it when necessary.)

Ruthless billionaire businessmen ye shall always have with you. In 2026 USA, one has the option to ignore them, or at least not to utilize their products beyond what’s necessary, selective, or right, depending on the situation.

They have figured out a way to feed the people exactly what the people wish to eat. And the people go to the hand of the master and lap up the usual b.s. because it is the usual b.s. they long and crave for. If universal wisdom, truth, love and beauty were popular and profitable, the business people would sell that instead.

There are some people who are not in control of their minds and thus have gone out of their minds by feeding their minds on nothing but The Algorithm.

As for the rest of us, we have the option to opt out and choose better materials at any time.

It is a matter of cultivating your one and only soul. If you let someone else feed your soul with nothing but junk, you will end up with a nothing, junk soul created by someone else, which will mean that you have abdicated your personality, the only real possession you possess in this vale of tears. This egregious and pathetic non-condition will not serve you, or others, well when the shit hits the fan, as it’s sure to do again and again in this world that is both spiritual battleground and mortal coil.

The Algorithm is not a gun against anyone’s head. You can choose NOT TO CLICK ON IT and not even to look at it at all, for that matter. Any addict who’s ever gotten over anything can tell you that you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Nietzsche said, “There are so many things in this world I never want to know.” He knew a little and ignored the rest. He also said, “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger,” right before going permanently insane.

A great picture is infinitely more valuable than a bad book (and can be read almost in the same way as reading a good book (and as the book of nature can also be read)).

Sincerely,

The Drifter

Haikus by F.S. Blake

Haikus by F.S. Blake

(Ed. note–F.S. Blake is a recipient of the Bronze Star, which is a hell of a good thing to be known for. He also writes poetry, and it is our pleasure to present a pair of Haikus written by Mr. Blake. He will be appearing again with more, soon–The Eds.)

Our dog on warm days
runs with pure joy, back and forth,
she gets double treats.

Buzzing mosquito
stumbles over the porch light
still drawn to warmth gone

F.S. Blake

(Image of a brave cherry tree in February)

Creature Comfort by Jordan Eve Morral

This evening, there was a road crew

in the streets of a colonial town.

They blocked traffic and began work at dusk.

The sunset against the faded red bricks

made the scene–and the big-bellied crew–

look like guests at a late-day garden party.

It appeared that one man ran the excavator

while the rest looked on,

the audience of an outdoor theater performance.

Their mundanity and at-odds presence

made me want to cry

and become one of them.

Never did laboring over asphalt and drains

seem so appealing–just a step down from the divine.

More than anything, it was the unspoken comfort,

the unrecognized camaraderie,

that made these humans glorious,

made them creatures I wanted to embody.

Or maybe it’s just that I forget I am perceived

and felt seen by them.

Jordan Eve Morral

Leah by Geraint Jonathan

in her pyjamas

out in all weathers

hardly the way to go is it

whatever she was she isn’t that now

look at her

if ever hair needed cutting

there’s hair could do with it

seems all it takes is promise of bad weather

she’s ready for the hills

almost paces

animal like

old as she is

you have to tell her

naughty-night-to-be-out-in

the look she gives you then

none like it

and I’ve been given looks you wouldn’t believe

or maybe you would

come to think of it

Geraint Jonathan

(Image by Leila)

The Martyrdom of St. Peter by Tony Dawson

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio,

a troublemaker who gloried in sadistic

violence, especially in his paintings,

was the Prince of Darkness of Baroque,

the pioneer of the style dubbed tenebrism.

Together with his realistic portrayals

of the subjects who populate his canvases,

“the terrible naturalism that attracted

and ravished human sight”, as Scannelli put it,

they are the distinctive features of his work.

His painting, The Crucifixion of St. Peter,

commissioned by Monsignor Tiberio Cerasi,

is an archetype of Caravaggio’s tenebrism

and how he exults in depicting brutality.

The distribution of the four individuals

conjures the shape of St. Andrew’s cross.

A beam of light traverses the canvas

from the top left of the frame

to the bottom righthand corner

illuminating St. Peter’s torso, left arm,

and hand nailed to the crosspiece,

every muscle and sinew of the martyr

tensed. A blend of pain and terror cross

the face of the Saint. High to the left,

the only executioner to escape anonymity

embraces Peter’s shins and the upright

of the cross to help a second executioner

whose woollen jacket is rucked up

by the rope he’s using to haul the cross

upside down as it is placed in the hole,

dug by the third executioner’s shovel.

Petra, the rock in the foreground,

evokes Peter’s name, the rock

upon which the Christian Church

is unified, emphasised further

by the shadowy rocky landscape

in the background darkness.

Tony Dawson

(Image is of the author; would be strange if another fellow, now wouldn’t it?)

Octave for Janet by Tony Dawson

Spring and summer blossoms populated

our family tree that stood so straight and tall.

Then the blossoms gradually faded into fall

bringing the fruit that we so eagerly awaited.

When our winter hesitated and finally never

came, apparently because of climate change,

our blossoms bloomed and flourished once again.

An Indian summer in which to bask forever.

Tony Dawson

(Image is of the esteemed poet)

Nine Things Boo Be Do that Freak Me Out

(All images by the Drifter)

“Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine…” – The Beatles

When I say “freak me out,” I mean in a good way.

(To the elite few of you who want to review who Boo is, see photos.)

ONE: Sometimes constantly watches me from across the room of the book-strewn apartment as if to make sure I’m all right (until he dozes off, which happens just as frequently).

TWO: Catches wild squirrels in his mouth between his fangs, doesn’t chomp down upon them, drops them down onto the ground and sets them free, then watches them flee (run away) without going after them.

THREE: Leaps into my lap when he gets scared.

FOUR: Hides behind me when he gets scared if I’m standing up.

FIVE: Puts himself between me and whoever it is when someone is approaching us at night along the sidewalks or in the alleyways of the Chicagoland area we roam through (or wherever we roam through). If it’s more than one person approaching, becomes even more fearlessly vigilant.

SIX: Follow verbal commands when they, paradoxically, are not even spoken aloud by me. (In other words: READ MY MIND.)

SEVEN: Refuse to follow commands just as often, and act like he thinks it’s funny, and in his own way, I do believe he thinks it’s funny.

EIGHT: Run so fast that he literally morphs into a black-and-white blur that looks like it’s flying across the ground. Fastest dog I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen many.

NINE: Stare into the distance while intuiting the Spirit World.

(Leading one to the astonishing conclusion that if dogs could talk, we wouldn’t even be able to believe what they would tell us…)

(Bonus point: can climb fences and trees when he wants to bad enough…)

The Drifter and Boo

Your Jesus by Geraint Jonathan

It’s true that your Jesus came back. His bar mitzvah coincided with the end of the First World War. As eldest scion of second generation Nazarene immigrants, he no doubt had his work cut out for him in the heartlands of a newly ruined Germany.

As you’d expect it was his talk brought the grief, the trouble. Said he had such news as would overturn the world and so forth. In short, words best whispered, or better yet, left unsaid. Those who rejoiced to hear them would soon lose their ears. And soon enough he and his raggletaggle crew were among the ten thousand others on the slow train east.

He did everything he could, your Jesus. But it was no good. Some clocked him as a collaborator – owing to that enemylove spiel of his. The bread not in his belly started to show on his face; but still he shared what few scraps he could procure, making himself no friends by doing so.

As for his ‘fate’: it came without warning, during morning roll-call: he was hanged along with two others before the work detail set off. His executioner was a man known as ‘Ape’ – a sobriquet supposedly derived from his reputation for “going ape” when beating people to death. ‘Ape’ himself was promoted to captain shortly before the end of the war. He disappeared soon after.

Geraint Jonathan

(Image by Christopher J Ananias)

Third of May 1808, by Francisco de Goya by Tony Dawson

is a virtuoso display of dynamic brushwork.

In his visceral need to capture the moment,

his depiction has anticipated impressionism.

The speed at which he applied the paint

has infused the canvas with ominous terror.

The left side of the canvas is bathed in light

from a box lantern at the feet of the faceless,

hooded, firing squad of Murat, on the right:

evil is being perpetrated under cover of darkness

by the French incarnations of Death.

The Spanish victims, each a non-combatant,

standing beside three slaughtered patriots

whose bodies lie bloodied in the dirt,

show a mixture of fear, resignation and defiance.

One of them, a monk, his hands clenched in prayer,

seems to be hoping to receive clemency.

The man in the white shirt throws his arms

out wide, challenging the soldiers to shoot him

as more civilians are herded up the slope

to meet their deaths like cattle in an abattoir:

the horrors of war laid bare by an artist in despair.

Tony Dawson, 12 February 2026