the faerie punk keepsake

my faerie punk keepsake

Being a card-carrying member of the mid-to-late-19th Century, my fantastical persona doesn’t lend all that well to the Steampunk hoopla. Pity, for I would look so fetching in feathers, leather, gears, and a sweet little flight helmet. Alas, my reign on earth was a tad before the true Victorians. In my heart, however, I have always been a punk.

The term “punk” in a literary sense connotes alternative history. Most commonly associated with Science Fiction, (as opposed to “punk rock” let’s say, or “cyberpunk” both of which conjure anarchy and rebellion without the time warping factor), steampunk aesthetic embraces the melding of Victorian culture with modded technology.

In my Bavarian-Austrian faerie world, there are no computers or steam engines or technofantastic imagery, however. But there is a dark faerie, romance, limited time travel, and, most importantly, beauty. Oh yes, and horses. So many horses.

The “punk” object in my fantastical story is a very special keepsake that predicts true love. The wearer of this special jewelry need only answer the call of the heart, and the likeness of one’s true love magically appears inside its clasped chamber. Designed and built by a very special artisan, the keepsake you see pictured here embodies the very essence of “faerie punk” – which, I would like to define here and now as: a whimsical imagining that combines fantastical time travel with mischief and adventure.

Sound fun? I thought you’d think so. Now, off I go to find a leather flight helmet.

I’m such a Sisi

there's that apfel-cheeked karlheinz boehm crowning "me" empress

No, not “Sissi,” though the films about me starring Romy Schneider (that sad, sad gorgeous harlot–I mean, starlet), would beg to differ. We have Ernst Marischka, the film’s director, to thank for the blunder, but it’s an honest mistake, because Sissi is often the nickname for Elisabeth in Austria.

Here’s the real story on my various names. I was born Elisabeth Amalie Eugenie Wittelsbach.  My Papa called me Lisi, but everyone else in my family bellowed Sisi! when I misbehaved.  I was never one for sitting about with my lessons, so shortcuts-are-me, even if that meant eliminating an extra letter.  And, frankly, Sisi looks better on paper than Sissi.  Tougher, leaner.

In our day, we had multiple names and titles, and partly this was to distinguish ourselves from the many other people in our family with the same given name. For instance, my mother’s real name was Marie, but shortly after birth her parents started calling her by her middle name, Ludovika, and promptly named a younger sister Maria.  My little sister was also named Marie, so it would have been quite confusing to have so many Maries running around, yes?  Of course we kinder all called our mother, the Princess of Bavaria, Mummi, and Papa called her, well, we shan’t go there.

Then there’s the whole Elizabeth versus Elisabeth conundrum.  We have the Americans to blame for that!  They often bastardize (bastardise?) good words by inserting the unwholesome “z” in place of the British “s” in –ise words, (e.g. organise/organize, recognise/recognize, realise/realize).  I propose that Microsoft adopt the Oxford spelling spellcheck as default in their next Windows upgrade, in order to right the wrongs done on behalf of the free Colonial world. But then again, I’m royalty, so of course I feel this way!

50 Shades of Rose

www.raycaesar.com/

“It is not enough to conquer; one must know how to seduce.” (Voltaire)

They say that the Victorian era was backlash against the unabashed romps of us 19th-century sensual types. What do you think? Never was whiskey as plentiful as during prohibition, yes?

All this hoopla over mommy porn. You’d think this E.L. James invented the bodice ripper. The throbbing member. The very idea of “secret tryst.”

Well, let me set you straight. When it comes to clandestine titillation and BDSM, the Victorians were, shall we say, seasoned in the art of fantasy.

I submit this coy little excerpt:

“Laura Middleton: Her Brother and Her Lover” published by Anonymous, in 1890.

www.raycaesar.com/

Taking hold of her hand I placed it upon the stiff object and made her grasp it as it throbbed and beat with the excitement under which I was labouring. Her eyes were fixed upon the lovely object thus exposed to her gaze, and I could easily see from the flushing of her face and the sparkling of her eyes what a powerful impression I had made upon her.

All she said was, “Oh, but if John should know of it.”

I immediately replied, “But why should John know anything about it? You don’t suppose I am such a mean wretch as to tell anybody of what we may do, and if you only keep your own secrets no one need ever know anything about it.

“But perhaps,” I continued, “you think this little gentleman,” and I shoved the furious member backwards and forwards two or three times in her hand as she still continued to grasp it, “is not so big as John’s and won’t give you so much pleasure, but only let me try and I shall do all I can to pleasure you.”

Though we lacked the furtive graces of an e-reader, many a lady hid these little books behind a fan, or in the undergarments, shielded from sight by the complicated garments of the day. Oh, no, this Shades of Grey phenomenon is not new, not hardly. Mommy porn of the 19th century thrived and was passed, hand-to-hand, from Court to Countess to Commoner. We certainly had our own book clubs and garden parties and Ladies-in-Waiting sessions while our strapping men went about their business, their stiff objects leading the way.

four centuries of bad hats

I have gone on and on about my hair in past posts. I have written of the three-hour ordeals involving washing, conditioning, delousing, the weaving in of flowers and jewels.

And here, I bored you to tears with my thoughts on the relationship between hairstyles and tarts.

And who could forget my reportage on the Sisi Museum’s display of wigs meant to model my various styles?

Well, I’m sick of talking about my hair, so I’m going to rant about hats, instead. Hideous hats of all eras. Not only the ones popular in my day (which, you must agree, were rather tame). No, the hats that I wish to malign are those ridiculous head dresses that found popularity before and after my reign.

Case in point: the photo at right showing my dear great-grand something in-law, Marie Antoinette. Born nearly 100 years earlier than myself, she epitomized the lavish and overkill of France in the 18th century. Really, Marie, we know you were born into a huge family, but your cries for attention were all so obvious! Is it any wonder that your silly head ended up severed from your shoulders?

Well, those Regents and their pomp were no match for the Victorians and their gloom. I submit: those are actual dead parrots on that hat! Can you imagine? Who but the most oppressed and misaligned would deign to put a bird on it in such a fashion?

But ladies, if I may, none of these ghastly examples of head dress compare to hideosities in the current era. I submit: the royal wedding, so full of promise and sleek style. Remember Kate and Pippa and their gorgeous gowns, and then along comes the Duchess’s daughter smiling proudly under a … what? Something from the Tiny Toons section of Disney? Is that a hat, or did somebody stick a section of wrought iron gate on Bea’s head? Charity-shmerity, there is no excuse to allow oneself to be the family fop. Is there?

And, we don’t really have to point the finger at the royals only, do we? Recall that embarrassing get-up on the Vegas chanteuse, Celine Dion a few Oscars ago? Well, to some people Celine is some sort of queen, I suppose.

Of course, the original intention of women’s hats was not for frivolity and fashion. It was to cover the heads  of the fair sex, lest they fall victim to the carnal temptations of men. Given the atrocities in headwear over history, I’d say the original intent has survived, and is alive and well!

Sisi’s workout program

Ah, if only MyFitnessPal or SportsTracker existed 150 years ago. My kingdom for an app! It would have enabled my well-documented exercise obsession, allowing a quantitative measure of my efforts to maintain my 18-inch waist.

As it was, I would have put Jillian Michaels to shame. Biggest Loser, indeed! What with my bedroom trapeze, my mountain-climbing regimen, my strict diet of stag blood and milk, I would have made an excellent health and wellness consultant. Can’t you just see it? The Hofburg Boot Camp! Ladies would line up in the ballroom where I would distribute lead cannon balls. Everyone would grab a partner, and we’d have tight-lacing contests, similar to those kickboxing classes that are all the rage these days, where participants pull on elastic bands in rhythm to such ridiculous music as the Ninja Rap.

My version of Zumba would be a sort of speeded up waltz, with the Court composer flowering his musical ledgers with eighth notes and staccato. An assortment of Vienna’s frilliest dandies would join the class, happily flexing their ascot-festooned sinew, having rubbed slug paste on their shaved torsos to give off the perfect gleam underneath the ballroom’s heavy chandeliers.

Alas, they would have thought me mad(der) back in my day for even lightly suggesting that ladies should aspire to perspire. Aside from casual fanning (which amounts to perhaps 30 calories/hour), movement of all types was frowned upon. We were to maintain our lithe status through counting to ten between bites, and eschewing the extra shim of lard on our Sunday mutton. Indeed, they would have carted me off to the asylum had I suggested that a lady work towards developing six pack abs or buns of steel.

Pity. I would have so loved to see the Archduchess in a unitard, grunting away as she executed a series of roundhouse jabs.

Vinegar Valentines

Who said the modern lady has exclusive rights to the broken heart? Just because we didn’t have Adele in our day, doesn’t mean we did not express ourselves over the sorrow of love gone awry.

Case in point. As many of you know, I was betrothed to the Emperor when I was a wee 15 years of age. But what you may not know is that the auspicious engagement at Bad Ischl came on the heels of the death of my one true love. A count from Bavaria. He was a young man who went off to war and fell ill with some horrific disease (back in the 19th century, there were plenty of virulent bugs about. You caught a cold, and three days later, dead).

And even after my wedding, there were plenty of men who filled my heart with romance and intrigue, but, naturally, a Empress does not go around spreading her skirts willy nilly! No, I was a faithful, expectant wife–ever hopeful that my days would be appointed with favors and kindnesses, but woe and alas, marriage often leaves one hungry for love. On no other day of the year do the lovelorn feel more disheartened than on St. Valentine’s Day.

St. Valentine’s Day has a storied tradition of disappointment. Misunderstandings over how a hare should be properly boiled, or whether one’s summer holiday should be taken in the mountains or at sea. The Emperor, like many a husband, would forget all about the roses and chocolates–and scoot off for a hunting trip in middle of February. Heartbreak, ladies, is older than the hills.

Per chance you, too, are sitting alone on this day of love? As the adage goes, misery loves company, so I submit to you, this charming collection of Vinegar Valentines collected by Birmingham Museum. Enjoy.

Love,

Sisi

scheer beauty

Amy Winehouse footwear has no place in my wardrobe

In honor of groundhog’s day, I’m going to talk about shoes. Disconnect, you say? Nonsense. We’re talking about spring being around the corner, and that means one thing: fashionable attire. For an empress–or any lady–fashionable attire leads to footwear, ergo, today we will examine the insane popularity of Christian Louboutin heels and their ilk.

Now, I’m all for looking smashing and turning heads, but ladies, do we really need to invite deformation, ankle twists and the unsightly bulge known as Pump Bump?

Now these are boots fit for royalty

We Austrians may have our quirks, but if there is one area in which we excel, it’s in the manifestation of the sensible shoe. As you know, Vienna boasts several bespoke shops along its main retail thoroughfares–Am Graben, Kohlmarkt and Kärntner Strasse.

Modern-day dandies and the elegantly attired flock to Rudolf Scheer & Söhne where they can outfit themselves with the same late 19th century quality enjoyed by the Emperor and myself. Shoes that will hike a mountain and still retain their sole. Shoes that put foot health first (Herr Scheer was a foot doctor), but don’t compromise on beauty.

Thinking that Scheer shoes will make you look like your spinster aunt? Not-to-worry. You’ll dazzle any dance floor in red pumps made from a single piece of ostrich leather, or diamond-studded calf’s-leather pumps styled to look like zebra. And your feet won’t be aching the next day as you sip your café allongé at Cafe Drechsler.

So ladies, next time you feel the urge to cram your tootsies into a pair of come-fuck-me pumps, imagine the hideous bunion-studded, carbuncle-ridden feet that you’ll no doubt own the second half of your life.