Not Me Live-Tweeting the Vulture Article

Notes While Reading 

Look. I'll admit it. I had a mad crush on Neil Gaiman. I mean, menacingly, penetratingly mad. To the point that when I would read his books, it would be his voice in my head. That soul-crushing, desperate voice that I had once dubbed "liquid sex." Make of that what you will.

Note: I got triggered at this point when the author gives the victim's account of the "bathtub incident" (iykyk) and started digressing into my own repressed, hypersexual adolescence. It's there to read if you like, but fair warning, it is deeply personal.

Okay, so that was a twist to my schema. I was not expecting the perceived betrayal of a victim of sexual violence by THE Amanda Fucking Palmer. I mean, I love her, and always will. Her honesty is intoxicating. And "Bigger on the Inside" changed my life in quite literal ways.

I think I'm more sympathetic toward Neil at this point, I guess. Just...the way the Sandman shaped this whole...universe. So...which is the real Neil? The Sandman, or Richard Madoc? I believe it's a "yes, and" moment. He's both of those things, and more. As the trope goes, "we are all so much bigger on the inside." (thanks, Amanda)

What a sad, twisted tale. I was ready to forgive him. I really was. But, then I read this article from NPR. And clicked through to read his final words, "I don't accept there was any abuse."

In his last post on his personal website, Gaiman has once again woven together some beautiful words. For example, " Nah, I can't find anything redeemable in that post except for maybe this:

And I also realise, looking through them, years later, that I could have and should have done so much better. I was emotionally unavailable while being sexually available, self-focused and not as thoughtful as I could or should have been. I was obviously careless with people's hearts and feelings, and that's something that I really, deeply regret. It was selfish of me. I was caught up in my own story and I ignored other people's.

 

I’ve spent some months now taking a long, hard look at who I have been and how I have made people feel. 

 

Like most of us, I’m learning, and I'm trying to do the work needed, and I know that that's not an overnight process. I hope that with the help of good people, I'll continue to grow. I understand that not everyone will believe me or even care what I say but I’ll be doing the work anyway, for myself, my family and the people I love. I will be doing my very best to deserve their trust, as well as the trust of my readers.*

*but, of course i know that this is exactly the kind of thing you would say if you wanted to appear apologetic...I am praying it is sincere.

Epilogue

 

Sorry not sorry, I'm firmly in Amanda's corner on this one. Even her perceived feminine betrayal. She is, first and foremost, a mother.

I was so desperate to read it, I actually paid money. This is not something I like to do unless it involves necessity or a quick dopamine rush while game testing (the professional term for playing mobile games). This was a necessity. Neil and Amanda were a story I could follow for ages, into the depths of Hell and out into the ethereal brightwhite warmth of Elysium.

I think I encountered Neil first through The Graveyard Book, but I have no active memories of that read. Suddenly, it was 2013. We had just moved back to California from Florida, a place I hated and could understand why "Florida Man" was a thing. I had two small children. My husband was working on his doctoral dissertation. We were drawn from a job that I was hired and abruptly fired from. I was aimless. I was looking for the most ethereal of objects: a story. I would wander around the bookstore, and I came across The Ocean at the End of the Lake. I think that one of my dear friends had posted it as one of her monthly book round ups. I ate it up, was enthralled by the chaotic balance of light and dark; the scars of childhood trauma that streak across the psyche. It was a thrilling piece. I was craving a little thrill in my life.

I didn't know at the time that Neil Gaiman was raised by prominent members of the Church of Scientology in the UK. If I had known of the terrible punishments that are alleged to be inflicted on children and dissidents, it would have made the story far more dark and haunting. 

I'm glad I read the Vulture article before reading his personal response. It gave me just enough empathy to hang onto the hope that he isn't a monster. And his profound ability to evoke a wide range of complex emotions makes so much more sense now. His unique ability to build sweeping fantasy worlds where the mores and values are just as complex, if not more so, than the emotional impact. I'm thinking, in particular, of the Doctor Who episode, "The Doctor's Wife," (NuWho 604) that has sparked my own narrative fantasy. 

That being said, Gaiman needs some serious deprogramming. His sexual schema is all askew, probably due to childhood trauma. He has a pattern of behavior that shows predatory behaviors. Examining those behaviors becomes increasingly more difficult, however, when you consider how he stands on a pedestal at the crossroads of BDSM kink and Gothic fantasy where the lines of consent, dominance, and submission are blurred and the potential for abuse is high. At any rate, the power dynamics alone between Gaiman and his fans would pretty much exclude any purely consensual relationship. In my humble opinion, he needs to spend a little time thinking while being a sub bottom.

Enter Amanda. Gaiman dedicated The Ocean at the End of the Lane to Amanda, who wanted to know. I was left with a hole in my story. Who was this Amanda that inspired such a dark and loving tale?  A quick Facebook search, and I found her TED talk. I was hooked. At the time, I had just read The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown and started to learn and understanding the healing power of courageous vulnerability, Amanda's battle cry to ASK was empowering. I followed her, obsessed over her music. Became a huge fan of the Dresden Dolls, and geeked out over beautiful pictures of Neil's and Amanda's relationship online. But the real evidence of Amanda's grace can be seen in one of the darkest moments in my life. I don't remember why, or what I was doing in Taft, but I remember in the midst of a whirlwind of evidence that all pointed to killing myself as the only option, tears streaming down my face as I walked to the car that would drive me over the cliff overlooking the oil fields in West Kern (but where was my Thelma?), I heard myself say out loud, "Take the fucking donut." It's a phrase she repeats in several places in her book, The Art of Asking. I sat drooling in anticipation of this book since she first announced she was writing it. It was playing as an audiobook in my car as I pondered my next move after some unsavory encounters with the feral children in the region (this is why I now teach adults). 

"Take the fucking donut." It was a shot of clarity, and I felt a net lifting me out of the storm. I threw my keys into a bush in the parking lot, sat down on the hot pavement, and called 911. Part of me hoped I would die of sun exposure before they got there. Part of me was laughing and craving a bear claw. The county sheriff showed up and was very gentle and sympathetic. He opened the back door, and I stepped inside. It was cool, and he offered a water. I think the only words he said to me were, "I'm sorry, but you have to be cuffed when you get out of the car," and "do you want to listen to music?" to which I replied, "Yes, please." It was a 45-minute drive to the Crisis Center in Bakersfield. 

From that moment on, Amanda was forever branded into my psyche. I listened almost exclusively to the Dresden Dolls, ukulele covers of Radiohead, and especially Who Killed Amanda Palmer? I'll admit, there were times when she was upstaged by audiobooks of Neverwhere and American Gods. But it was all a friendly wrestling match. Oh, how I lusted after this couple.

I gazed in admiration at the picture of Amanda's belly when she announced the impending arrival of Ash, and adored seeing pictures of the boy with sandy blond hair and piercing blue eyes who was the product of two of the most influential artists in my life.

I was devastated when I heard they were divorcing and that it was so seemingly acrimonious that Neil broke Covid protocols just to retreat to his home on the Isle of Skye. Initially, I sided with Neil. I remember the snafu with the Goodreads "hack" that revealed one of his TBR books was about living with a narcissist. In effect, I put my ukulele away. 

And then there were rumors, and then headlines about Gaiman's alleged predatory behavior. It broke my heart. And then I realized that, because it was the nanny in New Zealand, Palmer was involved somehow. But I had faith in her. I have to. I was encouraged by both of their lack of responses, hoping that that meant they were sorting things out honestly and compassionately. And then, I saw "There is No Safe Word," pop up in my news feed. I decidedly brushed it off, a chapter closed because I hoped it had been settled humanely in private. When it comes to rulings on the blurred lines between love, sex, and consent, best to keep it simple.

But then I saw Amanda's post on Instagram, saying that she was "first and foremost, a mother." It was eerie and jarring. I had to read the article now. So, I forked out for a subscription to Vulture, which I rarely read. And decided to "Live-Tweet" it.

My takeaways from this whole experience are summed up quite perfectly in the NPR article. Glen Weldon was able to identify with I think many, many fans like himself that had to grapple with the complexities that come with the moral downfall of a literary legend. Read it if you have felt even a little conflicted over Gaiman. It has been a healing salve for my heart.