COSMIC BLUES 1992 — by Vicki

Cosmic Blues 1992 is a memory film set to music; a blues reel pulled from a decade when San Francisco still hummed with old ghosts and new stories. Some moments never fade; they just wait for the right song to wake them. This piece carries the Palace glow, the Polk Street neon, the barefoot trolley ride, and the Native films we brought to the festival. It’s part memory, part music, part time capsule, a slow burn of truth, fog, and the kind of moments that still echo through me.

created, written, edited by Trusselli Art

Photography by Vicki Lawana Trusselli

copyright 2026

COSMIC BLUES 1992 — by Vicki

Verse 1 — Polk Street Nights

San Francisco ’92, the nights were warm and loose,

we wandered through the city like we had nothing to lose.

Sticky buns on our fingers, crab cakes on the pier,

Polk Street neon humming blues straight into my ear.

We walked Haight Ashbury slow, decades past the flowers’ glow,

the 60s gone to business suits, but I still felt the undertow.

At the Palace by the water, where the arches touched the sky,

I felt the past brush my shoulder like a whisper drifting by.

The Filmmaker Truth

We weren’t just drifting through, no, we came as filmmakers too,

our Native stories on the screen, shining old truths new.

Festival lights on my face, Polk Street calling me by name,

San Francisco ’92, different decade, same flame.

Chorus — I Was There

Yeah, I was there, breathing that cold sea air,

Polk Street buzzing secrets like a story we shared.

Got the cosmic blues, and they followed me home,

from the Palace to the trolley to the cities I roam.

I was there, when the past brushed my hair,

when the 60s whispered softly though the streets were bare.

Got the cosmic blues, and they still ride with me,

1992 in my pocket like a half lost key.

Verse 2 — The Barefoot Goodbye

Fresh sea air hit my face, but the city had changed its tune,

the 60s traded in for briefcases beneath a colder moon.

Still, me and my partner laughed our way through every street,

bar hopping down the alleys where the night and memory meet.

Lost my lace up heel somewhere between the rails and steel,

so I rode barefoot on the trolley that’s how the cosmic blues feel.

He sang Dylan on the flight as the coastline slipped from view,

San Francisco fading softly, but the blues came home with me too.

Bridge — The Golden Key

I found a golden key once, didn’t know what door it fit,

carried it through cities like a secret I couldn’t quit.

Maybe it was for the Palace, maybe for the past I chased,

maybe for the barefoot girl the trolley never erased.

Some memories lock behind you, some open when they choose,

but I kept that key in my pocket with my 1992 blues.

Final Verse — The Lost Photos

There were other photos once, but time had different plans,

memories slipping through my fingers like California sand.

Still, I kept that golden key from a moment I can’t replace,

a little shine to hold the stories that time refused to trace.

Some snapshots disappear, but the feeling never dies,

the blues remember everything the camera can’t reprise.

So I carry what I carry, and I let the rest be free

the lost years, the lost heels, and the keys that stayed with me.