Tag Archives: pipe dreams

Bombardment, Episode 16: Sometimes a Pipe is Just a Pipe

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 could arrive a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 16]

CARMELITA: I see him on his boat. Wearing his thick sweater, his plush woolen trousers. His hands upon the wheel. Steering. Turning. The prow cutting the waves. The spray. He’s standing in the sun. He’s standing in the sun, and he’s got that smile. Wind catching his hair, but he’s got that smile. The brilliant, too-large teeth. The trembling lips. His eyes squinting at the sun, at the wind, and you see through his eyes. You see tomorrow. It’s bright and it glistens in the wind, sharp and brilliant with promise. Oh yes. It’s right there in his eyes. In his smile. It’s there. There. It is right there. It’s still there. Oh god, it’s still there. Here. It’s here. He’s still here! Dear lord, he’s still here!

CARMELITA’s breath breaks into moans. PLACID continues reading. In the background and from opposite ends of the stage, ARETHA and CORNO slowly emerge from darkness. Dressed like PLACID and CARMELITA in Act I. Distant. Cool in shades. They are invisible to PLACID and CARMELITA. Everyone should be in place just as CARMELITA is about to orgasm. Suddenly, she stands.

CARMELITA: No! No.

Carefully, she places the pipe back in the rack. She grabs the carving knife.

CARMELITA: It’s here. The beast is here. I can smell it. Thought the smell was something else. Placid. Placid!

CARMELITA walks in front of PLACID, and cuts his paper in half.

PLACID: What the hell was that?
CARMELITA: Stock split.
PLACID: You know what that was? That was the newspaper. That was the last newspaper. There won’t be any more. That means we’re out of news. We won’t know what’s going on.
CARMELITA: What’s happening is–
PLACID: Wind.
CARMELITA: Wind? What wind?
PLACID: Winds of change. Yeah. Winds of change blowing. We got to be ready. Gotta be prepared.
CARMELITA: Or what?
PLACID: Or else we get blown away, babe. Plain and simple.
CARMELITA: A regular hurricane.
PLACID: That’s right. We’re right in the eyes and–
CARMELITA: Eye.
PLACID: Huh?
CARMELITA: Eye. Hurricane’s only have one eye. Go ahead.
PLACID: We’re right in that eye. Here, it’s calm. Real calm. But out there, right out there, it’s the worst midnight on the worst road of the worst winter. Believe you me. Right out that door it’s trees pulled out of the ground, roof tiles flying like hatchets, little girls and their dogs carried off.
CARMELITA: So we stay in the eye? We never move because of this hurricane?
PLACID: No. The hurricane shifts. Today it’s here, tomorrow it’s over there. And the eye moves with it. The stuff. We got this stuff now.

[To be continued]


In 2009, I want to….

–write at least one new full-length play.

–finish the Angels+Demons photo project and arrange a show.

–write a handful of 10-minute plays.

–work with some new, creative folks on a show in a town where I’ve never been produced before.

–work with some old friends on new plays.

–get together with friends and BS, have some laughs, make some music, and/or do some art.

Okay. Your turn….

Steve


Dept. of Stupid Ideas

I was recently chatting with a friend about making music, theatre, etc., and we were both agreed that, yeah, it’d be cool if there was a place in the country you could go where you could crank up the amps, and folks could jam, try out new stuff. And pretty soon we were like…and yeah…we could do play readings! And workshops! And record! And a space for photographers! And…and…and…we need a barn! Or a rich friend with a barn. A rich patron of the arts with a barn. At which point, it devolved into some kind of mutant Mickey Rooney on acid let’s put on a show, and we laughed it off, and the conversation meandered into something equally silly….

But.

For some reason, I keep thinking about the barn. What if…there really was one out there? And someone was into it? You could kind of, I don’t know, do a co-opt thing where folks chipped in a few bucks to help defray costs, and you could have jams with a few invited friends, a pot-luck, a bit of theatre, a bit of music, and….

Yeah. It’s totally fucking nuts. But then, so am I, so I went a posted an inquiry on Portland Craigslist under “Artists.” I’m sure nothing will come of it. But…but…but….

Nevermind.