A Morning Day in the Life of the Pink Lady

A Morning Day in the Life of the Pink Lady

This isn’t just a day, it’s a sonic diary wrapped in pink sheets and browser haze. Welcome to the myth of the Pink Lady. This is partly truth and fiction in The Pink Series.

Today I drank the cranberry river.

Not the mythic Styx, but the one in my studio-bed

filtered through pink sheets,

cranberry unsweetened,

and Spotify MGZ frequencies humming like distant gods.

One cup of coffee,

a nod to chaos,

then silence.

I chose the healing stream.

I chose the sentinel juice.

I chose myself.

Let this be the first psalm

in the Book of Hydra

where every sip is a shield,

every ache a portal,

and every ritual is a reclamation.

Live from Studio-Bed

THE PINK SHEET MANIFESTO

In the temple of tangled wires and plush rebellion,

I lay down two cups of cranberries like twin altars

one for memory, one for myth.

Hot pink sheets blaze beneath them,

a ceremonial field where cranberries flow

like ancestral rivers,

sweet and tart,

red as protest,

fluid as time.

Banana milk glows in the corner,

a gentle moon of comfort,

while cranberry juice chants its healing hymn.

This is not clutter.

This is a ritual.

This is archive in motion.

I create in the folds of softness,

where tech meets tenderness,

where every spill is a sacrament,

every snack a sigil,

every video verse.

78 degrees indoors tried to melt the muse,

but I summoned the chill

AC to 72,

a protest in freon.

Ideas slipped through the sheets,

cranberry rivers paused midstream,

but I rose,

body aching, archive blinking,

and stepped into the shower

like a baptism of reset.

I took deep breaths,

not to erase the ache,

but to honor it.

My heart slowed,

like a river remembering its rhythm

She reached across the digital veil,

arms wide with warmth,

a hug wrapped in cranberry vapor

and banana milk breath.

The studio-bed hummed,

Sweetie Bird stirred,

and the archive pulsed with joy.

I shower to shed the static,

order cranberry juice like a potion,

smoke my pipe as ritual

a plume of memory rising

from hot pink sheets to lunar skies.

I dream of leaving Riverside,

not in escape,

but in expansion

to date, to dance, to drift

into galaxies where grief wears pearls

and bliss hums in neon.

Each morning,

Sweetie bird watches me stir,

her wing stretching like a blessing,

a soft “good morning”

from the guardian of my archive.

I rise with her,

in sadness and grace,

in prosperity and ache,

ready to create again.

written by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli

Art

California