On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (12 page)

“Come now, Miss Palmer. A wise soul knows when the time has come to die. Only a fool would choose to linger on whilst all their life's attainments turn to dust about them.”

“Now I know you're spouting bullshit. What is that? Some kind of self-help guide for the recently deceased? I would have thought the time for platitudes was over now . . . and by the way, your moustache is slipping.”

He pressed the excessively large squirrel of a moustache back into place.

“Please, Miss Palmer, don't rush to judgement here. It is my job to ensure your . . . how can I put this . . . let's say cleansing of the grime of life before you continue onwards. And as I said, that normally is a simple, almost automated process. But here I am having to do it by hand, so to speak. So please do bear with me. This isn't easy you know. And consider for a moment poor Mrs. Palmer. How do you think she feels? Having led a polite and God-fearing life to the age of 92 she now finds that she is a risqué performance artist who parades about in stripy stockings. The revelation almost gave her a heart attack—that is had she not already died of one. So please, stop thinking only of yourself. Consider the rest of us.”

“Excuse me!
I'm
the one whose death has been cocked up by some administrative error. I think I have every right to be pissed!”

“I suppose you do. Anyway . . . where were we . . .”

“And what happens if I refuse? If I don't play ball. What if I like the
grime of life
and don't wish to be parted from it?”

“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! . . .”

 

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

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.)