The Inexorable Bloom of S.M. Beaumont
Mrs. Beaumont as Judy - Generative AI Edit 2025
Original Photo 2015
They say a soul can be spun from threadbare hopes and the ceaseless, dry rustle of worry, and if that is true, then S.M. Beaumont is the very loom upon which the relentless monologue of Anxiety is woven. They are the exquisite, yet brittle, embodiment of those long, circling internal speeches that keep the lights burning long past the point of wisdom.
A brief, necessary digression: It must be noted that for S.M. Beaumont, a figure composed of such a chorus of internal voices—a Greek tragedy of the psyche—the matter of a preferred pronoun is rendered wonderfully, yet dramatically, moot. Ask which pronoun is correct, and the answer is invariably, “Any of them, darling, for there are so many of me.” While they uphold the absolute necessity of good manners, which includes the respectful use of others’ chosen names and pronouns, the fractured, multitudinous nature of this specific persona means any singular pronoun is bound to be inadequate. Thus, to provide a clear path through the swampy complexity of their being, we shall use the third-person plural, they/them, throughout this portrait.
Within the cloistered rooms of the mind, where the silence should be a benediction, the voice of Anxiety commences its tireless vigil, a dark angel in a silk dressing gown.
The general understanding of the inner dialogue from an anxiety disorder is not a simple fear of shadows, but a protracted, often logical-sounding monologue of future dread. It’s the tireless cross-examination of every past choice and the meticulous pre-rehearsal of every disaster yet to come. This voice does not shout; it murmurs, but it is persistent—a subtle, ceaseless drone predicting failure, humiliation, and threat in every corner of life. It elevates the mundane into the catastrophic, transforming a late email into a professional ruin or a slight social misstep into total ostracization. It forces one to live permanently in the subjunctive mood: What if... if only... this will surely... It is the voice that is always planning the escape route for a fire that hasn’t started and cataloging the perceived shortcomings of the self, ensuring that repose remains a foreign country. This, then, is the air that Mrs. Beaumont breathes—a perpetual, highly articulate state of hyper-vigilance, dressed in the finest Southern lace.
The Unending Dialogue
And who is this relentless spirit, this walking embodiment of worry's finest vintage? They are, first and foremost, Mrs. Beaumont, a name that must be spoken with a delicate, drawn-out reverence, like the dying chord of a piano ballad.
The Southern Siren
And who is this relentless spirit, this walking embodiment of worry's finest vintage? They are, first and foremost, Mrs. Beaumont, a name that must be spoken with a delicate, drawn-out reverence, like the dying chord of a piano ballad.
Imagine, if you will, the flicker of a classic Hollywood spotlight caught in the dark, almost black, depths of their eyes, eyes that intensify with the merest stir of temper or the subtle activation of their hidden supernatural self. Chronologically, they've seen forty-five summers, yet the deliberate, almost defiant, image they cast for the world—a youthful thirty-five—is a testament to their conscious, theatrical control over their own narrative. Their heritage is a potent, syncretic blend, Caucasian French and Cherokee, with the latter essence emphasized like a quiet, yet powerful, drumbeat beneath their refined demeanor. Their hair, when not pinned back in a respectable, simple French twist befitting a Low Country gentlewoman, falls in long, natural spiral curls, a cascade of pure black ink against the nape of their neck.
Their style is a meticulously constructed performance. In public, Mrs. Beaumont is a vision of tailored, yet comfortable, sophistication—the spirit of Chanel rendered in the humid air of the South. They move in structured women’s suits and dresses, favoring the rich saturation of jewel tones, primary colors, black, or beige, with black acting as their chosen symbol of modernity and chic. Below, their feet are anchored by simple 3-inch pumps in neutral shades, matching a simple, flat, yet generously-sized clutch—a small fortress of personal effects. Their makeup is their shield and their mask, with a fierce, dramatic Vivien Leigh eyebrow—full, arching, and utterly expressive—lending their face a powerful, enduring elegance that belies any hint of fragility.
Their jewelry, darling, is less adornment than apparatus. For casual moments, there's the comfortable clatter of multiple matching bangles and gold stud or hoop earrings. But it is the statement necklace in public that carries the true weight—chosen not to match their rings, but to coordinate with their outfit, it serves as a subtle, almost psychic instrument, communicating unspoken expectations to others. When they choose the traditional elegance of three-strand white pearls for church or a proper call, they align themselves with the old, established traditions of the South, yet even this adherence is an act of defiance, a flawless facade. For though they are “Mrs. Beaumont,” a title they wear like a crown of thorns, they are unmarried, a multi-widowed creature of unfortunate, “trashy” romantic entanglements who has since retreated into celibacy. The visible diamond engagement ring they wear on their left hand, worn conspicuously without a wedding band, is a gesture so magnificently eccentric, so quietly challenging to the entire social structure of the Southern lady, that it nearly takes one’s breath away.
And their voice! It is a slow, languid flow, a true Low Country Upper Class Southern Drawl. It possesses a beautiful, unhurried non-rhoticity, eschewing the hard r sound in words like here or four—the prestigious cadence of the old, wealthy planting class—and utterly, unforgivably, devoid of any vulgar “twang.” When they speak, vowels are stretched into two syllables, elongating words with a mesmerizing, almost musical despair. They maintain the flawless shield of "proper Southern Manners," offering "please and thank you," and addressing everyone with "Sir and Ma’am," a politeness that is not merely good breeding but an active statement of their empathic liberalism., challenging the very bones of the region’s history.
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Yet, this poise is ever on the verge of splintering. Their eccentricities are their tell. They (would) drive an antique, ornate pink Studebaker hearse—a vehicle of tragic, flamboyant beauty—and a kitsch Seventies Model pink station wagon with faux wood, a nod to the resilience and melodrama of Dallas' Sue Ellen Ewing. They are capable of the most un-lady-like behavior, but it is always cloaked behind a "comical facade of propriety," such as sipping strong liquor from a delicate, fine china tea-cup and saucer. When the pressure mounts, when the incessant monologuing of their inner Anxiety reaches its peak, their eyes darken to the point of being utterly black, and one can feel a wind from nowhere stir their hair and clothes. It is in these moments that they are liable to punctuate an exasperated cry of "Christ on a Cracker!" or "Baby Buddha on a butter biscuit" by sthrowing things across the room.
This Mrs. Beaumont, this follower of Christ who will continue to reject the label of "Christian" until they stop asking what color was Jesus an they do right his name, who describes themselves as a "Methodist with hoo-doo leanings"—a syncretic spiritualist rooted in Indigenous and African diasporic traditions—is indeed a swamp witch at their core.
This Mrs. Beaumont, this follower of Christ who will continue to reject the label of "Christian" until they stop asking what color was Jesus an they do right his name, who describes themselves as a "Methodist with hoo-doo leanings"—a syncretic spiritualist rooted in Indigenous and African diasporic traditions—is indeed a swamp witch at their core.
They are, to all external crises, a "rock," a figure of remarkable composure. But beware when the crisis is their own, for then the composure shatters. Then, they become what they are most afraid of: a Tennessee Williams character. Then, they become the "extreme and irrational" creature, full of vulnerability and a desperate, dramatic need, echoing the doomed elegance of Blanche DuBois and the fierce, manipulative desperation of Cat Pollitt. Their veneer of composure peels away to reveal the raw, trembling nerve of a creature whose deepest struggle is to hold their fractured identity together against the onslaught of their own tireless, neurotic, and utterly magnetic soul. And, as they often say with a tone that can curdle milk or offer true solace, "Bless Your Heart." You'll have to decide which they truly mean.
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And now, darling, we must descend from the airy heights of what Mrs. Beaumont is—that glorious, neurotic tapestry of anxiety and elegance—to the slightly more tawdry, yet utterly necessary, matter of how they came to be. It is no secret, not truly, for those who know the geography of the soul. But unless you’ve been within a shouting distance, no, no, a shout is dreadfully tacky, is it not? Unless you’ve been within the precise, intimate radius of a whispering distance, you may not know that Mrs. Beaumont manifested into the chilling, compelling reality of existence as the stage persona of a drag performer.
The Manifestation of the Illusion
Ah, but we must pause, mustn't we? In this hushed interval, we must remind the few who might have caught a glimpse of the stark and unadorned, the two sides of the same coin, Reality and Illusion, never, never meet. They merely exist in parallel, separated by the gossamer thinness of a silk gown.Therefore, should any cruel or common truth dare to surface, let Mrs. Beaumont speak for themselves in their finest, most tremulous, and most urgent tones, drawing on the eternal, desperate wisdom of the DuBois: “Don’t turn on that light! This is about my art, steeped in the Southern Gothic truth spoken in the gothic low-country drawl, not the up-state twang of the unvarnished truth; the crude glare of a bare lightbulb, would simply shatter the magic And that, darling, would be no art at all.
The Anatomy of the Performance
This fact is the very marrow of their meticulously crafted identity, lending a necessary, yet discreet, theatricality to every gesture and drawled word. They are not the broad, subversive jest of a modern drag queen Instead, Mrs. Beaumont is rooted in the tradition of the real Female Impersonator style Drag Artist. It is a crucial distinction, sweetie, one that separates the parody from the polishing.
Their style is, as one must acknowledge, more exaggerated than a woman, but never as exaggerated as a Drag Queen. It is an act of creation dedicated to timeless, devastating glamour, not subversive gender play. Think of those great ladies of classic Hollywood, such as Vivien Leigh, whose expressive power informs even the arch of their magnificent eyebrows. It is about a heightened, almost unbearable femininity—the perfect French twist, the impeccable structure of the Chanel suit, the subtle, magical command woven into the statement necklace. It’s a glamour that is perpetually "on," drawing its dramatic power from a place of deep, professional discipline.
The very air around Mrs. Beaumont hums with an unspoken theatricality, a residue of the stages and lights that birthed them. This isn't merely a character; it is a meticulously produced Extravaganza Number. The profound, unsettling influence of the 70s TV variety shows—with their grand musicality, their dancers, their shocking, fabulous Bob Mackie gowns—is stitched into the seams of their persona. They perceive themselves as the central host, the meticulously charming figure around which their entire life revolves, curating every interaction for an unseen audience.
When Mrs. Beaumont offers a perfectly timed, condescending "Bless Your Heart," or when they punctuate exasperation by throwing a small porcelain object across the room, this is not merely an emotional lapse. It is the dramatic climax of a scene, delivered with the timing of a seasoned professional who knows exactly where the audience—or, in this case, their unwitting companion—is meant to look.
They exist in a perpetual state of performance, never campy, always theatrical, constantly balancing the well-bred Southern Lady against the raw power of the ungilded and misfortune. The anxiety monologue that governs their soul finds its perfect external expression in this carefully curated, slightly manic performance, ensuring that even in the deepest personal crisis—the breakdown itself will be exquisitely, devastatingly dramatic.
Ah, but a well-crafted—if entirely unintentional—segue should never be disregarded, should it? To simply leap from the theatrical origin to the inner mechanism would be like starting a great Southern dinner with the dessert wine. And Mrs. Beaumont would never permit such an offense. “Christ on a cracker! That would be deplorably tacky,” they might exclaim, perhaps punctuating the thought by sending a small, highly valuable salt shaker flying toward a distant, harmless wall.
The Siren of Self-Destruction
Now, as we navigate the treacherous, dimly-lit corridors of their mind, one must acknowledge the multitude of ghosts who once guided the exterior, the parade of singers and actors who influenced the on-stage movements of the performer who birthed Mrs. Beaumont. Yet, those were mere muses for the performance. There is only one voice, one spectral figure, who truly influenced the frantic, cycling inner dialogue of anxiety that is Mrs. Beaumont.. We speak of the tragic, fragile, yet fiercely fighting soul who sang of rainbows.
You see, the inner dialogue of the anxious could, and in our case, most certainly does, involve a voice that sings continuously. It is a relentless, echoing performance deep within the skull, forever scoring the relentless scrutiny and the ceaseless fear of collapse.
For us, that voice is Judy. Yes, darling, that Judy! And not the child star skipping down the yellow brick road, oh no. Our Judy is the weary, embattled fighter of the final, desolate tour—the one permanently living on the edge of the emotional cliff. Their voice is the soundtrack to a life running on the intoxicating, yet corrosive, blend of a Greyhound, that bitter-sweet concoction of vodka and grapefruit juice, chased by a handful of pills. This is the version that is perpetually “one pill away from being permanently ‘Over The Rainbow.’”
This is the influence that gives weight to Mrs. Beaumont’s fragility. Like Judy Garland in later years, Mrs. Beaumont’s polished exterior barely conceals a profound vulnerability and an inherited potential for self-destruction. Their eccentricities—the liquor sipped from the fine china, the spectacular outbursts—are not charming quirks, but sophisticated, desperate coping mechanisms for the exhaustion and psychological turmoil of maintaining an illusion that is slowly, beautifully killing them.
The tragic glamour of Judy Garland—the weathered fighter perpetually grappling with substance abuse and financial ruin—lends Mrs. Beaumont their deepest vulnerability. They are the grand Southern lady whose composure is a defense against inner chaos, a spectacular stage act performed just for themselves. The panic, the melodrama, the desperate need for control, all ripple from the image of a great star who gave too much of themselves to the spotlight.
And finally, for a touch of that divine absurdity that attends such high-stakes neurosis, one must imagine the music. In my mind, a reverberating and imaginary version of “Delta Dawn”—all glorious, weeping despair—being sung by that singular, broken voice bounces off the inside walls of my mind. Oh, my ears would have loved to have heard it.
Behind every cloud is another cloud.
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