. . . and on her head, a crown of seven stars

Music: The The: The 45s THE INTERIOR IS MERELY A FOLD, OR, THE CONSTRUCTION OF A HYSTERIC I watched with some eagerness The Runaway Bride: A Katie Couric Special on Tuesday night. Barring one very artful jab by Couric, however, the special was surprisingly (and perfectly) devoid of content; the "interview" was just as vacuous as Jennifer Wilbank's head. When asked how she came up with rape fantasy, Wilbanks responded (with rising intonation) that perhaps she had watched "too many cops and robbers movies?" Nearing the interview, when asked the proverbial question, "why?" Wilbanks opened her eyes even wider, pursed her lips, and in the most convincing tone warbled, "I don't know."

Couric could have been much more direct, and the decision not rehearse and ask questions about the homoerotic rape fantasy was symptomatic of many lawyers and scripted conditions. Why couldn't have Annie Lennox done this interview? It could have been so much more profound . . . consider if Couric had soulfully packaged the question like this:

Tell me... Why Why I may be mad I may be blind I may be viciously unkind But I can still read what you're thinking And I've heard it said too many times That you'd be better off Besides... Why can't you see this boat is sinking (This boat is sinking this boat is sinking) Let's go down to the water's edge And we can cast away those doubts Some things are better left unsaid But they still turn me inside out Turning inside out turning inside out Tell me... Why Tell me... Why

But the interview was devoid of any sense of a sinking ship; it was all about how this ship is damaged but getting its hull patched up at the psychiatric ship yard.

The problem is that neither Wilbanks nor Couric see that there really is no ship at all; after one stupid or inane stuttering after another, one would think Couric would have come to the conclusion she is speaking to a vessl of the popular imaginary. Everything Wilbanks did when she ran away, up until the interview, is scripted. The only moment when there was something akin to a core of agency is the very moment that Wilbank's ran, and perhaps when she let her perversions run their course.

Do we "own" our perversions? Perhaps this is the seat of agency after all: the only moment of genuine self-direction is when the unconscious core has its way.

Tell me... Why Tell me... Why This is the book I never read These are the words I never said This is the path I'll never tread These are the dreams I'll dream instead This is the joy that's seldom spread These are the tears... The tears we shed This is the fear This is the dread These are the contents of my head And these are the years that we have spent And this is what they represent And this is how I feel Do you know how I feel? 'Cause I don't think you know how I feel I don't think you know what I feel I don't think you know what I feel You don't know what I feel

Lennox is both right and wrong here. She's right that one's feelings are not subject to knowledge in the sense that they can be captured, possessed, and owned. Indeed, the protest sung at the end of Lennox's "Why" is the answer Wilbanks, in fact, gave: I am a discrete human being worthy of respect and entitled to my own feelings, but I’m not sure what those feelings are. Wilbanks also said, again and again, she didn't know what she felt, but whatever these feelings are, she's entitled to them . . . as soon as the partriarchs tell her what they are. From perversion back into the safety of hysterical neurosis.

As for jilted groom (can a groom be jilted?): let us just say that, if the television interview is any measure, these two were made for each other.

REISHARAMA

Fortunately for me, my object of affection is complicated. What happens in Carbondale stays in Carbondale, for the most part, but I'll tell ya that I toured the beautiful SIU campus, ate at some nice restaurants, had a pic nic in a pretty part, received a professional massage at a spa, and cooked for three, gorgeous ladies on Tuesday evening. Curious readers are encouraged to develop their own running narrative of my recent, whirlwind tour of Salukiland based on this photo gallery. A mix CD of the genre of music of choice will go to the most exciting, HOT narrative submitted by readers . . . .

CONDO-LICIOUS

I'll be contracting with a professional mover today to get all my crap to Austin. It appears the town home purchase is immanent, pending LSU does what they are supposed to do regarding my separation. All the requested repairs will be made by the owner or the complex, so this is good news. My monthly payment will be much lower than I expected since I'll be putting about five percent down. It appears that the movers will load on closing day (July 22nd), and I'll be driving with the cats to the new place a couple of days later. I'm excited and nervous, but also anxious to "get it over with." I'm a neurotic mess and insecure when it comes to picking up and re-planting my life. It will be months before I can think in a straight line and sleep peacefully.