The Four Tempraments of Playwriting

In a 1988 article  in American Poetry Review, Gregory Orr identified “Four Tempraments and the Four Forms of Poetry,” speculating that four inborn orientations in writers account for a gift of generating language in a creative way. Most poets are gifted with one, and develop the other three, tempraments, and peoms exhibit the gifts in various combinations. The greatest poet or poem would exhibit all four in natural abundance –although Orr notes that ” no one in English but Shakespeare could be said to exhibit all four with equal vigor.”

These tempraments seem applicable to other forms of writing, but before addressing that…

LET’s LET ORR EXPLAIN ORR’s CATEGORIES 

http://mypage.siu.edu/puglove/4.htm

“Story: dramatic unity—a beginning, middle and end. Conflict, dramatic focus, resolution.  

Structure: the satisfaction of measureable patterns…. the beauty and balance of equations…  [in poetry, mostly verse forms]  

‘Music’ …rhythm (pitch, duration, stress, loudness/softness), and the entire panoply of sound effects (alliteration, assonance, consonance, internal rhyme, etc.).

Imagination: the flow of image to image or thought to thought….a stream of association, either concretely (the flow of image) or abstractly (the flow of thought).”

Orr opposses the  intensity, limits and law inherent in Story and Structure to the unconditional, limitless liberty of “Music” and Imagination:

LIMITING, RATIONAL:  The Aristotlean power and Hollywood grandeur of “discovery” and “reversal” function as pivot points in the best stories, but in some stories they are “magical” and “enthralling,” and certain works or writers  have the Platonic  “..something straight, or round, and the surfaces and solids which a lathe or a carpenter’s rule and square produces….beautiful, not in a relative sense; they are always beautiful in their very nature, and they carry pleasures peculiar to themselves and which are free of the itch of desire.”

LIMITLESS, IRRATIONAL:  The “musical” temperament is related not only to the individual sounds of the langauge but the overall aural soundscape of the play. If that sounds irrational, Orr would agree: “Dionysus’ flute rather than Apollo’s lyre—more ecstasy and trance than measure and order, and Imagination can be either concrete or abstract. Again, this seems irrational as a category, and is more easily seen in  concrete examples.

Orr proposes “a kind of Chinese menu—one from Column A…. one from Column B…” suggesting that a writer needs to possess both limiting and limitless, or rational and irrational aspects. Like any system of four, Orr’s dualities yield possibilities of various pairings and  triads, and seems a useful way of categorizing works of astounding range.

One can see how this would apply to the work of theatrical writers. And though it is difficult to confine great playwrights to only one category, one can list playwrights who are most easily discernible in each category.

STORY: Inge, Williams, Miller, Shanley, Marguiles, Lindsay-Abaire

STRUCTURE: Wilder, Anderson, Ayckbourne,  Frayn, Kushner

“MUSIC”: Wilde, Shaw, Pinter, Stoppard, Shepard, Mamet

IMAGINATION: Beckett, Ionesco, Orton, Albee, Durang

It is an interesting prism through which to view a playwright’s work, or even one’s own.

Comfy Chair: a 10 min. play

At LIGHTS UP, a large easy chair, upholstered in a worn print that has split here and there, revealing white cotton stuffing. To one side, like an end-table, a grimy metal garbage can with a battered hurricane lamp atop it. To the other side, shelves made of cinderblocks supporting rough-hewn pine planks hold two or three items of flea-market bric-a-brac. Upstage is a rusty shopping cart, with two ten-gallon bottles of water in it. Before the easy chair, a scratched and dingy plastic ice chest with duct-tape repairs on its hinges.

We hear a lock in a door and a door opening off, stage left. DAD enters, dressed for the office in an elegant suit and tie,
and carrying a fine leather briefcase or valise, which he sets on the ice-chest hassock. He treats his surroundings not as the detritus it is, but as the comfortable home it represents.

DAD:
Hon? You home yet?

He tosses his keys on the end-table as he takes his cell-phone from his pocket to check messages, holding the device to his ear. We hear his phone messages in voice-over.

PHONE MESSAGE (V01):
You have [two] messages. [performance date] 3:42pm.

MOM MESSAGE (VO2):
Hi, I guess you turned off your cell for the meeting. Hope it goes well. Or went well, by the time you get this. I’m on my way to pick up Petey. Love you! Bye.

There’s a beep, and a second message sequence.

V01:
[performance date] 4:53pm.

MOM MESSAGE (VO2):
Hi, darling! Hope it went well today. Can’t wait to hear about it. If anyone deserves to make senior deputy in that office, it’s you.

(DAD sighs heavily)

I’ll be a little late. Pete had to stay after soccer. Apparently, there was another “incident.”

(DAD sits in the easy chair)

MOM MESSAGE (VO2): (continued)
No big deal, they said, but the coach wanted to talk to all the boys about it. A dozen parents, backed-up in the parking lot in our S.U.V.’s, waiting. Anyway, we’ll be a little late. I’ll stop at Whole Foods and pick something up for dinner. See you soon.

DAD hangs up, then sets the cell-phone on the end-table, picks up the remote and turns on the TV. A blue glow
comes up on DAD, along with the sound.

TV HOST (VO3):
…to see how long it would take before he caught-on to the prank. Let’s watch as our team—

DAD:
No.

DAD changes the channel.

NEWSCASTER (VO4):
…makes another round of wrenching government lay-offs, this time in Wisconsin and Michigan. Slim majorities in both legislatures—

DAD:
No.

DAD changes the channel.

CARTOON GIRL (VO5a):
…want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher.

DOPEY BARITONE (VO5b):
What’s a belly-itcher?

CARTOON GIRL (VO5a):
Shut up, dumb-ass!

DAD:
No.

DAD changes the channel and, hearing the sound of the door opening and closing, stage left, turns down the volume, but the screen’s blue glow remains.

PETE enters, a boy of about ten, dressed for the soccer game he’s just come from. He tries to make his way to his bedroom, stage right, before his father stops him.

PETE:
Hey, Pops.

DAD:
Hi, Petey. How was practice?

PETE:
Alright.

DAD:
Mom said there was another… thing, at the game.

PETE:
Aw, coach was on our case about someone bullying Duh-duh-duh-Dwayne again.

DAD:
Pete, what did I say about that?

PETE:
Dwayne. Everyone calls him that.

DAD:
We talked about this. Picking on people less fortunate than you. Not cool, in anyone’s book.

PETE:
I didn’t do it.

DAD:
Were you there?

PETE:
What am I supposed to do? Stop two guys twice as big as me from picking on some dweeb who’s too weak to defend himself?

DAD:
My office handles cases like this all the time. Someone thinks they’re just kidding around, and then the next thing you know they’re up on felony charges. People like… like Dwayne need to be protected. That’s why I went into the Law.

PETE:
Yeah, but you don’t have to worry about getting dissed because you’re friends with Dwayne
the Dweeb!

DAD:
Hey. Tone.

PETE:
Sorry.

DAD:
Don’t mumble, son.

PETE:
I said, I’m sorry.

DAD:
Where’s you mother?

PETE:
Talking to Tammy Tabor.

DAD:
Mrs. Tabor, please.

PETE:
Can I watch Cage Fighters?

DAD:
You’ve got a TV in your room. Take a shower first, though. We’ll call you when dinner’s ready.

PETE:
Is there any Gatorade?

DAD:
Only the diet you won’t drink.

PETE shakes his head and exits, teen-dejected, off right. DAD picks up his cell-phone, dials.

MOM (VO2):
I’m right outside. Didn’t Petey tell you?

DAD:
He said you were talking to Tammy.

MOM (VO2)
Uh-huh. She’s right here.
DAD:
I thought I’d rescue you.

MOM (VO2):
I’ll be right in. (Jim wants to know where his dinner is.) I’ll be right in, hon.

DAD:
Bye.

DAD smiles to himself, and sets the phone down, stares at the TV screen, still pulsing blue light across his face.
He smiles even more broadly at the screen, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume.

BIGGLES (VO7a):
It doesn’t seem to be hurting him, lord.

INQUISITOR (VO7b):
Have you got all the stuffing up one end?

BIGGLES (VO7a):
Yes, lord.

INQUISITOR (VOb):
Ah! He must be made of stronger stuff! Cardinal Fang! Get…THE COMFY CHAIR!

The jarring chord from the sketch.

(ALL VO):
The comfy chair…..the comfy chair….. the comfy chair

ANNOUNCER (VO7c):
While they are all saying Comfy Chair…

DAD chuckles, fond of this classic Monty Python sketch, but turns down the volume at the sound of the door,
off left.

MOM enters, from stage left. She wears a roomy sweater and ample skirt, comfortable elegance that allows for the actress to underdress, as will be seen presently.

She is carrying two cloth bags with the Whole Foods logo.
DAD rises and rushes to help. He takes both bags as
she besses him on the cheek.

MOM:
Hi, darling. How’d it go?

DAD:
They told me they may not even name a new deputy.

MOM:
Cut-backs coming?

DAD:
Almost certainly. But, we’re safe.

MOM takes the bags back from DAD.

MOM:
You relax, I’ll get dinner. You want Tandoori chicken with the lentil soup or the lemon-basil shrimp with the Tom Kha Gai.

DAD:
Tom Kha Gai. How was your day?

MOM:
Typical. They’re changing the name from “Sisters of Mercy” to just “Mercy.” Part of the merger.

DAD:
Really? That’s sad.

MOM kisses him on the lips, briefly but meaningfully.

MOM:
You okay?

DAD:
I need a shower.

MOM:
Shower will help.

DAD:
When Pete’s done.

MOM:
They fixed the water pressure. You can use the upstairs. Go!

DAD goes to exit, but returns to retrieve his briefcase
and turns to her to say:

DAD:
It’ll be alright. We’ll manage.

DAD exits, stage right.

MOM nods to herself, sets down the Whole Foods bags behind the chair, picks up the remote and turns off the TV.
The glow of the blue screen disappears.

MOM hesitates for a moment, then turns on the TV again. The blue glow returns as MOM turns up the sound. We hear the jaunty march music of Monty Python’s closing credits.

MOM changes the channel five times, with no time between for sound, only the pulse of the blue glow. Then we get sound as she sets the remote control down and begins to shift her clothing.

This will require clever under-dressing, to be accomplished with a minimum of effort, almost as if the woman were simply changing clothes at home: the sweater over a ratty overlarge plaid flannel shirt, gray sweatpants from under her skirt, clean socks over filthy, bandaged feet, and a stocking cap pulled down over her lovely coiffed hair. By the end of the broadcast segments, she has transformed herself into the very image of homelessness.

VO7:
…the lay-offs, coming on the heels of those in the West from Colorado and California, send
a disturbing signal about the stability of all fifty state governments at the very time when
the federal government is experiencing dramatic downsizing of everything from the massive
Department of Defense to the failing Postal Service.

The channel changes by itself, with a fitful sound effect.

VO8:
There are reports tonight, from the Center for Disease Control, of another outbreak of PRV3,
the third in a series of deadly Porcine Retroviruses, responsible for forty-eight deaths in the
four states along the troubled U.S.-Mexico border, where recent events make quarantine
difficult. Tonight, the CDC is reporting that emergency rooms in Nevada, Colorado and Utah
are filling with victims of the virus, in numbers large enough to impact on other emergency
services. No additional deaths, as yet, but now the CDC is calling the spread of the PRV3
“a public health issue of the gravest potential consequences.”

The channel changes by itself, the sound effect grown louder.

VO9:
Cyber attacks of startling efficiency, snarling financial services and other commerce
throughout the entire Pacific Northwest, which anonymous sources in the department
are suggesting are exploratory and prefatory to a more widespread assault on the nation’s electronic and communications infrastructure.

The blue light goes out with a dramatic burst of sound. LIGHTS DIM, and there is only the faint sound of wind.

MOM, her transfiguration complete, stands there a moment, then lifts two ragged Whole Foods bags from behind the chair. They are not nearly so full as the others, but she finds them heavier, and places them atop the bottles in the shopping cart

DAD enters from stage right, in a woolen coat and grungy, tattered blue jeans. One foot has a sneaker on it, the other is bandaged and the pain is evident as he limps to his chair.

DAD:
Hey.

MOM:
Hey. They ran out of cheese. After I waited all morning, in the cold. You just been sitting here?

DAD:
I got water.

MOM:
Good. I’ll have something to boil the meat in. Black Market beef, but it’s probably alright.
It’ll make good soup.

DAD:
What else did you get?

MOM:
They had some canned goods, just a little past their date. Corn, carrots. Pickles. They’ll still
be good. Maybe with sandwiches. I got the day-old bread.

DAD:
Sandwiches? I thought you said they ran out of cheese.

MOM:
I traded for some.
DAD:
What’d you trade? Hey, what did you trade?

MOM ignores the question, puts the cloth bags in the shopping cart, and goes to exit stage right.
She meets PETE, entering from stage right, now wearing scarred leather hiking shoes without sox,
cut-off shorts, and a football jersey –not soccer. PETE is drinking from a can of Mountain Dew.

MOM:
Where’d you get that?

PETE:
What?

MOM:
The drink. Where’d you get money for a can of soda?

PETE:
I found it.

MOM:
Where? I asked you a question.

MOM takes PETE roughly by the arm.

PETE:
A bunch of older kids found a machine in the basement of the County Building. I helped ‘em
get it open. They gave me a couple of the sodas.

MOM:
Where’s the other one?

PETE:
I sold it.

MOM puts out her hand. PETE takes a wad of bills from his pocket and gives them to her.

MOM:
Is this all you got?

PETE:
We couldn’t bust the money box before someone came. I’m going back tomorrow, though.
MOM:
Where’s your crowbar?

PETE:
I lent it to Jiz.

MOM:
You’ll need it tomorrow.

PETE:
But she said she’d…

MOM:
What.

PETE:
Nothing.

MOM:
Go and get it. Go!

PETE exits, stage left.

DAD:
Those kids that hang around the county building…

MOM:
Yeah, I know.

DAD:
They’re the same ones who…

MOM:
I know. Who’s this “Jiz”?

DAD:
I don’t know. We don’t talk anymore.

MOM:
Alright. Does your foot hurt?

DAD:
Like hell.

MOM:
I’ll take a look at it later. You want soup?

DAD:
I want… Yeah, soup would be nice.

MOM:
Alright.

DAD:
I’ll talk to him.

MOM nods her head, then wheels the shopping cart off, stage right.

DAD sits in his chair, staring into space, gently rocking one foot.

We hear an audio overlap of two portions of the familiar sketch,the two-character dialogue mashed with the single monologue, faintly, fading out with the lights, and there’s no blue glow now.

BIGGLES (VO7a)
It doesn’t seem to be hurting him, Lord.

INQUISITOR (VO7b):
Have you got all the stuffing up one end?

BIGGLES (VO7a):
Yes, Lord.

INQUISISTOR (VO7b):
He must be made of stronger stuff.

INQUISITOR (VO7b): (overlapping with above)
Our weapon is surprise. Surprise, and fear. Fear and surprise. Our two weapons are: Fear, surprise, and a ruthless efficiency. Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as—
I’ll come in again.

DAD sits in his chair as the LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK.

END OF PLAY.

Imaginary Friend: a 10 min. play by Tim West

IN THE BLACK, we hear rain. The first light we see is the glow from a television set, downstage left. From it, we hear the dull volley of a tennis game.

At LIGHTS UP, we see a breakfast nook upstage: rain-streaked bay windows, if possible; three chairs and a small table, set with a china coffee service.

AUDIE, a spindly teenage boy, sits in the middle chair, his legs to one side, one arm on the back of the chair and his head resting on that arm, with a remote control device in his hand. A tennis racket droops from his other. He is sporting incongruous summer white tennis togs. One leg has a metal brace.

AUDIE: (to the audience)
“You do my murder, and I do yours… Criss-cross.”

LAURA, AUDIE’s mother, enters stage right, wearing a chiffon housecoat and carrying a portable electronic device in one hand and a fashion magazine in the other.

LAURA:
What’s that, darling?

AUDIE turns down the volume of the TV tennis.

AUDIE:
I said “You are my mother and I love you. Kiss-kiss.”

LAURA:
Oh, sweetie! I love you too, darling. Yes: Kiss-kiss.

LAURA busses him on the top of his head. AUDIE licks his palm, straightens his cow-lick.

AUDIE:
Kiss-kiss.

LAURA sits SR, places her magazine on the table. AUDIE hands her a napkin, which she absent-mindedlytakes from him and uses as a pot-holder to pour
herself a cup of coffee from the pot while she continues multi-tasking between magazine and electronic device. LAURA sips the coffee, scowls.

LAURA:
Bitter.

AUDIE:
You could use some of Dad’s sweetener.

LAURA:
No, it’s fine the way it is. Oopsie!

LAURA has spilled a bit of coffee, but deftly takes the napkin and blots the spill, sparing the magazine. Then she returns to her device.

ALLAN, AUDIE’s dad, enters stage left, dressed for the office, carrying a briefcase in his right hand.

ALLAN sets the briefcase on the table, looks at his wristwatch, and takes a small portable electronic device from his shirt pocket and examines it.

AUDIE:
Morning.

ALLAN looks up, regarding his son pleasantly.

ALLAN:
Morning, sport! How’s my little Bjorn Borg? Illie Nastaze? Ivan Lindel? No, the other one, what’s his name? The one you like so much? Why can I never remember his name?

AUDIE:
Guy Haines.

ALLAN:
No, that’s not it. Give me a minute. It’ll come to me. Andre Aggasiz? Boris Becker!

ALLAN looks at his watch, then goes back to his device as he sits, googling tennis stars.

Throughout the following, LAURA and ALLAN do not look up from their respective devices when they address each other.

LAURA:
You’ll be late for work.

ALLAN:
No I won’t. Is there coffee?

LAURA
In the pot

ALLAN puts his hand of the coffeepot, checking to see if it’s warm. He reacts.

ALLAN:
It’s hot!

(He looks at his fingertips, rubs them together)

It seared my fingertips.

(To LAURA)

Why didn’t you warn me?

LAURA:
It’s hot.

ALLAN:
It seared my fingertips.

(To AUDIE:)

Why didn’t you warn me?

AUDIE:
I got you a decaf.

AUDIE holds out a metallic portable car cup in his hand, which ALLAN accepts gratefully.

ALLAN:
Hm? So you did! Thank you, son.

ALLAN sips his coffee, returns to his devise.

LAURA
Don’t drink too much, you know it only keeps you up.

AUDIE:
It’s okay. It’s decaf.

A pause while we listen to the rain.

ALLAN:
What’s the weather like today?

LAURA
Why?

ALLAN:
I got golf.

LAURA
It’s supposed to rain.

ALLAN sighs, shakes his head, and texts his golf date.

ALLAN:
Anything interesting in the paper?

AUDIE:
It’s a fashion magazine.

ALLAN:
Anything interesting?

LAURA
It’s supposed to rain.

ALLAN:
Good.

ALLAN finishes texting, looks at his watch, sips his coffee. He looks at his wife.

ALLAN:
Could I have the Sports section?

LAURA
Please.

Without looking up, LAURA hands ALLAN an ad insert, which he accepts and places on the table. Both parents return to their portable electronic devices.

AUDIE:
How’s your team doing, Dad?

ALLAN looks up from his device, stares at AUDIE.

ALLAN:
Hm? What’s that, Sport?

AUDIE:
How’s your team doing?

ALLAN:
What team?

AUDIE:
Say, football team?

ALLAN:
NFL or fantasy league?

AUDIE:
Fantasy league.

ALLAN:
Let’s check!

ALLAN goes back to his device to check scores.

LAURA:
You’re going to be late for work.

ALLAN:
I’ve got time.

LAURA:
Did you see there was a thing?

ALLAN:
A what?

LAURA:
A thing.

ALLAN:
Oh. No.

LAURA:
Five car pile-up. Highway 8.

ALLAN:
I didn’t see it. Where was that?

LAURA:
Highway 8.

AUDIE:
www dot Traffic Tracker dot-com.

ALLAN goes to his portable device to check traffic. After a moment, he frowns.

ALLAN:
It’s raining.

We listen to the rain for a moment, while both parents stay immersed in their devices. AUDIE fidgets with his good leg. After a moment,
he stops to announce:

AUDIE:
I need another tennis racket.

LAURA looks up from her device, really for the first time.

LAURA:
We’ll get you a new one, sweetie.

ALLAN: (not looking up from his device)
We’re not made of money, kids.

LAURA:
Oh poo! We’ll buy you a dozen rackets. We’ll buy you a hundred. From you settlement.

LAURA rises, kisses AUDIE on the head again, daubs his face with the napkin. AUDIE avoids letting her wipes his mouth. LAURA takes the napkin and polishes AUDIE’s leg-brace instead.

ALLAN:
That money is not for sporting equipment. It’s to get my little man the best doctors money can buy.

LAURA:
I know that. Don’t you think I know that?

LAURA sighs, checks his watch, takes a sip of coffee, puts his device in his shirt pocket, and rises.

ALLAN:
Sorry. I gotta go. I’ll be late.

AUDIE leaps up, as best he can, to preclude this.

AUDIE:
Don’t go yet, Dad!

ALLAN:
Oh, Sport! But I gotta. The traffic.

AUDIE:
Take me golfing.

ALLAN:
What? Oh, kiddo, you know I can’t do that.

AUDIE:
Why not?

LAURA
Mummy will take you to the mall with her, sweetheart.

AUDIE:
Just stay a minute more, please!

LAURA and ALLAN stand looking at each other over AUDIE’s head, then reluctantly return to their seats. AUDIE hops back onto his chair. AUDIE looks at ALLAN, who pockets his device, looks at his watch, sips his coffee. AUDIE looks at LAURA, who closes her magazine and, with just a tad of regret, turns her device off, giving AUDIE her full attention. AUDIE looks at ALLAN, who looks down at the ad insert, scratches it, sniffs his finger, scowls.

ALLAN:
What’s the second racket for, Sport?

AUDIE:
My tennis partner.

ALLAN:
Your what?

AUDIE:
I have an imaginary friend.

ALLAN:
Aren’t you a little old for that?

AUDIE:
No.

LAURA:
What’s his name, dear?

AUDIE:
Bruno.

LAURA
Bruno?

AUDIE:
Anthony.

ALLAN:
Well, which is it, Bruno or Anthony?

AUDIE:
Bruno Anthony.

ALLAN:
Your imaginary friend has a last name for a first name?

LAURA
Oh, leave the boy alone. What difference does it make?

ALLAN looks at his watch, goes to sip some coffee, but finds it cold. He sets it down, and rises.

ALLAN:
Well, I must be going. Maybe you me and Bruno can go golfing someday, eh?

AUDIE:
Bruno prefers tennis.

ALLAN enjoys this, tossles AUDIE’s hair, starts to go.

ALLAN:
Hey, that’s great, Sport!

AUDIE:
Don’t forget your briefcase.

ALLAN looks at the briefcase, but LAURA retrieves it, meeting ALLAN on his way to the door.

LAURA
He packed it himself. I told him I wouldn’t bother with it. That you’d be lunching at the club.

ALLAN:
What’s that supposed to mean? I’m sure I don’t know.

LAURA
I’m sure I don’t, either. Goodbye, then.

ALLAN:
Goodbye, dear.

ALLAN busses LAURA on the cheek, and exits. We hear a door close, off. LAURA sighs, crosses the table, gathers up the coffee pot and cup. AUDIE uses the remote to turn up the volume on the TV. We hear another tennis volley.

LAURA crosses toward SR with the coffee service. Suddenly, she drops it. She gasps as she looks at the broken dishes, then glares off in the direction ALLAN exited. We hear the sound of a car starting and pulling out of a driveway, off, as LAURA gasps for breath. She crawls toward the AUDIE just a bit, and finally collapses.

AUDIE, wide-eyed, limps to her side, then pokes her with his tennis racket. She lies there staring, not moving. In the distance, we hear an explosion, and then a rain of metal debris.

AUDIE limps back to his chair and straddles it. The tennis volley ends, and we hear clapping.

REFEREE V.O.:
Game, Mr. Haines. He leads, one game to love, third set.

ANNOUNCER V.O.
Well, Guy Haines has copped the first two sets very easily, and if he keeps going, it’ll be a straight set
for him, sure.

AUDIE looks out at the audience.

AUDIE:
Criss-cross.

BLACKOUT.

END OF PLAY.

Great Reckoning in a Little Room: a 10 min. play

IN THE BLACK, the raucous laughter of three men.

LIGHTS UP on a cramped and dim-lit tavern, where four men, in Elizabethan garb, are gathered at a rustic table that holds the pewter-plate remains of a feast of four, with empty flagons and ale-pots.A single candle lights the table, though there is ambient firelight.

In the middle seat sits KIT MARLOWE, playwright. At twenty-six, he has achieved lasting fame if only modest fortune –enough of the latter, at least, to have rich black velvet for his doublet, fine knit hose, and costly lace about his throat. Auburn locks and a pencil moustache set off his fair skin. He is pensive, if not entirely sober. He was never big on comedy. And to either side of him, sit two villains, companions of this, his final day alive. They’re enjoying themselves.

NICOLAS SKERES is an affable oversized bumpkin in patched pumpkin pants, mended worsted hose, and a shirt in need of washing. He is in need of a barber. His imposing frame suggests he’s the hired for it.

INGRAM FRIZER is both rougher and more slick, dressed in a black leather jerkin studded with metal. Hanging from his belt are a short sword and other accoutrements of a soldier-of-fortune, maintained in shiny readiness. Only his jackboots are muddy. His hair is cropped close, and he has a goatee.
There’s a violence banked in this man, waiting.

ROBERT POLEY, standing to stage left, has the appearance of more means, though a closer look reveals he’s overdressed in Cheapside tawdry, in the way of most social climbers. He’s plausible enough as a gentleman rogue,  but it’s the calm exterior of a sociopath, which makes him really the most threatening of the three.

It is May, 1593. POLEY is wrapping up a joke or anecdote, as SKERES and FRIZER roar. MARLOWE’s smile seems feigned.

POLEY:
And Topcliffe turns that one good eye of his,
Agleam in torchlight, t’ other nastiness.
So then the Prisoner, he clears his throat –
For all the world like this was Inns of Court
Not Topcliffe’s dungeon— and he says to them,
“But if you cut my thumbs off, how will him
Would have me sign your wretched document,
Confessing all, obtain my signed consent?”

Then Master Topcliffe, the Chief Torturer,
Fixes that one eye upon the Prisoner
Proclaiming “Zounds, this lying priest speaks truth!
Well then, we’ll have to cut his willy off
So he can sign his name, and we shall have
One Papist less to Propagate the Faith!”

Marlowe smiles wanly, briefly, in what may have been a wince.
The three others laugh at this bit of ugly wit, POLEY enjoying it
in a wicked chuckle but FRIZIER cackling demonically and SKERES
guffawing like the big dim-wit that he is. After a moment, the laughter subsides.

SKERES:
It’s funny ‘cause it’s true.

POLEY:
Indeed, it is.
I heard that bit of wit myself, just as
As we were washing up.

(pointedly, to MARLOWE)

Those last small gobs
Of blood that stick in grisly jobs
Can be so hard to get off of your skin!
Reminds me of the death of Campion…

POLEY is about to launch into another story, but
SKERES is so excited that he can’t contain himself.

SKERES:
I got to see them draw and quarter him
At Tyburn, must be thirteen year since then.
Now I was just a lad, but still recall
The way he begged for mercy, like a… What?

SKERES searches for the simile, but POLEY cuts him off.

POLEY:
You’re no good with metaphor, Nick Skeres.

SKERES:
No, now, I got one here, for Jesu sake!
Kit Marlowe ain’t the only one can make
A pretty figure.

FRIZER:
Nick, Just give it up—
“For Jesu sake.”

POLEY:
But Gram, I got it now:
“They say he wept like a penitent whore.”

POLEY:
“They say.” I thought you said you saw it, Skeres.

SKERES:
I had to leave before the final act.

FRIZER:
You lying sack of shit!

SKERES:
Say that again!

SKERES stands to challenge FRIZER, who stands to confront him.
But the two are parted by MARLOWE, as he stands.

MARLOWE:
Well, lads, it’s getting late!

POLEY:
Kit, do sit down.

MARLOWE slowly returns to his seat, as the other two
follow him down, resuming their seats as well. POLEY
rests his weight. He’s taking time to enjoy this..

Since when has our esteemed Boy Poet here
Been known to us to keep fishmonger’s hours?

MARLOWE:
Since my advancement on the theatre boards
Has rivaled the preferment that our lords,
His Grace the most high Earl of Essex…

MARLOWE nods to FRIZER on his right.

…And
His excellence, Sir Francis Walsingham

Acknowledging SKERES and POLEY on his left.

Are able to provide to this poor player.
I have a script in hand, requires my care.

FRIZER stands.

FRIZER:
Do you upbraid my Lord of Essex, Kit,
For stinginess?

SKERES stands.

SKERES
Or aye, Lord Walsingham?

MARLOWE:
They pay well for intelligence.

FRIZER and SKERES:
They do.

POLEY signs for the two villains to resume their seats.

MARLOWE:
Yet they do waste a young man’s promise.
It’s not the work that would immortalize
A man, or even bring him some renown.
My life remains unsung, my deeds unknown.
The silver that they pay is tarnished gray,
My promise hid by time’s incessant dust.

MARLOWE pulls forth from his person a manuscript.

So, promise-crammed, show forth I must
What I possess the most of: That great skill
That has been granted me, to take a quill,
Some walnut ink, this piece of parchment here…

SKERES:
You use that walnut ink, then?

FRIZER:
Shut up, Skeres!

MARLOWE:
Withal, the product of my teeming brain,
To make a play to outdo Tamurlaine,
The Jew Of Malta, Doctor Faustus or
The Massacre at Paris and, what’s more,
To outdo every poet yet unborn,
So all the world shall look on him with scorn
Who dares to challenge he who, I do trow,
Will live in fame forever: Kit Marlowe.

SKERES:
I thought Tamurlaine Two a little thin.

POLEY ignores SKERES, focusing on MARLOWE.

POLEY:
Intelligence is out of fashion, then?

MARLOWE:
I hope not on the stage, but I suspect
The kind you mean is overrated fact.
Too much of it is on the market, chum.
Lord Burghley, Essex, Walsingham,
The Percy faction, Raleigh and his crew.
All buying what you sell. Who needs the news
That poor Kit Marlowe used to fetch –From Rhiems,
From Doaui, from the ports of Amsterdam
Or Vleshingen, from privy chapels or
From fleshpot brothels— unless it be for
A higher purpose than to hang our enemies
–The Catholics, the atheists, whoe’er they be?

POLEY:
What “Higher Purpose” would you serve, man,
If not the most high rulers of our land?

MARLOWE:
I’d serve my art, Bob Poley, serve my craft.
You find that funny? Well, go on then, laugh.
I want to put all that, all that I know
Into a single play, designed to show
The shadow world of we whom great men call
To do those dark and dirty tasks Whitehall
Cannot admit to.

POLEY:
No, indeed they can’t.
No more than you can put this rot you rant
Into a five-act drama.

MARLOWE:
But I’ve done so.
Advanced five hundred quid from Henslowe.
Ned Allyn’s playing me, the Curtain’s booked,
Rehearsals start next week.

FRIZER:
Well, I’ll be fucked!
Five hundred quid! They pay you that for naught
But jabbering about yourself all night?
What, for this here? For this here piece of scrap?

FRIZER grabs at the manuscript, but MARLOWE dodges.

MARLOWE:
“This piece of…” Ah, the sad, phlegmatic chap
Who sees only the paper, not the play,
Commodity.The coin, not what it buys.
Not only will this foolscap pay me well –
Nay, handsomely!— but one day this play shall
Become the very Touchstone of our age,
Not only reckoned great by our most sage
Observers, but by all the literati
Of centuries to come.

POLEY:
Lord but you’re greedy.

MARLOWE:
What’s that?

POLEY:
I said “You’re greedy.” Oh, what greed!

Now that he’s spoken his thought, POLEY gives it full vent.

They say that I do sometimes overreach.
But you… You, Marlowe, take the prize for each
Of several varieties of avarice,
You do. You want it all, not only this,
That, here and now, but every bit of it,
And everlasting, too. You just won’t quit
While you’re ahead, is what your problem is.
You take the silver that your betters pay,
Though you pretend you don’t. I wouldn’t say
That makes you worse than any other blokes
In spy-work, or in theatre. But the joke
Is that you think you’re better than we are.
In that way, you’re the greediest by far.

You cast yourself as Magus, Alchemist,
Magician, Faust, who makes gold out of dross.
Takes all the dreadful things he’s seen and heard,
Then writes it up, just puts it into words.
Words that shill earn him everlasting fame.

POLEY laughs oddly, and resumes his former manner,
the pose of banked, wry humor, his old familiar mask.

And no one even knows my name.
I’ll die with just the silver in my poke.
Bob Poley, just another nameless bloke
Who’ll be forgotten e’re he’s in his grave,
His place in life filled by some other knave.
But greedy, greedy Marlowe will live on,
His purse now ripe to bursting, and anon
Another debut on a London stage.
His poetry the greatest of the age
We live in, or indeed throughout all time.

Well, what’s yours is yours, Kit, and what’s mine is mine.

Ah, it has been a privilege to dine
With you, I must say, and because you shan’t
Be our associate –as you recant
The only faith you ever had in life—
We’ll have to bear the dull-edged knife
That severs our connection. Well. Farewell.

POLEY signals FRIZER and SKERES, who stand.
POLEY makes as if to leave, and his companions
take a step back from the table. Then POLEY stops,
and turns to address MARLOWE for the last time.

Oh yeah! We’ll just need ten quid for the meal.

Not knowing what else to do with this, MARLOWE laughs.

SKERES:
It’s not a comedy, Kit. This is real.

FRIZER:
You have to pay the reckoning.

MARLOWE:
The what?

POLEY:
Someone must pay for our little party here.
The cost of Frizer’s wine, an ale for Skeres
–Perhaps for my tobacco, that’d be nice.
It’s quite a lot, but ten quid should suffice.

MARLOWE laughs again, and shrugs.

MARLOWE:
I didn’t bring the money with me, boys.

FRIZER:
Regardless, Kit, you’ll be the one who pays.

On a signal from POLEY, SKERES grabs MARLOWE
from behind, and clasps a hand over his mouth
as FRIZER draws his dagger and steps in front of
MARLOWE for the kill. A muffled scream from
the poet is his last word on earth, terminating
suddenly as a spurt of blood hits FRIZER’s face.
Perhaps we see MARLOWE’s face, one eye-socket
covered in blood, as SKERES lets him to the ground.
Certainly we see SKERE’s face, grieved by this.

POLEY:
Quick, search the corpse.

They do so, FRIZER quickly dividing the silver coin they find in a bag.  SKERES picks up the manuscript, and POLEY examines the bill.

A hundred for you, Nick.
You, Frizer, you take two. And I get stuck
With paying out the reckoning from mine.
Just one ale, Nick? Gram, easy on the wine
Next time. This really is a ten quid bill!
I’ll make it twelve.

FRIZER:
Why?

POLEY:
So the Tapster tell
The proper story to the magistrate.

POLEY assumes the role of witness at an inquest.

“There was some question on the going rate
For fresh fish from the filthy River Thames,
And Marlowe drew on Frizer, called him names
No honest man could bear to hear. A fight
Ensued, and –Goodness, such a dreadful fright
He gave poor Gram. Before we knew it, Kit
Was dead.”

FRIZER:
“‘Twas self defense, it was.”

POLEY:
That’s it!

At POLEY’s direction, FRIZER doffs his cap and
portrays the guileless, contrite witness at
the coming Coroner’s Inquest.

FRIZER:
“A raving maniac, Kit lunged for me.”

He takes his dagger and nicks his head with it.

“He gave me this, as you can plainly see.”

He bows curt but respectful. His testimony done, he is excused.

“Aye. Aye, Your Worship, that’s the way it went.”

POLEY applauds FRIZER, who allows himself a theatrical bow.

POLEY:
“The Tragedy of Young Kit Marlowe, Gent.
As lately played at Deptford Tavern here,
By Several Players of the Secret Theatre,
Anon (with some Revision) as before
Her Majesty’s attending Coroner.”

FRIZER and POLEY share a chuckle at this piece of theatre.
SKERES has been reading MARLOWE’s bloody manuscript.

SKERES:
Gaw’ Blimey! This is good!

POLEY:
I’ll take that, Nick!

SKERES:
Oh, leave me keep it, Bob.

POLEY:
Don’t make me make
Our Ingram kill you, too. Now hand it here.

FRIZER:
Don’t think that I won’t kill you, too, Nick Skeres.

SKERES:
I’ll give my share for it. A hundred quid.

POLEY:
Marlowe’s last play, you’ll pay a hundred bob?
Nay, lads, his worth was five time that.

POLEY lights the manuscript on the candle.
After a moment, he lights his pipe with it.
puffs smoke meditatively, drops the paper
and steps on it. FRIZER laughs, SKERES weeps,
Music of hautboys or perhaps a lute as
the LIGHTS FADE on this TABLEAUX.

END OF PLAY.

Goldberg Variations: a 10 min. play

IN THE BLACK, we hear J.S. Bach’s Aria BWV 988 arranged for classical guitar by Jozsef Eotvos.

LIGHTS UP on PROFESSOR R in a white lab coat, rubber gloves, and protective goggles, making loving adjustments to a rough  approximation of a Rube Goldberg machine –ie an assortment of items in absurd causal sequence, as in the cartoonist’s work.

For our purpose, it needn’t be a functional prop, but a series of related items of interest that merely suggest the machinery. A few items in series are referenced in the tex: A foot suspended is suspended vertically. At its toe, a small pyramid of beer cans, on a level above a child’s plastic beach pail. A small birdcage is adjacent,silloutted against a window-shade. A microphone attached by wires to a hamster cage with a treadmill, with a treadle connected to a tennis racket, suspended horizontally, set to hit a tennis ball, suspended from a string.

Some items, yet to be added to the model, lie in a crate to one side. They needn’t be practical props, just oddities.
an old vacuum cleaner, a bowling ball, whatever. The crate sits on a carpeted of oversized blueprint.

PROFESSOR refers to the oversize blue print, then grabs a boot from the crate and holds it up to the foot for fit.

PROFESSOR R:
Yes, yes! Cowboy boot kicks the beer can, which clatters into the plastic trash pail, which lifts the blind and startles the parrot, who squacks. Devilishly clever, Goldberg. They laughed at you, but it’s sheer genius. The only difficulty is, where to obtain a parrot?

He goes to the computer, types seven characters, and hits enter. He manipulates the mouse as indicated.

Click. Click. “Your source for exotic birds in the Midwest.” Click, click. Click, click, click. “Squack.” Then the parrot’s squack is picked up by the microphone, which transforms the signal into a series of—

MRS. R: (off)
Darling?

PROFESSOR R:
Oh no!

PROFESSOR R hurriedly throws a sheet over the part of the contraption with the hamster and tennis racket.

MRS. R: (off)
Dearest, are you home?

PROFESSOR R:
In the work-shop.

MRS. R enters. She looks like she’s been out to quite an elegant evening. There’s a sense of it being a tad overdone, her night at the opera.

MRS: R:
What are you doing in the basement— er, workshop?

PROFESSOR R:
Barbara! You’re home early. How was the symphony?

MRS. R:
It was Bach. Tedious. But I sat with the Lattimores, in their private box. Ellen Lattimore has persuaded Hank to give as much as a hundred thousand dollars to the Fund, but he actually thought it would work best as a matching gift with him getting some of his contacts at the foundation— Have you been at the internet again?

PROFESSOR R:
Just tonight.

MRS. R:
All evening?

PROFESSOR R:
No. You can check my history. I just logged on, just before you got home. Just browsing.

MRS. R:
You know what Dr. Kassner said about the internet: Not Healthy, Owen. Not healthy. Dangerous. Moderation. Nothing in excess.

PROFESSOR R:
I know.

MRS. R:
What’s this?

PROFESSOR R:
Nothing.

MRS. R examines the screen.

MRS. R:
Exotic … birds?

PROFESSOR R:
It’s nothing.

MRS. R:
“Mr. Micawber”? “Polly McCrackers”?

PROFESSOR R:
I was looking for someone to talk to.

MRS. R:
These are expensive.

PROFESSOR R:
Turns out talk isn’t cheap.

MRS. R:
Very funny, but pets can’t understand you, Owen. They just repeat what you say back to you. You know what Dr. Kassner says about authentic communication.

PROESSOR R:
Two-way street? Double-edged sword? Mutually assured destruction!

MRS. R:
Very amusing, if your tastes run to such humor. Your sense of humor seems oddly misplaced,
these days, I must say.

PROFESSOR R:
Dr. Kassner says he’s surprised I still have a sense of humor.

MRS. R:
Your own private little coping mechanism, hm?

PROFESSOR R:
Like the opera? Or the bloody fund?

MRS. R:
Don’t be cruel, Owen. The Lattimores are giving more than a hundred thousand dollars to Loren’s fund. Perhaps as much as two hundred thousand. That’s a significant contribution toward a real and lasting memorial to our daughter.

PROFESSOR R:
I didn’t mean to be cruel.

MRS. R:
That’s my coping mechanism.

PROFESSOR R:
I just thought that a pet bird would—

MRS R:
Wasn’t the hamster enough?

PROFESSOR R:
The doctor said a pet might help.

MRS R:
It’s part of the psychosis, Owen.

PROFESSOR:
I don’t understand.

MRS. R:
The hamster, because Loren had a hamster at school.

PROFESSOR R:
I don’t remember that.

MRS. R:
She wrote home about it.

PROFESSOR R:
I don’t remember reading that.

MRS. R:
When she was at school.

PROFESSOR:
Perhaps it was redacted?

MRS. R:
What?

PROFESSOR R:
That headmaster was pretty strict. There it is again.

MRS. R:
Your coping mechanism. It proves I’m right about the hamster

MRS. R looks at him disapprovingly, inspects
the machine, partly draped in sheet.

MRS. R:
What are you working on now?

PROFESSOR R:
Oh, nothing especially. Tinkering.

MRS. R:
Tinkering.

PROFESSOR R:
Well, you know what Dr. Kassner said. It’s good therapy. Tinkering.

MRS. R:
Tinkering. This is another of your inventions, isn’t it? Is it?

PROFESSOR R:
No.

MRS. R:
Because you know what Dr. Kassner said about those.

PROFESSOR R:
Yes.

MRS. R:
This obsession with the workshop.

PROFESSOR R:
The workshop is good for me.

MRS. R:
But these “inventions,” I mean.

PROFESSOR R:
But that’s what I am. An inventor. I hold patents.

MRS. R:
Yes, yes. Holder of twenty-two patents for medical devices. Two-times nominated for the
Nobel Prize in Medicine. But you know what Dr. Kassner said about these absurd obsessions. The Water Engine. The Perpetual Motion Machine. You’re projecting some kind of impossible task on yourself. To punish yourself for not saving Loren. You invent something that can never be invented.

PROFESSOR R:
This isn’t an invention. It’s an art project. Purposeless. That’s alright. Even Kassner says so.

MRS. R:
Only if you’re not obsessing. Owen, are you obsessing?

PROFESSOR R:
No.

MRS. R:
What is this?

PROFESSOR R:
My art project.

MRS. R:
It looks like an invention.

PROFESSOR R:
It does. But it’s not. It’s art.

MRS. R:
Where did you get that foot?

PROFESSOR R:
I sawed it off a mannequin. And I drank all that beer. The foot kicks them into the pail.

MRS. R:
How peculiar.

PROFESSOR R:
Etcetera, etcetera. It’s a Rube Goldberg machine. He was an old-time cartoonist, back at the beginning of the last century, and he designed these absurd contraptions.

MRS. R:
A cartoonist.

PROFESSOR R:
On paper. And what I’m doing is building one. Just for the hell of it. It’s art. It’s not really an invention. I mean, it’s not practical. And I know that.

MRS. R:
I’d say that’s almost the definition of art. Honestly, Owen, it seems a bit contrived, but Dr. Kassner has advised me that some project, any project, would be therapeutic for you. Just not the inventions. I do wish you would involve yourself with Loren’s fund. We could
do so much good in her name.

PROFESSOR R:
Dr. Kassner says that’s your mechanism, not mine.

MRS. R notices the boot in the crate.

MRS. R:
Is this one of Loren’s riding boots?

PROFESSOR R:
No. We threw hers out.

MRS. R looks examines the boot, sure it’s Loren’s.

MRS. R:
We agreed it was healthier to divest ourselves of the keepsakes.

PROFESSOR R:
Yes, yes.

MRS. R;
Remember what Dr. Kassner said.

PROFESSOR R:
What Kassner said, yes.

MRS. R notices the tennis racket.

MRS. R:
The tennis racket.

PROFESSOR R:
What of it?

MRS. R:
The one she got from the Make-A-Wish people?

PROFESSOR R:
This isn’t the same one.

MRS. R:
It looks just like it.

PROFESSOR R:
No Stephie Graf autograph.

MRS. R:
It was Martina Navratolovna, and you know it.

PROFESSOR R:
It didn’t even fetch that much at auction.

MRS. R:
Every little bit helped.

PROFESSOR R:
We got more for her horse.

MRS. R:
All in a worthy cause.

PROFESSOR R:
Loren’s Fund.

MRS. R:
Yes.

MRS. R gingerly removes the sheet covering the hamster’s cage and wire treadmill.

MRS. R:
Have you at least been feeding the hamster?

PROFESSOR R:
It’s being well cared for.

MRS. R looks at the machine.

MRS. R:
What about the beer cans?

PROFESSOR R:
She used to drink from my beer. When she was a teenager. She thought I didn’t know.

MRS. R:
Oh. Dr. Kassner will want to know.

PROFESSOR R:
But my dear, it’s not an invention. I am under no delusion that it has any practical use.
It’s just art, Barbara.

MRS. R:
I still think Dr. Kassner will want to know about it, Owen.

PROFESSOR R:
Then tell Dr. Kassner. I don’t expect it to work. I don’t expect anything to work. I don’t think
my twenty-two medical patents mean a thing. I don’t want a Nobel Prize. I don’t want any part
of your wretched fund. I don’t interfere with it, if that’s what you want to do with our money.
I just don’t expect it to work. All I ask is to be let alone to work on my projects. And I no longer
expect them to work.

MRS. R:
It’s not healthy, Owen.

PROFESSOR R:
I’m not hurting anybody.

MRS. R:
It’s not helping.

PROFESSOR R:
We’ll let Dr. Kassner decide.

PROFESSOR returns to tinkering with his machinery. MRS. R regards him with a mixture of old pity and
new concern, then exits as she came. MUSIC as before. PROFESSOR tinkers with his machinery as
LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK. END OF PLAY.

FEB shower sows APR bloom

April, 2013 is shaping-up quite nicely at www.timcwest.com.

April 1 was the due date for the submission to be Artist in Residence at Cabrillo National Monument, based largely on the same script submitted to Scripps Ranch Theatre.

April 14th, there’s a private reading of my script, Lights Out on Point Loma, for Scripps Ranch Theatre’s “Out on a Limb.”

A series of ten-minute play contests at Play Submissions Helper: http://playsubmissionshelper.com/  inspired me, and I determined to try my hand at a ten-minute play a week for that month. I continued into March, so am building up a repertoire of ten-minute plays to pull from.

By mid-month, I’ll hear back from two places where my ten minute verse play in rhymed couplets is under consideration yet.  It’s is about the death of Christopher Marlowe, May 30, 1593, and is in the style of the period.  Chesapeake’s Red Bull Theatre (which does lesser-known dark classics, a tragedy and Restoration comedy) and Cambridge, UK’s SkyBlue Theatre (which performs in a little room at Marlowe’s old alma mater, Corpus Christi College) are both interested. Red Bull required “heightened language” and the theme of “Greed.” SkyBlue wanted texts that are playable in their space in roles filled by university actors.

On Saturday, April 20th and Sunday April 28, the first of the ten-minute plays I wrote in February, Comfy Chair, will have readings at matinee performances. It was written for the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center, which required submissions based on one of three prompts of artwork in their gallery. Mine was based on a charcoal sketch by Liz Maughans, depicting a lone over-stuffed easy-chair  an empty room, with the legend “Don’t Get Too Comfy, Pal.” In the play, a man comes home early from work to find his wife running late from picking up their son from soccer. Television news transmissions set the stage for the family’s transition to something completely different.  And yes, it features the Monthy Python sketch.

Now that we are into April, I will have more nights off from Cuckoo’s Nest and more prompts for further work. I’ve already written two  ten-minute plays about tennis rackets, Imaginary Friends and Goldberg Variations, for the Weathervane 8×10 Festival, deadline May 6th. Imaginary Friends is based on Strangers on a Train, adapted for the screen by Raymond Chandler and directed by Alfred Hitchcock.                 Goldberg Variations is based on funny paper contraptions and the music of J.S. and is about hanging onto mementos and memorials when parental devotion and medical devices fail. Those will be done before the end of the month, though they aren’t due until the middle of May.

Let’s see what opportunties the Spring brings.