Bombardment, Episode 8: Terms and Conditions

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Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 8]

CARMELITA: Exposed to unrelenting cold, the body’s spring unwinds. Heat slips from the head and limbs to maintain the essential machinery of the torso. Fingers and toes freeze first, so solid they can be snapped like dry twigs. Hold them over an open fire, they cook. That’s why rescue teams work with the safest source of heat they carry: their own bodies.

ARETHA moans.

CARMELITA: They strip naked and lie with their stricken companions until the warmth passes from one body to the other, forming a reciprocal circuit. Life ensnaring life. Reeling it back. A wet kite, drawn home on a fraying thread.

ARETHA cries in pain and begins coughing. CARMELITA shifts so she cradles her. Above, a star field appears.

CARMELITA: Feel the air, sharp, filled with glass? I tried to warn you.

ARETHA coughs hard, coming to consciousness as CARMELITA rocks her.

ARETHA: It’s so cold.
CARMELITA: Not now.
ARETHA: I can’t feel my limbs.
CARMELITA: Then feel mine.
ARETHA: I’m floating.
CARMELITA: We call that life.
ARETHA: There are pinwheels. Sparklers.
CARMELITA: Good blood from our hearts.
ARETHA: Weight. Heaviness.
CARMELITA: Terms and conditions.
ARETHA: Who are you?

CARMELITA becomes subservient. She sits up, concealing herself with the coat. The stars fade.

CARMELITA: Just the maid, ma’am.
ARETHA: Speak up.
CARMELITA: The maid, ma’am. Your lady in waiting.
ARETHA: What are you doing in my bed?
CARMELITA: The phone ma’am–I shut the phone off. I didn’t want you disturbed.
ARETHA: I requested this?
CARMELITA: You asked for sleep.
ARETHA: So you took the initiative, on your own, to remove the phone from its cradle. Genius. Suppose the call came? Suppose Corno called, asking for…for…needing help. Needing coffee? Pipe tobacco? You know what it means, should he run out of pipe tobacco? What could happen? Driven from the castle. Lost in the storm. Tracked by assassins, some maniac with a tire iron. Enemies hide everywhere. In the faces of children. The whispers of innocents.
CARMELITA: Ma’am…you were so…tired.
ARETHA: You presume!
CARMELITA: Dead tired. You must remember.
ARETHA: Of course, I…. I need not remember every little thing. That’s we have staff. Report!
CARMELITA: Mr. Corno, gone, as you say. Gone in the cold. And you unable to sleep, unable to rest. All the household hears you pace. We try not to listen, but your heels ripple like drums.
ARETHA: You were…concerned? For me?
CARMELITA: All were! The butler chews his nails. The footman paces. The cook sniffles. Trying to hide it, he blames the onions. And me, most of all! That’s why. . ..
ARETHA: Why? (ARETHA touches CARMELITA’s lips.) You love me. Oh. Carmelita.
CARMELITA: The red capsules. I took them from the medicine cabinet.

[To be continued]

Bombardment, Episode 7: Clouding the Issue

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Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 7]

ACT, SCENE III

CARMELITA enters, pushing a shopping cart full of balloons, costumes, junk. Dressed like some kind of arctic ragpicker. Figures on stage appear dead, heaped over one another as though tossed about.

CARMELITA: During wartime, you get used to seeing corpses. But you never get used to seeing corpses that appear to have been dropped from high altitudes.

CARMELITA pulls the cap from her head. Her hair is a vibrant, untamed mass. The impact should be one of going from drab formlessness to startling beauty. CARMELITA checks the bodies. First PLACID, then CORNO, pulling him off ARETHA.

CARMELITA: In town, the disruption of bombs provides a ready distraction. Rubble blocks the streets. Water mains rupture. Hence, the official media concentrate on that which still functions. Fire trucks, for example. Fire trucks are reassuring. They’re very colorful, and the lines of water arching into a flame provide an image of control in the midst of chaos. But a twelve-year-old eviscerated by a shattered soda bottle, a spinster impaled on her own walker, a tiny scalp nestled in an otherwise empty bassinet: these can be nothing but chaos. And. . .we simply can’t have that.

CARMELITA pauses in checking ARETHA. Puts her ear to ARETHA’s chest. Rises.

CARMELITA: This clouds the issue. This does. Because the road awaits, the road away from. . ..

CARMELITA kneels and addresses ARETHA directly.

CARMELITA: You cause me grief, little one. You’re broken. Cracked. It’s pain for you. Pain if you open your eyes. Do what’s best, little kitten. Be wise. Let go of your beating. Release that stubborn notion. This is no life. Scheming. Fearful. Not even sure you can trust the sky. Relinquish. Escape. And return. Revised in a fresh, better form. Perhaps. How exciting! You’ll do this? I’ll touch your heart, and you’ll release it? Slip me its strength. It’ll power my legs, my spirit. We’ll both get away, hearts entwined in synergy. Then these games can fade to silence. The pain ends. Here. Forever. Yes? You’re ready, little heart? You’re ready to let go? All right. I’ll touch you, and you’ll let go. Ready? Right now. I’m touching you. Now. (Lays hands upon her. Waits. Nothing.) No. I suppose not.

CARMELITA rises. Takes off her scarves and rolls them into a pillow for ARETHA’s head. CARMELITA takes off her coat and places it over ARETHA. Underneath, CARMELITA wears a maid’s uniform. As she disrobes, she throws her clothes atop ARETHA before dashing under the pile with her.

[To be continued]

A Pause for Station Identification

/ Steve Patterson / Leave a comment

Smile for the damned birdie.

The Internet is a strange little butterfly: you never know where it might land next. Out of all the blather I’ve poured into this blog, one of the all-time favorite posts (with the most views), is Photography + Music = Art, a handful of photographs I took in my guitar studio, marrying two of my passions, music and photography.

I don’t whether it’s the music, the photography, or the chemistry between the two, but, if it’s the photography, I should mention that splattworks has a companion blog, splattsights, which addresses my photo work. I’ve been taking photographs for years, almost as long as I’ve been writing, and had stuff published, hung in galleries, etc. If anyone wants to check out what I’ve been up to there. It need to get back to the program and put up some new stuff; like most photographers, I have an embarassing number of images in the files. (Obviously, I need to take more pictures of guitars.)

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming…tune in this evening for Bombardment: Episode 7.

thx/sp

Bombardment Episode 6: A Glittering, Crystal Price Tag

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Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 6]

CORNO: Evening, dear. You look a fright. Nothing to say? You? The old silent treatment? What could I have done? Too much time at the office? Neglected your delicate filigree of need? Philandering? Me? Come now. Why would I want anyone else? You’re a goddess. Very nearly. (Sits beside her.) Perhaps you weren’t always a goddess. Maybe I wasn’t always a god. Even those born to it must be proven. As must those, my dear, who have risen to their esteemed positions through more circuitous routes. Through sweat or marriage or combinations of the two. Perhaps you feared, from experience, that you could be replaced by firmer flesh and more malleable aspirations. A tactical error. Happens when one brings intrigue into nostalgia. If anything about that formless creature attracted me, it was her resemblance you! Ah, strike that. Um, well, um…the wench had already been paid for! I was supposed to let that go to waste? You know how you feel about waste. I did as expected. As taught. If a grape dangles above one’s mouth, one eats. With savor. Ever seeking perfection. It’s right there. Waiting. Dangling. A glittering, crystal price tag. Hell. Let us simply kill the damned servants and start anew! No shame in admitting a mistake! There’s plenty to pick from, and they cost a pittance! A nice polished skein of muscle for you! And for me. . .for me, a creature of…ice. Whose very touch would freeze. Who is there but to look upon, as to say: as perfect as you are, you’ll never come even this close to my true desire! My purest love! That’s you, dear. There is a time for a man to grow up. Accept his place. I have arrived at that crossroads, and realize I was…perhaps miscalculating. So just. . .pull yourself together. We’ll go on as we’ve always gone. The choice is yours. That’s an order. Get up, Aretha. Quit playing around! (Shakes her.) Get up, goddamn it! It’s morning! It’s past-morning! I’m not lying to you! (Pulls her into his arms. She’s limp.) Goddamn, woman, this just isn’t done! Sleeping in all day! What will that cook say? Only one for breakfast, sir? What about the guests? They’ll long to see you. You know how they are. The way they talk. Then the pictures. The rumors. Rot in the magazines. Goddamn it! I can’t do this alone!

CORNO shakes her. She doesn’t respond. He lets her sink down. Lights fade to silhouette the players. In the background, the sounds of planes return.

CORNO: Ah. That will be fine. Your services are no longer required. Presently. (Planes louder.) Abort your mission. That’s your commander-in-chief talking. (Planes louder.) I said your presence…. Hello? Will no one in this kingdom play the slightest attention to their…? Those are my planes? Surely a radio problem. A failure to communicate. Misplaced coordinates. Friendlies about to correct their…. (Planes deafening.) Or. Perhaps not.

Lights out. Rolling thunder of airstrike. Planes and bombs fade out.

[To be continued]

Bombardment, Episode 5: True Sport Knows No Mercy

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Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 5]

ACT I, SCENE II

Lights up. CORNO sits. Behind him, ARETHA and PLACID lay limp, twisted, broken. CORNO pulls a pipe and packet of tobacco from his coat pocket. As he speaks, he breaks down the pipe, cleans it, puts it back together, pretends to load it.

CORNO: My house. I’ll smoke if I want. Used to smoke cigarettes. Playing Bogart. Man, how he could roll a ciggie, turning it in the flame. The measured inhale, squinting against the smoke. Exhale seeping between his lips. Pure love. Love flowing between his fingers and heading toward heaven. Love even in the way he squinted through the smoke. You knew she was looking back. Plus it kills you. With every single breath, you’re one step closer. One man’s stupidity is another man’s defiance. I smoke! I choose! That cloud above my head declares: I live!

CORNO lights his pipe, draws, and sits back, savoring the experience. Exhales demonstrably. There’s no visible smoke.

CORNO: For now.

CORNO rises and inspects the bodies.

CORNO: My kingdom. My subjects. Do you hear dissent? They dream of peace. Have they not been pacified? (To the audience.) Ah. You look at me, fixing me in the crosshairs of your judgment. Behind the chintz curtain you call conscience. A good king would never bomb his own people. Never turn his troops and machine guns against the hungry and the ill. Naïveté as a yardstick. You only see the smallest piece. Can only compare it to your limited morality, circumscribed by law. My law. Thus, you who counsel mercy for others condemn me with a glance.

CORNO drifts back toward PLACID. Rolls him onto his back with his shoe. CORNO looks through the weapons bag. Picks up the tire iron. Handles it like a golf club.

CORNO: There was a time when I was a mighty feared man on the green. Yes, yes, we made some deals out there. They thought a pampered boy like me wouldn’t hold up, my butler shooting all the toughies. Hah. We learned for sport. True sport knows not mercy. What makes it fun. Poor bastards never had a chance. (CORNO steadies PLACID’s head with his shoe. Eyes the shot.) Rough lie on this one. I think maybe a nine-iron. A gamble in this wind, but you only live once. Or twice. Knees bent. Elbows cocked. Measuring the green. (And. . .he can’t do it.) Well, bub, you play this through without me.

CORNO Drops the iron with a clang. Ambles over to ARETHA.

[To be continued]

Bombardment, Episode 4: Dallas Style

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Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 4]

PLACID: Do it right! Make him come to you! Feign penance. Face behind a veil. So he’s sure he’s won. Accepting your proffered hand in his grand benevolence.
ARETHA: Humiliated.
PLACID: Does a spider humiliate? No. She waits. For the prey to relax.
ARETHA: Then strike.
PLACID: Why you need me. The most loyal of loyal. The only one–present company excepted–that he trusts. The one who’s borne the blood. Who’s bashed the heads to pieces. Slit the throats. He slinks home for you. On his knees. Pleading mock repentance. Until my shadow crosses his.
ARETHA: I know this gore and violence thrills you, but must your willie stick up my ass?

PLACID stands her up.

PLACID: Sorry, babe! Got a little excited! Excited…for your triumph!
ARETHA: Sit.

He sits. ARETHA paces.

ARETHA: Ah god.

She sits down and puts her head between her knees.

PLACID: Babe…you okay?

She sits back, obviously pained. CORNO rises from hiding place, vaguely concerned.

ARETHA: Comes in waves, the agony. My eyes. Seeing him. Them. He’s kisses her hair, her neck. She clenches her calves. She drops the platter. It rattles on parquet tiles, oysters splashing. She reaches back. Bunches the pleats of his woolen trousers. Fingers spreading flat. Trembling. . .. In my bed, Placid! My bed! I need murder. Tell me murder!

CORNO eases from one spot to another.

PLACID: Sweet. (Rises. Goes to bag. Takes out a tire iron.) Eh?
ARETHA: Kitchen to garage. Better. He loves his cars. Men love to go fast. Why they always do.
PLACID: Yeah, I love this fucker. Nice and heavy, but a point, too. Let it hang by your side. Come up behind him. Jam! Right through the back of his head!

PLACID demonstrates. ARETHA winces.

PLACID: Skull frags everywhere! Dallas style! Busted pottery! Or. . .–hwack!– uppercut! Hook that soft spot ‘neath the jaw! Give a twist, snap, whole trache rips out! Blood like a Rorschach! Beautiful.
ARETHA: I don’t the implement is properly. . .stylish.
PLACID: This gonna’ be a murder or a tea party?
ARETHA: What about something with a point that doesn’t have to mutilate? A pin? A dart?

PLACID rummages, comes up with a drill.

ARETHA: I believe you need a cord.
PLACID: (Buzzes it.) Batteries.
ARETHA: So…intrusive.
PLACID: You know what? You still love the bastard.
ARETHA: I do not.
PLACID: Yes, you do. You hate him as much as you say, you’d cut his head off–(pulls a hacksaw out of the bag and waves it around)– never mind the glop. Shit. Why don’t you just feed him a cute little Seconal brandy?
CORNO: Prefer coffee.

ARETHA leaps out of her seat. Enraged, she lunges toward him. The lights flicker. Planes return. Bombs fall, thundering. Shatteringly loud. Strobe lights. ARETHA, PLACID, and CORNO all hit the deck and cover up.

CORNO: Aretha? Aretha!

Admist the bombardment, one bomb falls with an especially piercing whine. Lights out with a shattering concussion. Silence.

[To be continued]

Bombardment, Episode 3: Just Speakin’ Colorful

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Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 3]

ARETHA: How do you plan to conduct the administrative action?
PLACID: Well, it’s funny. On one hand, living things are a bitch to kill. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you end up just bashing ‘em till they come apart. But, if you got a little knowledge, get inside, snap the right wire, the whole gimmick goes…click. That’s what we’re shooting for. The right wire. Now. (Reaches into bag, pulls out a carving knife.) Standard number. Sharp, long enough to get to the juicy stuff. Strong, won’t break on bone. Drawback is. . .it’s been done. Million times. Kind of thing a housewife uses to whack her hubby when he’s dipping his wick on the side.
ARETHA: Be very careful.
PLACID: No offense. Just speaking colorful.
ARETHA: Nothing with domestic connotations.
CORNO: Say, could I get some coffee?

The two on stage look up, pause, then go back to what they’re doing.

PLACID: This wouldn’t work then?

Holds up a nutcracker. ARETHA shakes her head.

PLACID: Bummer.

Puts knife, nutcracker on floor. Takes out an icepick.

ARETHA: What did I tell you?
PLACID: Could be a wet bar. Some swanky lounge.
ARETHA: No.
PLACID: Camping?
CORNO: Please, it’s chilly out here. Let’s get a cup for all these good people.
ARETHA: Where do you find it?
CORNO: Just a warm-up. For my loyal, loving subjects.
ARETHA: You find it in a kitchen drawer, right along with the corn skewers and the garlic press.
PLACID: Garlic press. . ..
CORNO: Don’t need any cream! Black is fine!
ARETHA: (Leaping to her feet.) Shut up! Shut up, you bastard! I will not serve you! I will not! Think who I am! Think who you compare me to! I could kill you with my bare hands!

ARETHA lunges for him, but PLACID jumps up, grabs her round the waist. Holds her tight as she struggles to get into audience.

PLACID: No, no, shh. Do it proper.
ARETHA: To hell with proper!
PLACID: You can’t mean it.
ARETHA: Gouge out his eyes!
PLACID: No. Aretha.
ARETHA: With a grapefruit spoon! Pluck ’em out! Stamp ‘em on the ground!

She furiously stamps the stage while PLACID holds her in place. He finally wrenches her back. They both end up in an chair, ARETHA planted on PLACID’s lap.

[To be continued]

Bombardment, Episode 2

/ Steve Patterson / 1 Comment

Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 2]

ARETHA: Is this is how you want me to be? Or is this how you want to be? I can be anything required. Rich. Beautiful. Bathed in seals’ milk. Sipping the blood of a freshly slain virgin from a Midori martini glass. My breath scented with opium. Underarms of honeysuckle. A kiss that can lift you to Valhalla, a whimper that can drop you to Siberia. Able to have anyone and anything. . .but you. (ARETHA sits.) My God. What I wouldn’t do for a knife to carve the features from my face. I won’t lecture you on the burdens of nobility. Any disadvantages we experience are more than compensated. Despite our pretensions, we understand this, particularly those who have experienced vicissitudes in attaining one’s position. In exchange, all I relinquish is control of my appearance, speech, public behavior. Otherwise, I am free. Further, in compensation I am granted control of all behavioral codes within these walls, this world. Not just for the footmen, serving maids, culinary technicians, but for all whose adherence to the rules insures the seamless, untroubled continuation of our. . .. Ones’ servants do not lay hands upon ones’ person! Not without invitation! And, in exchange, one lays ones’ hands upon ones’ servants with utmost discretion. One does not whisper in thy servants ear at table! One does not surreptitiously tease thy servant’s thigh with spouse so close as to hear thy servant’s breath quicken! One does not corrupt thy servant in the boudoir of thy wife! He had to be disciplined! Do not think I do not suffer for this decision! His very absence emphasizes the nature of his violation! The thought of his hands upon her skin cooks the very eyes within my skull! He betrays his place! My station! The very boundaries of reality have been violated! My double, carved of the same hard fruit. We cannot fit swelling to hollow with others. Not with the same exquisite perfection, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. But if he cannot be brought to rein, and all cannot be set as it was, I will sacrifice him! Not in vengeance, o sweet, sweet drug. For order. Stability. Such as he taught me.

PLACID enters. Carries a bag. Sets down the bag and opens it.
PLACID: But I do the sacrificing? Right?
ARETHA: On my order.
PLACID: Yeah, but chopping him, opening him up. I get to do that?
ARETHA: If I didn’t want him dead, I wouldn’t pay you. If I didn’t pay, you wouldn’t do it.
PLACID: Babe, I do it for you. For your love. Your love is my money. Your lips my municipal bonds.
ARETHA: Body. It’s either cost or commodity. Do your job. You’ll be compensated. Understand the nature of the transaction. What matters is Corno’s fate. Not yours. Death matters. When he’s dead, he’ll know what love means.
PLACID: It’ll look like love backed right over him. Repeatedly.

[To be continued]

Opening the Bomb Bay Doors

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Splattworks now presents Bombardment, a two-act drama. Given the brief space appropriate for a blog, the play will be serialized in about 26 installments. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

Thanks.

Steve Patterson

Bombardment premiered in 1991, produced by Stark Raving Theatre (Portland, Oregon, USA). Directed by Kyle Evans, the original cast included: Phil Baker as Corno, R. Marquam Krantz and Placid, Mary Jo AbiNader as Aretha, and Michelle Guthrie as Carmelita. Lights and sound design by Michael Delves. Special thanks to Rich Burroughs, EJ Westlake, Rod Harrel, Myra Donnelly, Dave Demke, Linda Grimm, and Greg Tozian.

———-

BOMBARDMENT
A Drama in Two Acts by Steve Patterson

Copyright © 1998 by Steve Patterson

CHARACTERS

CORNO: A political strongman.
PLACID: Corno’s enforcer.
ARETHA: Corno’s wife.
CARMELITA: Aretha’s maid.

SCENE: A Deteriorating Mansion Outside the City

TIME: Outside of Time

“No vehicle had entered the town since the gates were closed. From that day onwards one had the impression that all cars were moving in circles.” — Albert Camus, The Plague

[EPISODE 1]

ACT I

SCENE I

SETTING: Something between a throne room and a living room. A ruined city can be seen in the distance. Two large chairs at center, a table with an ashtray and pipe rack between them. AT RISE: Lights on CORNO, seated. In background, CARMELITA stands in a maid’s uniform.

CORNO: I used to be king. Born to it. Used to be lord of imponderables. If I wanted something, I didn’t command it. All I had to do was picture it, and someone brought it to me. A hint of thirst, and a glass materialized in my hand. I had the strength of ten, vitality of twenty. An enormous furnace burned within my chest, and it took all of life to keep it roaring. I ate a roast a day, and my arteries stayed clear and strong, the seams bulging with blood. There was never enough to sustain me. Not enough power, not enough brandy, not enough women. I raced boats and crashed balloons and juggled Thompson submachine guns. I wrestled land grading machines, silenced incorruptible senators, floored my Lamborghini in the bike lanes. When I walked down a country road, trees moved their branches to hold me in a steady flow of sunlight.

Drawn backward into darkness, CARMELITA exits.

CORNO: I don’t feel like that now. I feel two-hundred and fourteen. I can’t feel my legs. I slowly blink, and my lids scrape against my eyes. My heart drags its twisted foot. I’m tired. Tired, tired, and I don’t know how it happened. I woke one morning to a strange woman’s scent. My possessions lost their loving familiarity. I didn’t know what to do. I opened the blinds, and the color drained from the sun.

The distant drone of airplanes, soft but slowly growing louder.

CORNO: Imperceptively, that which has so perfectly been balanced for so long…wavers. Clocks… hesitate. Deep within the machine, where even the designers can’t understand the construction, something stirs. Eases into consciousness. At first, confused. But, as it remembers where it is, what it is, what it does, and what it needs…the hunger begins.

Planes appear to pass overhead. Bombs rumble and lights flash. The bombardment grows in intensity. CORNO reacts with fear, shock, pain. The lights go out, concussion of the bombs continuing. The barrage ends, planes fade. CORNO’s armchair is empty. PLACID comes tramping in. Wears a distinctive hat. Hesitates when he sees CORNO’s empty armchair. Approaches it carefully. Sits, trying it on for size. Enjoys sitting there, but can’t lose the sense that he’s being watched, that he’ll be caught. Uneasily, he rises, slinks off. CORNO enters from the rear of the theater and takes a seat in the audience reserved for him. Immediately takes the character of someone excitable and late for the performance. If a man is next to him, CORNO begins hard-luck story about needing gas money; if it’s a woman, he begins flirting. Lights shift, and CORNO begins shushing everyone around him. Sinks down, trying to look inconspicuous. ARETHA enters.

[To be continued]