On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (22 page)

 

By
XXX XXXXXXX

When I first came upon this text I was in no doubt that I had stumbled on something exceptional, extraordinary, a truly remarkable piece of writing, indeed it was in the hope of discoveries like this that the
palmeresque
project was first developed. The technical mastery is impressive in itself: effortlessly slipping from prose to verse, stream-of-consciousness to didactic debate; the imaginative delivery of past, present and future tenses; the complex integration and juxtaposition of multiple points of view; and of course the highly expressive use of footnotes. However, it is the content itself that really impresses: the vividness of description; the author's uncanny ability to place the reader inside the head of all the major protagonists simultaneously; and the seemingly effortless mastery of Gnostic symbolism, my personal favourite form of symbolism.

The narrative itself gently draws the reader into

Overall, therefore, a magnificent effort, well worthy of its place in this, or indeed any, book.

 

TEXT NUMBER TEN

Some said she came across the mountains, riding bareback on a battered nag and as it died it sighed and turned away its head

Some said she crawled out from the ashes where Hildegard the witch was burned: her face smeared with sultry attitude, her hair charred vivid red

Some said it was the sea that brought her, drowned, naked, strung with pearls and glistening; a baby in her arms, smiling like a fool

Some said she sprang up from the bishop's grave to lap at the moon's reflection upon half-remembered icy pools

Some said she suckled bats in the forest: she sang them to sleep at the edge of dawn, whilst the sun gently kissed her slender hand

Some said she had snuck in silently; wasted and defiled, betrayed; a fine disguise amongst the many idle damned...

Her rich embrace: warm as a mother's breast, cool as polished ice, enviable, much desired... Miraculous!

Some said the turn came willingly, dressed up to the nines, ineffably charming, and just a little bit effete

Some said that day turned to night and night turned to day, and everything turned all about upon a tupenny piece

Some said it was the tide that had turned; a great wave of joy become shame that knocked her from foundation's grasp

Some said it wasn't yet her turn at all; that Accident and Fate were playing dice—it seems her name came up by chance

Some said it turned on a vicious end, hissing and snarling, injured, bitter and denied

Some said the turn came suddenly, leaping without warning from a sickly blackening sky

They found her scurrying in churchyards: burning human hearts, a girl with wings . . . Miraculous!

Some said her death had been there all along; palely considering, voyeuristic, ever walking in her footsteps, pulling at his bold moustache, anxiously jangling his keys

Some said she died with conscience clear as water: she flowed from stream to stream to river's end; her songs were scattered ‘cross the seven seas

Some said she was cornered without knowing it: decidedly alive, unmarred, coy, defenceless and alone

Some said she died with wilful diligence, carefully placing every seed before she fell: the roses wound their roots about her bones

Some said her path was paved with innocence: withered and decried, even the starting pistol wept to see its job well done

Some said it was her blood betrayed her: suddenly waking in the daylight, alarmed, boiling into silence, ever wary of the sun

She rose up from nowhere, gnashing her teeth, debased, wrecked, until the rain washed her fragments into cracks between the rocks

Wracked with restless admonition, her final breath took flight upon the wind, whispering a lover's name, a secret kept, a lie foretold . . . Miraculous!

 

By
XXXXX XXX

Whilst thumbing my way through a vast pile of often tawdry and overlong pieces I was initially surprised to come across this piece, not so much due to its quality, but due to its form and content; for in many ways it fails in fitting any of the prerequisites of a true or even a quasi-
palmeresque
. Were it not for the title there would be no indication that it referred to Amanda at all! Nonetheless, it was immediately refreshing, particularly in the context of the other eight hundred or so pieces I was having to consider, and the more I reread it the more I was taken by its vibrant images, rich flavours and uplifting spirit.

Formally it falls into three “verses”, each with a notional chorus line, concluding with the word
miraculous
. Each “verse” consists of six sentences or statements, each one fairly long, written essentially as prose without regularity of rhythm, and grouped in three rhyming couplets. But overall it strikes me as more of an invocation than a poem, conjuring the creation, turn of fate and ultimate destruction of a magical muse-like creature. It is rich in omens and superstition, as if spoken by a shaman as part of some ancient pagan ritual, and yet it is also strangely innocent—something that might be read to a child. The first “verse” draws from nature and the elements for its imagery, implying her spontaneous creation as some form of nature goddess, the spirit of Art; the second “verse” sees the corrupting influence of worldly concerns, clothes, money, dice, which draws to the fore the beast within—it is this that turns her fortune towards destruction; the third and final “verse” presents her death as a willing dissipation back into the fundamental elements from which she came,
not with a bang but a whimper
. In this narrative it is a fair depiction
of the shining light that was Amanda Palmer in her brief flight through our world.

In the end I chose this piece because I found it to be positive and uplifting in its presentation of Amanda's life and death, which certainly made it stand out amongst the many more self-indulgent, self-pitying, violent, shocking, and downright depressing examples I had to plough through having foolishly agreed to be a part of this editorial board.

 

This picture, taken at Luigi's Victorian Photographic Emporium, Soho, New York, in January 2008, is the only known image of “Tobias James”, uncharacteristically on this occasion without a false moustache.

APPENDIX I

As has already been stated in the
Preface to the Second Edition,
on 27th August 2007 all copies of the first edition were seized by the Boston Police Department, on the grounds that
Text Number Nine
bore an “extraordinary and incriminating resemblance” to the actual circumstances of Miss Palmer's death. There then followed a lengthy and thorough investigation into the relationship between the APT and the text in question, how and why it was chosen, where it was sourced etc. Naturally all at the APT felt at the time that there was no need for undue concern, however as the investigation progressed, it became rapidly apparent that the Editorial Board involved in the preparation of this book had, each in their own way, been touched by corruption, and manipulated into un-professional behaviours not befitting a role of such high regard and responsibility. Indeed, piece by piece it became apparent that not one of the texts had, in reality, been chosen by the allocated editor, but instead had each been effectively planted by person or persons unknown, using methods including bribery, blackmail, social embarrassment, and in one case the inducing of paranoia. Ultimately all pending charges were dropped against the APT and those associated with it, however, despite the concluding resignations, many questions were left unanswered.