“You mustn’t look my dear. It’s too... too dreadful.” But she shook him off and pushed her way through.
There, standing upon a large granite boulder, was Father Stringer, preaching with an intensity that none had heard from him before: “... Behold! Behold the Hand of God in action. This gift, a gift to us, a sign to us alone that we have not been forgotten. That He has sent this sign to us is proof if ever proof were needed that all our ministries and Faith have been heard, and have been listened to: that the turning of our backs upon the many innumerable sins that wreak their daily havoc upon the souls of all who have embraced the modern world, its ease of sin, its open ear toward the devil’s work, has this day been rewarded. For here, behold: the Love of God. For did He not Love his only son, and yet He sent him to be nailed upon the cross, for Love of us, his flock. And here, today, we see His Love in action once again. This pitiable girl, this harlot, strumpet, tart, this evil vessel, who no doubt plied her sinful trade amongst the Devil’s city lights, He has plucked from the path of her Soul’s destruction, and granted her the gift of Love, His Love, His ultimate forgiveness. And though today, before us all, she wears the visage of pain and suffering, yet still it is surely as nothing to the pain and suffering that her soul no doubt endured before this act of Love; it is as surely as nothing to the suffering and eternal torment He has saved her from, were she left to burn amidst the agonising flames of Hell’s fire and brimstone. Behold! . . .”
Mary-Beth was so entranced by the unfamiliar passion in the good Father’s voice that she did not at first notice the girl who was the object of his sermonising; but then her eyes followed his vigorous gesturing towards the pitiable figure and his voice seemed to fade into the distance. She was so beautiful, that young woman, despite the wounds and her pained expression. Mary-Beth had never seen such beauty, not in real life; like the girls in the magazine she had once found at the roadside, that her grandmother had called “filth” and thrown onto the fire. And her clothes were unlike anything Mary-Beth had ever come upon before, ever even imagined: long stockings striped in black and white, and a small silky black top, so thin that the generous curves of her body were clearly visible beneath. Was this how her own body would grow? The only female form she had ever seen undressed was her grandmother, but this girl, this young woman: she yearned to reach out to her, to touch her, to trace those richly ripened curves with her fingers.
“. . . and so let us pray. Let us pray with more vigour and in greater earnest that ever have we prayed before! For here, here where we now stand, in this sacred grove He did walk . . . here amongst us has He revealed his infinite might . . . Let us fall to our knees, fall to our knees and bow our hearts in deep humility . . .”
As the makeshift congregation fell to its knees Mary-Beth was roused from her fantasy and quickly followed suit, mouthing the familiar words as she continued to stare at the twisted body.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory. Forever and ever. Amen.”
“Now let us sing Hymn number 167, Lamb of God.”
“Lamb of God, for sinners slain, To thee I feebly pray; Heal me of my grief and pain, O take my sins away! From this bondage, Lord, release, No longer let me be opprest; Jesus, Master, seal my peace, And take me to thy breast! . . .”
As their massed voices echoed around the eerie wood each note took on a strange other-worldly quality. Rabbits and mice were startled, and scurried back to their borrows; birds flocked to the air and circled above, confused by the unfamiliar sounds; snakes slithered out of view; even the clouds of midges seemed to vanish in the breeze.
“. . . Let it not, my Lord, displease that I would die to be thy guest. Jesus, Master, seal my peace, and take me to thy breast!”
The silence that followed seemed suddenly deeper and darker than ever before. Father Stringer had never felt so powerful, so truly in the service of the Lord: God was almost upon him, He was at his ear, whispering divinely; and his disciples were in complete abeyance. It was as if the previous twenty-five years of his ministry had each day been carefully laying the foundations for this single moment. He took a little time to let it all sink within before continuing:
“And so, dear brethren, the time has come for us to leave this sacred place, to return to our homes and to meditate upon the IMMENSITY of IMPORT that this miracle has brought to our humble community. Tomorrow, at dawn, we shall meet at the church and hold a service of gratitude for what has happened here today. And then, once prayers have been said, confessions taken and humility regained, let us return to this place and build, around this very hallowed grove, a chapel, a humble church of wood, to honour and celebrate the redemption of this unknown sinner . . . Now let us sing Hymn number 143;A Charge to Keep I Have!” And the massed voices rang about the wood once again, only this time with more vehemence and commitment:
“A charge to keep I have. A God to glorify. A never-dying soul to save, and fit it for the sky; to serve the present age, my calling to fulfil: O may it all my powers engage To do my Master’s will! . . .” At the end of this first verse Father Stringer stood down from the rock and, still singing with all his might, led the way back up the path and out of the wood, towards home. “. . . Arm me with jealous care, as in thy sight to live; and o thy servant, Lord, prepare a strict account to give! Help me to watch and pray, and on thyself rely; assured, if I my trust betray, I shall for ever die . . .”
Mary-Beth waited until the voices were little more than a distant rumble upon the wind before she ventured out from beneath a large granite slab that had at some point become dislodged and toppled by the ancient tree-roots, creating a neat little hidey-hole. She hadn’t been ready to leave, and she knew she wouldn’t be missed for many hours yet. She was fascinated by the girl; she pitied her, wanted to comfort her, somehow ease her pain. She tore a strip from the bottom of her petticoat and soaked it like a sponge in one of the many little pools amongst the rocks and trunks; then tentatively made her way toward the twisted figure. She really was very beautiful. Her face was white as a porcelain doll, topped with short-ish curly brown hair with just a hint of red. Her eyes were closed and her eyebrows seemed to be drawn on with some extravagance, like words from a book of spells. She was still breathing, but barely, and every now and then let out a shallow gasp. Mary-Beth reached forward and wiped the wet cloth gently against her face; she squeezed it just a little over the girl’s scarlet painted lips, allowing water to flow into her mouth, but received no response. Then she carefully wiped away a small blotch of blood from the left corner of the girl’s mouth, and watched a thin trickle of red-stained water run over her chin, down her neck, pooling at her collar bone before once again overflowing, running down her sternum, under her top, between her breasts. Mary-Beth moved a little closer, her heart was beating fast.
Amanda Palmer (for that had been her name) felt the gentle warmth of soft kisses upon her cheeks and finally slipped from this world to the next.
A Personal Extroduction from Text Number Eight
By XXXX XXXXXXXXX
I must confess I was initially surprised that crucifixion was such a common theme amongst the many texts I read: of the eight hundred and twenty-seven pieces, forty-two contained some form of crucifixion scene, of which eighteen were self-crucifixions. However after some musings on the subject, and discussions with various colleagues I came to realise that this is only to be expected, after all, which fan doesn’t like to think of their dead hero as a martyr, and what easier way to express such a notion? Nonetheless I did find the gruesomeness of this approach toward portraying Amanda’s death both fascinating and tantalising, and therefore decided to make my choice from this subject category.
So why this particular piece? After all, by my underst
anding it isn’t even a real palmeresque, at least according to the generally accepted definition. Well, most of all I think it is the context of the crucifixion that caught my imagination, or rather the lack of context, for it is given no explanation whatsoever: Amanda’s body is merely found nailed to a tree, in a remote English wood, by a superstitious shepherd whose community seems centuries out of time. The author offers no opinion or comment as to why or how, leaving something of an appetising flavour of mystery in the reader’s mouth. What follows is a simplistic, yet entertainingly cruel, representation of the world’s relationship with Amanda – to the older generation and the establishment, represented by Father Stringer, she symbolises all that is corrupt, debased and decadent in the modern world; to the young and repressed, represented by Mary-Beth, she is an object of sexual fascination. It is also worth noting that only the superstitious simpleton considers trying to take her down, everyone else has a vested interest in keeping her nailed up there for their own ends: Father Stringer and his congregation want to make her the centrepiece of a new church; Mary-Beth wants to discover her own sexuality by exploring/exploiting Amanda’s body. The final scene, a clear biblical reference to Mary Magdalene, is beautifully presented and leaves the reader vividly imagining what happens next.
It is clearly a very confidently written piece, both in terms of what is included and what is left out. The descriptions are perfectly pointed, uneasy and luxurious, and the symbolism doesn’t overly weigh upon the storyline.
I also noticed the cunning use of point-of-view. The work is divided into four sections, starting from Grimble’s perspective, then moving through Father Stringer and Mary-Beth to finally arrive with Amanda as she dies upon the cross. In addition each section is made shorter than the last to give the piece a feeling of momentum.
Overall I found this to be a thoroughly entertaining and enjoyable read, although I might add that the preaching got a bit tedious towards the end.
In addition it may, or may not, be worth mentioning that the author is clearly unschooled in the biological realities of the Dartmoor environment, as a number of the creatures he/she mentions would be hibernating throughout the winter period during which the story is set.
TEXT NUMBER NINE
On Frances Featherstone the Making
A Personal Extroduction from Text Number Nine
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
Upon the Death of Amanda Palmer
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!
A Personal Extroduction from Text Number Ten
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.
ON THE MANY CRIMES OF TOBIAS JAMES
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
Editor’s Introduction to the Appendices
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.
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 15