As for the psycho-spiritual debate that forms the main body of the text, well it is hard to know whether it reveals a complex many angled psychological argument, or a series of simplistic and contradictory truisms, most likely the latter. Certainly there are some stanzas that are rich in pretentions of beauty and profundity, some even feel quotable, and yet the overall argument is more than a little incoherent, and inconclusive. If I had any faith that this was in fact the author’s intention, that being to imply the complex and contradictory nature of the human psyche as understood today, then I would take off my hat and introduce the world to a fine new poet, but alas, I have no such faith, and suspect that this is merely the product of “woolly thinking”. It is, however, these many contradictions that both fascinate and perplex me. I simply don’t quite understand what the author is trying to do, and suspect that he (I am fairly certain it was written by a man) doesn’t either.
Nonetheless it is certainly not without talent, technique and ability, not to mention a distinct flair for words. I particular enjoyed the mixing of old formal English with more modern terms.
Generally I have a fundamental problem with most modern poetry; indeed I have in my time been called reactionary. But I find that almost every example I read is toying with nothing more than the mundane details of modern middle class ennui. Of course there are exceptions, but where are the big issues? Where is the search for the eternal? Where is the responsibility of the artist to delve deeper than his fellow man (woman)? And also, I have issues with the discarding of form. It seems to me that much modern poetry is really prose unnaturally divided up into lines, with no more sense of rhythm than a traffic jam. What strikes me most about this text is that it attempts all these things: the discipline of regular rhythm and rhyme; the search for the eternal; delving into the big issues. And though it frequently fails at everything it strives towards, every box is at least ticked.
I therefore must wholeheartedly applaud the intentions of the author, whilst sighing woefully (and occasionally laughing uproariously) at the obvious failings of the text itself. I only hope he/she learns to focus his/her thoughts more coherently in future works.
TEXT NUMBER FOUR
On the Near Perfect Death of Amanda Palmer
It is a widely held notion that at the moment of death one’s whole life flashes before one, and indeed that is almost always the case. So as Amanda Palmer lay dying she was surprised to find someone else’s life flashing before her. Or rather she would have been surprised had she had the consciousness to question it. As it was she just lay there, drifting upon the dreamlike images that passed through her mind, images that seemed strangely unfamiliar, and yet somehow comforting. In the distance she could hear herself gasping for air, feel the blood leaving her body, taking with it what little strength remained, but all that seemed like a memory now, of little concern. She had no idea how this had happened. Nor did it seem to matter: this was the first time she had died, and she was keen to see what the experience had to offer. Even in this situation she considered herself an Artist, and is it not an artist’s job to explore the extremities of experience? If she was to die, then she would do it properly. In life she had always prided herself on her courage to leap into the abyss, and there was no reason to feel differently now. This was just another challenge. To cling to life when the ultimate culmination of experience lay within her grasp would be a betrayal of everything she had claimed to be, everything she had dreamt she was. Certainly she had had her moments of doubt. There had been times, many times, when the fear of finding she was ordinary had eaten away at her confidence, made her question if she had it in her. But this was her chance, her final and most glorious chance to prove herself, to be the bold explorer, to map the very borders of existence, and she was determined not to find herself wanting.
But none of that explained the life that seemed to be flashing before her, which was definitely not hers, not that she recognised anyway, and that was the puzzle. “Well that’s a bit fucking weird,” she thought, wrestling what remained of her consciousness from the corporeal remains below. Was it below? Already she realised she was making assumptions. Open-mindedness. In situations like this that was the key. No assumptions, no rushed explanations, just sit back and enjoy the ride—she didn’t really mean that last bit but felt the need to state it to herself regardless. Why did she do that? She always did that. She had after all considered “Miss Placed Bravura” as a potential stage name some years earlier. No, come on girl, focus on what’s happening. This is a one-time shot. And with not inconsiderable effort she slowly managed to bring the vision into clearer focus. Whoever’s life it was she was seeing, or rather visiting, for that was closer to how it felt, they were by now considerably older than her, and seemed to have given themselves over to the domestic simplicities of motherhood. “How fucking tedious was that!” she thought, as the envisioned life drew towards it’s close until suddenly it blinked into nothing leaving her with a slightly uncomfortable feeling of grand-maternal love and domestic self-satisfaction, which she tried to form into words, to expel them aloud from her gut, but all that came out was a long and garbled “fuuuuuccck!!!”
Okay, so this was nothing, nothingness, she got that. What now. Isn’t she supposed to flicker out of existence, or move on to a higher plane or something? And hey, what about the white light? Shouldn’t there be a white light? . . . The nothing continued being nothing. If she was to be entirely honest, and really there was little point in anything else at this stage, she would have to admit that this “nothing” business was beginning to freak her out a little. Indeed the notion of eternal nothingness was becoming ever-more feasible, and she didn’t like that thought at all. She sat down. Well at least there was a floor, so “nothing” might be too strong a word. Slightly . . . But nonetheless . . . The unease was slowly turning to mild panic. Now girl, get a grip of yourself, she thought, this is no time for panicking . . . No time for panicking!? Surely if ever there were a time for panicking this was it. And didn’t she have all the time in the world, beyond the world. Might as well get the panic over and done with so she can settle in and relax. So she stood up and screamed, screamed with all her considerable might sending an echo around the emptiness that lasted a good few seconds. Aha. An echo means walls . . . and walls often mean a door? All I have to do is keep walking straight . . . and in time . . . At this point she hit something solid with her head. Fuck! That hurt. Almost immediately a door appeared where she had hit her head. It was a large panelled door, freshly painted in black gloss with an enormous brass knob at chest height and a rather splendid engraved brass letterbox which she proceeded to bellow through. Helllooooo! . . . Nothing. She was just about to shout again when she thought she caught the distant tapping a footsteps on a hard stone floor. Yes, definitely coming her way, and in something of a rush. She pressed her ear to the door. As the footsteps got closer she could just hear an intermittent wheezing accompanying them. Suddenly they slowed, then stopped.
After a moment’s pause the door clunked quietly to itself and then swung open with a self-satisfied sigh. Stood before her was a tall, slim, elegant, red-faced gentleman, dressed in English tweeds and wearing a fine waxed moustache and a somewhat apologetic expression.
“I am so sorry, Miss Palmer. So sorry for my lateness,” he wheezed, clearly still catching his breath.
“Such tardiness is unforgivable. And on today of all days.”
He beckoned her to come inside. She stepped through the door into what seemed to be the exact same nothing of the previous room, if room is even the right word for an undefined space filled with nothing.
“This way Miss Palmer. Please follow me . . . follow me. Just along here . . . this way.” He seemed to be urgently hurrying her along, and though she dutifully followed she was beginning to have second thoughts. “Come along now, we’re already running late. . .” At this she stopped.
“Late for what? . . . And what is all this anyway? . . . Where am I? . . . Where are we going?
. . . At least that is what she thought she said. What actually came out was somewhat more garbled and shot through with expletives. But either way, the moustachioed gentleman was entirely unfazed.
“No time for questions, Miss Palmer. Not now. They’ll be plenty later. Just come along please.” Although this entire situation was more than a little peculiar, it struck her as particularly odd that every now and again he would stop, look searchingly left and right into the absent cavern of nothing, and then purposefully turn one direction or another and stride forward, checking his watch and muttering to himself before calling back to hurry her on.
“Nearly there now,” he said, turning again, this time to the right, and glancing at his watch. A hundred or so yards later he stopped.
“Et voila!” He gestured smugly towards . . .
“A ladder! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“I kid you not, Miss Palmer. After all, when has getting somewhere important ever been easy? Please follow me . . . and don’t get too far behind, we’re already late.” And before she could say another word he was disappearing up the ladder, calling back from time to time to hurry her along.
She must have climbed a good hundred yards or so when the ladder abruptly came to an end. Abruptly, as there was no indication of its impending conclusion - it seemed to be propped up against nothing at all. It wasn’t until she reached the very top that she realised that it was in fact leaning against what can only be described as a hole in the side of the nothing, or rather a tunnel, shaped something like a gothic arch and with brightly painted external baroque finishings. She peered hesitantly inside only to hear her moustachioed companion calling her along into the dark and surprisingly damp interior. It was barely tall enough to crouch in, so she had to go on all fours. The walls seemed to be made of bricks, old crumbling bricks at that, and were lined with a good century worth of slime and moss and... well, she didn’t even want to know what that was.
She must have been in the tunnel for a few minutes when a dim light began to glow somewhere in the distance, marking, or so she hoped, the other end. Is this my bright light? she thought, slightly mocking herself. My loved ones waiting to greet me at the end of some damp fucking hole! “Wait-up!” she called into the dim but ever-brightening distance, and made what effort she could to speed her progress.
At the other end the passage seemed to contract somewhat before opening out into an obviously bigger and brighter space. As she clambered through she realised she was climbing up out of the rather grand fireplace of what can only be described as a Queen Anne drawing room, fully bedecked with richly textured fabrics and tassels, still lifes on the wall. She collapsed on a surprisingly comfortable armchair to get her breath back.
“We really must hurry along you know, we’re late as it is,” said the moustachioed gentleman tapping at his watch before opening the French windows to reveal a most unexpected view: they were looking out at the most unimaginably enormous furniture warehouse, filled to the very top with a towering chaos of chairs stacked upon tables stacked upon desks, upon wardrobes, upon barrels, upon chests upon... were those coffins?
“You gotta be kidding me!” At the top right-hand corner from their perspective she could see door with the word EXIT writ large in chalk above. “We gotta climb up there?”
“It’ll be a piece of cake, Miss Palmer, with cherries on top, if you catch my drift. Just follow along closely. I know the way.” And with that he was gone. Amanda remained seated. A few moments later his head reappeared around the open door, his eyebrows raised. She paused for dramatic purpose.
“You know, I think I might just sit here for a minute. I’m guessing you can’t make me move, or you wouldn’t be bothering with all that polite cajoling.”
“Come now, Miss Palmer, that won’t do, really won’t do at all . . .”
“Well I’m not budging, not until you answer some questions.” She leant forward, and gesticulated. “I mean, what the hell is this. Is this Hell!? It’s a fucking furniture warehouse. That’s what it is! Is Hell a fucking furniture warehouse? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“More of a dispatch depot really.”
“Ok, so it’s a fucking dispatch depot. What the fuck am I doing here? And why the fuck do I have to climb the fucking thing!? And... and... what the fucking hell is going on?!” She felt surprisingly refreshed after that little rant.
“Please, do calm down my dear.”
“Don’t you fucking patronise me.”
“Sincere apologies, Miss Palmer. I understand that this might seem somewhat perplexing. We are indeed moving via unconventional routes. But this is an unconventional circumstance. There is no precedent, no accommodations made for such a happening. It truly is most irregular, so please do come along, we really don’t want to make things any worse.” And with that he was gone again.
“Worse for who?” She said this to herself as she didn’t really want an answer. Reluctantly she stood up and moved to the doorway to address the situation of the climb.
“But why furniture?” she called after him.
“Everyone needs furniture. Quite a sound investment I would say.”
The ascent proved far easier than she had imagined, like being a small child again, climbing Furniture Castle on moving-in day. And as she reached the top, a good 200 feet up, she surprised herself by yelling aloud “BoooooHa!” If she didn’t know better she might have mistaken that for a shout of glee. Truth be told, and slime aside, she was beginning to quite enjoy this little run-around, although when she noticed the moustachioed gentleman looking at her through the doorway she quickly changed her expression to one of mere tolerance.
“This way please.” he said, gesturing inside with the smallest hint of a knowing smile. And he was gone again.
“So what’s next?” she thought, this time ready for anything. As she passed through the doorway into what seemed to be a Boston back alley, complete with its associated stink of rotting food and piss, she couldn’t help but mouth the words “curiouser and curiouser.”
“It is indeed a shame that we have to arrive by the stage door—we had such an entrance planned for you . . . dancing girls, magicians, acrobats, midgets . . . the whole damn works. But then under the circumstances . . . well, it just doesn’t seem quite appropriate now . . .”
They reached the stage door, clearly defined as such by the elderly security guard, and the flickering sign above saying Stage Door in pink and green neon. As he opened the door the guard acknowledged them with a polite “Good evening Sir, Ma’am.”
Inside, the main corridor was lined with a veritable menagerie of circus performers, burlesque girls and street entertainers, the majority in a not inconsiderable state of undress. Midgets in blue spandex hotpants abounded, many stood upon each others’ shoulders in small groups. There were dancing girls galore, dressed (or becoming dressed) entirely in feathers of innumerable different but equally bright colours. There were clowns of every shape, size and demeanour; magicians in top hat and tails with enormous handle-bar moustaches; a plethora of stilt-walkers, each strumming quietly to themselves upon a ukulele, mouthing the words of some inaudible song, whilst stooping somewhat so as to avoid banging their heads on the ceiling. As they slowly elbowed their way through the general hubbub and melee of bodies they occasionally passed an open dressing room door, each revealing a more surprising scene than the last. A gathering of great philosophers, at least men in false beards and wigs dressed as great philosophers: she recognised Socrates, Schopenhauer, Blake, and Newton, but who was that young man in a tuxedo? Perhaps Wittgenstein? The next open door revealed a girl in a dress made entirely from pages of Moby Dick – she wasn’t sure how she knew it was Moby Dick, but of that fact she was certain. At the girl’s feet was an elderly gentleman, on his knees, attempting to look up her skirt with his hand-held spectacles whilst she danced about in a mildly provocative manner. A few doors later opened onto a blazing row taking place between a dandy-highwayman and a lady grandfat
her clock. And so it went on, corridor after corridor, turning after turning until they came to some stairs.
Just as they were about to ascend, a rounded and slightly oafish gentleman, in a superbly huge top hat and bright red tailcoat (presumably a circus ringmaster of sorts) came bustling down the stairs, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd whilst shouting through a megaphone “More delays, more delays . . . please remain in place and await further instruction . . . more delays, more delays . . .” nearly deafening Amanda as he passed. At this her moustachioed friend immediately seized the moment, diving headlong into the wake of the oversized gentleman calling out “Make way for Miss Palmer . . . make way for Miss Palmer . . .” whilst dragging Amanda behind him by the hand. This seemed to work as they were on the stairs in no time, though she did notice many accusatory glances cast in her direction. As they made their way up the stairs the crowd thinned considerably until by the third flight there was only one solitary midget-acrobat carefully applying gold makeup to his legs and torso. He looked up at them as they passed:
“You better be good. He’s in a foul mood today,” he said before returning his attention to the gilding of his nipple.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Amanda asked with some urgency as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Oh, nothing for you to be concerned about Miss Palmer. Internal politics, nothing more. Come along now. We’re nearly there.”
They were by now stood at the top of the stairs, before a set of rich red velvet curtains that hid a large double swing door.
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 7
