The lives of more than twenty-five actresses lost before their time—from Marilyn Monroe to Brittany Murphy—explored in a haunting, provocative new work by an acclaimed poet and actress.
Amber Tamblyn is both an award-winning film and television actress and an acclaimed poet. As such she is deeply fascinated—and intimately familiar—with the toll exacted from young women whose lives are offered in sacrifice as starlets. The stories of these actresses, both famous and obscure-tragic stories of suicide, murder, obscurity, and other forms of death—inspired this empathic and emotionally charged collection of new poetic work.
Featuring subjects from Marilyn Monroe and Frances Farmer to Dana Plato and Brittany Murphy—and paired with original artwork commissioned for the book by luminaries including David Lynch, Adrian Tomine, Marilyn Manson, and Marcel Dzama—Dark Sparkler is a surprising and provocative collection from a young artist of wide-ranging talent, culminating in an extended, confessional epilogue of astonishing candor and poetic command.
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Facts about Brittany Murphy for Poem journal entry June 22, 2010
• She died in the shower.
• Her film Uptown Girls grossed $44,617,342.
• Her film Abandoned was released posthumously, straight to DVD.
• My old agent told me no one was allowed to call her house before 10:00 A.M.
• She was 5' 2" tall.
• She was diagnosed with a heart murmur as a child.
• She was dropped from the film Happy Feet due to rumored drug abuse.
• Her cause of death was pneumonia.*
• Brittany wrote poetry.
I took a break from writing about the dead
and drinking from writing about the dead
to walk around my childhood neighborhood.
Everything’s for rent. Or for sale, for ten
times the amount it’s worth.
Palm trees are planted in front of a mural
of palm trees under the Ocean Park Bridge.
In the painting, the metal horses of a carousel are breaking
free and running down the beach. Why didn’t I leave
my initials in cement
in front of my parents’ apartment in the eighties?
Nikki had the right idea in ’79.
I walk by a basketball court, where men play
under the fluorescent butts of night’s cigarette.
I could have been any of their wives,
at home, filling different rooms in different houses
with hopeful wombs. Agreeing on paint color
samples with their mothers in mind.
I’ll bet their wives let their cats go out
hunting at night like premonitions of future sons.
They will worry, stare out the front window,
pray that privilege doesn’t bring home bad news
like some wilted head of a black girl in nascent jaws.
To say nothing of the owl who’s been here for years. I hear him
when I’m trying to write about the deaths I’ve admired.
I hear him when the clothed me no longer recognizes
the naked. I hear him while writing and shitting and sleeping
where my mother’s seven guitars sleep.
I hear him in my parents’ house,
their walls covered in my many faces,
traces of decades of complacence.
My childhood neighborhood is a shrine to my success,
and I’m a car with a bomb inside, ready
to pull up in front of it and stop
pretending.
From: Amber Rose
to: Mindy Nettifee
date: Tue, Jan 12, 2009 at 1:27 PM
subject: Saturn’s return.
. . . I know this is gonna be a bad year for me. Last year was a bad year for all my friends and I felt for them. And I felt mine coming. And here it is. I’m just going to embrace it and hope a spark ignites.
I think I could very possibly be heading toward a full-scale breakdown in the next few months. I know, this is out of nowhere, right? I’ve been hiding it, I think. Even from myself. I am so creatively low and impotent, I know I have to make a move but in what direction . . . I don’t know. Where do I start? Get rid of Mom’s tchotchkes in my house? Get rid of
? Fire my agency? Go to London with David for a month and get some clarity or come back to L.A. for a month and find some clarity? What the fuck is clarity? Can I just go the way of Brittany Murphy and say fuck it, do drugs until I drop and call it a day? What’s the point of takin...
