“Well really that would be most unconventional of you, not to mention unfortunate.”
“For who exactly? For me? Or for you?”
At this he paused. He could see this was going to be difficult and wasn’t at all certain how to proceed.
“Miss Palmer. I am not trying to trick you, or manipulate you. I am only trying to clear up a little messy situation that by all rights should not have occurred. I accept full responsibility for my part. Can you say the same?”
“So far as I can see your little mess has fuck all to do with me.”
“Ah, well, you may say that, but honestly, had you not clung to life with such tenacity then none of this would have happened.”
“Listen, mate. You can’t shovel your shit onto me. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question. What if I refuse to be completed?”
“I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that. But I suppose, if that were to be the outcome, you would be deemed not ready.”
“And . . .? What would that mean?”
“Well I guess there are two possible options. Either you could stay here and help us with our work, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or you could go back until you are deemed ready.”
“Go back? . . . you mean . . . back to being alive?”
“Yes, that would be the other option. But really, it is most inadvisable. I mean, consider the aesthetics, the Art. It would all be most horribly undermined. And there may be unforeseen repercussions. Things could get . . . complicated.”
“Fuck aesthetics! Fuck complicated! I choose to live.”
“Really, Miss Palmer, that is a most undesirable position to take.” Here his tone changed, becoming darker and a little threatening. “Listen! Let me ask you: do you really think it will last? The success, the glory, the adoration, the eyes of the world upon you? Oh no. It will fade. You’ll see. Like plucked flowers in an empty vase it will wither and die before your very eyes. And, knowing what you know now, you will everyday curse your decision to return.”
“No, you listen, Herr Nietzsche, or whatever your name is. This is your fuck up not mine. There is no fucking way I am staying here, and by your own admission I am not ready to move on whatever that means. So fucking send me back!”
“As you wish, Miss Palmer, as you wish. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
His words were becoming more distant, echoing around her head like church bells in a bowl of water.
“You’ll be seeing me again, Miss Palmer, and sooner than you may think!”
Now the whole room seemed to be retreating. She felt something akin to being sucked up into a syringe and then squirted out with great force. Then darkness, nothing but darkness, and the faintest distant bleeping of what sounded like . . .
hospital machinery.
****
Amanda had no way of knowing how long she had spent entrenched in the darkness, but as she slowly regained her consciousness the crazy dream came flooding back to her, and she began to smile. At least she tried to smile, but quickly realised this was impossible, as her mouth and throat seemed to be filled with tubes.
“Well, that much is true anyways,” she thought. “I have obviously had some kind of accident.”
With difficulty she began to open her eyes. Yes, she was in a hospital bed, and apparently connected up to all manner of bleeping, whining and wheezing machinery. Within a few minutes the physical discomfort was beginning to turn to considerable pain, and it was with some relief that she saw a nurse come into the room.
“So, Mrs. Palmer, you’ve come back to us. That’s good,” and she seemed to adjust something out of sight and a blanket of warmth washed over Amanda pushing the pain into the distance. “That must be the morphine,” she thought. And then a satisfied “ahhhhh.”
“You had a nasty little turn. We thought we’d lost you. In fact we did lose you for a couple of minutes there, but Dr. Bennington brought you back. He’s a lovely man you know, not like some of the other doctors. And handsome too . . . such a cute moustache . . .” She was now adjusting the sheets. Amanda tried to sit up, but her body didn’t seem to be working.
“Now don’t you try to move. You’re not out of the woods yet you know.” She was wandering around the room, checking on the various machines.
“Rest is what you need. Plenty of rest . . . And at your age these things can take a while.” Now she was at the bottom of the bed, writing notes on a clipboard.
“Your family’s been here the whole time. I think they’ve gone to get some breakfast. They’ll be so pleased to see you’re awake . . . And isn’t Abigail a sweetheart . . . She’s been my little helper these last few days.”
Abigail? Did she know anyone called Abigail? She was becoming confused. Maybe it was the drugs. But then again, maybe she should expect a little confusion after what was obviously a serious accident of some kind or other.
The nurse seemed satisfied with the notes and clipped them back to the end of the bed. “I’m just going to tell Dr. Bennington you’re awake,” and she headed towards the door. Just before leaving she turned back to Amanda. “Yes, you have some very beautiful grandchildren. You must be very proud.”
Did she hear that right? Grandchildren? She looked down across the bed. All she could see of her body was her hands. They looked old, frail, wrinkled and covered in veins . . . like the hands of an old lady . . . a 92 year old lady . . . And one word began to ring around her head, over and over . . .
“Fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! FUCK! . . .”
A Personal Extroduction from Text Number Four
By XXX XXXXXXXXX
Choosing a single example from the eight hundred and thirteen stories, poems and expositions I was given proved to be a very difficult process. After paring the collection down to 15 pieces I found myself having to invent various arbitrary criteria to aid my decision making. I discarded all those presented as poetry for no better reason than that I have always had issues with that form. Finally, having got it down to two, I was in something of a coin-toss scenario. I mention all this to emphasize that any small collection of this kind, gathered from so many rich and promising pieces will be by its very nature a somewhat unfair, arbitrary and random process, and should under no circumstances be considered authoritative. Personally I voted against the physical publication of this volume, preferring the compiling of an all-inclusive and thoroughly cross-referenced internet database, but I was outvoted, and not wishing to come across as a sore loser I decided to participate with all the thoroughness I could muster. (It was however agreed that I could express my many reservations about the project in this extroduction, as I have now done.)
I eventually settled on the previous story in large part because of its joie de vivre, an unusual and mildly ironic quality for a story focussing upon death, and to be honest, my best defence of this choice is simply that it tickled me somewhat. Strictly speaking the piece isn’t really a palmeresque in the true sense of the word, but nonetheless the author was clearly very familiar with the Amanda Palmer Circus, that motley collection of cabaret artistes, dancers, musicians, midget acrobats, hangers on and devotedly organised (and fully costumerised) fans that travelled with her from gig to gig, town to town, in scenes reminiscent of nineteenth-century freak-shows. Indeed many on the editorial committee believe that the author was most likely an insider (either one of Amanda’s friends or close colleagues) as there are a number of hidden references to small details of Amanda’s personal life, such as quotes from her favourite books, not to mention the many more private references that could not have been known, nor recognised, by anyone outside the “inner sanctum”. However none who have been asked have so far come forward, and it could well be that any story so rich in surreal symbolism will inevitably yield to retrospective interpretations of all kinds through nothing more than the subtle art of coincidence.
The writing is flamboyant, though strangely self-conscious, feeling the need to explain itself didactically from
time to time. A number of the characters are clearly based, loosely and superficially, upon real people, indeed there is one that I suspect is a somewhat unflattering portrayal of myself. The author’s portrayal of Amanda certainly depicts one aspect of her multifaceted personality fairly accurately, but is nonetheless rather flat and two dimensional, very much concerned with her constructed public face. There is nothing of the thoughtful, considered, sensitive, even vulnerable Amanda that those of us who knew her personally were familiar with. Nonetheless, the story is brimming over with vigour and optimism, and as such makes for a fitting memorial for an unquestionably colourful and energetic character. That is, in the first half. The second half seems to get stuck in an interminable, and rather tedious, debate with some form of super-ego figure posing as Nietzsche, but I let that pass on the strength of the first half alone.
I once asked Amanda how she would like to die. “In reality, or artistically?” she replied. “Artistically it would have to be something mysterious... maybe involving aliens or conspiracies... in reality, and this may seem a little disappointing, I’d probably like to die in bed, in my nineties, surrounded by family...” In this story she gets to try both.
If only real life could be that generous.
TEXT NUMBER FIVE
On the Unsung Death of Amanda Palmer
A poem for recitation in the manner of a vaudeville Melodrama preferably with improvised dramatic piano accompaniment. The choruses should be sung by massed voices to the tune of “All Me Life I Wanted To Be Barrer Boy”. The CHORUS should in general have their backs to the audience, turning to the front only to sing their lines, and then turning their backs once again.
CHORUS:
Who killed Amanda Palmer?
Who snatched her from our hearts?
Who stole away the best of us
To cleave the dream apart?
Who was it snuffed the candle?
Who damned us with that wrong?
Who plucked the flower before its bloom
Full ripened into song?
NARRATOR: (Walking through the CHORUS to the front of the stage. He is reading to himself from a small black book of poetry. Then, suddenly he closes the book and addresses the audience.)
And so it starts: the sun goes down
And city wide and city bright
The buzzing of fluorescent lights
Outweighs the dark and moonless sky
And all the silent passions drowned
By daylight’s wilful sanity
And patience worn too thin, are free
To vent their pain about the town.
CHORUS:
They vent their pain about the town
They vent their pain about the town
Yes all the silent passions drowned
Now vent their pain about the town
NARRATOR: (Raising his hands to the Heavens)
Some say this is the end of days
Of History, of God, of Art
Of honour and restraint, all passed
Betrayed by that essential “now”
And “want” and “me” and “greed” and “lust”:
Morality has lost its way
And we have drunk too much today.
(He looks down at the ground in despair)
CHORUS:
Oh we have drunk too much today
Yes we have drunk too much today
Morality has lost its way
For we have drunk too much today
NARRATOR: (Raising his forefinger to the audience)
Yet in that drunken overflow
That mad melee of lust and fight
That twists and scuffles, raining blows
Across the orange shadowed night
A gentle weeping found the heart
Of one whose sadness wandered by
And chanced upon a fearful sight:
(He staggers backwards, a look of shock in his eyes)
A little girl whose tears cried out
Amidst the city’s dreadful shout
For sympathy and kindliness
And other friends whose time was passed.
(Once again he turns his eyes to the ground in despair)
CHORUS:
All other friends whose time has passed
Another friend whose time has passed
Yes sympathy and kindliness
Are all good friends whose time has passed
NARRATOR: (Gesturing towards stage left)
For there, beside her, at her feet
A crumpled mass of cloth and hair
And blood was pooling in the street
In silent gasps that found no air;
A person once, a woman, blest
With all the hopes of life to come,
Now chastened by the arms of Death
Cut short by hands whose dream was worth
But one more fix to help them numb
The pain of what they had become.
(He falls to his knees in an imitation of tragedy, his head in his hands)
CHORUS:
The pain of what they have become
The pain of what they have become
Just one more fix to help them numb
The pain of what they have become
NARRATOR: (Still on his knees)
And as she wept, that little girl
Her tears did mingle with the blood
And dirt and cans and cigarette stubs
That choke the gutters with despair
At all that had been done to her
And all that would be done again
For every evil known to Men
Is found within those stinking slums
Those dismal streets, those dreary paths
That mark our culture’s epitaph.
CHORUS:
They mark our culture’s epitaph
They mark our culture’s epitaph
Those dismal streets and dreary paths
That mark our culture’s epitaph
NARRATOR: (He jumps suddenly to his feet, and gestures imploringly towards the audience)
He stood and watched, our passer-by
And though he felt, as well he might
A poet’s soul within his heart
He watched the woman slowly die
Whilst twisting tight his fine moustache:
He acted not to soothe her pain
Nor comforted the weeping child
But stood in silence, helpless, drained
Of power by sudden fright, deprived
By cowardice of all he thought
He might have been, or could become:
He learnt His Truth, and that night wrought
His impotence in future songs.
(A look of dissolute cowardice on his face)
CHORUS:
His impotence in future songs
His impotence in future songs
With a hey! and a ho! and a ding! Dang! Dong!
His impotence in future songs
NARRATOR: (He gestures towards the chorus who have gathered in a crowd behind him, then turns to the front, imploring once again)
He stood there as the sirens wailed
And soon a crowd had gathered round
The woman and the weeping child
But none would dare to step upon
The blood that spoke in eloquence
Of violence and its consequence.
No one reached forth to calm the girl
Whose freckled face and golden curls
Were smeared with blood and tears and bile
As in her arms she cradled all
That she could grasp of life now passed
A bundle made of arms and legs
And blood-soaked cloth.
Till suddenly
A shout: Make way! Move back! Keep clear!
And men in uniforms were there
To sweep away the dreadful scene
Lest it offend the filth and sleaze,
Or mar the midnight reveries.
CHORUS:
Oh mar the midnight reveries
Let’s mar the midnight reveries
Let’s all offend the filth and sleaze
And mar the midnight reveries
NARRATOR: (Searching, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun)
But where, where went the weeping girl
With smearèd face and blood-soaked curls?
For none had seen her leave that place
Nor did the paramedics take
Her in their screaming ambulance
To file her name and stamp her heart
As “property of New York State”
It seemed as if she’d disappeared
And that was just a little weird.
(He paces back and forth across the stage, as if still searching)
CHORUS:
And that was just a little weird
Yes that was just a little weird
It seemed as if she’d disappeared
And that was just a little weird
NARRATOR: (A change in tone, now more factual, addressing the audience)
And so our poet passerby
Continued on his weary way
Much troubled by this weak response
When called upon; his impotence
To act when action was required.
What value poetry? he thought
When tragedy berates the heart
For letting such things come to pass.
What use to me is song and dance
If stand and stare is all I do
And think about the words I’ll use
To make it mine, to take the scene
And frame it in bright poetry.
I am a coward and a rogue
Not worthy of the gifts bestowed
Upon me by the hands of Fate
I shall renounce my pen, and break
My staff upon the Heaven’s gate.
(He raises his fist to the Heavens as if banging a great staff upon the Heaven’s Gate)
CHORUS:
He’ll bang his staff upon the gate
His virile staff upon the gate
He shall renounce his pen, and break
His staff upon the Heaven’s gate
NARRATOR: (Looking down, as if taking a child’s hand)
But then a tiny voice, a hand
And looking down he saw the girl
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 9
