Date: Sat, 6 Sep 1997 20:45:22 +0200 From: Hugh Rodwell <m-14970-AT-mailbox.swipnet.se> Subject: M-FEM: A time to Di -- collector's items? What I'm wondering now the cult can really get moving is not when the first Di sightings will come, but what sort of security they'll have at that country churchyard. I mean, what a collector's item the body or bits of it would be. Think of the vast illicit collector's market for the relics! But perhaps they've second-guessed the body-snatchers. What if the coffin's empty, or full of stones, and the real corpse is in a deep-freeze safe-storage vault somewhere? But the coffin would have a hefty value in itself. Perhaps even the dirt it's buried in. She herself is where savage commercialism will no longer lacerate her breast (figuratively speaking -- christ knows what the body-snatchers might try), but it'll be lacerating the rest of us all the more. As for a threat to the monarchy, we shouldn't forget the Windsors are professionals. They got the body with commendable despatch (though it almost slipped out of their grasp in the ensuing turbulence) and above all they've got the boys. What Di shares with Elvis (with respect to cult suitablity) is the amazingly comprehensive and abstract emptiness of horological predictions -- *everyone* can identify with them. They're chameleons, virtual creatures, open for us to fill with our own projections. Willing us to fill them, sucking our projections to them. And they both had the irresistible combination of apparent internal revolt and external respectable conventionality. Perhaps as Julian B suggested on m-psy it's a case of infantile pre-oedipal behaviour patterns persisting into adulthood. No sadness or melancholy, but formless love alternating with impotent rage. These infantile vibes would explain the aura of vulnerability and the sucking longing to be loved, as well as the flashes of overflowing indefinable "good", "love" or whatever that get people hooked. Hence the teddy bears left with the flowers at the sacrificial sites. ciao4now, Hugh
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