This is from 6/25/25

Wasp errand God meander bubbles Fred toast jungle ocean temptation desire field barley waves sheen cloud float bubbles linger meditation breath waterfall exhale as a waterfall is a constant exhale so is The warmth of the sun a constant inhale sit wait breathe out waterfall breathe in sunshine breathe out waterfall mist on the face breathe in sunshine mist evaporates Flow Ebb

This.. on the other hand was a response to the beginning of my recent flight from Seattle to Monterey. The turbulence/wind shear was strong. The wing wiggled way more than I liked. My mind raced and a vision of the wing just ripping off crashed my mind.

6/22/25 written while still on the plane

Dazzling the wing flexes in forces flung sideways - - - falling sideways – fear lingers and bursts the bubbles below. ~Ocean~ taps a wing grabs and pulls to spin us down a flat stone skipping to rest to settle and sink s i n k a temporary submarine with no hope intent of letting its passengers view the deep dark blue. We are now only an apartment building for fish protective - with tiny windows offering a spectacular view.

And then. Today I am going through stuff. Trying to throw things out. Recycle things. Donate things. I found a notebook that included my own writing from 2016-2019. Rough years for our relationship. She was in a very dark space and I was merely trying to stay sane… stay afloat… be there. Trying.

Two matched the water here. 9/29/19

ONE

Does the water at a waterfall Consider The inability to go back?

TWO

Which stream flows to the sea Does water find contentment In the ocean or perpetual discontent at the lack of individuality

And THREE - written in Cursive on 3/21/18. I don’t usually write in cursive. I’ll leave it to you.

there is something linear about writing (in cursive). Once upon a time there lived a small creature. One so small she led a life largely unnoticed by the world around her. She would watch as other beings would pass her by and not even bat an eye. Sometimes she would even have to get out of the way. This led her to feel a bit inconsequential. Tiny. And in a word, small. It made her sad and feelings of loneliness set in. In an effort to be noticed she began sabotaging the world around her. She started small. She left small holes in the earth and watched to see who would go around, who would go over and most delightedly, who would trip. Eventually even this grew routine and her feelings of smallness returned. Sad, she would quietly watch everyone walk over her obstacles without any understanding of where that hole came from. No concern or recognition that she had made it. Her feelings of self-worth diminished even further. Depression set in. Then one day as she sat watching from her high perch. High to her, that is. A giant figure stopped at her obstacle and looked around. The head swiveled perhaps for only two moments and stopped. One giant eye leaned in and smiled at her. She blinked. It blinked. She smiled. It held out a giant appendage. She stepped on and was carried away…

Thank you.

Be creative.

Love.

give hugs.

At the time I lived in Seattle and I started attending Poetry slams and did a few readings. Wow, those are nerve wracking. Nothing like laying your soul out there for the world to hear… and I don’t know what I was expecting, but I generally just got profound silence when I finished. No one would come up to me afterwards… it just was. And it left me with an odd feeling.

The only time I was succesful at getting published was when I sent in a poem to Bricolage, the University of Washington book of Poetry, Writing and Art. They accepted a poem that I wanted to call “Love is…” but they didn’t like my title so just used the line I repeated the most, “I am Wretched in Sight”. If you know Harlan Ellison’s writing, you might recognize the influence.

Mentally, I frequently return to this poem. It is definitely dark on the surface, but contains hope, love, and selflessness. The lack of consent from the man does bother me…

“I am Wretched in Sight” or “Love Is”. By Andy Swanson. Published in Bricolage, Volume 11, Number 1, Spring 1993, pp 56-57.

Man in the desert, Ran from me today, I am wretched in sight -- And he, starving, a greying raisin, Saw me in my peeling eyes My double jointed knees And my twitching reflex. He ran away, Quick as he could. But I am of the desert, And lonely. I instantly loved this man -- Instead of the three steps I needed To catch him, I took twenty, To not hurt his pride. I held him in my unforgiving limbs And through his screams Drowned his drought in my saliva. Breaking my tail, holding him I forced myself on him. He ate me and smiled -- Scared, his lips twitching. I am wretched in sight -- I know, I pleaded with my eyes, And he screamed again, Higher, louder, with health. I am wretched in sight -- I left my little, New growing tail, twitching For his tomorrow And ran away, quick as I could, The skin on my eyes doubled over.

I’ve watched mountains in the distance creep closer for hours until finally we were upon them.I’ve seen water flow by in rivers and seem to never end, fighting fish all the wayI’ve seen rain and snow and the sun creep by day by dayAnd people pass me every day.I don’t know them, they don’t know meWe may bump shoulders or elbows, but we may never see each other again.I’ve seen them, I know them living, standing active beasts that they areUnderneath them, I know the ground is firm.I know the earth is solid and pushes back on them.But I wonder where their faith comes from.Why do they believe in their steps?Why do they believe in where they are going?What is their future?Do they know?Do they care?

I don’t know my future. But I know my ground is firm.Rooted perhaps a bit too firmly. Steadfast in the green lushness of the fertility;Earth.It gives life that grows green and brown and blooming.Constant, this strength.Timeless, this faith I have is not rooted in God.It’s rooted in an understanding.It’s all put together.It all serves the other in intrinsic graceful circles.The flower blooms and the bee flourishes and the flower blooms…I am but a bud on this earth.I have faith in my roots.I have faith in the full blossom of life.I have faith in the day my petals will brown and feed the earth.My ground is firm and pushes back, as my father’s was.The nourishment is not forgetful.Faith is rooted in the earth and it grows lush and green.Its blossoms sparkle on the mountainside.

Photo of my dad way back when … 1977 we think.