On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer

by Rohan Kriwaczek,

  “Jamie?” Her voice was barely audible through the tears.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Jamie, it’s me, Amanda.”

  “Oh . . . Hi Amanda. How’s tricks.”

  “Jamie, I want you back, I need you.”

  There was a long pause. “But Amanda, you dumped me.” His voice sounded cold, indifferent. Not like Jamie.

  “It was all a mistake. The biggest mistake of my life. Please...”

  “I’m sorry Amanda. I’ve moved on. You forced me to move on. I’m working for Miranda Barker now.”

  “Who the fuck is that bitch!” Another long pause.

  “I think I should go now. Please, don’t call me again.” And with that he hung up. This time she didn’t have the energy for another tantrum, and so just lay in bed, quietly weeping until finally sleep took her briefly from her misery.

  Over the following weeks Amanda shrank to a shadow of her former self. She didn’t wash, and barely ate, spending her time vacantly staring at her TV screen, or wandering the streets of Manhattan in a daze, scaring passing children as the various peeling layers of her makeup gave her something of the appearance of a Hollywood zombie. And she did indeed feel like the living dead. After all, if a star is never photographed can she still be a star? If a singer sings to an empty hall, does she make a sound? And if no longer a star, or even a singer come to that, then what was she? She had never been a normal person, a member of the audience classes. It was as if everything that made her Amanda had been stripped away, leaving what? Was there anything left underneath it all? Such were the thoughts whirring around her head as she placed one foot in front of the other in no particular direction. And there, at every newspaper kiosk and magazine stand was her nemesis staring back at her: Miranda Barker—My Secrets for Looking Good; Get Fit With Miranda; Miranda’s Top Tips for a Better Love Life; Sex, Boys and Macrobiotics—Miranda Bares All; hell, some magazines had even starting calling her Manda!

  Then, one evening, Amanda decided it was time to wash the past from her by now emaciated soul, and so she ran herself a hot bath. As she lay there soaking in the deep water, gently wiping away the glamour and the makeup it became apparent that her greatest fear was indeed entirely justified; for with each touch of the sponge she seemed to fade, just a little, until finally nothing at all remained. It was as if she had dissolved in the water.

  Six weeks later a neighbour alerted the police that something may be amiss at her apartment, for the lights had been left on, the curtains left open and the radio left playing. When the door was broken in and the apartment was searched they found her discarded clothes beside a full bath of water stained with many bright colours and no sign whatever of her body.

  I would say that nothing was heard from her again, but rumour has it that on certain nights a disembodied voice can be heard quietly echoing around the apartment, and if you listen carefully you might just catch the words to her last hit song, “(What’s) the point of it all?”; although, of course, it may just be a trick of the wind, quietly singing to itself amidst the telegraph wires.

  A Personal Extroduction from Text Number Seven

  By XXXXXXXXX XXXX

  As soon as I read this story I knew I had found my choice, though I did dutifully read the many other hundreds of texts I was given, just to be sure. And, if I am honest, I was almost relieved that there were no other serious contenders, for I really wouldn’t have wanted to put this rollicking tale to one side, as by then I had grown rather attached to it. Why? Well, largely because it was a story I recognised, on one level or another, from so many artists and bands I have worked with over the years, who lost their vision in the face of the great publicity machine. It is an age-old tale, doomed to be repeated for eternity, or for as long a mankind can muster the will to be.

  Certainly this text is a satire, and a rather flat one at that. The characters are little more than two-dimensional ciphers, there to represent ideas rather than to live and breathe as themselves, mere crude stereotypes. But then stereotypes are just that for a reason. I mean who hasn’t had a Filtch in their life? Or a Jamie? I know I have, repeatedly, and still I never see them coming. Thus, like all good satires, it holds a mirror to ourselves, revealing from a distance all the absurdities and contradictions that rule our lives, each and every one of us.

  From a literary perspective it is not a particularly impressive piece, and is certainly far from the true spirit of the palmeresque. However it does have a certain charm, the occasional witty phrase, and is, once or twice, almost insightful. Basically it is a retelling of the Doctor Faustus story, and as such attempts the challenging task of becoming a modern morality tale about over-reaching ambition, perhaps a vice the story itself could be accused of. But despite its many failings I did find it most enjoyable and strangely comforting.

  And I must admit I did smile at the portrayal of Amanda as a publicity whore. Had the Amanda I knew turned her prodigious talents towards mastering the publicity machine she would, without doubt, be more famous than Jesus. Thankfully, for all of us, she stuck with writing songs to the end.

  TEXT NUMBER EIGHT

  On the Exultant Death of Amanda Palmer

  It was unusually warm that morning, as it had been for nearly a week now, possibly due to the thick blanket of cloud that had sat upon the moors since the New Year. This had been a cause of much debate amongst the shepherds at the Goat and Firkin, the only drinking establishment in that corner of the North Moor, as it made the job of tending the flocks so much harder. Joseph Grimble was missing ten sheep somewhere south of Crow Tor and rumours were rife that the beast was abroad. Strange moans had been heard drifting on the wind near Wistman’s Wood where the Devil was said to drive his hounds, and Grimble was reluctant to venture too deep into the valley. Still if the sheep were not found he would lose nearly a month’s wages, and he feared his wife more than rumours, for her savage tongue put the Devil to shame. So that morning he had left his son in charge of the flock and headed south towards the Tor. In his pocket were his grandfather’s crucifix and the Book of Common Prayer, just in case. He did not consider himself a superstitious man, but even so, out on the moors, in the mist, in the very deep of winter, well the mind can play tricks on even the most rational of men.

  Two hours later he stood atop of Crow Tor, scouring the landscape with the short telescope he had purchased the previous spring, for his eyes were not what they used to be. There was no sign of his sheep on the higher ground, and the mist that filled the valleys obscured any notion of an easy resolution, but as he hopped from the great rock with surprising agility for a man of his age, he came upon a trail of droppings that filled him both with hope and a little dread, for they led him down the slope into the mist towards Wistman’s Wood, an ancient fairy wood, ripe with myth and legend, and generally avoided by all who had but an ounce of common sense.

  It was heavy going as there was no path and the steep hillside was densely strewn with granite boulders, each one dressed with moss, and made all the more treacherous in this dreadful damp. One false step and his ankle would snap like a stick. He could see but twenty feet ahead of him, and when the first gnarly oak loomed through the mist he caught himself muttering the Lord’s Prayer. “Now don’t be a fool, Joseph,” he thought, but finished the prayer nonetheless. He had left Night, his jet-black border collie, with his son, and now began to regret it. Night was afraid of nothing, and his courage was infectious. He would take on creatures twice his size and rarely came away with even a scratch. But he was needed to guard the flock, what with rumours of the beast being abroad, and anyway, Grimble was known for his sturdiness of heart and devoutness of spirit: he had his reputation to consider; if ever a man had God on his side it was he. As a youth he had become something of a local hero when the church caught fire and he had risked life and limb to rescue the bones of St. Boniface. For that he had received a commendation from the Bishop, and a silver spoon, now long since lost. Yet age has a way of withering resolve and fear and su
perstition seeps in through the cracks. Legends, he thought, don’t just spring from the air, and this place, this fairy wood, was rife with them. He had heard the tales as a child, and oft repeated them as a father.

  Grimble made his way forward toward the tree line, and then stopped again and sat himself down upon a cushion of damp moss. No point in facing the Devil on an empty stomach, he thought, and took from his coat pocket a brown paper parcel tied in rough string, which he proceeded to unwrap. It was a salted mutton and turnip pasty, not his favourite but tasty enough, and all the better washed down with strong liquor: he always kept his flask filled with Brown’s “whiskey”. No one knew what Brown put in that stuff but it certainly packed a punch and kept out the cold. By now the sun was high and the mist was beginning to clear, though it seemed to linger still among the twisted shapes ahead of him. He hesitated a moment longer to consider what he might find within. There was no doubt about it. His sheep had wandered into the wood, probably seeking shelter from the wind, and he would have to follow. And surely neither the devil nor the fairies would take any great interest in sheep; after all did not the Bible state that they had no soul? In truth he had always puzzled over this, as they seemed to have their own personalities, but Father Stringer was a wise enough man to know such things, and so Grimble chose to take his word, for though he knew much about sheep he knew little about the workings of the soul. Fortified in body, if not spirit, he clenched his heart and headed into the wood.

  There was something unaccountably ancient about this place, even the air tasted stale and musty, and the trees, bent and twisted like crooked old witches draped in beggar’s rags: he felt like a trespasser venturing into some nether-world that should not be disturbed. The ground was densely strewn with moss-covered rocks and mouldering vegetation fed upon by strangely coloured fungus growths the like of which he had not seen before. Every branch hung with fronds of lichen, some as long as an arm, that brushed at his face as he willed his way slowly forward. The silence was unnerving, and he made every effort to make his own stumbling progress as quiet as was possible, as if for fear of waking something unknown, unknowable, and best left at rest. Occasionally this silence was broken by the scuttling of tiny claws upon the rocks and once he came upon an adder which quickly slithered out of sight at his approach. Though the wood was not big, its density and uneven sloping contours meant that the search would have to be particularly thorough, and was taking much longer than he had hoped: certainly he wanted to be well away before dusk.

  One, maybe two hours passed and he had started rehearsing reports of his failure to his wife when he heard something large moving not too far ahead. He stopped. There it was again. Certainly a large animal, possibly a number of them, and a chill ran through him. It was either his sheep, or the Devil’s Wish Hounds were beginning to stir. His instinct was to hide and wait, but duty sent him creeping tentatively towards the sound. Then, as if out of nowhere, a bleat, and the feeling of relief nearly knocked him over. He almost forgot where he was and strode confidently forward towards what turned out to be a small clearing. There were three, four, no six of his sheep sat contentedly on the mossy ground, chewing away, and as he entered the clearing he could see two more between the trees a little further up the hillside. No doubt the others were nearby. They looked up casually and seemed to recognise him, before returning to their chewing. Grimble sat down upon a rock not more than a yard away and took the flask from his pocket as if to congratulate himself. But as he drank he heard something else, something that sent a shiver right through him, something like a moan but not quite human, and it seemed to be very close, and coming from behind him. He jumped up, spun around, and there before him, not more than six yards away, was the most appalling sight he had ever seen. At first he thought it must be some spirit apparition, some ghastly ghoul risen from hell itself to torment his soul, but then he realised it was all too real, and a deep terror and dread gripped his soul the like of which he had never felt before. His body shook uncontrollably and before he could think he was on his knees, heaving up the contents of his stomach and mouthing prayers between the bursts of bile and mutton. Once he had regained control over his body he looked again: it was a woman, or rather the wrecked shell of a woman, little more than a girl, nailed to the remnants of a rotting stump in a savage mockery of the crucifixion. This was no sanitised image of spiritual suffering; it was a violent and bloody sight; just to look upon the pain-racked face seemed an unbearable torture to him. And then it hit him that this body, this shell of a girl was still alive, barely, and he realised that he had to do something: but what to do? Her wrists were pierced with massive nails, like those used to secure railway sleepers, as were her feet, and he had no idea how to go about removing them, or even if he should. And there was so much blood. Her clothes, strange clothes, a tarts clothes the like of which he had never seen before, were entirely soaked through, though the bleeding itself seemed to have stopped as the blood was congealed and glooped around her wrists like wax running down the stem of a candle. Grimble just stood and stared, completely baffled as to how to proceed until another dull moan shook him from this ghastly reverie and the urgency of action hit him. He moved towards the girl and tentatively pulled at one of the nails. There was no way he could do this alone. He would have to get help, and quickly. He wanted to speak, to console her somehow, but the words wouldn’t come, and so he turned and ran towards the nearest farm house up by Two Bridges, not more than a mile away. He would get help. He would get Father Stringer, yes, the good Father would know what should be done.

  ****

  The strange procession slowly wound its way along the misty musty moorland footpaths like a scene from some medieval painting. At its head was Father Stringer, a man whose enormous force of personality was larger even than his immense form, or indeed his vastly oversized moustache. At his side walked Grimble, pale and uncertain by comparison, and behind them trailed most of the local congregation, for despite the distance between the various ragged farms, houses and workshops that made up the parish of Two Bridges, it was a tight little community, and when something untoward occurred word would get around with unfathomable speed. This part of the moors had never ventured into the modern world; there were no telegraph poles, no mobile phone masts, and even the roads themselves were barely more than dirt tracks. And that was the way they all wanted it to stay, for who would live in such an anachronistic backwater if not by choice? Most of them rarely ventured beyond the boundaries of the moor itself, not if they could help it, for the world beyond seemed alarmingly chaotic and cruel. Father Stringer had lived, for a time, in the local city of Exeter. It was there that he had attended the seminary that had polished his vocation and made him a priest, but he had been all too happy to return to the peace and stillness of his youth. Nowadays he took no interest in anything outside this quiet little empire of souls. Indeed he resented any intrusions, and by all accounts at this moment they were heading towards just such an intrusion.

  As they approached the edge of Wistman’s Wood an anxious hush descended upon the assembled crowd, and their pace began to waver. Only Father Stringer retained his determination, as he headed, unperturbed, into the damp and gloomy tree-line, shouting behind him various words of encouragement and holy invocations to urge his followers onwards. At the back of the ragged crowd Mary-Beth clutched tightly to her grandmother’s bony hand. Her parents had both died when she was six and now it was her grandmother who looked after the awkward and gangly eleven-year-old girl. She had never been a problem, was always polite and did her chores without arguing, but nonetheless Granny Rowther greatly resented this imposition upon her dotage. Certainly she was a tough old bird; she still baked her own bread, kept up her own vegetable garden, and every morning walked the five miles to Tavistock post-office to drink tea with the Blakeneys and catch up on all the local gossip. No, it was not so much the effort but the responsibility she begrudged. She had disliked being a mother the first time around and had little patience for
this second run, and so, with callous indifference she pulled her hand away, and moved forward to talk to Widower Shrive, for whom, as everyone knew, she had something of a liking. Mary-Beth was used to such rejections, but still on this occasion, what with the woods and the rumours, it stung her a little more than usual. She had learnt to be brave over the past five years, so took a deep breath and followed the others, counting to ten over and over in her head like her mother had taught her.

  The little wood was damper than the day before and the air smelt ripe with rotting mulch and fungus. Everywhere water dripped from the leafless branches and trailing lichens, and occasional glimpses of sunlight sparkled here and there, trapped within the droplets like tiny precious gemstones. The mist was clearing, lending the wood a slightly brighter magical feel, though not without an air of lingering menace. Mary-Beth could hear the resonant tone of Father Stringer rumbling on in the distance, but chose to focus instead on the tuneful chirrup of the skylarks above the trees, and the gentle pitter-patter of water falling upon granite at her feet.

  Suddenly her wilful reverie was broken by a wild hubbub up ahead. Shouts, gasps and exclamations burst through the wood sending her heart racing with fear, and she ran to catch up with the others. Once they were back in sight her pace slowed just a little. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the crowd was silenced by the booming voice of Father Stringer. There they were, clustered in a small clearing. It seemed that they were gathered around something, though what it was she couldn’t see, for she was still quite small for her age. The good Father Stringer was holding forth with more vigour and passion than she had heard in him before. There was a strange tone to his voice, an excitement, though she couldn’t quite catch the words. Now back amongst the reassuring crowd her fear turned to curiosity and she carefully sewed her way through the mass of bodies to the front, but before she could reach her destination she felt someone grab her by the shoulder and turn her round. It was Widower Shrive, white as a sheet, a look of shock and horror in his eyes.