September 24th, 1997 to September 30th, 1997

No Flowers Left In England

by Dominic Hamilton-Little

There are no flowers left in England this September. Picked, plucked, clipped, or bought, wrapped in tissue, plastic, foil, or newspaper, roses of yellow, red, white and palest peach, tulips in every hue, daisies, lilies, gardenias and potted geraniums too, lift and line gilded iron palace gates, railings and walls. Endless hours of hundreds of thousands of feet, royal and common, of every cast, color, and creed, tread softly in ever widening circles, and the keening of a million voices imbues every conversation.

There are no flowers left in England this October. Such as they represent cannot be renewed so fast. The teddy bears, balloons, and notes that weighted down the tributes tell the stories behind each flower. Tales from young and old, of every race under the sun, from man and woman and all those in between, from rich republicans and intellectuals, to impoverished royalists, street punks, stately matrons, whores, artists, children and old soldiers.

There are no flowers left in England this autumn. The scent of millions of cut blooms fills the air around the palaces where the princess lived. The princess of rock concerts, Manolo Blahnik pumps, and PWA's. The princess of a generation and adoring mother of two handsome sons-in whom Her hopes are instilled and Her promises will be fulfilled. The princess who blossomed from shy ingenue to glittering, glamorous media-savvy celebrity and woman of the world. The princess of a failed marriage and human frailty who placed her arms around the victims of AIDS, cancer, leprosy, and land mines. Diana Egeria, in ancient myth, the Goddess of the hunt and the Moon, of childbirth, nursing and healing. Diana, in post-modern life, the princess who while royal had the common touch, who felt lonely and unloved yet was universally adored-the ultimate prey for whose presence in an image we hungered so greatly, that she died for a photograph. One who, even whilst flourishing in the hot-house of the klieg lights she sought, also desired peace and solitude. A woman in whom Truth and Beauty combined in a Heart so vast and so simple that all who knew her face believed she knew them too.

There are no flowers left in England today. Around Balmoral, Kensington, St. James, and Buckingham Palace the fields of bouquets wilt in a massive pyre for the dead princess. A princess who was no mere ribbon-cutting chit.

For Diana, even as she helped demystify and denigrate the institution which had placed her in power, became, through her combination of beauty, noblesse oblige, and manifold contradictions, an icon and an archetype who could more swiftly inspire hope and action, or indeed, split a room in two, than any mere actress, head of state, religious leader, or poet. As the song says: 'we'd grown accustomed to her face,' and with all the irony of this tabloid age, most of us knew more about the intimacies of Diana's life than of our neighbors upstairs, downstairs and across the hall. For 16 years, 'her highs, her lows, her joys, her woes were second nature to us all.'

A great English rose has vanished. Now it is up to us-each and everyone-to continue the work she began. There is no point in blame or recrimination, and from this grief let there come in all of us the Truth, the Beauty, the Heart, and the Light for which we loved her so deeply.

Dominic is a native of England and a former Chicagoan. He will be returning to Chicago the end of October to host Sidetrack's Night of 100 Drag Queens, and he will be co-MC for an Illinois Federation for Human Rights benefit in November. Also that month, his new film, Pousse Cafe, will be shown at the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Film Fest.

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