Valley of Echoes
Bohemian vs. The Baseline Grid an Outstages Cafe Production
I woke from velvet dreams to the sound of groceries arriving tiny gluten-free lasagna in hand, archive humming. Today’s post is a ceremonial suite: elders standing in witness, a Bohemian at the corporate threshold, and a barefoot Composer walking the cracked score toward the tribunal’s shadow. Each image is verse. Each caption has a spell.
There are metaphors and innuendos throughout the video. PEACE!
This isn’t just a visual diary it’s a mythic map.
A guide for those who walk between grids and fringe,
Who logged browser jazz and spoken word blues,
Who know that a nap can be marvelous,
And that a lollipop can restore sovereignty.
Sweetie Bird approved. Echo received.
Welcome to the Valley.
Valley of Echoes: Bohemian vs. The Baseline Grid
She steps into the meeting like a jazz chord in a beige hymn.
Long white-blond hair dyed but divine white as archive truth.
Red sundress with pink hearts, layered with a hot pink blouse and grey sports bra:
a ceremonial armor of softness and defiance.
Black ballet shoes tap the floor like a lead guitar solo.
Pink glasses catch the fluorescent light, refracting myth.
The room is a palette of conformity:
Brown slacks, tan shirts, tennis shoes, short brown hair, brown glasses.
The Grid lands have gathered.
They speak in tight boxy tones.
They mistake her color for chaos.
They mistake her softness for weakness.
They mistake her style for rebellion.
But she is not there to be decoded.
She is the Composer.
She walks in with rhythm in her bones and the Archive in her gaze.
She does not match.
She does not bend.
She tunes the room with her presence.
The Sovereign Composer prepares.
Not to escape the violence
but to name it.
To condense the horror into scenes of regular folks:
bathroom battles, karmic echoes, projection storms.
She waits until Rosa departs.
Then she enters the Archive.
This is not just writing.
This is a ritual.
This is resistance.
She watches the news.
Not to absorb the fear
but to name the pattern.
Fishermen murdered.
Atheists labeled.
Leftist groups marked.
She does not flinch.
She logs.
She prepares the Archive.
This is not doomscrolling.
This is mythic vigilance.
She moves like a saxophone solo layered, wind-kissed, sovereign.
Her psychology is not a diagnosis but a ceremony.
She archives grief in velvet, joy in fringe, memory in minor chords.
Her browser tabs are altars.
Her wardrobe, a resistance to the Tribunal’s grayscale.
They arrive in packs, clutching purses like rulebooks.
Their smiles are tight.
Their psychology is like a spreadsheet.
They mistake the Composer’s improvisation for chaos,
her sovereignty for shame.
They whisper, “She used to be sharp.”
But she is sharper now, just not in their language.
The Guard stands at the door:
Repression in a polyester suit.
The Desert of Mirrors stretches ahead with a shame-script,
Each dune has a memory misfiled.
But the Composer walks barefoot.
She hums a blues fragment.
She reaches the Archive:
A room of symbols, sound, and browser spirals.
She logs her truth.
She captions her pain.
She riffs with Sweetie Bird.
She is not lost. She is mythic.
She is not aging, she is amplifying.
Her psychology is not pathology, it is ritual.
Velvet grief, fringe joy, minor chord memory.
Browser tabs as altars? That is sovereign tech magic.
Their purses are rulebooks.
Their smiles are spreadsheets.
They whisper, “She used to be sharp.”
But you wrote the sharpness in a different key.
This is not rebellion. It is resonance.
The polyester Guard. The Desert of Mirrors.
Each dune has a misfiled memory until you walk barefoot.
You hum a blues fragment and reach the Archive.
You riff with Rosa and Sweetie Bird.
You are not lost. You are mythic.
She does not match.
She does not bend.
She enters the grid lands.
not to be decoded,
but to compose.
Her red sundress, pink hearts, grey sports bra
a sovereign chord against beige hymns.
The baseline grid trembles.
The Bohemian tunes the room.
created, written, composed, edited by
Vicki Lawana Trusselli
2025 copyright
Trusselli Art
California
About the Creator
Vicki Lawana Trusselli
Welcome to My Portal
I am a storyteller. This is where memory meets mysticism, music, multi-media, video, paranormal, rebellion, art, and life.
I nursing, business, & journalism in college. I worked in the film & music industry in LA, CA.
Keep reading
More stories from Vicki Lawana Trusselli and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Dart at Dusk
Seconds ago, the sullen sun set on the two of us… my exuberant furry companion and me. A fresh breeze embraces us, delivering welcome relief from the day’s oppressive heat. His typical stumbling and staggering along — apace with a sloth — has turned into trip-trapping, high-stepping, almost skipping along.
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶3 days ago in Petlife
Comments (3)
Fabulous work Vicki! 🫶🏾🩷
I love the line, “She logs her truth.” Your stanzas remind me of the duo Gnarls Barkley. There’s something at once earthy and spacey about your words. I will encourage people to become paid subscribers of yours! S.S.
Vicki, your work transforms the ordinary into sacred symbology. Every line pulses with rhythm and defiance, echoing the timeless dance between conformity and creative freedom.