Аманда Палмер - The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help

I’d just received a death threat through the website.

It’s probably just a crazy person , Eric said. We don’t know. We’re trying to track down the email ISP. Can you get to a local police station? It needs to be reported, and we can’t call it in. You need to go .

I refused. It just seemed too silly.

What was the threat, exactly? I asked.

You don’t want to know. And we don’t want to send it to you. We don’t want to worry you .

Seriously… what did they say?

They said they were going to find you and kill you. I’m not going to tell you the details. They’re disturbing .

I looked around the café. I’d just twittered my location. Was my life going to turn into a stalking nightmare? It wasn’t impossible: some crazy chick had driven her car into the side of the singer of Pearl Jam’s house. It was almost definitely just a random crazy person. Anybody can email a death threat. But as I washed my hands in the café bathroom a few minutes later, I noticed they were shaking.

The three-hour drive to Portland took seven because of traffic, and somewhere around the Columbia River crossing, I lost it. A John Lennon song came on the radio and I lost it even more, crying as I drove along.

When I finally arrived at Susan’s house, everybody was already drinking and carousing on her porch and, as I crossed the lawn, they gathered around me and applauded. Someone thrust a beer in my hand. Susan, the hostess, was a loving eccentric who used to work designing animated film sets and now handcrafts intricate jewelry and headpieces using wood, plastic flora, and rhinestones, and makes her living selling them on Etsy. She crowned me with a bejeweled antler headdress. I looked at all of them.

Hi, everybody. Thank you all for coming, and I just wanted to apologize if I’m in a totally fucked-up mood tonight. I just drove seven hours and I’ve had a terrible, terrible week. Did you guys follow the poem thing?

They all nodded solemnly.

It’s been… I don’t want to bring the party down, you guys. But I just…

Someone asked, Amanda, do you need a hug?

I nodded.

Susan said, You’re here now. We get it, Amanda .

And they did. The wine flowed, the food was shared, I talked with everybody, I felt at home. I got into long conversations about empathy, violence, love, and pain with handfuls of strangers at a time. The sun set. I went into camp-counselor mode and organized a group parlor game called Mafia in Susan’s shag-carpeted basement.

I didn’t tell them about the death threat until much later that night, playing ukulele in the basement, all of us crammed in and huddled on floor pillows and cushions.

I couldn’t tell if people in Portland, a land of extroverted hippies, were just inherently warm and wonderful, or if something about my breakdown had in turn broken down everybody else’s defenses, but strangers were hugging, laughing, and singing together off in corners, and somewhere a neck-rub circle had started. If they were doing it all just for me, I didn’t mind. It worked.

The party continued on into the night, and I bowed out on the early side, hugging people good night on my way to bed. Susan followed me upstairs and showed me to my room, taking us on a detour through her studio, an enchanted wonderland of sewing machines, pincushions, and glittering piles of gems and objects-in-progress. She went off to find me a clean towel for the morning. Then she all but tucked me into bed.

This is my daughter’s room , she said. She’s off at college now, and she is in agony over missing this party. But she’ll be so happy you slept in her bed. I’ll see you in the morning. I’m making muffins .

I gazed at her.

Thank you, Susan. For everything .

You’ve had a rough one, honey. Feel better, okay? She pulled the blanket over my shoulders, closed the door, and went back out to the party.

I shut my eyes and let the day disappear as I drifted off to sleep, feeling more loved, understood, and safe than I’d thought possible.

The chemo worked, they said.

Anthony was okay.

At least , they said, for now .

He was okay for now .

He’d beat the fifty-fifty, but the cancer might come back within the next few years. Impossible to tell, they said.

I held my breath and rescheduled my postponed tour dates, announcing very cautiously that my friend had made it out of the woods but might be chased back in… who knew. The fans were, as usual, totally understanding. They rebooked their flights, remade their plans, and got ready to come see me… six, eight, ten months later than planned.

A couple of publishers had approached me to see if I wanted to write a book.

Neil and I packed up our Harvard Square rental house. I hadn’t been writing any songs. Usually when I was angry or upset about something, it made for great writing material—a perfect therapy to shake the demons out. But the controversies, the bombing, the cancer… it didn’t make me angry or upset anymore. It just left me feeling tired and empty.

Anthony was still battling symptoms and on all sorts of medications, and our walks resumed, but they weren’t as long; he was always tired.

I kept thinking that his cancer prognosis should be this ongoing celebration of cheering, aliveness, fireworks, and popping champagne. But there was the lurking specter that it might come back, and everybody was just too exhausted to be jubilant. Even Anthony. He was driving his own car again, and I was tagging along on a trip to get his blood tested, which he had to do every few weeks. He was grumpy. He had a crushing headache from the steroid medication. They’d dropped his dose too quickly. A car in front of him was in the wrong turning lane, and he leaned on his car horn and didn’t let up.

Jesus , I said, take it easy on humanity. We’re not even in a hurry. Who cares?

Who taught this clown to fuckin’ drive? He leaned on the horn again and the light in front of us turned red.

FUCK , he said. We sat there, unmoving. He was fuming.

You know… at least you’re alive , I said optimistically. Remember when you were dying? Eh? Remember dying?

I’d rather be fucking dead than have this crushing headache. I’ve had it with people. I don’t care that they’re all in pain. I hate everybody .

You’re such a hypocrite . I laughed. What about compassion for all?

He turned and looked at me. Don’t argue with me when you know I’m wrong .

You’re not wrong. You’re just being a dick .

Well look at you, little miss fucking enlightened . Then he finally smiled at me.

You know what I always say, beauty. If you want to know what you believe, ask the people you taught .

I got a book deal , I told Neil grumpily. I’m going to write a book about the TED talk. And all the… other stuff I couldn’t fit into twelve minutes .

He was writing at the kitchen table and looked up with delight.

Of course you did .

They’re paying me an actual advance , I said. I can pay you back now .

That’s wonderful, my clever wife. I told you it would all work out .

But I’ve never written a book. How could they pay me to write a book? I don’t know how to write a book. You’re the writer .

You’re hopeless, my darling , he said.

I glared at him.

Just write the book, Amanda. Do what I do: finish your tour, go away somewhere, and write it all down in one sitting. They’ll get you an editor. You’re a songwriter. You blog. A book is just… longer. You’ll have fun .