On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (6 page)

Or so she thought.

****

Lavenia had died a week after the dancing started, but she had sensed that it had begun, and left Silas detailed instructions on how to proceed. Thus on the six month anniversary of his mother's death Silas Monger VIII made his way to Mill Dam Road just in time to see Amanda cast from her house, and stand in the street dancing both aimlessly and with considerable vigour, tears rolling down her thinly drawn cheeks as the last of her furniture was repossessed. Once again she had nowhere to go, no one to
turn to, but this time her luck seemed to have deserted her.

She had no idea what to do. In her current state she couldn't even approach a stranger or official for help. A doctor or policeman would take one look at her and have her put away for good in the loony bin. She wouldn't be able to explain who she was or what had happened. She couldn't even talk as she was constantly out of breath with the effort, let alone write. She was utterly and entirely lost and helpless.

“Amanda? . . .” She recognised the voice and spun around in a clumsy and clearly unmotivated pirouette. Yes, it was Silas. She tried to speak but instead found herself waltzing around him in erratic circles.

“Come with me Amanda, we can sort this out . . .” It was the best offer she had, indeed it was the only offer, and strangely, she found his presence almost reassuring, even comforting, in this most exceptional and difficult of circumstances. And so she went with him, for better and for worse, little aware of the tragic consequences that were shortly to unfold. Had she not, there is no doubt that her fate would have been equally dreadful, for she had become the very definition of being trapped between a rock and a hard place, and she was falling.

****

Silas Monger VIII soon discovered he had a flair for publicity. Why this had never come forth before he didn't know. Maybe it was his mother's watchful eye that had curtailed him, for it is undeniable that strange things can happen to folk when their parents die. All manner of hidden talents and abilities hitherto undreamt of may reveal themselves at last without the fear of condemnation. And in Silas' case, this was a gift for playing the media; afterall he had a commodity on his hands, a saleable one at that. He announced in all the newspapers that international singing star Amanda Palmer was
Dancing for Peace,
and that she wouldn't cease her dance until every nation worldwide had laid down its arms in conciliation. This seemed a safe bet, as he knew she
wouldn't stop dancing, and equally, the world was unlikely to stop fighting, yet who could deny the worthiness of such a gesture. And indeed he was right. The story caught the imagination of every news network in America and many across Europe and Asia. TV appearances abounded, although naturally Silas did all the interviews: Amanda was merely wheeled on (often literally) to dance in the background as he spoke eloquently on the subject of international diplomatic relations. He arranged dance-a-thons in all the major cities across the States, and thousands turned up to
Dance for Peace
with Amanda. He produced t-shirts, music boxes, little plastic nodding Amandas, and all manner of kitsch and tat with Amanda's image and the
Dancing for Peace
logo printed upon it, which were sold at vastly inflated prices to an eager market. And even her records began to sell again. Naturally Silas, as her adoptive father and business manager had full control of the money, and spent it with considerable enthusiasm, for he had never been rich before. He developed an excessive and largely uninformed taste for the finer things in life, though he did at least invest some money in more practical acquisitions, such as a compound in Malibu with three outbuildings, and a fleet of trucks and busses for touring the
Amanda Palmer Dance-a-thon,
which had by then become a show in its own right. Amanda herself was well catered for, under the circumstances. She had her own trailer, of not inconsiderable size, and a full team of nurses and makeup artists on hand to ensure she looked and felt at least relatively healthy. More than that she would have no use for in her current state. And given that she would be dancing on regardless, dancing for Peace didn't seem such a bad thing to be doing.

The real hubbub lasted about six months with a seemingly endless stream of requests for TV and radio appearances, and she even made it onto page three of
Time
magazine. Then the media coverage began to wane, but Silas seized the moment to announce the
Dancing for Peace
world tour, and there was a second flurry of publicity. But he knew it couldn't last, for Madame Fame is an impatient, flippant and cruel mistress; that knowledge was in his
blood. And sure enough within 18 months the crowds were thinning out, the merchandise piling up, and it became financially unviable to keep the show on the road. The sets were put into storage and Amanda's trailer was parked up in the Malibu compound.

There was still a small audience keen to see her dance, and not being a man to kick a gift-horse in the behind, Silas set about milking what little he could from it. He had a small stage erected in the compound and road signs put up across Southern California declaring
Amanda Is Still Dancing
plus an arrow to direct passing trade their way. Whenever a car pulled up Amanda would be placed on the stage to dance for them, for the meagre fee of $50. Silas had explained that if he was keep employing the two remaining nurses that kept her fed and cared for her by now painfully disfigured feet, she had to keep earning whenever the opportunity arose. Meanwhile Silas turned his attention to his next main attraction: a parrot called General George that could recite the entire Bill of Rights. He planned to market it as the reincarnation of George Washington.

A year passed and the visitors became ever more infrequent. Amanda took to spending much of her time dancing in the fields around the compound. One day she came upon Fluffy's old cage, buried under a pile of crates and tarpaulins in a ditch, and had it moved next to her trailer, and an awning put up over it. There she would sleep between the dancing frenzies, and dream of her childhood. But by now her body was worn and her feet were barely functional. Over the past year she had received too many fractures and her spine had slowly become crooked from exertion. She knew she couldn't keep this up for much longer, and perhaps that would really be a blessing.

Then one morning, shortly after the dancing began she felt an immense pain shoot up her right leg as her achilles tendon snapped. She fell to the ground but continued flailing for the compulsion to dance was still burning within despite her body's inability. Silas found her rolling in the courtyard and had her carried back to the cage. The nurses gathered to see what could be done,
but it was agreed in whispered tones that the cost of all the necessary surgeries to her feet, legs and spine would be prohibitive. Within a week Silas decided to let the nurses go. A few days later a car pulled up and paid the requisite $50. Silas had the cage moved onto the stage for their entertainment but the spectacle of Amanda writhing and jerking upon her back disturbed more than it amused and so he had a blanket put over it and ordered the road signs taken down.

By now General George was becoming a star and had been offered a part in the latest
National Treasure
movie. Naturally Silas's entire entourage went along to enjoy the Hollywood glamour, and thus Amanda was forgotten. No one knew when she died, but upon their return she was found to be still, her twisted broken body contorted beyond recognition, and yet there was the smallest shadow of a smile stretched across her drawn and emaciated face, perhaps a look of relief, or even revelation.

Her death was widely reported, and Silas sold the film rights to her life story for a record figure. Many newspapers described her as a martyr to the cause of world peace, and a motion for a day of international pan-global ceasefire was even proposed at the UN in honour of her efforts, although it had no chance of actually being ratified.

She was cremated at the Jonah Crematorium, Malibu, on Friday May 13th, 2002, and Silas had the larger bone fragments mounted as relics in Perspex blocks, on the off-chance that she might be canonised at some point in the future. The smaller ashes he had baked into cookies and sold on Ebay to her remaining fans, with one reaching over $500. No stone was ever placed to her memory. Today all that remains of Amanda Palmer is her recordings, which can still occasionally be heard on light music radio stations around the world, and, from time to time, might even inspire someone to get up and dance, confident in the knowledge that they can stop whenever they wish.

 

By
XXXX XXXXX

Having read through nearly eight hundred texts it is clear to me that the phenomenon of the
palmeresque
is more interesting than the many individual writings themselves, for most, at least amongst the selection I was given, seem to be very similar and seep that brand of two-dimensional fan adoration that has always made me feel a little queasy. That said, there were a number of texts that stood out for various reasons, and in this case it was both the quality of the writing and the parabolic (in both senses of the word) nature of the storyline.

Strictly speaking this text is more a quasi-
palmeresque
, as it breaks a number of the notional rules, most obviously in its presentation of the means of Amanda's death, however, since all the biographical content is imagined, and her death is portrayed as a poetical conclusion to the storyline, I was able to convince others amongst the editorial committee that it should be included. In addition, it is one of the few texts that I read to which there is an underlying and meaningful theme.

To my mind this tale is clearly a parable of media celebrity and PR in which Amanda becomes the helpless victim of a savage and brutal machine. In reality this was far from the case: she was well-versed in playing the media, and only on a handful of occasions did the machine get the better of her, but again, it is this reinvention of Amanda as a symbol of powerlessness fallen into the hands of an evil Svengali figure that gives the story a freshness, at least when compared to the other more adoring texts.

Structurally it forms an elegant arc, remarkably akin in many details to the sonata form in classical music. It is effectively built of three acts, beginning and ending in much the same place, with
a fairytale rise and decline in between. This concern with formal devices is further emphasized by the placement of its centre: that being the first piece of spoken quoted text, when Silas meets Amanda for the second time, which falls precisely at the golden section, (A+B is to A as A is to B), a structural device often used by classical composers such as Haydn or Mozart. This cannot be mere coincidence and I therefore would suggest that the author was something of a scholar in the formal study of Classical music.

I recognise many references to popular culture TV shows, whether conscious or unconscious on the part of the author. Most striking is the curse itself which is clearly inspired by a gypsy curse from the show
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
and the opening scenes are distinctly reminiscent of
Carnivale
. Finally, as the tale draws to a close I cannot help but be reminded of Kafka's
The Hunger Artist
. Yet all the pieces are neatly sewn together and the story, to my mind, comes across effectively as a whole.

Certainly it is flawed, and there are some passages that read somewhat clumsily, but overall it was the best of a moderate and at times disappointing bunch. Indeed, if it had only been written with a more insightful eye and greater mastery of language it might have been a short story worthy of some note in its own right.

 

TEXT NUMBER TWO

Amanda Palmer, a singer of some renown, and composer of numerous charming ditties, was midway through her 32nd year when she reluctantly accepted the post of Musician in Residence at St. Mary's School for Girls, near Warrensburg, on the edge of Adirondack Park Preserve. She had, of course, held more prestigious posts in her time, indeed once she had been the very toast of the boards, but, alas, her many benign eccentricities had somewhat gathered momentum over the past few years, and, truth to be told, her reputation was not what it had been. For, Amanda Palmer had a number of unfortunate habits, not least of which was her insistence upon seeing things that weren't quite there, or rather, as she liked to put it, things that other people chose not to see. “The mind reigns over the eyes in all matters of interpretation,” she would often declare when challenged, though this somewhat cryptic explanation only served to add to her reputation as a mild-mannered madwoman, although admittedly not without some talent. When pressed further, which was truly a rare occurrence, she would often quote Swedenborg or William Blake, but by that time no one was ever paying her any serious attention, and she often felt that her most enlightening remarks fell upon deaf ears. As with her music.