In the Queendom of twinklysparkles, the women look like this:
though some of the women look like this:
The women are always naked unless of course they want to wear ribbons or bows or bikinis or braids. They wear whatever the fuck they want whenever the fuck they want.*
The sun is shining. There is a slight ocean breeze. The daytime temp hovers between 55 and 85 degrees depending on the season. Of course these temps don’t apply when the Queen orders snow.
In the autumn and in the spring, the Queen has her way with the air; like everything in the Queendom, it is subject to her whims.
After every transaction, the bank tellers let the residents of the Queendom know that they are awesome customers. The customers let the tellers know that they are equally awesome.
Cell phone use never occurs at meals; while walking; while conducting face-to-face financial transactions. There is no law governing this because there is no need for such a law. The residents of the Queendom get it and live it and breathe it deeply.
Men and women of the Queendom hold open doors for each other, regardless of need. The children and youth have impeccable manners.
There is no plastic surgery in the Queendom, but you knew that.
All glass in the Queendom is unbreakable unless an emergent situation requires it to be broken.
If there is broken glass, it is gathered and used to make The Pretty. Same for broken ceramics.
All rocks are tear-drop shaped or heart-shaped except when they are not.
There are no TEA partiers in the Queendom, for when they cross its threshold, all sense returns to them.
The word briolette is never used in the Queendom. Never ever.
A honeybee does not want to sting you, says her Majesty, for to do so is to lose its life.
Sometimes Bette Midler sings in the Queendom. Sometimes the Queen herself sings. Sometimes all of the residents sing. The singing is good and heartfelt. There is an abundance of lullabies for children, even the almost-grown-up ones.
Performers in the Queendom do not equate the appearance of emoting with genuine emoting. Layers of false emotion are laid bare, kicked out, and a fresh start is made, tabula rasa.
Sometimes, Anthony Hopkins narrates the Queen’s day, for his Welsh accent and the dulcet tones of his mellifluous voice please Her Royal Highness.
Dancing of all kinds is encouraged in the Queendom, but the Queen is partial to getting down and getting funky and prefers a heap of soul to little or no soul at all.
If you are gonna do it, do it right, says the Queen. This means, do it with gusto. This is not the same as the popular bumper sticker which states “speak even if your voice shakes” because the Queen knows the Alexander Technique. Also, sometimes you need to know the difference between what is worth speaking even if your voice shakes and what is not worth speaking even if your voice shakes.
Fucking A, says the Queen. Pink, says the Queen. Blue and raspberries and violets, says She.
The Queen needs help with motivation and that’s where her handmaidens come in. They encourage her to go to the Royal Yoga Class and to put her Royal Ass on the Royal Bike Seat for the Royal Bike Ride. They indeed help her to clean up the Royal Dog Poo as well as to scoop the Royal Cat Urine from the three Royal Litter Boxes which are lined up oh-so-neatly in the Royal Basement.
Each spring the cherry blossoms bloom and die. The cherries burst out and the cedar waxwings pay visit to the Royal Cherry Tree for one week during which the residents celebrate Fleeting Time.
And of what does the Queen dream in her Royal Bed? Under clean cotton sheets and soft, down comforters, and with the Four Pillows of Royalty, she dreams of the ocean. She dreams of kale, curly and dark, almost black in its nutrients. She dreams of centipedes and millipedes and other crawly creatures in the cool soft earth. She dreams of iron and steel, minerals and bone. She dreams of death and she dreams of freedom from pain.
♥ ♥ ♥
*this is a link to something I found on Facebook which I believe had something to do with a call for women to submit photos of themselves in bikinis on HuffPo. The passage sounds a lot like Caitlin Moran could have written it and I wish the author would say more about her inspiration. In Caitlin Moran’s excellent book How To Be A Woman, she coins the term human-shaped, at least I think she is the first to have done so.
Thanks to my many blogger-chick pals who inspired me to write this post, though my contact with them has been scant of late. I drink from the fount of their fortitude more often than they know. I also hope I didn’t steal too much of my idea from Erin O’Brien at the Owner’s Manual, but she is also probably too humble to see that it is so. She is the original Queen of the Blogosphere to me.