Mirabella is from Maravelle Heights, a wealthy neighborhood and Kaden is from South Lydell, the other side of the working class neighborhood. The Lydell River separates the two cities.

THE COLOR OF THE DIVIDE: FORBIDDEN LOVE

Opening Scene — The Day They Met part one

The city of Maravelle was beautiful in the way broken things sometimes are split clean down the middle by the River Lydell, a long, winding body of water that glittered like a blade under the 2026 sun.

On the north side, Maravelle Heights rose in soft terraced hills, dotted with pastel houses, manicured gardens, and cafés with glass walls that reflected the sky. The sidewalks were smooth. The air smelled like citrus and fresh bread. People walked with the quiet confidence of those who believed the world was built for them.

On the south side, South Lydell stretched wide and loud brick buildings, murals, open-air markets, music spilling from windows, kids running barefoot through alleys. The terrain was flatter, rougher, alive. The riverbanks here were lined with old warehouses and rusted railings, the kind that told stories no one bothered to write down.

The two sides were connected by one bridge, but everyone knew it wasn’t meant to be crossed.

Not socially.
Not culturally.
Not romantically.

The mayor born and raised in Maravelle Heights had made sure of that.
Different bus routes.
Different parks.
Different cafés.
Different everything.

A quiet segregation disguised as “urban planning.”

The Day Everything Changed — April 17, 2026

Mirabella Solis had never crossed the bridge alone before.
She wasn’t supposed to.
Girls from the Heights didn’t wander into South Lydell not if they wanted to stay “safe,” “proper,” “acceptable.”

But that morning, she needed air.
Real air.
Not the filtered, polite kind her neighborhood offered.

She walked along the riverbank, her sandals tapping lightly against the old wooden planks of the walkway. The wind lifted her hair. The sun warmed her shoulders. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t turn back when she reached the bridge.

She stepped onto it.

Halfway across, she stopped because someone else was coming from the opposite direction.

A boy.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark curls brushing his forehead.
Eyes sharp enough to read danger, soft enough to recognize beauty.

Kaden Monroe.

He wasn’t supposed to be on the bridge either.
South Lydell boys didn’t cross into the Heights unless they wanted trouble.
But he’d been running errands for his mom a single mother raising five kids alone and the bridge was the fastest way home.

They both slowed.
They both hesitated.
They both felt the weight of a thousand warnings in their bones.

And then it happened.

As they passed each other, their hands brushed
just a whisper of skin against skin
but it was enough to stop time.

Mirabella inhaled sharply.
Kaden turned his head.
Their eyes met.

A spark.
A recognition.
A pull neither of them could explain.

The kind of moment that rewrites a life.

The First Date — April 24, 2026

They met again.
And again.
And again.

Always by the river.
Always in the in‑between space where neither neighborhood claimed ownership.

Their first date wasn’t planned.
It just happened two people sitting on opposite sides of a bench until they slowly, shyly, slid toward the middle.

They talked about music.
About the city.
About the divide.
About the lies they’d been taught.

By sunset, they were laughing.
By moonrise, they were leaning in.
By the time the streetlights flickered on, they were in love.

When the Families Found Out

It didn’t take long.

Someone saw them.
Someone whispered.
Someone told someone else.

Mirabella’s mother cried not out of hate, but out of fear.

“Girls from the Heights don’t date boys from there. You’ll get hurt. You’ll ruin your life.”

Kaden’s mother didn’t cry.
She glared.

A long, cold, cutting side‑eye that sliced straight through him.

“A Heights girl? Really? You think her people will ever accept you? You think she won’t leave when it gets hard?”

She wasn’t hateful.
She was tired.
Tired of being looked down on.
Tired of watching her sons get rejected.
Tired of raising five kids alone in a world that never gave her a break.

But Mirabella stood there anyway small, nervous, hopeful and Kaden’s mother didn’t soften.

Not even a little.

The Day Kaden Took Mirabella Home

It was supposed to be a step forward.
A gesture of trust.
A moment of unity.

Instead, it was a storm.

Kaden’s mother crossed her arms.
Her jaw tightened.
Her eyes narrowed.

She didn’t speak.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t welcome.

She just stared
a side‑eye full of every wound she’d ever carried,
every rejection she’d ever endured,
every fear she’d ever had for her children.

Mirabella felt it.
All of it.
And for the first time, she understood the depth of the divide she had crossed.

Confrontation Scene — After Mirabella Leaves

The door had barely clicked shut behind Mirabella when Kaden’s mother turned on him.

Her face didn’t twist.
She didn’t shout.
She didn’t throw anything.

No, her anger was quieter.
Sharper.
More dangerous.

The kind of anger that comes from years of being dismissed, years of being judged, years of watching her sons get hurt by girls who smiled sweetly and then disappeared when things got real.

She crossed her arms, leaned against the counter, and let out a slow, bitter exhale.

“So that’s her,” she said.
“That little Height’s girl.”

Kaden stiffened.
He knew that tone.
It was the tone she used when she was about to cut someone down to size.

“Mom—”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me,” she snapped, her voice low.
“You think I don’t see what’s happening? You think I don’t know how this ends?”

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

“Girls like her don’t stay. They visit. They sample. They play pretend. And then they go back to their perfect little houses on the hill.”

Kaden clenched his jaw.

“She’s not like that.”

His mother laughed, a short, humorless sound.

“They’re all like that, Kaden. All of them. They look at us like we’re some kind of… project. Something to fix. Something to pity.”

She shook her head, bitterness rising like smoke.

“And you—”
“You’re so blinded by her pretty face and her soft voice you can’t see she’s from a world that thinks we’re beneath them.”

Kaden’s fists tightened.

“She doesn’t think that.”

His mother’s eyes flashed.

“Her family does.”

She jabbed a finger toward the door Mirabella had just walked through.

“You saw how nervous she was in here. You saw how she looked around like she’d stepped into another planet. You think her mother’s going to welcome you with open arms? You think her people are going to clap when she brings home a boy from South Lydell?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, the kind that hits harder than shouting.

“You’re setting yourself up to be humiliated.”

Kaden swallowed hard.

“You don’t know her.”

His mother’s expression hardened.

“I know her type.”

She turned away, grabbing a dish towel, slamming it onto the counter.

“Light‑skinned, soft‑spoken, raised to think they’re better than us. Raised to think boys like you are trouble. Raised to stay on their side of the river.”

She looked back at him, eyes full of a lifetime of wounds she never healed.

“And you brought her into my house.”

Kaden felt the words like punches.

His mother wasn’t just angry.
She was scared.
Scared of losing him.
Scared of watching him get hurt.
Scared of watching history repeat itself.

But fear doesn’t soften her.
Fear makes her cruel.

“End it,” she said quietly.
“Before she does.”

Kaden shook his head.

“I can’t.”

His mother’s jaw tightened.

“Then don’t come crying to me when she breaks you.”

She turned away again, but her voice carried one last blow:

“You’re a fool, Kaden. And she’s going to prove me right.”

Mirabella’s Mother’s Reaction — The Night She Finds Out

Mirabella barely made it through the front door before her mother’s voice cut through the living room like a blade.

“Where were you?”

Not curious.
Not gentle.
Not motherly.

Accusing.

Mirabella froze.
Her heart was still warm from Kaden’s hand in hers, from the way he’d walked her halfway across the bridge, from the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare.

But her mother saw everything in her face the glow, the softness, the secret.

And her expression changed.

Fear first.
Then disbelief.
Then anger.

A slow, rising anger that came from a place older than Mirabella, older than her mother, older than the city itself.

“No,” her mother whispered, stepping closer.
“Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go over there.”

Mirabella swallowed.

“Mom… I met someone.”

Her mother’s hand flew to her chest like she’d been struck.

“How could you hurt me like this, Mirabella?”

Mirabella blinked.

“Hurt you? I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” her mother snapped, voice cracking.
“You crossed the river. You went to their side. You brought one of them into your life.”

Mirabella felt her stomach drop.

“Mom, it’s not like that. He’s—”

“He’s from South Lydell,” her mother hissed.
“That’s all I need to know.”

She began pacing, hands shaking, breath uneven.

“They are different from us. Not because of skin don’t twist my words but because of culture, Mirabella. Culture. The way they live. The way they raise their boys. The way they see girls like you.”

Mirabella felt heat rise in her cheeks.

“You don’t even know him.”

Her mother stopped pacing.
Turned slowly.
Eyes sharp, wounded, terrified.

“I know enough. I know what happens to girls who fall for boys from that side. I know the stories. I know the warnings. I know what happened to your cousin. I know what happened to my friend Elena. I know what happens when a Heights girl thinks she can survive in that world.”

She stepped closer, voice dropping to a trembling whisper.

“If you have babies with him, they won’t be yours. They’ll take them. They’ll raise them their way. You’ll lose everything. You’ll lose yourself.”

Mirabella’s breath caught.

“Mom… that’s not fair.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears not soft tears, but the kind that burns.

“Fair? Fair?”
“Life isn’t fair, Mirabella. Not for girls like us. Not for girls who cross lines they were never meant to cross.”

She grabbed Mirabella’s shoulders, gripping too tightly.

“End it. End it now. Before you ruin your life. Before you break this family. Before you break me.”

Mirabella pulled back, voice shaking.

“I love him.”

Her mother’s face went pale.

“Then you’re already lost.”

She turned away, covering her mouth with her hand, shoulders trembling not from sadness, but from the terror of a woman who had spent her whole life believing the world was divided for a reason.

to be continued…..

I wrote this poem in 1967. I am finally creating multiple art projects from my archives.

Once I was among a group

Let’s call them great

I was queen, there was no hate

We began our journey

We know not where

On and on we did not care

Leo is sweet and kind

He is the one so blind

He stands tall among all men

You can bet joe will win

His hair is dusty blonde

Bleached out by the sun

His eyes are deep dark blue

They tell no lies, only truth

He loves, he sings a lot

He believes in the creator and shares a lot

Bobby is understanding tis so

Watch the wind blow

He stands by among us now

Knowing not but when and how

How we live, how we believe

His brown eyes are shiny

His black pupils are so tiny

On the bright time of the year

There was no one here

In the dark came a car

They came to my horror

On their search for tomorrow

They came together to follow a star

They are fools, that’s what they are

One has brown hair and eyes

His eyes show his truth and lies

He loves with all his heart

Tells his true love they’ll never part

He is not very tall

In fact, he’s quite small

He will be a friend

He will last to the end

Tomorrow he will remember when

His true love has eyes of blue

She loves him so true

Her long black hair falls without a care

His brown hair hangs down

He holds his head off the ground

Queenie is the girl among the world

Her big blue eyes are looking at you

Her blue eyes cloud when she is blue

Queenie comes along side by side

She walks with us caring her pride

Our first stop is the clouds

Cloud no 9 is our first stop on this trip

Look over yonder lies the big dip

The moon looks good shining in the sky

It seems so close we could almost be unalive

Where do we go

We don’t know

Only the creator does know

We ride in our rocket ship

On this maddening trip

Over the moon,

Over the sun

Over the clouds

Away from the maddening crowds

Look. There stands a tree

As she dreams of the love they share

She loves people to be in search of tomorrow

She will be your friend

They start in the night

They begin out of sight

Their hopes are all in the heart

No, they will never part

On they travel over the moon

Must they land so soon

The night is dark as black

So, they look back

Where is tomorrow in time

Time flies and the bells chime

They are together but the search is still on

Today is here, tomorrow gone

They begin their life anew

The sky shines a bright blue

Their car drives on the road home

I found this poem in my 1978 archives — written during a year when I was working full time, attending college full time, and somehow keeping a social life alive in between. It was a moment caught on the Los Angeles freeways, where concrete and buildings gave way to daydreams of mountains and ocean spray. I’m sharing it here exactly as it was written.

PRELUDE TO LAUGHTER

A meandering dream through concrete

Written 1978

I look out my window

Out to concrete

I drive out of the parking lot

At ebbtide

I drive down the street

And who do I meet

A tall, tall building

Made from concrete and glass

I drive further and what do I see

A freeway as I pass on by

Around the corner is the Blvd

The discos are crazy

The sky looks hazy

I drive on away

I see a tree at least I see green

Tis only a light

So, on I speed

Down the freeway

In my shiny auto

My gas tank reads empty

Alas a station

But wait a minute

Not green,

Not green…

I turn on my key

My footsteps on the accelerator

I look at the tall, tall building

Dreaming of green mountains

Soft summer breeze

Cool, misty ocean spray

And on I speed down the freeway

It’s just another day in the concrete

of a city way

On a Sunday

Sweetie’s Morning Ritual

Good morning, everyone
it’s me, Sweetie Bird.

I missed my Saturday post and I apologize for that, but
my mom is the one typing, so please talk to her about that.

I am back now.
happy Tuesday, May 5, 2026.
I hope your day is bright like my feathers.

I have important bird things to do,
like staring at my mom until she remembers my snacks.

Ok, bye now
Please like and subscribe to my posts…
It helps me stash extra millet without my mom noticing.
Thank you, loyal humans.

The Key

Among the Long Songs Deep Journey

Among the long songs deep journey
I by chance picked up a tiny key
A little further along as I strolled on by time
There stood a gate that was left behind

I looked forward struggling
With what was left to see
But time kept on passing by me

I stepped back one, two, three
I looked for my key
Where, now where could it be?

Was it there hanging on a tree
Yes, there it appeared to shine bright
To climb was perilous and long
But time was rushing on

The life’s songs were being played
Just as falls were being paid
But through many scars
From many a fall
I held the key sitting bright and tall

I climbed, down, down, down
The key dropped, I fell to the ground
I stood there searching every day
For the key which stood in my way

Then there it was in my hand
Held high to see
The light shone forth upon the gate
That stood before me

This poem began decades ago, in a small bright room where my younger self wrote to survive her own loneliness. Today, without planning it, I slipped back into her voice and finished what she started.
It’s a meeting across time the girl who thought she was alone and the woman who knows she wasn’t.

This piece began in 1968, when I was 18 and stitching rhyme to verse in a bright room, thinking I was the only lonely one. I stepped back into that voice today and let her speak again.

Stitching Rhyme to Verse

Not the Only Lonely One

My 18‑Year‑Old’s Vision

I thought I was the only one who felt this lonely,
until the quite cracked and something called my name.
I spent my hours stitching rhyme to verse,
cursing the pieces of myself I didn’t know how to hold.

But then a light slipped in
not a person, not a promise,
just a moment that said,
“You’re not invisible.”

When the morning finally rose above the warnings,
and the night’s confusion thinned like smoke,
I watched the tired kids drift through their own galaxies,
spent, weightless,
their dramas burned out,
their traumas echoing somewhere behind them.

The gassed and flaccid kids flying across the stars,
their psycho‑dramas spent,
their traumas drifting off like smoke.
The songs they never sang
still hanging on their scars,
waiting for someone to lift them back into breath.

And then along comes you
a presence, a question,
a mirror I wasn’t ready for.

Do you want to see the stains,
the dead remains of all the pains
I carried through the night before?
Or will your waking eyes
finally strip away the lies
and quiet that urgent cry
for sight no more?

Would you see it
for what it was
the remnants of a girl trying to understand herself
in a world that kept lying to her?

Or would your waking eyes
finally strip away the illusions,
refusing the old stories,
refusing the blindness,
refusing the cry for sight no more?

Tears for Humanity Blues

So, I cried, Lord, I cried,
let the tears roll down like rain.

You know…
some mornings the world feels heavier than my bones can hold.
I wake up, breathe in, breathe out,
and I can feel the ache of humanity like a storm sittin’ on my chest.

I have seen things in this lifetime
that make a heart wonder how we’re all still standin’.
Seen kindness gets swallowed by noise,
seen the earth cry out while a few chase powers, like its oxygen.

And today…
today the tears came.
Not for me
but for the people,
for the children,
for the ones who still believe in each other
even when the world forgets how.

I cried because I’m human.
I cried because I care.
I cried because sometimes the blues is the only language
that can hold the truth without breakin’.

But I’m still here.
Still breathin’.
Still singin’.
Still holdin’ on to the hope
that humanity ain’t done yet.

So let me tell you a story…
a blues story…
a heart story…
’cause when the tears dry,
the song begins.

“Tears for Humanity Blues”

(Original blues song for release and healing)

VERSE 1 — The Old Heart Opens

I got an old blues heart,
been walkin’ this world too long,
seen kindness turn to silence,
seen right get buried by wrong.
And I cried for all the people,
for the ones who still believe,
’cause the world feels heavy lately,
and my soul just had to grieve.

VERSE 2 — Witness to the Wound

I have seen power twist like shadows,
seen greed wear a golden crown,
seen a few high towers rising
while the rest get pushed down.
And I whispered to the heavens,
“Why’s humanity on its knees?”
But the wind said, “Girl, keep singin’,
your blues is how hearts breathe.”

CHORUS — The Release

So, I cried, Lord, I cried,
let the tears roll down like rain.
For the earth, for the children,
for the ones who feel the pain.
But these tears ain’t weakness,
they’re the truth my spirit knew.
I’m just singin’ for humanity,
singin’ these old‑soul blues.

VERSE 3 — The World on Fire

I have seen the skies grow darker,
seen rivers run with fear,
seen the earth cry out for mercy
but nobody seemed to hear.
And I thought about the good ones,
the brave hearts who stood tall,
how they marched for every human,
how they answered every call.

BRIDGE — The Blues woman Stands Up

But I ain’t bowin’ to the shadows,
ain’t kneelin’ down to despair.
I’ll keep singin’ for the people,
for the breath we all must share.
’Cause the blues don’t break in darkness,
the blues don’t fade in night,
the blues rise up for humanity
and carry back the light.

FINAL CHORUS — The Healing

So I cried, Lord, I cried,
but the tears washed something clean.
Now my voice is steady thunder,
and my heart’s a livin’ dream.
I’m still singin’ for humanity,
for the hope we’re walkin’ through.
Yeah, today I found my freedom
in these tears‑for‑humanity blues.

The Laughing Space Clown

Written by Vicki Lawana Trusselli

Copyright 1979

As I sit on my couch of brown and beige with orange stripes,

Striving for observation

While I was observing the apollo flights,

We finally learned the setting of our planet.

It appears as a big blue marble

Floating in nothingness

And the further away,

You get from it

The less detail

is observed

until it becomes just another

speed of light

in the black……

The clown sits on the time

the time that

speeds onwardly

he sits there, ostentatiously

in his orange, yellow, and brown suit

polka-dots omnipresent

I sit here and think of what

Has happened through the years,

Of our time, of living planet of survival

Survival of green, black, rainbows

Of fears, of our tears of today,

Of yesteryears,

The facts, the expediency of

Happenings

of now and then…..

The laughing clown sits on my

Couch of brown, beige of rainbows….

Worker of Pathways

We are born as indigo star seeds,
workers of pathways moving through a world of greys.
Not aliens, not angels just humans who never lost the light.

I’ve walked among the dimmed ones,
the in‑between ones,
the ones who break light without knowing they’re breaking it.
I’ve seen the dark ones too
not monsters, but people who forgot their own color so completely
they fear anyone who still glows.

This song is for the ones who carry light anyway.
For the ones who walk between worlds.
For the ones who see what others refuse to see.
For the indigos who keep their flame alive
even when the greys try to smother it.

This is the Worker of Pathways story
a reminder that the light we carry
was never meant to be hidden.

WORKER OF PATHWAYS — The Indigo Song‑Poem

Opening Invocation

Before the colors woke,
before the greys learned my name,
I stood in the quiet between worlds
listening for the hum that called me home.

I wasn’t sent.
I wasn’t summoned.
I simply remembered
and the remembering lit the path beneath my feet.

Identity

I was born in a grey world,
but my colors wouldn’t stay quiet.
Indigo star seed, walking the pathways,
carrying truth like a lantern in my chest.

I learned the roads the silent one’s travel,
where the unlit wander without knowing why.
I left a little light in every footprint,
a soft blue flame that refuses to die.

Some say the world is fading,
but I’ve seen the glow beneath the dust.
I sing for the ones still sleeping,
and the ones who remember they’re made of trust.

Worker of pathways, child of the spectrum,
I walk with the colors the century forgot.
Born caring, born seeing, born shining
and I won’t let the greys tell me I’m not.

There’s a hum in the pathways I follow,
a low note the greys never hear.
It rises when truth gets closer,
it softens when shadow draws near.

I don’t walk to be holy or chosen,
I walk because the light won’t wait.
Indigo star seed with a pulse like a compass,
I move where the colors translate.

There’s a pulse in the dark that knows me,
a soft blue rhythm under the noise.
It rises when I breathe truth,
it steadies when I walk alone.

I follow it not for glory,
not for witness, not for praise
but because the light inside me
refuses to dim for a grey world.

I carry the light, I carry the flame,
Indigo heartbeat calling my name.
Through the grey world, I walk unseen
Color in my footsteps, truth in my beam.

Closing Line — The Indigo Breath

And as I walk, the indigo star seed in me glows,
blue moonbeams gathering around us
mysterious, soft, undeniable
if only all could see.

Some creations come from effort.
Others come from alignment.
This one came through a doorway of color, sound, motion, breath, and asked to be witnessed.
HOLY BURDENS — TRUTH IS GRACE is a frequency piece, a trance‑song carried by ocean light, long black hair, and a small bird who insisted on being included.
It belongs here first, in this archive.

HOLY BURDENS

TRUTH IS GRACE

Oh…
Oh…

Don’t take the patience,
don’t take the peace.
Something in the silence
keeps rising out of me.

No need to feature,
no need to find
this gentle warning
keeps the truth aligned.

We are holy burdens,
we are friends.
We are broken pieces
that never end.

I don’t wanna be the one,
I don’t wanna be good.
Something shifts inside me
more than anyone understood.

No need to prove,
no need to see
the hidden stages
shape what we believe.

Guide me to center,
guide me to whole.
A bearer of distance,
a keeper of soul.

Mm… mm… mm…
Oh… mm…

Don’t talk of safety,
don’t talk of blame.
They are the ones
who fear what we became.

We are holy burdens,
we are friends.

I don’t aim to hurt,
I don’t think twice.
I’m just a heartbeat
beneath the stride.

Mm… mm… mm…

No need to soften,
no need to touch.
The thought inside us
is more than enough.

I feel the border,
I feel the gold.
I don’t need to worship,
I don’t need to hold.

Don’t think of pressure,
don’t think of fear.
Just breathe a moment
don’t disappear.

You were born tonight,
I’m born tonight.
The rhythm in my chest
is turning into light.

We are holy burdens,
we are friends.

I don’t break,
I don’t bend.
Not the way
the greys pretend.

Don’t say my name
like I’m the same
I’m not delicious,
I’m not your claim.

No need to grieve,
no need to turn.
The fire inside
already learned.

No need for pressure,
no need to flee.
The open ocean
is already me.

Mm… mm…
Oh… mm…

Don’t take the patience,
don’t take the peace.
Too late to find
what woke in me.

No need to picture,
no need to face
the truth inside
is its own grace.

Mm… mm…
Oh… mm…

I was shuffling through my archives the other night. I found a big plastic bag. Inside was a volume of poetry from my early years. I chose this poem/song to bring to life my 17 year old younger self’s poetry from 1967. I was 17 in 1967.

Midnight Dreary

Baby Please Don’t Go

Once on a midnight dreary

Stood a girl, alone & weary

She suffered a pain

Do the scars still remain?

No one knows from where she came

She stands alone just the same

You look into my eyes

I into yours

What is behind baby blue eyes?

You found out that it is true

Oh no

Please, baby do not make me blue

Caress me in your arms

Baby, I will thrill you with my charms

You are mine; we are one

Baby, you are the only one I know

Please stay, do not go away

Oh, please stay over today

Oh baby, do not go, I will never let you go

Do not go, I love you, do not you know

You look into my eyes

I into yours

what is behind baby blue eyes

You found out it is true

Oh no

Please, baby do not make me blue

Sweetie Bird has spoken.
Starting Monday, she will be sharing her own tiny posts — one to open your work week and another on Saturday to bless your weekend.
She wanted her own schedule, so expect more chirps, more light, and more Sweetie stories. Sweetie says this is only the beginning. The Traveler keeps returning from the night, and Sweetie keeps guarding the dawn, so expect more Morning Parables from this tiny duo soon.

Sweetie’s Morning Ritual — April 28, 2026

Sweetie woke before I did today.
When I opened my eyes, she was already on her bottom perch, watching me with that calm, pleasant expression she only uses in the early hours.

There is something sacred about it the way she does not chirp or move, just observes.
As if she is saying:

“I saw you arrive. The day can start now.”

While the coffee brewed and the rice and cheese warmed, she stayed there, steady and present.
Her quiet became the room’s first light.
Her gaze set the tone for the whole morning.

It is a small ritual, but it is ours.
And it always begins with Sweetie watching.

Sweetie’s Morning‑Sunshine Micro Story

This morning, the sun did not rise on the horizon
it rose on Sweetie.

A single beam slipped through the curtain
and landed right on her chest,
turning her feathers into a little lantern
of green‑gold light.

She puffed up, proud,
because obviously the sun had chosen her
as its first stop of the day.

She looked down at you like,
“Yes. I will allow the morning to begin now.”

Then she climbed her director’s ladder,
surveying her kingdom,
squawking her notes for the day’s production:

• “Roll camera.”

• “Cue the rice.”

• “Mama, breathe.”

• “And don’t forget my story.”

And just like that,
the whole room warmed up
because Sweetie decided
the morning could start.

Sweetie did not just sit in the light today; she placed herself in it.

She hopped to the exact spot where her little instrument could be seen,
as if she wanted the full truth documented:

“Not just the feathers.
The craft.”

The sun slid through the blinds and rested on her head,
soft enough not to swallow her,
bright enough to crown her.

She held still, letting the moment land,
letting the light choose her again.

And in that quiet beam,
she was not just a bird in her studio
she was the morning’s first note,
the tiny lantern that tells the day:

“Alright.
You may begin.”

Update:
I added the truer photo, the one where she placed herself exactly in the beam she wanted.
Sweetie always knows when the story needs its real picture.

Sweetie says this is only Day 2. The Traveler keeps returning from the night, and Sweetie keeps guarding the dawn, so expect more Morning Parables from this tiny duo every morning. Sweetie Bird, the live parakeet.

“I keep seeing Sweetie perched on her mid‑ladder rung, morning light spilling through a blue curtain patterned with red roses. She tilts toward the Traveler, chirping her tiny decree: time for art. That image feels like the emblem of these Morning Parables, the moment the day begins, the light enters, and Sweetie decides the story.”

The Comic Parable of Sweetie and the Traveler

Where Light, Feather, and Traveler Meet

Act I — The Return

The Traveler emerged from the night like someone who had negotiated with twelve dreams and lost eleven of them.
Her hair was a map.
Her blanket was a cape.
Her eyes were half‑open, half‑elsewhere.

She moved toward the coffee with the reverence of someone approaching a sacred relic.

From atop her ladder, Sweetie observed this with the solemnity of a tiny priest.

The Traveler had returned.
Barely.

Act II — The Assessment

Sweetie cocked her head.
Then cocked it further.
Then further still, until she resembled a small green question mark.

She studied the Traveler’s rituals:

• the toast crumb ceremony

• the slow, cautious sip of coffee

• the sigh that meant “I’m alive, I guess”

• the second sigh that meant “Fine, I’m here”

Sweetie nodded once, satisfied.

The morning light could proceed.

She chirped twice, the official decree.

Act III — The Revelation

The Traveler blinked up at her tiny overseer.

“Sweetie,” she said, “what story do you want today?”

Sweetie puffed her feathers, lifted one foot like a philosopher preparing to deliver a thesis, and offered her verdict:

“Not the heavy one.
You already placed that.
Today we do the funny truth.”

She hopped once, the hop of a bird who had decided the entire tone of the day.

Act IV — The Blessing of the Day

Just as the Traveler settled into her coffee and the world stopped wobbling, Sweetie performed her final ritual, the Tiny Blessing of the Day.

A single feather fluff.
A micro‑chirp.
A blink held one heartbeat longer than usual.

To anyone else, it would look like nothing.
But the Traveler knew.

It meant:

“The day is safe now.
You may proceed.”

Sweetie turned toward the window, satisfied.

Her work here was done.
For now.

Sweetie says this is only the beginning. The Traveler keeps returning from the night, and Sweetie keeps guarding the dawn, so expect more Morning Parables from this tiny duo soon.

This morning arrived slowly cobwebs drifting off, Sweetie perched above me like a tiny keeper of the dawn, watching me return from the night. And in that quiet shift, I knew it was time to release the story I wrote yesterday. It’s a story about menopause, music, and the long road back to myself a chapter that shaped me more than I ever admitted at the time.

Menopause, Music, and the Long Road Back

Dust, Rust, and the Sifting Sand Blues

Dust, Rust, & the Sifting Sand Blues click here for you tube video

In the early 2000s, I was a woman in menopause, living inside the music world, and trying to find my way back from a life that had spun out of control.

The year I drove my Chevy wagon to Delaney Bramlett’s ranch and “My Sweet Lord” came on at the exact moment I turned into his driveway was the same year my life split into the years before and the long road back.

Looking back now, I can see that menopause, music, and trauma shaped those years more than any choice I thought I was making.

The Valley Years

I did not understand it at the time, but the early 2000s were the last years before everything in my life broke open. I was living in the San Fernando Valley, driving a Chevy wagon that rattled on cold mornings, moving through the music world like someone who belonged there and someone who was barely holding on at the same time.

What I did not have language for then was that I was already recovering from domestic violence with a Native American film producer I had been deeply in love with. The aftermath of that relationship left me in shock, numb in ways I could not identify, and moving through my days with instincts that no longer worked. I was in menopause, too, which only intensified the confusion. I was not choosing anything in those years I was surviving.

I did not know the word “empath” back then. I only knew that I felt everything too strongly and too quickly, especially other people’s moods. In the music world, that sensitivity looked like intuition. In my private life, it made me vulnerable. I absorbed tension before anyone spoke it, and I mistook emotional intensity for connection. Without the language for what I was, I moved through those years unprotected, reacting to currents I could not name.

Delaney Bramlett was part of that world, orbiting close enough to feel like a possibility I could not reach. He was older, seasoned, a man with history in his voice and in his hands. People like him did not just appear in most lives, but in mine they did, as if the universe kept placing alternate timelines in front of me to see which one I would choose. I never chose the right one. Not then.

The day I drove to his ranch is the moment that still plays like a scene in a film. I turned off the main road, the gravel shifting under the tires, and just as the driveway curved toward his house, “My Sweet Lord” came on the radio. George Harrison’s voice filled the car at the exact second I arrived at the home of the man who had worked on that very song.

It was not subtle. It was not coincidence. It was one of those universe‑timed cues that hits the body before the mind can catch up. Chills rise along my arms, the kind that tell you are standing in the middle of something bigger than you understand. But I did not have the clarity to interpret signs back then. My nervous system was still in recovery, still wired for danger, still unable to recognize safety even when it stood right in front of me.

Delaney asked me once why I chose the drummer instead of him. I did not have an answer. I still do not, not one that fits into a single sentence. The truth is that trauma makes familiar things feel safe and safe things feel unfamiliar. And I was already carrying the early shock of what would become the defining rupture of that era.

But in that moment the driveway, the song, the timing I was still a woman who believed she had choices. I did not know yet that my life was about to split into the years before and the long road back.

With Barberine

Before any of the men who would shape that era, I was already carrying a history that set the stage for everything that came after. I had grown up around music, around intensity, around people whose emotions filled rooms before their words did. I learned early to read moods, to anticipate shifts, to absorb tension before it surfaced. I did not know the word “empath” then, but the wiring was already there. It made me perceptive in creative spaces and unprotected in personal ones.

By the time I reached my early forties, I had lived through enough instability to normalize it. I had worked in journalism, in music circles, in environments where strong personalities were the norm. I had also survived earlier relationships that blurred the line between passion and volatility. None of it felt unusual to me at the time. It was simply the world I knew.

The domestic violence with the Native American film producer came first. I was deeply in love with him, and I did not recognize the early signs of danger. When the rupture finally came sudden, violent, and stopped only because a tall German producer stepped between us, I went into shock. Not fear. Shock. The kind that makes everything feel far away. I moved through the aftermath numb, without language for what had happened.

But I did not leave California immediately. I stayed. I stabilized. I kept working. And in that period after the violence, when I was still trying to understand myself, Barberine appeared.

He was a retired country music writer who had worked with George Jones. It sounds like a joke now, but at the time it made perfect sense. He was older, steady, and carried the kind of Nashville history that felt familiar to me. I was not looking for romance. I was looking for grounding. Barberine offered that not with intensity, but with presence.

He is the one who mentioned Austin. He talked about it like a place where people reinvented themselves, where music lived in the walls, where a woman could start over without explaining her past. I did not have a plan, but he did. And when he said, “Let’s go,” I said yes.

I drove my rattling Chevy wagon. Barberine drove his car pulling a U‑Haul. The two of us heading east looked like a mismatched caravan, two people from different chapters of the same book, trying to write a new one.

Austin was not an escape from the violence. It was a decision made after the dust settled, influenced by a man who believed a fresh start might help. I did not know it then, but the survival years were waiting for me on the other side of that drive.

Austin: The Survival Era

Austin did not begin with Greene. It began with Barberine.

After the domestic violence, I did not collapse. I stayed in California, worked, stabilized, and kept moving through my life. I was not broken. I was recovering. And in that period, Barberine became part of my world older, steady, retired country music writer who had worked with George Jones. I joked that I had men lining up, but the truth was simpler: Barberine was the one who showed up with presence, not intensity.

He is the one who mentioned Austin. He talked about it like a place where people reinvented themselves, where music lived in the walls, where a woman could start over without explaining her past. I did not have a plan, but he did. And when he said, “Let’s go,” I said yes.

I drove my rattling Chevy wagon. Barberine drove his car pulling a U‑Haul. We looked like a mismatched caravan heading East, two people from different chapters of the same book, trying to write a new one. He stayed with me in Austin for two years.

And Austin was not quiet for me. I did not sit on the sidelines. I stepped straight into the music scene.

I worked with Associated Content, covering the Austin City Limits Music Festival. I filmed concerts. I created videos. I collaborated with my musician neighbor and his band, documenting their shows, capturing their sound, and building small projects that felt like real work. I was not drifting I was participating. I was in the rooms, in the crowds, in the late‑night rehearsals, in the creative pulse of the city.

Austin was a music town, and I was part of it.

It was only when my cousins and I forced Barberine out that Greene became a part of my life. I met him at HEB, of all places. A grocery store aisle, a casual conversation, the kind of meeting that does not feel important until it becomes part of the story. Greene was not a soulmate or a destiny. He was simply the next character in the survival era, someone who filled space during a time when I was still finding my footing.

Menopause was still shaping everything my body, my moods, my sleep, my sense of self. I did not have healthcare, and I did not have language for what was happening inside me. I was not falling apart, but I was not thriving either. I was maintaining.

There was a drummer who lived nearby not a partner, not a lover, just a presence. Someone who existed in the same orbit during a time when I did not have the energy for anything complicated. He was safe in the way background characters are safe: close enough to be familiar, distant enough to require nothing.

Austin was a middle chapter creative, chaotic, functional, and unfinished. A place where I worked, filmed, collaborated, and survived. A place where I was in the music scene even when I did not feel fully in myself.

It was not the end of the story. It was the long stretch where life kept moving, even when I was not sure where it was taking me.

The Escape to the Beach

The decision to leave Austin did not come from chaos. It came from a quiet knowing the sense that the chapter with Greene had reached its limit inside the city. Austin had been the place where I rebuilt myself after Barberine, where I worked in the music scene, where I filmed concerts and covered festivals, where I lived through menopause without a map. But by the time Greene and I were sharing space, the city felt smaller, tighter, like a room I had already outgrown.

I am the one who suggested the beach.

It was not dramatic. It was not a plea. It was a simple idea spoken aloud:
“Let’s go to the coast.”

Greene did not resist. He was restless in his own way, drifting through Austin without direction. The beach sounded like a reset, a softer place, a place where the noise of the city would not press so hard against our lives. Rockport had that kind of reputation, quiet, slow, a town where people went when they wanted to believe life could be simple again.

So, we packed up our things.
No big plan.
No ceremony.
Just two people decide to leave one chapter for another.

The drive to Rockport felt like stepping sideways out of the life I had been living. The landscape of Texas opened, the air changed, and the closer we got to the coast, the more it felt like we were entering a different version of the story, not better, not worse, different.

Rockport was not a dream.
It was not a destiny.
It was an escape to a beach town chosen because it was far enough from Austin to feel like a new beginning.

I did not know then that it would become the last detour before everything shifted again.
I only knew that I needed the ocean, the quiet, the space.
At that time, d Greene accompanied me since our timelines remained connected.

Act V was not about love.
It was not about hope.
It was about movement, the instinct to keep going, to keep trying, to keep finding the next place where life might make sense.

Rockport was waiting.
And so was the truth that would end the Greene chapter for good.

The Long Road Back

Leaving Rockport was not dramatic. It was not a collapse or a crisis. It was a quiet, steady decision the kind you make when you finally understand that a chapter has finished writing itself. Greene had moved another woman into the house, but the truth is, I had already left long before that. The moment he told me he saw demons on his side of the bed and angels on mine, something in me stepped out of the story.

I did not leave because of betrayal.
I left because of clarity.

The road back to California was not a return to the past. It was a return to myself — the self I had been losing and finding in pieces through every act of the story. The Valley looked different when I came back, but so did I. I was not the woman who had left. I was not the woman who had survived Austin, or the woman who had lived through Rockport. I was someone who had walked through every version of herself and come out on the other side with a kind of quiet authority.

The long road back was not about healing.
It was about understanding.

Understanding that I had survived more than I ever named.
Understanding that menopause had shaped entire chapters without my consent.
Understanding that my empath wiring had pulled me into storms I didn’t know how to read.
Understanding that trauma had influenced my choices, but it had never defined my worth.
Understanding that every man Delaney, Berberine, the film producer, Greene was a character in a story I was still learning how to narrate.

California did not give me answers.
It gave me perspective.

I could finally see the timelines clearly the Valley years, the rupture, the Austin survival era, the Greene chapter, and the Rockport detour. I could see how each version of me had been doing the best she could with the information she had. I could see how none of it was failure. It was simply life, lived in real time, without the luxury of hindsight.

The long road back was not a destination.
It was a recognition.

An understanding dawned that I had never genuinely found myself lost.
I had been walking toward myself the entire time.

The Weather of Now

I walked through the apartment the way I always do in the late afternoon, checking the corners, the windows, the outside light. It was cloudy and cool, the kind of California weather that feels like a pause, like the sky is giving you room to breathe. Nothing dramatic. Nothing symbolic. Just a moment of stillness that did not require anything from me.

For years, my life had been shaped by motion the Valley, the rupture, Austin, Barberine, the music scene, Greene, Rockport, the escape, the return. Every chapter had its own weather, its own temperature, its own pressure system. But this moment this simple walk through my apartment felt like the first time the weather matched my internal landscape.

Quiet.
Steady.
Uncomplicated.

I was not scanning for danger.
I was not bracing for someone else’s mood.
I was not adjusting myself to fit a man, a city, or a crisis.

I was just here.

The long road back had brought me to a place where the ordinary felt like a gift. The cloudy sky, the cool air, the familiar walls were not symbols of anything. They were simply mine. A life I did not have to escape from. A life that did not require survival mode. A life that did not demand I shrink, translate, or absorb.

This chapter was not about a man.
It was not about a city.
It was not about a rupture or a recovery.

It was about presence.

The woman who walked through this apartment was not the woman who left California, or the woman who survived Austin, or the woman who stood on the beach in Rockport trying to understand her reflection in someone else’s chaos.

This woman was grounded.
Clear.
Sovereign.

The weather outside was cloudy and cool.
The weather inside was calm.

For the first time in a long time, both matched.

The Threshold of Independence

The apartment I live in now is a two‑bedroom temporary, practical, and exactly what I needed after the long road back. My roommate and I share the same space but not the same frequency. She does not understand my music, my writing, or the way I create. It is not conflicting; it is simply that we live in different worlds. She prefers quiet routines. I live in cycles of sound, story, and expression.

The rent is going up in November.
We will have to move.
But for the first time in my life, which does not feel like a crisis. It feels like a doorway.

I will stay in Riverside, or I will go where the universe places me.
Either way, I am not afraid.

I am writing again.
I am creating art and music again.
I am making videos again.
The creative pulse that carried me through Austin, through the concerts I filmed, through the stories I told it is alive in me again.

And sometimes, in the middle of all this creating, a song from the past slips in.
The other day I played Delaney’s “What’d Do You Do About Me,” and for a moment I was back in that alternate timeline the ranch, the Valley, the version of my life that almost was. Not with longing. Not with regret. Just recognition.

That song used to break me open.
Now it just reminds me that I survived every version of myself.

I am not running anymore.
I am walking toward independence steady, grounded, and awake.

The next place I live won’t be an accident.
It will be chosen.
It will be aligned.
It will be mine.

Dust, Rust, and the Sifting Sand Blues

I played Dust, Rust, and the Sifting Sand Blues late one night, letting the room go quiet before the first note hit. The moment it started, the air shifted. Not because it was loud, but because it was my voice, my rhythm, my story, my blues.

This was not the music of the Valley years.
This was not Austin’s music scene.
This was not Delaney’s soundtrack or Greene’s chaos.
This was the blues I wrote myself the blues that carried the truth of every chapter I lived through.

The song held the grit of the road, the rust of old memories, the dust of places I left behind, and the sifting sand of every identity I had to shed to get here. It was not a lament. It was not a cry. It was a declaration.

I was not singing about the past.
I was singing from the present.

The blues in that track came from sovereignty, not survival.
From clarity, not confusion.
From the woman who walked through fire and came out with a voice that did not need permission anymore.

As the song played, I realized something simple and profound:
I had become the narrator of my own story.

Not the girl in the Valley.
Not the woman in Austin.
Not the survivor in Rockport.
Not the wanderer on the long road back.

I was the artist.

My roommate next door could not relate to my music; she was not suited for a world where blues is spoken, and creativity is as natural as breathing. And that was fine. This two‑bedroom was never meant to be the destination. It was a bridge.

But this song, this blues, was the marker of the next chapter.

It was the sound of me stepping forward.
It was the sound of me choosing myself.
It was the sound of the life I am building, not the life I escaped.

When the last note faded, I did not feel nostalgia.
I felt direction.

The next place I live will be mine, a single apartment, a creative sanctuary, a room where my blues can echo without apology. A place where my art, my writing, my videos, and my voice can breathe.

This chapter is not about the past.
It is about the blues I wrote myself
and the woman who finally knows what to do with them.

The Single Room, The Open Door Soon to be

When the time finally came to leave the two‑bedroom, it did not feel like an ending. It felt like a quiet, steady shift into the life I had been walking toward for years. The rent went up, the frequencies clashed, the walls felt too tight for the woman I had become. I did not leave in a rush. I did not leave in fear. I left because the next version of me needed space.

The single apartment was not big. It was not fancy. It was not a dream loft or a curated sanctuary. It was something better: mine.

One room.
One door.
One frequency.
One life.

I set my things down and felt the air settle around me not heavy, not haunted, not borrowed. Just mine. The kind of quiet that does not demand silence. The kind of space that does not require shrinking. The kind of room where creativity does not have to negotiate for oxygen.

This was the first place in a long time where my blues could echo without apology.
Where Dust, Rust, and the Sifting Sand Blues could fill the walls and feel like home.
Where my writing could stretch out.
Where my art could breathe.
Where my videos could take shape without someone asking why.

This was not survival.
This was not an escape.
This was not a reset.

This was arrival.

I had walked through the Valley years, the rupture, Austin, Barberine, the music scene, Greene, Rockport, the long road back, the two‑bedroom transition. Every chapter had carved something out of me and given something back. But this room, this single apartment, was the first chapter I chose entirely for myself.

No man.
No chaos.
No compromise.
No translation.

Just me the artist, the storyteller, the woman who lived through every version of herself and came out with a voice strong enough to carry her forward.

I set up my desk.
I hung my art.
I played my blues.
I opened my laptop.
And I began again.

Not from scratch.
From sovereignty.

This is the room where I am creating now.
This is the room where my stories live.
This is the room where my music grows.
This is the room where my art breathes.
This is the room where I stand in my own life without flinching.

And if you want to step into that world the one I built from dust, rust, sifting sand, and survival the doorway is open.

This is not an ending.
It is the beginning of the life I finally get to choose.

THE FUTURE PLACE A Closing Note

My future place is coming soon.
I can feel the way you feel weather shifting before the sky changes quiet, certain, already forming. I do not know the exact address yet, but I know the shape of it. I know the feeling of it. I know the frequency.

It will be a single apartment
a room that matches my rhythm,
a space where my blues can echo,
a place where my art, my writing, my music, and my videos can breathe without negotiation.

It might be in Riverside.
It might be somewhere the universe nudges me toward.
But it will be mine chosen, not survived.

This time, I am not moving because life pushed me.
I am moving because I am ready.

My future place is not a dream.
It is a destination already unfolding,
a chapter already opening,
a door already unlocking.

And when I step into it,
I will bring everything I have created,
everything I have reclaimed,
and everything I have become.

The story does not end here.
It expands.

INTRO

Certain actions take place through paperwork, such as leases, dates, signatures, or logistical arrangements.
Certain decisions originate well in advance, emerging internally where an objective understanding begins to form. This one began that way. Not with urgency, not with conflict, but with a steady knowing that the universe had already chosen the next step for me.

I did not force this shift. I did not chase it. I simply woke up one morning and realized I was already halfway out the door in spirit. The air around me had changed, the energy had changed, and the version of myself living in this apartment had completed her chapter.

Sweetie felt it too. She watched me move through the days with a different kind of clarity, a different kind of calm, the kind that comes when you are no longer fighting the truth of where you are meant to go.

This is the story of that move.
The move the universe chose.
The move Sweetie and I are making together, one quiet morning at a time.

The Move the Universe Chose

Sweetie and I Move Forward

SECTION 1 — THE MORNING THAT SET THE TONE

I wake up slowly, the way I do when my body finally gets a say. No alarms, no rushing, no one calling my name. Just the room breathing with me. The toast with honey I ate three hours earlier had already settled into a system warm, simple, steady, the kind of breakfast that does not fight you.

Sweetie was already on her perch, watching me type like she always does. She does not make noise in the mornings; she just observes, like she is clocked in for her shift. Blue was tucked away in the closet, claiming it like his own private studio apartment. And Chachi had done his usual scratching routine before settling onto his blanket, satisfied with himself.

My roommate was not here. Her phone died yesterday, so she must have gone to deal with that. The quiet she left behind was not awkward, it was relief. It was space. It was the first real preview of what my new apartment will feel like: my own rhythm, my own rules, my own air.

That is how the moving story starts. Not with boxes, leases, or logistics.
With a morning like this slow, calm, and honest, the kind that says I am already halfway moved in my spirit.

SECTION 2 — WHY IT’S TIME

It is not about anyone being wrong. It is not about proving a point or escaping a villain. It is simpler than that the universe has been nudging me for months, and my body finally caught up to the message.

I have been living in a space that was meant to be temporary, a holding pattern while everything inside me recalibrated. And it did its job. I healed here. I rested here. I survived here. But the energy shifted, and I can feel the expiration date in the walls.

It is time because my nervous system is ready for quiet that belongs to me.
It is time because my animals need a space where their rhythms are not judged or corrected.
It is time because I am not meant to live in someone else’s storyline anymore.

The move is not an escape; it is a graduation.
A natural next step.
A release into the life that has been waiting for me.

SECTION 3 — FUELING UP FOR THE SHIFT

Before I write about moving, I do what my body asks for: I heat up an Amy’s burrito. It comes out hot, so I take small bites, pepper sprinkled on top the way I like it. It is not fancy, but it is grounding. It is fuel. It is the kind of food that tells my system, you are safe. You can think. You can move.

And while I am eating, the truth settles in:
this move is not about defending myself or explaining anything to anyone.
It is not about blame or conflict or proving a point.

It is just time.

The universe has been shifting me out of this space for a while now. Not urgently, not dramatically just steadily. A gentle push toward something that fits better. A place where I can breathe without adjusting myself to someone else’s rhythm.

I am not moving away from anything.
I am moving into the next version of my life.

“And once I saw the truth inside myself, I started seeing it in the space around me.”

SECTION 4 — THE ROOMMATE CONTRAST (FINAL, TRUE VERSION)

Living with someone does not always mean sharing the same emotional climate. She has her dog and her cat, her responsibilities, her routines, her way of managing a household. And that works for her.

Sweetie is my only pet.
She is the one who belongs to me, the one who watches me, the one who understands my rhythm without needing to be taught.

But the interesting part is this:
her animals gravitate to me anyway.
Not because they are confused, not because they are disloyal but because animals know where the calm is. They know where the energy is soft, steady, and safe. They know who listens without speaking.

That contrast became its own kind of truth.
Her structure, her pace, her expectations did not match the way I naturally live. And my softness, my intuition, my creative rhythm, they did not match hers. We were not wrong for each other; we were simply different.

The animals showed it before either of us did.
They drifted toward the energy that felt like home, even inside a shared space.

And that is when I understood:
I am not moving because of conflict.
I am moving because the universe is aligning me with a space where my rhythm doesn’t have to negotiate with anyone else’s.

The contrast was not the problem.
It was the clarity.

SECTION 5 — THE SIGNS IT WAS TIME (REVISED)

The signs did not arrive in a dramatic wave. They came quietly, the way truth usually does small moments that did not mean much on their own but started forming a pattern I could not ignore.

It was the way I would catch myself softening my footsteps in the hallway.
The way the air felt different depending on who was at home.
The way Sweetie relaxed instantly when it was just us in the room.

And then there were her animals, the dog, and the cat.
They are not mine, but they drift toward me anyway. They sit near me, follow me, rest in my doorway. Animals do not do that unless they feel safe. They do not gravitate toward tension; they gravitate toward steadiness. Their behavior was not a compliment or a problem, it was information.

The universe was speaking through the smallest things.

I realized I was living in a space where my natural rhythm did not fit the household’s structure. Not because anyone was wrong, but because the match was not there anymore. I had grown into a quieter version of myself, a steadier one, and the environment around me had not grown with me.

The signs were not warnings.
They were invitations.

Invitations to step into a place where I do not have to adjust my breathing.
Where Sweetie can perch without reading the room.
Where the energy is mine, clean and unshared.

The signs did not push me out.
They pulled me toward the life that is waiting.

SECTION 6 — WHAT I’M TAKING WITH ME (REVISED)

I am taking what is truly mine not just in ownership, but in spirit.

I am taking Sweetie, my only pet, my companion, my witness. She is the one who has been with me through every shift, every morning, every quiet recalibration. She is the one who understands my rhythm without needing to be taught.

I am taking my clothes, my notebooks, my tech, my comforts — the things that hold my energy, not someone else’s expectations.

I am taking my calm.
My pace.
My mornings.
My sovereignty.

I am taking the parts of myself that grew stronger in this room the clarity, the intuition, the steadiness that came from learning how to breathe even when the environment didn’t match me.

I am taking the lessons, but not the weight.
The growth, but not the pressure.
The truth, but not the tension.

Everything I am taking fits into the next version of my life without needing to be explained or defended.

SECTION 7 — WHAT I’M LEAVING BEHIND (REVISED)

I am leaving behind the version of myself who tried to fit into a space that wasn’t built for her.
I am leaving behind the shrinking, the adjusting, the quiet negotiations I made with myself just to keep the peace.

I am leaving behind the shared air that never fully felt like mine.
The hallway hesitations.
The emotional tiptoeing.
The sense of being a guest in a place where I paid rent.

And I am leaving behind Blue and Chachi not because I want to, but because they are not mine. They are her animals, and unless I end up in the same complex, I will not be seeing them anymore. I will miss them. They chose me in their own ways, drifted toward my calm, rested in my doorway, trusted me. That is something I will carry, even if they do not come with me.

I am leaving behind the responsibility for anyone else’s mood, pace, or expectations.
I am leaving behind the idea that I must match someone else’s structure to be considered “easy to live with.”

I am leaving behind the noise that was not mine.
The tension that was not mine.
The energy that was not mine.

What stays here stays here.
What is mine comes with me.

SECTION 8 — THE VISION OF THE NEW APARTMENT (UNCHANGED, BUT NOW TRUER)

The new apartment is not just a place, it is a frequency.
I can already feel it, even before I have the keys.

It is quiet in a way that does not depend on anyone else leaving the house.
It is space that does not require negotiation.
It is air that belongs to me the moment I walk in.

I see mornings where Sweetie perches without scanning the room first.
I see myself waking up slowly, not because I am avoiding anything, but because the space supports it.

I see a kitchen where I can make toast with honey without feeling watched.
A living room where my creativity can spill out without being corrected.
A bedroom that holds my rest, not my vigilance.

The new apartment is the first place in a long time that feels like it is waiting for me not as a guest, not as a placeholder, but as its actual resident.

It is the next chapter, and it matches me.

SECTION 9 — CLOSING: STEPPING INTO WHAT’S MINE

Moving is not just about changing addresses. It is about choosing the life that fits me now. This apartment held a chapter I needed the healing, the quiet rebuilding, the mornings where Sweetie watched me type, the moments when even the roommate’s animals drifted toward my calm. But chapters end, even the gentle ones.

I am not leaving in anger. I am not leaving in defense. I am leaving because I finally recognize the difference between a place I can survive in and a place, I can grow in. The universe has been opening the door slowly, giving me signs, giving me clarity, giving me the courage to step through.

I will miss Blue and Chachi. I will carry the sweetness of how they trusted me, how they found comfort in my presence. But Sweetie is the one who comes with me the one who has been my witness, my anchor, my little supervisor through every shift.

What comes next is mine.
The quiet.
The space.
The mornings.
The air that does not need to be negotiated.

I am stepping into a home that matches who I have become, not the version of me who adapted, but the version of me who finally stands in her own rhythm.

This is the move.
This is the moment.
This is the beginning of the life that has been waiting for me.

“I am stepping into a home that already knows my name.”

Ko-Fi Shop

Channeled through Ancestral Memory and Digital Innovation.”

Choctaw Peace Song — Horizon of Peace

Choctaw Peace Song — A Frame of Respect

This is a seven-chapter dedication song to all Native American tribes, these are the chapters

1. Dedication — the circle opens

2. Remembering the land, ancestors, migrations

3. Survival endurance, unbrokenness

4. The Return — the modern voice rising

5. The Presence — “we are still here”

6. Peace, sovereignty, not forgiveness

7. The Future — 2026 and beyond

DEDICATION — for the Choctaw Peace Song

This song is dedicated to all people of Native American heritage
to those who carry a little,
to those who carry a lot,
and to those who carry it in ways the world cannot measure.

You are still here.

To every tribe, every nation, every lineage,
to the ones who remained on their homelands
and the ones who were carried far from them,
to the ones who know their ancestry
and the ones still searching for it
this song honors you.

It honors the people who walked the old paths,
the people who survived the hard roads,
the people who kept the stories alive,
and the people who breathe those stories today.

This song is for all of you.
For all of us.
For everyone who remembers,
everyone who endures,
everyone who continues.

We are still here.
We have always been here.
We will always be here.

OPENING SCENE — “THE REMEMBERING”

Before the drum, before the flute, before the stomp rhythm,
there is the land.

The land remembers the footsteps of the first people,
long before borders, long before states,
long before America had a name.

The wind moves through the trees the same way it did
when the ancestors walked from the southern lands
into the river country of Mississippi.

The earth still holds the warmth of their fires.
The rivers still carry their reflections.
The birds still sing the same patterns they once listened to.

And the animals are always the animals
they remember too.

A parakeet watching my balance,
a dog waiting for my return,
their eyes following you the way the old ones followed the movement of the sun.

In this opening moment,
the people, the land, and the animals breathe together.

This is the remembering.
This is where the story begins.

SCENE TWO — THE SURVIVAL

(The river carries the story forward.)

After the remembering comes the walking.

Not the walking of peace,
but the walking of endurance
the long road, the forced road,
the road carved by grief and grit.

The people walked because they had to.
The land behind them cried.
The land ahead of them waited.
The sky watched and did not break.

The Trail of Tears was not just a trail.
It was a test of breath, bone, memory, and will.

But the people did not walk alone.

The animals moved with them
deer watching from the trees,
birds circling above,
wolves pacing the edges of the forest,
each creature carrying a piece of the world
that refused to abandon them.

Even in famine,
even in cold,
even in sickness,
the heartbeat never stopped.

It slowed.
It weakened.
But it did not stop.

The stories were carried in whispers,
in lullabies,
in the rhythm of feet on frozen ground,
in the breath of mothers holding children close.

This was not defeat.
This was survival.

This was the moment the people learned
that even when the world tries to erase you,
your spirit can refuse.

This is the survival.
This is the endurance.
This is the unbroken line.

SCENE THREE — THE RETURN

After the long road of survival,
after the cold nights and the whispered stories,
after the footsteps that carved memory into the earth,
there comes a turning.

A return.

Not a return to the past
but a return to presence.

The people who were pushed from their homelands
stand again in their own breath,
their own bodies,
their own names.

The drum that once echoed through the river valleys
now beats in apartments, in cities, in deserts,
in the hearts of descendants who carry the old rhythm
in modern bones.

The voice that was once silenced
now rises through microphones,
through writing,
through song,
through the quiet strength of a woman
walking through her home with a cane
while her animals watch her like guardians.

This return is not loud.
It is not violent.
It is not a demand.

It is a presence.

A Choctaw woman in 2026
remembering the land,
remembering the ancestors,
remembering the migrations,
remembering the survival,
and speaking again.

Her voice is the return.
Her breath is the return.
Her story is the return.

The land hears her.
The animals hear her.
The ancestors hear her.

And the world
the same world that once tried to erase her people
must now face the truth:

The Choctaw have returned,
because they never left.

SCENE FOUR — THE PRESENCE

After the return comes the standing.

Not standing in defiance,
not standing in anger,
not standing in apology
but standing in truth.

The truth that the people survived.
The truth that the land remembers.
The truth that the animals still listen.
The truth that the ancestors still breathe through their descendants.

In this moment, the Choctaw presence is not a memory.
It is not a story from long ago.
It is not a chapter in a book.

It is a woman in 2026
walking through her home with a cane,
steadying herself,
watched by a bird who knows her balance
and a dog who knows her footsteps.

It is the quiet strength in her chest
when she speaks the names of her people.
It is the warmth in her breath
when she remembers the land.
It is the calm in her body
when she feels the ancestors settle around her.

Presence is not loud.
Presence is not performative.
Presence is not a declaration.

Presence is being.

Being here.
Being alive.
Being unbroken.
Being part Choctaw.

The world may have tried to erase the people,
but the people did not erase themselves.

They breathe.
They speak.
They remember.
They continue.

This is the presence.
This is the heartbeat.
This is the moment the song stands still
and simply says:

We are still here.
We never left.
We never will.

SCENE FIVE — THE PEACE

(Peace is light, presence, sovereignty — not forgiveness.)

After presence comes the light.

Not the blinding light of conquest,
not the harsh light of judgment,
but the warm, steady light
that rises from within a people
who refused to disappear.

This peace is not the peace they tried to force on your ancestors.
It is not the peace of silence,
or obedience,
or erasure.

This peace is sovereign.

It is the peace of a people who know who they are.
The peace of a woman who remembers her lineage.
The peace of animals who trust her steps.
The peace of land that recognizes her breath.

It is the peace that comes
when the drum slows to a heartbeat,
when the flute softens to a whisper,
when the smoke from the fire rises straight into the night
without being pushed by wind or fear.

This peace does not ask for forgiveness.
Forgiveness is for wounds that have healed.
These wounds are still open in America.

So, this peace is something else
something older,
something deeper,
something Indigenous.

It is continuance.
It is resurgence.
It is unbroken presence.

It is the peace of standing on the land
even if the land is an apartment floor
and knowing:

I am still here.
My people are still here.
My light is still here.

This peace is not passive.
It is not quiet submission.
It is the calm strength of a people
who survived everything meant to erase them
and still rise with the sun.

This is the peace of 2026
a peace made of light,
memory,
sovereignty,
and the unshakable truth
that Native people walk this world
with the same spirit they carried
before America had a name.

SCENE SIX — THE FUTURE

(The horizon of the Choctaw Peace Song — the answer to “do we survive.”)

The river carries the story forward,
past the remembering,
past the survival,
past the return,
past the presence,
past the sovereign peace.

And ahead
there is a horizon.

Not a blank one.
Not a broken one.
Not a dying one.

A living horizon.

The future is not a question of survival.
The future is the continuation of a people
who have already proven
that they cannot be erased.

The Choctaw survived removal.
The Cherokee survived removal.
The Navajo survived the Long Walk.
The Lakota survived Wounded Knee.
The Apache survived imprisonment.
The Pueblos survived colonization.
The Inuit survived the ice.
The tribes of California survived missions.
The tribes of the Southwest survived drought and war.
The tribes of the North survived famine and cold.

Every tribe survived something meant to end them.

And yet
here we are.

A Choctaw woman in 2026,
breathing,
remembering,
writing,
creating,
walking through her home with a cane
while her animals watch her like guardians.

You are the proof.

You are the continuation.
You are the future.
You are the survival made flesh.

The future is not a question.
The future is a line
unbroken,
unfolding,
moving forward through every person
who carries even a spark of Native ancestry.

Whether they have a little or a lot,
whether they know their tribe or are still searching,
whether they live on the land or far from it
they are part of the continuation.

The future is not about whether Native people survive.
The future is about how Native people continue.

And they do.
And they will.
And you are part of that continuation.

This is the final truth of the Choctaw Peace Song:

We survived.
We survive.
We will survive.
We continue.
We rise.
We remain.
We are still here.

The river flows forward.
And so do you.

WE REMEMBER!

“Doorway Light”

I walked through the 80s decade with a fire in my chest,
Soft eyes holding stories I never confessed.
The world tried to break me, but I stayed bright
A shadow in the doorway, turning into light.

I’m still here, still rising,
Through the fracture, through the fight.
Every echo of the 80s
Becomes another piece of light.

Locked door, open sky,
Sad eyes learning how to fly.
Heart cracked, but I didn’t fall
I became the echo in the hallway wall.

I’m the myth, I’m the spark,
I’m the girl who walked out of the dark.
1989 tried to take my name
But I rose from the fracture, flame by flame.

Catalina winds on my skin again,
Makeup kit shining like a talisman.
I danced through the neon, broke through the night
A woman remembering her own birthright.

Oh, the 80s tried to bend me,
But they never took my flame.
I walked out mythic,
And I kept my name.

Finishing the 80s Decade: 1980-1989

The 80s were wrapped with huge cultural shifts, tech that changed everything, and some moments that still feel like yesterday.

Politics & World Events

1989; The Berlin Wall falls in November and the Cold War’s most iconic symbol comes down.

1986; Chernobyl disaster and the Challenger explosion two tragedies that defined the decade’s relationship with technology.

1981; Reagan takes office; Sandra Day O’Connor becomes first female Supreme Court justice.

1989 Tiananmen Square protests in Beijing captured global attention in June.

Tech & Everyday Life

Personal computers go mainstream; Apple Macintosh 1984, Commodore 64, IBM PC. Your desk was never the same.

Video games level up; Nintendo Entertainment System 1985, Super Mario Bros, Tetris. Arcades give way to living rooms.

Music revolution MTV launches 1981 “Video Killed the Radio Star” was first. CDs outselling vinyl by 1988.

The Walkman era: Sony’s portable cassette player made music private and mobile starting 1979, but the 80s owned it.

Pop Culture Snapshot

| Year | Movie | Song That Ruled | Cultural Touchstone |

| 1982 | E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial | “Eye of the Tiger” Survivor | Michael Jackson’s *Thriller* drops |

| 1984 | Ghostbusters | “Like a Virgin” Madonna | Apple’s “1984” Super Bowl ad |

| 1985 | Back to the Future | “We Are the World” | Live Aid concert |

| 1989 | Batman | “Like a Prayer” Madonna | The Simpsons debuts as a series |

Style & Slang That Defined It

Fashion; Shoulder pads, leg warmers, Members Only jackets, acid-wash jeans, Swatch watches.

Slang “Gag me with a spoon,” “Totally tubular,” “Gnarly,” “Like, whatever.”

Toys/Fads Cabbage Patch Kids riots 1983, Rubik’s Cube, Trivial Pursuit, Garbage Pail Kids.

By 1989, the world was ready for the 90s

The Soviet Union would dissolve 2 years later. The World Wide Web was invented in 1989 by Tim Berners-Lee. Grunge was tuning up in Seattle. The 80s didn’t fade out it handed the baton to the digital age.

Voice‑Over Script: The 1980s (Recordable Version)

The 1980s were more than a decade. They were a shift in the world, and in me.

The world was changing fast.
In 1981, Reagan took office, and Sandra Day O’Connor became the first woman on the Supreme Court.
By the middle of the decade, we watched tragedy unfold in real time the Challenger explosion, and Chernobyl moments that made technology feel powerful and fragile at the same time.

And then came 1989.
The Berlin Wall fell.
Tiananmen Square filled the world’s screens.
You could feel history cracking open.

Meanwhile, everyday life was transforming just as quickly.

Computers moved from science fiction into our homes the Macintosh, the IBM PC, the Commodore 64.
Nintendo arrived, and suddenly living rooms became arcades.
MTV launched in ’81 and rewired culture overnight.
By ’88, CDs were outselling vinyl, and the Walkman made music private for the first time.
For the first time ever, your soundtrack traveled with you.

Pop culture was its own universe.
E.T. in ’82.
Ghostbusters in ’84.
Back to the Future in ’85.
Batman in ’89.
And every year had a song that ruled the airwaves from “Eye of the Tiger” to “Like a Prayer.”

Fashion didn’t whisper it shouted.
Shoulder pads, leg warmers, acid‑wash jeans, Members Only jackets, Swatch watches stacked up your arm.
Kids fought over Cabbage Patch dolls.
Everyone twisted a Rubik’s Cube.
And the slang was its own language — totally tubular, gag me with a spoon, like… whatever.

By the time 1989 closed, the world was already becoming something else.
The World Wide Web had just been invented.
The Soviet Union was two years from dissolving.
Grunge was warming up in Seattle.
The 80s didn’t fade out they passed the baton to the digital age.

And somewhere inside all that noise, all that change, I was living my own story the one that shaped everything that came after.

1980s — The Lessons

Memory‑Lyrical, Mythic, Cinematic Version (First‑Person Polished)

The Era of Breakage and Becoming

The 1980s didn’t arrive like a decade.
They arrived like a temperature drop, a cold front rolling in after the warm, flower‑scented 70s.
A decade that didn’t ask who I was.
It demanded it.

The world tried to flatten me.
I stayed three‑dimensional.

This was the decade where:

• boundaries sharpened like glass

• systems showed their teeth

• Mythic thinking was dragged through the mud

• sovereignty flickered awake like a pilot light

I walked into the 80s with the soft glow of the 70s still on my skin, peace, art, music, the belief that humanity could be gentle.
I didn’t know yet that the 80s would test every inch of that softness.

LA Times, My Ex, and the Collision of Worlds

I was working at the Los Angeles Times when the first echo hit the echo of crossroads, the kind that hums under your ribs before anything happens.

I met the man who would become the father of my children.

Two worlds collided so hard the air cracked:

• Valley peace vs. South Central survival

• art vs. war

• intuition vs. control

• humanitarian lineage vs. conservative steel

I was from the San Fernando Valley a place where music floated through windows and people believed in peace like it was oxygen.
He was raised in South Central a place where survival was the first language.

I was mixed‑lineage across continents, Mediterranean, African, Egyptian, Irish, Native American, Spanish, Italian, Viking‑Baltic.
A seventh‑generation soul with star‑seeded instincts and humanitarian fire.

He was not that way.

I believed in equality, gun control, birth control, freedom.
He believed in Reagan, weapons, and the rising conservative tide.

And yet,
I chose motherhood.
Not from naivety.
From mission.

This was the first mythic echo:
the empath choosing creation in a decade built on destruction.

Motherhood Arrives — Twice, and with Weight

My first son arrived in 1983 was nearly ten pounds, a child who entered the world like a comet.
A Caesarian section saved my life.
He came in with force; I met him with softness.

I dressed him in sunglasses, pushed him through the LA Times building in his stroller — a tiny sunbeam rolling through a world of ink and deadlines.

I worked full time.
I mothered full time.
I carried two worlds on my back.

My second son arrived in 1987, another ten‑pound child, another Caesarian section, another echo of strength.
I weighed 100 pounds when I became pregnant, but my spirit weighed more.

The cultural clash grew louder.
My empathic, free‑spirit nature strained against a household built on hardness, guns, and control.

I was living two lives, the one I believed in, and the one I was surviving.

This was the second mythic echo:
the mother carrying light into a house built on shadow.

The Breakaway — Makeup School, Catalina, and the Palomino

By 1988, the universe leaned in and whispered: enough.

I enrolled at Studio Seven, color, creativity, transformation.
I met a man on Catalina Island who invited me to intern at his TV station.
I said yes because my spirit recognized the doorway.

By Christmas, I staged my exit.
He picked me up.
My ex opened the door.

“It’s for you,” he said.

I grabbed my purse and my giant makeup kit — my tools of reinvention.
“We’re picking up friends and buying makeup in Burbank,” I told him.
“We’re hanging out in the Valley.”

And I left.

The night unfolded like a film:

• the Palomino glowing neon

• Strawberry Alarm Clock playing like a cosmic joke

• My friend at the Pink Elephant Motel

• the air electric, wild, mythic

I danced like someone remembering her own name.

I returned home the next day, hugged my boys, and knew the marriage was over.

My divorce was final in 1989.

This was the third mythic echo:
the woman reclaiming her name after years of silence.

The Political Weather — Reagan, Cutbacks, and the Conservative Turn

The 80s were a tightening, a decade of cold hands around warm throats.
Reagan.
Cutbacks.
The war on drugs.
The Southern Strategy.
A political machine rising to flatten the open‑hearted.

I felt it in my bones.
I still feel it in 2026.

I tried cocaine once but hated it.
Too much under‑eye cover‑up required.
My intuition rejected it instantly.

I danced in discos, heard the rise of rap, visited BB King’s nightclub at CityWalk.
I lived through the good, the bad, and the ugly.

This was the fourth mythic echo:
the empath surviving a decade designed to erase softness.

THE CINEMATIC MYTHIC TWIST — 1989

The 80s don’t end with freedom.
They end with fracture.

It happens like a film reel burning at the edges.

I returned to my Burbank apartment, the place where my boys should be, where my life should still make sense of and the key didn’t turn.

The door was locked from the inside.

My boys were gone.

And my ex standing there with that cold, parental tone delivered the line that becomes the decade’s final echo:

“I told you if you ever saw that guy again, I was punishing you. I took the boys.”

Punishment.
Control.
Misogyny dressed as authority.

My face went soft, not weak soft like someone holding in a scream so the universe doesn’t crack open.

My eyes, sad, wide, stunned became the visual motif of the decade.

I didn’t collapse.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t beg.

I froze, the way empaths freeze when the world becomes too loud.

Inside my chest, something broke.
Inside my lineage, something woke.

This was the fifth mythic echo:
the mother who loses the battle but not the bond.

Because I never left my boys.
I never abandoned them.
I was locked out literally and symbolically by a family who wanted them raised in South Central, not Burbank, not multicultural, not in the world I believed in.

I lost the fight, but not the love.
And the universe saw it.

THE PARALLEL LOSS — THE FRIEND WHO LEFT FOR LONDON

My best friend, the one who was supposed to go with me to see my boys disappeared into her own 80s storyline.

London.
An English DJ boyfriend.
Her own escape, her own chaos.

I saw her again later, but the moment was gone.
The decade had already taken its toll.

Two mothers.
Two losses.
Two departures.

The 80s closed like a door I couldn’t reopen.

THE NATIVE AMERICAN ARTIST — THE UNLIKELY SANCTUARY

And then,
in the middle of heartbreak, panic, and the ache of missing my boys —
I moved in with George, the Native American artist.

Two artists.
Two misfits.
Two souls who didn’t fit the 80s mold.

It was quirky.
It was strange.
It wasn’t the life I planned.

But it was a bridge, a liminal space between the life I lost and the life I hadn’t built yet.

I poured myself into art, music, creating anything to keep the sadness from swallowing me whole.

My eyes stayed soft, sad, luminous, the eyes of someone who survived something she never talked about.

THE FINAL FRAME

When the decade closed, the camera pulled back one last time.

Me — standing in the doorway of the locked apartment.
My boys — gone.
My friend — gone.
My marriage — gone.
My innocence — gone.

But behind me, unseen, the ancestors gathered.

Mediterranean.
African.
Egyptian.
Irish.
Native American.
Spanish.
Italian.
Viking‑Baltic.

Seven generations of women who survived their own breakage.

They didn’t speak.
They just stood behind me, a silent wall of lineage, as if to say:

“This is not the end.
This is the myth.”

And the screen faded to black.

The 90s were waiting.

SHORT SONG VERSION

The Time-Traveling Artist’s Initiation

I Didn’t Grow Up on Fairy Tales

THE TIME‑TRAVELING ARTIST’S INITIATION

(Short Song / Spoken‑Word Version)

1950s — The Initiation

I didn’t grow up on fairy tales.
I grew up on Twilight Zone morals, blues women’s voices, and Hitchcock shadows.
While other kids made mudpies, I learned to read a room, feel a story,
and question the world and my ABCs.
I was the child who lived in color, rhythm, and imagination—
the one who saw the universe bending behind the everyday.

1960s — The Awakening

My story began in the glow of a living room that knew me before I knew myself.
Goldilocks wasn’t a bedtime tale; she was a lesson in energy, boundaries, and balance.
I rejected chaos, noise, and slapstick.
I wasn’t built for “bonk bonk.”
I was built for myth, mystery, and meaning.

1970s — The Frequency

I was the girl with the magazines, already a producer,
hiring friends to iron while I curated my tiny empire.
My room was a technicolor sanctuary—blue walls, orange shag,
Kachina dolls, a hot pink princess phone.
I didn’t adapt to the 70s.
The 70s adapted to me.

1980s — The Lessons

The world tried to flatten me, but I stayed mythic.
College wasn’t a ladder; it was a landscape.
I walked through it reading rooms, feeling energy,
choosing experience over status, meaning over performance.
Every hallway was another portal, another episode, another blues riff.

1990s — The Rhythm

The 90s hit the same nerve—soul revival, blues revival,
grunge honesty, hip‑hop storytelling, cultures mixing like colors.
It was another decade where the world finally matched my rhythm again.
Weirdness wasn’t a flaw.
It was a frequency.

And Now — The Sovereign Era

I am the sum of all those eras.
The 50s imagination.
The 60s surrealism.
The 70s color and soul.
The 90s emotional truth.
And the sovereignty I stand in now.
I am not from an era.
I am an era.

LONG VERSION

The Time-Traveling Artist’s Initiation

I Didn’t Grow Up on Fairy Tales

“I didn’t grow up on fairy tales, I grew up on Twilight Zone morals, blues women’s voices, and Hitchcock shadows. While other kids were playing mudpies, I was learning how to read a room, how to feel a story, and how to question the world and my ABCS. My parents raised me differently than my brother, and it showed. I was the child who lived in color, rhythm, and imagination the one who saw the universe bending behind the everyday.”

A story like this begins in the glow of a living room that I knew before I knew yourself.

The Story That Needs to Be Told

I was a small girl in the San Fernando Valley light, sitting cross‑legged on carpet that held the warmth of the day. The TV wasn’t just a TV it was a portal, a teacher, a mood lamp, a storyteller that whispered to you in symbols.

My mother read me fairy tales, yes, the soft‑spoken ones, the ones with rhythm and moral shape. But the one that stayed with me was the one that rooted itself in my bones; The Three Bears.

Not because it was cute.
Not because it was simple.
But because it made sense.

It was a story about temperature, boundaries, and balance things I understood long before adults realized you understood them.

Goldilocks wasn’t just a girl in a stranger’s house. She was a warning about energy, about crossing thresholds, about knowing when something is “too much,” “too little,” or “just right.” You felt that. You lived that. Even then.

And the bears their home was a sanctuary. A place with warmth, order, and meaning. A place where everything had a place. A place where you could breathe.

I recognized that instinctively.

What I Rejected Told Just as Much

The Three Stooges?
No. Absolutely not I told people.

You didn’t like chaos.
You didn’t like noise.
You didn’t like people hurting each other for a laugh.
You didn’t like stupidity masquerading as entertainment.

My mind was already tuned to story, intuition, and emotional intelligence. Slapstick was beneath me even at five years old.

I wasn’t built for “bonk bonk.”
I was built for myth, mystery, and meaning.

The Real Curriculum of Your Childhood

While other kids were watching cartoons, you were absorbing:

• Twilight Zone — teaching me to see the hidden layer behind reality.

• Outer Limits — teaching me cosmic scale and symbolic logic.

• Alfred Hitchcock — teaching me tension, motive, and psychological truth.

• Ironside — teaching me justice and intelligence over brute force.

• Star Trek — teaching me ethics, exploration, and evolution.

• Blues women — teaching me survival, humor, and emotional sovereignty.

• Betty Boop — teaching me glamour, surreal femininity, and the right to be bold.

These weren’t influences.
They were initiations.

I wasn’t being entertained, I was being formed.

The Child I was Becoming

I was the girl who:

• read the room before she read the words

• felt the emotional temperature of people

• understood fairness and unfairness instantly

• lived in color, rhythm, and imagination

• saw symbols where others saw objects

• carried blues cadence in her breath

• knew when something was “just right”

I wasn’t eccentric by accident.
I was raised, shaped and sculpted into a mythic thinker.

I didn’t just grow up I came up through eras like a time‑traveling artist in training, collecting textures, sounds, rituals, and symbols that built the Vicki you’re talking to right now. I will map it the way it lived in my body, not the way history books flatten it.

Young Years, 50s Influence Without Being 50s Kid

I was raised inside the glow of black‑and‑white TV, the kind that signed off at midnight with the flag and the tone that meant the world was going to sleep. That alone shaped my rhythm nights to be sacred, quiet, imaginative.

Your world was a mix of:

• Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, Hitchcock, Ironside surrealism, mystery, portals, moral twists.

• Star Trek the idea that the universe was bigger than the room you were in.

• Bessie Smith, Big Mama Thornton, Howlin’ Wolf, Robert Johnson, the blues as emotional architecture.

• Patti Page, Brenda Lee, Elvis, Dean Martin, Your mother’s evolving soundtrack.

And then the big one:
my parents took you to see Jerry Lee Lewis.
That’s not childhood, that’s initiation. That’s being handed the torch of American music chaos and genius.

I wasn’t absorbing culture I was being trained by it.

My Pre‑Teen World, The Girl with the Magazines

You had the boy band magazines, the glossy pages with the perfect hair and the dreamy eyes. But I wasn’t just a fan, I was already a producer.

I literally hired my friends to iron.
That’s not a kid.
That’s a young woman running a tiny empire out of her bedroom.

I was already:

• delegating

• curating

• creating atmosphere

• Building your own world

That’s the same energy I use now in my creative suites that started way back then.

Teen Years, the 70s Fit me Like Skin

This is the era where I didn’t just feel comfortable, I felt seen.

My room was already a 70s art installation:

• bright blue walls

• orange shag carpet

• antique white‑and‑gold furniture

• clowns, matadors, Kachina dolls

• hot pink princess phone

• brown baby bear totem

I wasn’t following trends I was living in a technicolor mythic sanctuary before the world caught up.

The 70s matched my internal frequency:

• color

• soul

• blues

• freedom

• imagination

• rebellion

• symbolism

I didn’t adapt to the 70s, the 70s adapted to me.

Young Adult Years, the 90s Hit the Same Nerve

The 90s worked for me because they revived everything I already was:

• soul revival

• blues revival

• grunge’s emotional honesty

• hip-hop’s storytelling

• fashion that mixed eras

• culture that embraced weirdness

It was another decade when the world aligned with my natural rhythm.

And now I am the Sum of All Those Eras

I am not nostalgic, I am real.

I carry:

• The 50s imagination

• The 60s surrealism

• The 70s color and soul

• The 90s emotional truth

• the present‑day sovereignty

My creative rituals, my sanctuary design, my mythic storytelling, they’re all built from those decades you lived through, absorbed, and transformed.

I am not “from” an era.
I am an era.

A Paragraph for my 70s College Steps
When the 70s opened into my college years, I didn’t go looking for sororities or sisterhoods built on matching sweaters and rehearsed smiles. I went for life. I went to college to learn about people, learn stories, and learn about myself. College wasn’t a ladder for me; it was a landscape. I walked into it with the same instinct I had as a child: read the room, feel the energy, find the meaning. While others chased status, I chased experience. I wasn’t there to fit in; I was there to expand. The campus was my next portal, my next Twilight Zone episode, my next blues riff a place where I could watch the world unfold and decide which parts of it belonged to me.

And all that of every era, every instinct, every portal carried me into the woman I am now.

I am an old lady now. I have been writing since I was three years old. The rainbow, the sun, the moon, the stars, life all evolve. Different generations are born. Other generations die off. I still carry the freedom; rebellious torch I carried upon being born in 1949. I want to learn about technology as we progress to space travel and beyond.

Eccentric is eclectic.
Eclectic is eccentric.

As a professional eccentric writer, lyricist, photographer, artist, musician, and a person who is not your competitor now, not in the past, not in the future — I create art because it is my passion. I am not anyone’s steppingstone. I do not use other people as my steppingstone. I am multiple strains of DNA of many cultures. I am not conservative. I am not a stickler for judging other people’s writing styles. I was writing before the people who think my voice would be a hoot at an open mic presentation. I write with depth, not superficial grey and white. I learned to write with symbols and cultural belief systems. I played the piano before most of the naysayers were born.

I am more than a voice over the mic at an open mic poetry reading. But because I use AI to assist with creating my videos, the younger generation of writers want to not read my material. This is narrow‑minded and contrite.

I am a real live human being.

My room is not curated; it is lived in. Bright colors, art stacked in corners, books that refuse to sit still, Sweetie on her perch with her punk crest raised like a tiny crown. Chachi curled in the quiet. My music equipment is glowing softly in the corner. Nothing matches; everything belongs. It is the room of a woman who has lived eras, burned through fires, rebuilt archives, and still creates. Eccentric, eclectic, sovereign, a sanctuary that breathes with me.

Her tongue, a serpent of old, festering grievances,
coiled and ready to strike at any shadow
that dared to breathe near her.
She mistook her bitterness for power,
her venom for truth,
her volume for victory.

But in the center of the room,
the Faithful One sat
calm, unshaken,
wrapped in the quiet, resilient armor
of someone who has already survived
far worse storms.

She saw the performance for what it was:
the Instigator’s rage,
nothing more than a malabsorption
of her own poison.
A toxin she could not process,
so she spat it outward,
hoping someone else would swallow it.

But the Faithful One
had long since sealed her sacred depths.
No seepage.
No absorption.
No entry.

She watched the bitterness swirl
like smoke that could not find a host.
She watched the imaginary “cut down”
fall flat at her feet,
unable to pierce a woman
who no longer lived in that theater.

The Instigator’s words, once sharp and stinging,
now drifted like dull, lifeless echoes
in a hall where the acoustics
no longer favored her.

And the Faithful One rose
not in anger,
not in fear,
but in crystalline clarity.

She stepped out of the reach
of the blame game,
the nonsense,
the creeping, petty peeps
of provocation.

She breathed.
And in that breath,
the stage lights shifted.
The script dissolved.
The performance ended.

Her imaginary “cut down” fantasies,
where the Instigator thinks
she can shrink the Faithful One
with a single, poisoned sentence
It no longer computes.
The math don’t math.
The code don’t run.
The spell don’t cast.

For she, the Faithful One, was free
to be
herself.
And no bitterness in the world
could seep into a soul
that had already chosen
the light.