The invitations are out for the royal wedding. A yahoo story notes that 1,800 invitations went out for the April 29th nuptials of Prince William and Kate Middleton.
I am not that interested in the current, royal wedding. Kings and Queens seem so outdated and undemocratic.
Though, there was a time when I was obsessed with Princess Diana. So, I have an old poem about attending her wedding. I gave my poem from the last, big, royal wedding a mild polish and fact-check. Thought I would share it.
The Bluish Light, 1997
Flat and singular like the images on the screen,
I am bathed in the sick blue light;
receptive to the barrage of
pronouncements, sentiments, and persuasions
launched from a two-dimensional, television universe.
Hypnotized by the sparkle of some sequined dress
(so revealing of the human form I could never wear it myself)
I am mesmerized by the beautiful, blue-light people.
Like a member of a wolfish pack,
I respond hypnotically to their bare-teethed smiles,
searching them like tiny mirrors for some
polished, framed, (distorted) image of myself.
Subtly, they infiltrate my heart.
They are a hum in my home,
a schedule I can fall into,
instead of going to real events with real people.
It is easy to worship these steady, blue-light people.
I wrap them around me,
hoard information, clues on how they live.
Clipping magazines, buying souvenirs,
I gather pictures to me like a war widow.
Only occasionally do I glimpse their disgust
leak out in some intellectual treatise on the middle class.
I hardly ever notice that the only pieces of themselves they offer me
are sound-bites, photo mugs, and glossy pictures of their good sides.
At age fourteen, though,
one of these blue-light beings really captures me.
She was first a Lady, and then a Princess,
but always in pictures poking umbrellas
at the ones who disdain me.
So that I came to love her, sincerely,
(in my bare-teethed way.)
Sometimes, she made me laugh out loud.
I cried for her when her husband put her away,
even prayed for her at times.
But not enough…
I killed her. Killed Diana.
Not just me, but all the blue-light people –
the ones projected and projecting,
vultures clamoring after her image.
I learned to master another blue light in my attempt at redemption.
At the library, on a borrowed computer, e-mailing condolences,
skipping across hateful postings about the crowd’s foolish grief.
There was only enough time for a little scolding and insult, though,
before we washed it away with masses of flowers,
gathered in love and power
at the castle where she used to live.
So, it is only a mild pang, this mockery I feel,
for having attended her funeral,
like her wedding,
in my pajamas,
flat and singular.
poem by Kimberly Wilder of onthewilderside.com