I have more trust in my Inner Teacher. She is subtle and humble because she hopes to be understood. She contains contradictory opinions without betting indigestion. she can mediate between the arrogant artist self who mutters, "I don't give a damn if you don't understand me," and the preacher self who shouts, "Now hear this!" She doesn't declare truth, but offers it. She takes a Grecian urn and says, "Look closely at this, study it, for study will reward you, and I can tell you some of the things that other people have found in this pot, some of the goodies you too may fine in it."

An afternoon with Machin is…a slice of breath.

That made me smile!

The first thing one must do every morning is swallow a live frog…

My friend's husband woke up the other morning on his eightieth birthday and said: I made it!

So I said to a friend:

It’s hard business trying to run the world...

To which she replied: Yup, that is why Diggy is here to 
help me. She is connected to the universe and tells me when to stuff it. 



Of course this is Diggy!

A stolen quote:
Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.

Dandelion phase three?
In one way I am reduced to taking from others...in another way I like sharing from others...

 Dear Reader

Through what precinct of life’s forest are you hiking at this moment?
Are you kicking up leaf litter or stabbed by brambles?
Of what stuff are you made? Gossamer or chain mail?
Are you, as reputed, marvellously empty? Or invisibly ever-present,
even as this missive is typed? Have you been to Easter Island? Yes?
Then I’m jealous. Do you use a tongue depressor as bookmark?
Are you reading this at an indecent hour by flashlight?
Plenty of scholarly ink has been spilt praising readers like yourself,
who risk radical dismantling, or being unmasked, by rappelling
deep into sentences. Your trigger warnings could be triggered every
second, yet you forge on, mystic syllables detonating in your head,
the metal-edged smell of monsoon-downpour on hot asphalt
raising steam in your imagination. You hold out for the phrase
with which the soul resonates, am I right? Reading, you’re seized
by tingly feelings, a rustling in the brain, winds that tickle your scalp,
bubbles erupting from a blow hole at the back of your neck.
You forget the breathy woman talking softly on TV across the lobby
(via TiVo you’ve saved her for later.) Birds outside are cracking jokes
and cackling. Reader, smile to yourself, rock the cradle, kiss
everyone you wish to kiss, and please keep reading. It beats
fielding threatening phone calls for $15 an hour which is what
yours truly is meant to be doing right now, instead of speculating
on the strange and happy manifestations of, you, dear reader, you.

Amy Gersler