He made another play in Seattle, choosing a secluded space, rife with irony-“To Die in a Greenhouse”: this sounds like one of Arthur Miller’s typically blunt titles. His stage-directions were mawkish, and the tragedy lacked a dead body: “We’ll none of that,” as Shakespeare’s Theseus says. Plath reiterated her poetry in the staging of her death, and articulated her trauma, very well: her philandering husband, the poet Ted Hughes, would never recover from her death her baby, her son, took his own life in 2009. She then stuck her head in an oven, a symbol of the femininity she embraced and despised. The girl and the boy were, respectively, an infant and a baby, were utterly incapable of ingesting this fare. Further, and for dramatic purposes only, after safeguarding her children against the death rays from the gas oven, she left them mugs of milk and chunks of bread. Useless because no one would see the monstrous scene or paper until it was far too late. Like Cobain, she would make a theater of her own death in 1963, after scribbling the following useless words: “Call Dr. That knocks me out,” Plath writes in “Lady Lazarus,” a poem that makes a sexualized, flawless performance of suicide. He demanded, for Nirvana’s stage, an austere crystal chandelier, bunches of stargazer lilies and black taper candles. “You mean like a funeral?” producer Alex Coletti inquired. “Exactly,” said Cobain. When she arrived and fell asleep, he wrote a suicide note citing divorce and Hamlet’s dreadful indecision, mixed a handful of Rohypnol with the champagne he had ordered, and turned gray as blood began to leak from one nostril. Move back, then forward, to Cobain’s two suicide attempts, in March and April of 1994.Īt the Hotel Excelsior in Rome, in 1993, desperate to seduce Courtney Love, whom he suspected was having an affair, he laced the room with precious jewels, holy statues and a chunk of the Coliseum he kicked off himself. The Theater of Cruelty was about to commence. The candles were lit quiet wire brushes were delivered to Dave Grohl, and lilies were draped over the singer’s secret amp. Help arrived in a tiny, messengered package.Ĭobain’s dirty hair was combed-one can actually see vertical teeth-lines in his long, yellow tresses-his layers of worn tee shirts were agreeably covered by a green mohair sweater. It was 46 degrees and raining on Thursday, November the 18th: before the show, a dour and fractious Cobain lay down, making piteous demands for KFC and help for his raw, agonized stomach. “Exactly,” said Cobain, the frustrated visual artist and compulsive perfectionist intent on seeing through his greatest vision: the story of his life and death-passion, passionem. “You mean like a funeral?” producer Alex Coletti inquired. He was devising a morbidly tasteful service for the dead.Īs such, he demanded, for Nirvana’s stage, an austere crystal chandelier, bunches of stargazer lilies and black taper candles. In a vile mood: his mind chopped between his addiction and animus, but he is filled with bristling, bleak energy. November, 1993: Between rehearsing at a New Jersey soundstage and stalking the New York streets in a deer hunter’s cap and filthy dishabille, Kurt Cobain was veering between the agonizing a la canona, and mercy, through a series of small foil envelopes. –Amiri Baraka, “Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note” “ the u nrelenting agitation of a life that has become unnecessary, lazy, or removed from a compelling force.” Content warning: this article explores in detail suicidal ideation and methodology.
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