A Personal Extroduction from Text Number One
By XXXX XXXXX
Having read through nearly eight hundred texts it is clear to me that the phenomenon of the palmeresque is more interesting than the many individual writings themselves, for most, at least amongst the selection I was given, seem to be very similar and seep that brand of two-dimensional fan adoration that has always made me feel a little queasy. That said, there were a number of texts that stood out for various reasons, and in this case it was both the quality of the writing and the parabolic (in both senses of the word) nature of the storyline.
Strictly speaking this text is more a quasi-palmeresque, as it breaks a number of the notional rules, most obviously in its presentation of the means of Amanda’s death, however, since all the biographical content is imagined, and her death is portrayed as a poetical conclusion to the storyline, I was able to convince others amongst the editorial committee that it should be included. In addition, it is one of the few texts that I read to which there is an underlying and meaningful theme.
To my mind this tale is clearly a parable of media celebrity and PR in which Amanda becomes the helpless victim of a savage and brutal machine. In reality this was far from the case: she was well-versed in playing the media, and only on a handful of occasions did the machine get the better of her, but again, it is this reinvention of Amanda as a symbol of powerlessness fallen into the hands of an evil Svengali figure that gives the story a freshness, at least when compared to the other more adoring texts.
Structurally it forms an elegant arc, remarkably akin in many details to the sonata form in classical music. It is effectively built of three acts, beginning and ending in much the same place, with a fairytale rise and decline in between. This concern with formal devices is further emphasized by the placement of its centre: that being the first piece of spoken quoted text, when Silas meets Amanda for the second time, which falls precisely at the golden section, (A+B is to A as A is to B), a structural device often used by classical composers such as Haydn or Mozart. This cannot be mere coincidence and I therefore would suggest that the author was something of a scholar in the formal study of Classical music.
I recognise many references to popular culture TV shows, whether conscious or unconscious on the part of the author. Most striking is the curse itself which is clearly inspired by a gypsy curse from the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the opening scenes are distinctly reminiscent of Carnivale. Finally, as the tale draws to a close I cannot help but be reminded of Kafka’s The Hunger Artist. Yet all the pieces are neatly sewn together and the story, to my mind, comes across effectively as a whole.
Certainly it is flawed, and there are some passages that read somewhat clumsily, but overall it was the best of a moderate and at times disappointing bunch. Indeed, if it had only been written with a more insightful eye and greater mastery of language it might have been a short story worthy of some note in its own right.
TEXT NUMBER TWO
On the Strange Case of the Death of Amanda Palmer
Amanda Palmer, a singer of some renown, and composer of numerous charming ditties, was midway through her 32nd year when she reluctantly accepted the post of Musician in Residence at St. Mary’s School for Girls, near Warrensburg, on the edge of Adirondack Park Preserve. She had, of course, held more prestigious posts in her time, indeed once she had been the very toast of the boards, but, alas, her many benign eccentricities had somewhat gathered momentum over the past few years, and, truth to be told, her reputation was not what it had been. For, Amanda Palmer had a number of unfortunate habits, not least of which was her insistence upon seeing things that weren’t quite there, or rather, as she liked to put it, things that other people chose not to see. “The mind reigns over the eyes in all matters of interpretation,” she would often declare when challenged, though this somewhat cryptic explanation only served to add to her reputation as a mild-mannered madwoman, although admittedly not without some talent. When pressed further, which was truly a rare occurrence, she would often quote Swedenborg or William Blake, but by that time no one was ever paying her any serious attention, and she often felt that her most enlightening remarks fell upon deaf ears. As with her music.
Certainly she was an averagely adequate singer and pianist, very capable of stringing together a charming, if at times derivative, melody, but her career had never gone quite as she had imagined it should. And after that unfortunate incident at her last major show, which is best left unmentioned here, she had found herself to have run out of options. It was as a personal favour to her father (a rather unpleasant and ill-tempered man who despised his daughter and was more concerned with his own reputation) that her Aunt Elizabeth, head mistress of St. Mary’s had offered her a post; Elizabeth’s reluctance having been overcome by the generous donation offered to the school in return. However, she was certainly not going to give her any opportunity for direct contact with her girls, and so her new post required only that she performed a concert, once a month, to include some original material, in the Chapel, thus leaving her ample time for contemplation, meditation, confabulation and other appropriate pursuits for a lady. And so it was that she took to strolling across the hills of an afternoon, somewhat against the advice of the locals, for she had never much cared for advice, and still less for locals come to that, and the hills seemed to her to be the perfect place for gathering oneself, for they were free from unmannerly distractions, and the many tedious interruptions she had so often been faced with when living closer to alleged civilisation. There she was able to open her mind to the gentle rhythm of her strolling feet and wander freely, both within and without, unravelling endless melodies in her mind from which she would cherry-pick for her next month’s concert. And so it was that she found herself once again out upon the hills one Friday afternoon, three days after her 33rd birthday.
Having taken a slightly different choice of paths than usual, and not having paid any particular heed to her course, as she felt she knew her way quite well enough, she was surprised to find herself entering a narrow wooded valley that she had never come upon before. Admittedly a little excited by this delightful and private discovery, and never having been one to leave an interesting stone unturned, or so she liked to think, she immediately headed down the valley and in among the trees. And what extraordinary trees they were! Though obviously ancient, and being made up mainly of oak, they were all fantastically knurled and twisted, and not one of them stood much more than three times her height. Every branch was peeling with long ribbons of lichen reaching down in some cases all the way to the boulder strewn ground, from which sprang a veritable jungle of pink and purple foxgloves and giant ferns, making her passage more than a little difficult at times. Finally, having clambered a good fifty yards, aided considerably by the affectation of her walking cane, she came upon a tidy little path gently sloping down the hill. Most extraordinary of all, along the sides of the path every twenty yards or so were what could only be gravestones, roughly hewn from that same granite as the boulders further up the hill. “This is all most perplexing,” she thought as she followed the path downwards, “for why would people go to the trouble of burying their dead all the way out here?” There were no obvious signs of habitation, and the graves, though old, were not ancient. Indeed a number of them seemed to be almost recent, judging by the lack of mossy growth upon their faces.
She approached one such stone, set back from the path by about six feet, and nearly fell as her cane became wedged between two rocks. Having regained both her balance and her dignity she swished away at the somewhat overlarge ferns surrounding it with the tip of her cane, until enough was cleared for her to peer forward and inspect it properly. Yes, it did indeed seem to be fairly recent, as the tool marks were still clearly visible and un-eroded, and there were only the occasional spots of lichen, no bigger than a single cent. There were no dates, just a name, which at first she could not make out as her own shadow was blocking the thin residual sunlight that managed its wa
y through the trees. But as she moved to the side she could just about read the words: “Toby Jameson.”
“I know that name,” she thought. “Now who was it?” and she made her way back to the path. “Yes that’s right”, she mumbled to herself. “Toby Jameson!” She remembered a boy, no more than twelve, with long blonde locks and a tight purple velvet jacket. Toby had been two years her senior at St. Peters, her old school. He had been a fine pianist, by children’s standards anyway, and it was his example that had ultimately inspired Amanda to take up music professionally all those years ago. She recalled that he had managed to grow an unusually confident moustache for a twelve year old. “Still,” she thought, “it’s not at all an uncommon name. Must be someone else,” and she continued her musing as she proceeded on with her stroll. But curiosity soon got the better of her, and before she knew it she was once again struggling over boulders to inspect another gravestone.
Now this one was definitely a little older, being altogether smoother, considerably more worn, and largely covered with a thick coat of moss, which she poked and scratched at with her cane until the face was more or less visible. Again, just a name with no date. She cleared the remaining mossy growth with her fingers and leant in close. What she read sent a distinct and somewhat unpleasant thrill along her spine: “Sxip Shirey.” Now that had been the name of her Professor at the Academy, whom she knew to be dead and buried in New York’s Greenvale Cemetery, as she had personally attended the funeral a few years past. But what a truly extraordinary coincidence. It sent her heart racing, just a little.
By now curiosity had certainly got the better of her and she hurried from stone to stone, paying scant attention to anything bar the names: Evelyn Evelyn, Benjamin Folds, Baby Dee St. Vincent: and with each name she read she became a little less curious and a little more afeared, for each and every stone bore the name someone she had known, someone who had, in one way or another cast their influence over her life. Certainly she had seen many strange things in her time, and believed in them all, sometimes against her better judgement, but none had been so sinister and truly bizarre as this. Further and further down the path she raced, slashing her cane before her at the ferns on either side, in a manner that can only be described as somewhat frenzied. Her mind was whirring. This was impossible! It simply could not be! She knew it not to be. And yet it was. Here in front of her. Solid as the very stones on which the names were carved. And then, suddenly, something caught her ear, something beautiful, yet strangely unreal, coming from further down the valley. She stopped and listened intently. Yes, it was a voice, an extraordinary voice whose tone surpassed all depth and sweetness of any she had heard. Her mind was in such confusion, and her heart pounding away so fiercely that sheer instinct for safety and survival made her stop in her tracks, and her thoughts retreated into the wondrous sound allowing her frantic body a brief moment of respite.
“What a beautiful song,” she thought, and yet she could not place it. It was somehow at once both intimately familiar and enchantingly exotic – perhaps something that she had not heard since her childhood. Yet, it sounded modern, even new, and had a freshness about it that seemed entirely relevant to her at that moment, like freshly picked flowers.
She knew by then that it was inevitable that she should follow the sound, and all conscious and sensible thought left her, for were she to think about what was happening, even for a moment, she would surely become completely mad. And so she followed the path, at a regular and even pace, as if this were the most ordinary of afternoons, as if it were mere idle curiosity that drew her onwards towards the source of the music.
Further and further down the valley she went, and with each step the light seemed to fade just a little, and the strange music seemed to grow ever louder. Finally, after what felt to her like an age (and yet how could she tell, as her mind was entirely confused by now) she approached a small clearing at the very centre of the wood, which she instinctively knew to be the end of the path. And there, stood before another large gravestone, this one freshly carved and slightly glinting in the remnants of the light, was a figure, perhaps a girl, singing to herself, with a voice more magical than could possibly be dreamt of. Amanda stopped. Yes, it was a girl, that much was clear now, slender and petite, though something was unaccountably strange and unreal about her. It was hard to tell anything more, as the evening shadows were creeping in ever closer now, and she appeared only in silhouette. As Amanda listened, entirely enraptured, she suddenly realised, with a momentary gasp, that this phantom, for phantom it surely was, this phantom was staring directly at her as she sang. And yet, though still very much afraid, the music was so sublime, so entirely right in every way, that all Amanda could do was to stand and listen with her mouth hanging slightly open somewhat in the manner of a fool.
How long she stood there is impossible to know, as time no longer existed for her; the world no longer existed; all there was the song; and what a song! It was not a song to be found in this world, but a song as she had dreamed a song could be, a song that had touched the very soul of God and now drifted down to earth as a mirror of His divine intentions.
It seemed that day turned to night and night turned to day and still the phantom girl sang on; and still Amanda listened as the notes unravelled in endless strings of jewels, each one shaped and polished to perfection. Until finally, finally the phrases leant towards an end, the pulse was slowed, the effort subdued, and the wondrous other-worldly music reached its right conclusion.
In the silence that followed Amanda slowly awakened from her reverie, no longer afraid, but burning with awe and admiration. Phantom or no, there was so much she wanted to ask this girl, so much that she wanted to say herself, for surely anyone, anything, that could sing like that was a true Artist and companion soul.
She took a step towards the beshadowed figure and was about to speak when the phantom herself broke the silence.
“So you have come at last”, she said. “I have been waiting.” It was the strangest voice she had ever heard, almost as if it were not sounded at all, but cast directly into her mind. She was not sure how to respond and stammered without due thought:
“Who are you? . . . What was that song? . . . It was Divine! . . . I myself am a singer you know.”
She still could not see the figure clearly as the shadows seemed to follow and emulate her every gesture. Again the phantom spoke:
“It was the song of your life; the music you have been seeking; the music you yourself might have written had your heart and ears remained open!”
Not having fully digested this last statement, Amanda continued:
“Is it written down? . . . Can I get a copy? . . . I would so love to sing it at my next concert.”
“That music was for you only, and no one else. Now you have found it your journey has come to an end. It is time to take your place.” And with that the phantom stepped from in front of the gravestone, indicating with her hand that the inscription should be read. It was freshly carved with sharp edges catching the light, and the engraved letters, which had been painted in gold, were clearly visible even from the small distance at which Amanda stood. What she read filled her head with horror and her heart with resignation. Inscribed in Gothic lettering were the two words: “Amanda Palmer.” As she looked back at the phantom the shadows seemed to clear and all of a sudden she could see the face clearly. It was her own face, her own eyes looking directly back at her, and at last she understood.
More than that I cannot say, for I am only at liberty to report her journey in this world. Her body was never found. And it was supposed by some that she had inadvertently strayed and sunk into a bog.
She was missed by few, and mourned by none.
A Personal Extroduction from Text Number One
By XXXX XXXXX
As I perused the eight hundred or so texts I had been given to choose from, this one seemed to jump out at me for a number of reasons. It was in many ways completely unlike the majority of palmeresques I ha
d read, indeed in most respects it isn’t really a palmeresque at all, and as such, is therefore both totally unrepresentative and yet uniquely interesting among the many more derivative and tedious pieces. A cursory search of the internet showed it to be represented on 687 independent web-pages (in June 2008), although some versions contained occasional noteworthy differences. In almost every case it was presented anonymously, as would be expected, however on three sites the author is named as P.H. Lovelace, clearly an unveiled reference to H.P. Lovecraft, the early 20th century English author best known for his ghost stories, and it does seem to be written in vague imitation of his style. The language itself is exaggeratedly old-fashioned and formal, as if attempting to emulate the language of a nineteenth-century English gentleman, which strongly suggests it was written by an American. Further to this, the detached formality of both the writing and the storyline itself makes it more than likely that the author was male.
What is most striking about the writing is its depiction of Amanda Palmer herself. The author has reinvented her very much in a Lovecraftian mould: she is cold, aloof, deluded, and most importantly, she is something of a failure in life. Basically in every sense the opposite of the Amanda I knew. And yet, somehow still quite likeable, like an embittered twin sister.
I am particularly intrigued by why the author might have decided upon this approach. It seems to me that there are three main likely interpretations. Firstly, that the writer, clearly a Lovecraft enthusiast, was uncomfortable with their own emotional reaction to Amanda’s death, and thus took on both the style and detachment of Lovecraft as something of a mask to disguise their own emotional vulnerabilities, although in this context the last lines do come across as a little too cruel. Secondly, that the author, again a Lovecraft enthusiast, had no interest in Amanda or her works, and was motivated to write by having stumbled upon other examples of Palmeresque. To my mind this seems the most likely explanation, and if true, demonstrates that the appeal of the form has begun to reach beyond its original demographic. The third possibility is that the story had been written before Amanda’s death, as a poor imitation of the works of Lovecraft, and was altered at a later date to fit the form. Personally I consider this to be the least likely explanation.
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 5
