On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer
Page 10
But now her face was clean, her curls
Were bright, her dress no longer stained
“Mister,” she said, “Do not be sad
Don’t blame yourself for things you did
Or didn’t do. There is no gain
In that. You didn’t shoot the gun
You came upon her dead and gone.”
CHORUS:
You came upon her dead and gone
You came upon her dead and gone
It wasn’t you who shot the gun
You came upon her dead and gone
NARRATOR: (Somewhat ashamed of himself)
“But I . . . I acted not” said he
“I merely gazed upon the scene
To steal its essence as my own”
“Tush now” said she, and touched a bony
Finger to her sallow lips
“’Tis past. But I would ask you this
Please don’t discard your poetry
But tell your tale and write of me
Of everything you saw this day
Of her who died in such a way . . .”
CHORUS:
Of her who died in such a way
Yes her who died in such a way
Tell everything you saw this day
Of her who died in such a way
NARRATOR: (With kindness)
“And what of you?” he asked. “What now
Where will you go, what will you do?
What is your name? Who cares for you?”
“Oh I was never really here
It was your poet’s heart that found
A way to make my spirit’s shape
My name is hers, her name is mine
In many ways we are the same
A single thought in different form:
I am her last unfinished song
A ghostly song conceived in death
And then abandoned, left unsung,
And so I ask of you kind sir
Please write me into tender verse
And spread my voice about the world
For that is still my destiny
If ever such a thing can be.”
CHORUS:
If ever such a thing can be
If ever such a thing can be
Yes that is still my destiny
If ever such a thing can be
NARRATOR: (Reassuring)
“Oh, that’s a promise I can keep
You have my word in certainty.”
Then, in that instant, she was gone
She melted into melodies
That whispered ripples through the streets
Disguised upon the autumn breeze
A distant half remembered song
CHORUS:
A distant half remembered song
A distant half remembered song
Yes in that instant she was gone
A distant half remembered song
NARRATOR: (He walks to the front of the stage. Once again a change in tone, now more factual, addressing the audience.)
And so the poet wandered on
Not caring where his footsteps led
For he was lost in melodies
And words were dancing round his head
Until he landed home at last
And set about the promised task.
(He takes a pen and paper from his pocket and starts to write)
CHORUS:
He set about the promised task
He set about the promised task
Oh when he landed home at last
He set about the promised task
NARRATOR: (As if telling a story)
For five long days he sat and wrote
And wrote and sat and did not care
For sustenance, nor did he fear
The fever rising in his bones
‘Till, as he penned the final word
His heart gave out, a groan was heard
Then nothing and the poet died
His promise kept, his oath preserved.
CHORUS:
His promise kept, his oath preserved
His promise kept, his oath preserved
He’d written out his final word
His promise kept, his oath preserved
NARRATOR:
For five long weeks his body lay
Unnoticed by the world around
Until his landlord came to claim
The money that the poet owed
And opening the door he found
A stinking corpse upon the ground.
But even selling everything
The poet owned, his books, his ring
His shabby clothes, his summer tent
There’s not enough to pay the rent.
CHORUS:
There’s not enough to pay the rent
No not enough to pay the rent
His shabby clothes, his summer tent
Were not enough to pay the rent
NARRATOR: (Very moral tone)
And so they cleared away the mess
And found upon the dead man’s desk
A manuscript, an epic verse
That told of tragedies and woes:
How Poverty was raped by vice
Left bleeding in the street to die
And yet, a seed was sown, a life
Was made, a story born of song
To heal the heart that broke so long
Ago; to salve the festering wound
That marks our hearts within the womb.
CHORUS:
They mark our hearts within the womb
They mark our hearts within the womb
Those self-inflicted festering wounds
That mark our hearts within the womb
NARRATOR:
And as they cleared away the mess
They took the papers from his desk
And bagged them up with rotten food
And other rubbish from the room
And no one ever read the lines
That broke his heart, for which he died,
For in a dumpster they were put
And in a landfill now they rot.
CHORUS:
And in a landfill now they rot
And in a landfill now they rot
For in a dumpster they were put
And in a landfill now they rot
NARRATOR:
And soon a pretty girl moved in
Who had a job, and paid the rent
On time, and no one spoke of him
Again, who died where now she brings
Her clients for nightly spanking fun
And other corporate disciplines.
(Finally he turns his head away in despair, and walks, through the CHORUS off stage right.)
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?
Who plucked the flower before its bloom
Full ripened into song?
A Personal Extroduction from Text Number Nine
By XXX XXXXXXX
Initially I was quick to discard this piece as it is in many ways not really a palmeresque at all, however it caused me such ironic amusement that in the end I found myself returning to it repeatedly for light relief during the arduous reading process. Finally, and quite unexpectedly, I found it had become my choice.
I am still uncertain quite how seriously it is intended: I like to think that the author was entirely unaware of the comic potential of his/her work (the work itself implies that the author is male), although I suspect it was knowingly calculated, largely due to the faintly mocking tone of the chorus sections. It is very much a piece that only really works when read aloud, as the high register of the language seems clunky and exaggerated on the page but proves great fun to p
erform. I imagine it being read aloud at some Victorian fireside, vastly overacted, and the whole family joining in the chorus sections.
The narrative of the piece is interesting in a number of ways, some of them most likely unintentional or possibly again cleverly contrived. Essentially it seems to be a glorification of the poet himself. The poet stumbles accidentally upon the dying Miss Palmer and there finds himself paralysed by the sight, unable to help or assist in any real way. But then the spirit of Miss Palmer’s creativity is passed from her dying body to him, and he vows to make something in verse worthy of the terrible sight he has encountered, to make art from her death. He returns home and writes a masterpiece, but alas it is never read as he dies upon concluding, the power of his own words having literally broken his heart, and since he owes money for his rent his possessions are hastily cleared and discarded for the next tenant. Thus it seems to ask the questions: is Art of any real value compared to the realities of Life and Death?; is a great poem still a great poem if it is never read?; can inaction when action is necessary ever be redeemed through Artistic creation? But there is also a proto-literary twist, for it is hinted at that the poem we are reading is the poet’s great work, but that was supposed to have been lost, and if it is then who finished it? Who wrote of the poet’s death? Or is it essentially a poem about the making of the great poem? A making-of docu-verse?
But in the end the narrative itself had little to do with why I chose this particular piece – I chose it because of that charmingly ludicrous image I had of a stern Victorian father reciting aloud at the fireside, his children chiming in with every chorus. Television has indeed got a lot to answer for.
TEXT NUMBER SIX
On the Aesthetic Decline of the Mock-Funeral
One of the stranger fashions to have been taken up by the wealthy and celebrated in recent years is that of staging one’s own funeral. And indeed it is a great illustration of how we, the readers of tabloid newspapers and glossy magazines, can become acclimatised to that which is absurd, bizarre and utterly extraordinary. The other day, whilst standing in a supermarket queue, I overheard a conversation between two middle-aged and somewhat overweight women flicking through Zoo magazine. Suddenly the elder of the two said, “Ooh, they’ve got Ozzie’s funeral”. The other leant over to take a look. “How many goats did he have?” After a brief pause the first replied “Sixteen, and four ostriches. . . . Eddie Izzard was the priest.” They turned the page. “Oh, doesn’t Kelly look gorgeous in black.” “I bet those shoes cost a fortune.” Then one pointed at some picture I couldn’t see and they both erupted in laughter. “Did she really think she could get away with that! . . .” “J-Lo’s was better, more colourful.” I was fascinated by the casualness with which they discussed what I felt to be a considerably surreal event. To them it was little more than a fashion parade, an excuse to admire and condemn the tastes and figures of younger, richer, prettier people than themselves; to me it was an expression of unprecedented decadence amongst the celebrity classes, and, as with all expressions of decadence, a most revealing window to the many hidden (and not so hidden) sicknesses within.
This unlikely fashion for the premature staging of one’s own death ritual should not be confused with the ancient rituals of re-birth that are known to date back to the days of the Pharaohs, if not earlier. Those were part of a larger whole, a manifestation of religious beliefs that placed the political leader in the role of a God, whose rebirth on a monthly, or in some cases daily, cycle was deemed to be essential for the health of society. Their political purpose was the demonstration of hierarchy, and the reinforcement of power bases. They remained fixed and unchanged across generations. By contrast, this modern manifestation is an expression of individual concerns and values and though it naturally relates to issues within the larger society it is essentially a personalised ritual, in most cases designed as a public display of the aesthetic or philosophy of what I shall refer to as the “notionally deceased”.
To fully grasp the essence of the mock-funeral it is important to contemplate for a moment the essence of a real funeral, that being, at least in today’s society, the cathartic expression of grief. A funeral without grief is essentially an empty vessel, devoid of meaning or motivation, and it is that vacuum which lies at the heart of the mock-funeral. How it is filled, be it with statements of aesthetic, commercial implications, protest, egotism or simply fashion, can be a very telling indicator of the spiritual and indeed mental health and concerns not just of the persons involved, but also of the times in which they live.
Let us consider for how this all started. The earliest known example of a mock-funeral being staged purely for aesthetic or artistic reasons is that of Frances Featherstone in 1894. Featherstone, a self proclaimed pre-modernist1 poet of the late nineteenth century and spiritual leader of the movement known as the Devonshire Cathartists, became, towards the end of his life, increasingly fixated upon the crucifixion and subsequent resurrection of Jesus, despite being an ardent atheist and proudly devout sinner. On July 4th 1894, before a crowd of around thirty fellow poets and other pre-modernist artists, he was ritually enshrouded and be-coffined, placed upon a pauper’s hearse and pulled, by his followers, eight miles into the depths of Dartmoor, to a ready dug grave. The coffin was interred at midday, fires were lit, toasts were given and Featherstone’s epic poem, Reinventing Lazarus (now sadly lost) was recited by Sir Henry Irving, with occasional breaks for light refreshments. Finally, upon completion of the recitation some twelve or so hours later, the grave was unfilled and Featherstone arose from the ground at midnight, cleansed and renewed, miraculously reborn through Art. At least that is how the event is presented in his journal.2 A local newspaper3 report paints a slightly different picture:
This last Sunday was witnessed a further demonstration of the increasing lunatic eccentricity of local “character” Frances Featherston[sic.] and his dubious associates. In what can only be described as a most perplexing comedy of sanctimony Featherstone had himself be-coffined amid considerable invented ceremony, and then dragged upon an offall[sic.] cart into the depths of the moor. Our source, who followed the proceedings at what was described as a respectable distance, reports that upon arrival atop Crow Tor the coffin was placed in a ready dug grave and covered over, following which the most debaucherous of celebrations ensued involving much drunkenness and not inconsiderable nudity. Among the revellers were the actor Henry Irving and Exeter stationary magnate Sir Edmond Whitstable . . . What possible motive he might have had for such an act of assured self-importance is hard to fathom, but one would have thought Mr. Featherston[sic.] would be keeping a low profile given the recent allegations levelled against him . . .
Whichever account is closer to the actual occasion, it is clear that the proceedings were conducted with considerable ritual intention, and it should be noted that even drunken nudity would not be undertaken lightly in February on Dartmoor where temperatures frequently fall well below freezing. Featherstone’s journal4 indicates that his intention was that of rebirth:
. . . and through this act I shall arise reborn, cleansed of all that has corroded my soul over a life unduly devoted t’wards sin, corruption and vice . . .
However overblown, romanticised and egotistical this may seem, it must be acknowledged that ritual rebirth is at least a fitting purpose to motivate a mock-funeral, and is in many ways expressive of the aesthetic of the fin de siecle as a whole. This was after all a period whose artistic movements were dominated by Mme. Blavatsky’s pseudo-spiritualism, consumption of opium and absinthe, and a faith in social progress not yet undermined by the savage mechanisation of war. Featherstone was attempting to free himself of his past persona, to make himself a better man, and ultimately to prepare himself for his final act of contrition—the self-crucifixion of 1896 that was to inspire a generation of future artists.
Featherstone himself had certainly never intended to start a trend. As a man dedicated to uniquenesses of expression, he would most likely have
been scornful toward those he often described as “nature’s harmless copyists”. However, among the then-fashionable Decadent movement of artists, this ritual of rebirth through artistic debauchery was widely taken up. In the following years there are many such accounts of mock-funerals, each of them following something of the same pattern. Count Eric Von Stenbock, Franz Stuck, Ernest Dowson, M.P. Shiel, and Octave Mirbeau are all known to have conducted mock-funerals that largely followed the same pattern as Featherstone’s, specifically including recitations, drunkenness and nudity; though in none of the above cases did the notionally-deceased spend more than an hour nailed within the coffin.
Among the more notable figures to plan such an event at that time was Featherstone’s one time friend, and long time enemy (following a much publicised argument involving accusations of plagiarism on Featherstone’s part) Oscar Wilde. Until recently it was assumed that Wilde had planned this event to mark a ritual rebirth after his all too public disgrace, however recently discovered letters5 strongly imply that it was in fact planned more as a satire on Featherstone’s own self-importance. Either way it was widely anticipated as a most elaborate event, due to take place on January 1st, 1901. Sadly Wilde’s actual death on November 30th 1900 cut these plans short, and the lack of funds left upon his decease resulted in a plain and non-descript real funeral most memorable for the moment when “Bosey” Douglas, Wilde’s lover and instrument of his downfall, was accidentally knocked into the open grave by Father Cuthbert Dunne.
The unprecedented death toll of World War One brought an abrupt end to this first wave of mock-funerals, particularly after the unfortunately timed event staged by the minor English painter Edgar Stanhope in November 1916 which resulted in a mob chasing the participants along Brighton’s London Road, whilst hurling both abuse and horse dung.6 At a time when many families were deprived of the closure of a real funeral for their lost brothers, fathers and lovers such self-indulgent stagings were deemed to be in considerable bad taste, a mood that continued between the wars and on into the years of depression and austerity. This consensus was however broken by two notable exceptions, those being Ezra Pound and Aleister Crowley, both men who took great delight in affronting polite society and challenging what they considered, each in their own way, to be the “woolly thinking of the bourgeoisie”.