On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer

by Rohan Kriwaczek,

  As Silas emerged from his caravan shortly after sunrise the following morning his heart broke to see the wreckage of all that his family had worked towards for so many years. The camp had been destroyed, the animals gone, and the troupe itself was battered and bewildered. They sat, in diverse little groups around the camp, bandaged and scarred, united only in the look of despair and bitterness upon their faces.

  Silas did all he could in a vain attempt to unite them once again. He gave the best speech of his life, filled with promises no one could possibly keep, and many brilliant comic asides, but all to no avail. Before the sun was fully overhead the troupe had packed up the wreckage of seven generations and dispersed. Silas and his mother were all that remained of Monger’s Circus.

  As they sat on the porch of their caravan, looking out across the remnants of the previous night’s carnage, and drinking coffee out of charred tin cans, Lavenia lectured Silas on all he had done wrong, in her view, as she did most mornings. And, as he did most mornings, Silas sat there, faking a kindly smile whilst calling her all manner of names, many of which a son should never call a mother, in the full knowledge that she was deaf as a doorpost, and had never learnt to read lips. But underneath this touching scene, darker thoughts were simmering. They both knew who was really to blame, who was really responsible for the destruction of all that their family had worked towards over so many generations: Amanda. It was all down to Amanda. And that is when it happened. That is when the curse was invoked, for the Mongers were a gypsy family, well-versed in the execution of a wide range of curses. But that curse, the dancing curse, that was something special, reserved only for the most deserving of perpetrators, and hadn’t been cast since the days of Silas’ grandmother.

  ****

  Without wishing to give away the means and execution of such a powerful invocation, for that would indeed be most irresponsible and may well lay me open to the wrath of many a gypsy family who have kept this secret safe, I will summarise its content and effect: in simple terms, if Amanda were to ever experience a single moment of true happiness she would be seized by the overwhelming urge, nay need, to dance, and to never stop dancing. She would dance in every conscious waking moment for the rest of her life, until her body lay broken by exhaustion, and her mind was destroyed by the fitful fever of the dancing madness. A cruel and evil curse indeed, though for now there was no danger of it taking effect. Amanda was lost, confused and had no idea how the outside world worked. A more scared and pitiable figure would be hard to find.

  ****

  It was a long journey from the barren wastes of the Midwest to Boston, and it seemed that at every stage Amanda was accompanied by the most extraordinary luck, as if all the good fortune that had evaded her so far in life had finally caught up with its intended recipient and fell upon her in one moment. As everyone who lives in the real world would know, a fifteen year old girl dressed only in a night-shirt, wandering alone along isolated desert roads might well find herself in all kinds of trouble, but Amanda seemed blessed. At every encounter, every pickup that passed, every small town along the way she seemed to inspire nothing but the kindness of strangers. By the time she arrived in Boston two weeks later she had acquired a full set of warm clothes and enough money to keep her body and soul in healthy union for quite some time. Why had she headed to Boston? She wasn’t really sure, but she had heard it was a beautiful town, and a good long way from the touring routes followed by the Mongers, and that was all she needed.

  Her luck seemed to stay with her. A few days after her arrival she had been befriended by the ragtag community of street performers who arrived each morning around Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and set about making herself useful with her many skills for the maintenance and repair of their circus apparel and equipment. Her flair for designing the fantastical did not go unappreciated and before long she had her own pitch, and was making good money as a living statue, dressed in an ever more spectacular array of bizarre and exotic costumes.

  ****

  Her steady rise from living statue to international singing superstar has been well documented in many places. A cursory search of the internet will reveal the path this journey took in far more detail than can possibly be included here, so in the interest of brevity, and short attention spans, my own included, let us jump to that fateful evening in February 2006 when it seemed she had achieved the impossible, and alas, her happiness was, for the first time in her life, entirely uncontained.

  ****

  There she was, standing on the stage of Carnegie Hall, taking in the applause like a drug. She had made it, all the way, to the very top. Was it possible that the frail little circus girl of old was actually here? As she bathed in the glory and adoration of 3000 hysterical fans the great weight of insecurity she had carried with her since childhood finally fell away and she could feel the joy of it all pooling in her belly. She was entirely overwhelmed and could no longer contain herself.

  It started with her toes, gently tapping within her shoes. Then her feet began to move, only small gestures at first, barely visible across the vast expanse of the hall, but before long she was leaping and twirling in a manner not quite befitting the situation. After some minutes the applause began to dissipate, to be replaced by an air of puzzlement and confusion. The situation was momentarily rescued by the quick thinking of the drummer who came forward, took a second bow himself engendering a resurgence of applause, and then gently led the frantically dancing Amanda off the stage. As the audience slowly dissipated this peculiar conclusion to the show was soon forgotten amidst the exited babble of high spirits after a most enthralling evening’s entertainment. But for Amanda, poor Amanda, the compulsion to dance seemed unstoppable. She was completely unable to change out of her stage clothes or even remove the thick white makeup that had become her trademark. All she could do was dance, dance and dance again.

  The hours passed as her roadies packed up the sets and instruments, but still Amanda danced, a look of fear and fatigue steadily growing upon her face. Once everything was stowed in its proper place it was decided that they should carry her to the tour-coach and deliver her to her hotel room. By then it was clear that exhaustion was taking hold, and her movements had become increasingly violent and erratic. A doctor was called, sedatives were administered, but still Amanda danced on. It wasn’t until early evening the following day that her movements finally calmed as at last she sank into a deep restorative sleep.

  She must have slept for a good 16 hours but then as she woke the next morning, before she even had a chance to consider what might have happened, her toes began to tingle, then twitch, and the whole process began again. And so it continued, day after day, occasionally punctuated by long periods of sleep that served only to recharge her body for the next onslaught on dancing. She was taken to her home, a large house and garden in Brookline, and a nurse was employed to feed her by drip and bandage her swollen, bruised and bloodied feet as she slept, but still the dancing continued. Doctors were called, specialists brought in, even a retired anthropologist who had spent years studying the dancing pygmies of Namibia, but all to no avail.

  Of course all of this cost money, and lots of it, and despite her blossoming stardom her income was considerably depleted along the way by the many demands made upon it by record labels, agents, managers, producers, co-writers, ghost-writers, and all the other numerous hangers-on who had slowly inveigled their way into her inner circle, or at least into access to her bank balance. Without the ability to earn, for it was naturally impossible to sing, to perform, record, to give interviews or even run a business whilst being compelled to ceaselessly dance, it was not long before her funds began to shrink, and with them went much of her staff and, sadly, a fair number of her friends. As further months passed even the more loyal amongst her friends became tired of the continual concern and visits became infrequent. Finally the money ran dry, her house was listed for foreclosure, the nurse discharged herself of her duties, and it seemed as if Amanda might be left to s
lowly die of exhaustion and malnutrition, for she had no family to fall back upon, nobody to care for her, she was entirely alone.

  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 f
ans, 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.