The Time-Traveling Artist’s Initiation

"I didn't grow up on fairy tales; I grew up on initiations. At 76, I’ve burned through fires and rebuilt archives. This is for the eccentric boomers, the mythic thinkers, and anyone who carries a rebellious torch. We are not from an era; we are an era.

The Time-Traveling Artist’s Initiation

I Didn’t Grow Up on Fairy Tales

SHORT SONG

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.

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.

I WROTE THIS, I EDITED THIS, IT IS ALL MINE.