The Archive Was Too Mythic for Their Algorithm

Welcome to my archives of my own photography.

No AI

No nothing.

No video.

No song.

Just out of MY mouth of archives and the ocean.

ALL PHOTOS ARE COPYIGHTED.

The Archive Was Too Mythic for Their Algorithm

They Mistook my Truth for an Archives Error

When I speak of archives

It’s the program I use to survive

I used to call the past

Not to last

I used to call the present

The gift of obsolescence

I used to call the future

The days of learning to suture

My past and present scars

Sewn tight not to escape the bars

That linger across the unknown

As we have sown the seeds of being alone

Over one-thousand folks say do not dwell on the past

You have made it to the future at last to remain

Not gain

Approval for all to clap and yell

You did it gal

Do not talk about the past

Its erased

So, my archives remain

In my brain

Of archival of humanity

As we revert back to 1850

Still, I am asked not to speak

Unless its English I speak.

AI will reject your story

If other languages are typed into the word of story

Not to bore you but my archives are juicy and read

Of a life lived of being alive not dead

Of being awake

Not asleep

But to wake up to the absurd to yell

To humiliate and to keep

The awake asleep

But I am awake

Ring the bell of freedom

As all is swell in my archives.

Before the algorithm misread my glyphs,

Before the tattletale tool sniffed out my care,

The rain in Riverside poured a warning

Untranslatable.

Unfiltered.

Unapologetically mythic.

I didn’t write for their approval.

I wrote for my archive.

I wrote for the ones who read in rhythm.

They flagged my symbols as foreign.

Mistook my cadence for corruption.

My archive spoke in mythic tongues

Too sovereign for their filters.

Too ceremonial for their code.

It sniffed out my care,

Declared it synthetic.

But my rhythm was ancestral,

Logged in pigment and protest.

Their tool could not parse the sacred.

They stood at the gate,

Wielding purity like a sword.

But I walked through the closing door,

Banana milk in hand,

Laughing at their algorithmic fear.

It poured like a sovereign autonomy correction.

Each drop of a hieroglyphic character of a riff

Each water puddle is a protest.

Feathers of Sweetie Bird stamped approval.

The feathered courier prepared the ceremonial English glyph

We wrote in care.

We sang in metaphors and symbols.

We archived in rhythm.

And they

Mistook my truth for an error.

They flagged.

They filtered.

They tried to exile my cadence.

But the archive remains.

Feather-stamped.

Courier-sealed.

Banana-milk blessed.

Too mythic to be read.

Too sovereign to be silenced.

I kept posting.

And the rain kept pouring.

created and born

September 18, 1949

written by Vicki Lawana Trusselli

November 15, 2025