Three Wordless Acts.

Note from the playwright:
These acts focus on the language of the unspoken, on the music of the everyday movement. If at all possible, the stage should
be extensively miked in order to emphasize the sounds of actions on stage. Motions, gestures, &c. should not be overexaggerated
or melodramatic; the beauty in these actions is in their delicacy, in their almost dance-like quality. The key to staging this play
is simplicity.




































Act I.
The Good Book

Bare, white flats frame the stage and suggest the idea of a room without actually creating a room. The room is completely
white, including the floors; cool white light illuminates the stage. The flats suggest walls against the unlit white of
upstage. Slightly to stage right are two white couches set on short, round maple feet, facing each other at an angle. They appear
quite new; however, the couch closer to center stage is missing its front right foot and leans at a slight angle. A simple, white,
rectangular wooden coffee table separates them. The wood of the table is worn; it seems to have been the bearer of many feet.
There is a smallish white volume, bound in flexible leather, on the table. Its pages are very thin and must be turned carefully to
avoid tearing them.

Tape phasing – two tape loops set into motion at two slightly different speeds, so that the tapes begin in unison and slowly
shift "out of phase," creating a new set of harmonies and rhythms – plays quietly in the background and continues throughout
the play.

When the audience enters, both characters are in place behind different flats: the girl, hidden at stage left, and the boy, at stage
right. The girl, who has hair that is a false color somewhere between red and brown, is in her very late teens, but still retains
many of the mannerisms and emotions of a young teenager. She is dressed in a lightweight three-quarter sleeved salmon cashmere
cardigan, black bike shorts, and black tights. The boy, who has dark hair, is of a similar age, but carries himself like
someone who is much older. He is in black slacks and a black short-sleeved shirt. They are both undeniably barefoot.

The girl walks onstage first. Her walk is rhythmic and melodic; it is apparent that she is a dancer. She
wanders a bit towards stage left, hopping through a 30-second segment of a tap routine, humming and
counting quietly to herself. She neither looks at her feet nor the room around her; it is clear that she is
concentrating. After making the same mistake – which is quite discrete and does not appear to the casual
observer to be a mistake at all – several times [just long enough to begin to irritate the audience], she hops
in place out of frustration, and a pout passes across her face. She looks to her right and notices the
couches, smiles slightly, and walk-dance-leaps her way across stage. She practically throws herself down on
the more central couch, and is startled as it wobbles drastically and noisily. She giggles, then settles into a
comfortable, half-reclining position, smiling slightly and staring out into the audience. She is either deep in
thought or mindlessly staring into space.

The boy quietly walks on stage and discretely looks around. He notices the girl, walks up behind her. He
places his hands on her shoulders and she jumps, startled from her trance. She looks up at him, meeting
his eyes. They smile. He begins to rub her shoulders and neck.

This interests her for a short while, but the white book steals her attention from the massage, and she leans
forward, away from the boy, to pick it up off of the table. The boy’s face shows mild irritation for a moment,
but when she beckons for him to come sit next to her on the couch, he becomes calm again.

She examines the outside of the white book. The boy begins to squirm; he cannot see the book because of
the way she is sitting. He tries to rub her shoulders again, but she shrugs him off. She opens the cover, but
he tickles her and she squeals and drops the book on the floor.

She glares at him, but he stares her down and she erupts into laughter. He tickles her more and she rolls to
the floor, bumping and moving the coffee table toward the other couch. They wrestle, he trying to pin her,
and she trying to keep his hands away from her sides. The book is knocked under the couch.

The wrestling becomes more frenzied, and he straddles her, pinning her hands behind her head. Holding
her hands with one of his, he tickles her sides and ribs and she squirms and laughs uncontrollably. She
breaks free of his grasp, pushes him back and then onto his back. She attempts to pin and tickle him, but
he is too strong; he grabs her  wrists and pulls her face close to his. They kiss, he lifting his head from the
floor and she bending, wrists still tightly held to the floor. Her body sags, yielding to the kiss, but only
briefly; after a moment, she tenses and pulls away from his reach.

She crawls along the floor, looking for the book. He sits up, looking disappointed. He plays along with her,
but when he attempts to tickle her, she slaps away his hand and looks angry. He sits back, surprised. She
feels blindly under the couch, and after a bit of groping, grabs the white book. She stands up, stretching,
and goes to sit on the stage right couch. He remains on the floor.

She opens the book and begins to read. He, from his position on the floor, notices the missing foot on the
couch and moves over to examine. He lifts the couch, looks underneath, and seeing nothing, allows it to
fall back into its leaning position. He looks around for something with which to prop the couch.

She is reading, turning the pages slowly and carefully. There is something peculiar about the way she turns
the pages: holding the book with both hands, instead of using her right hand to grab and flip the page as
she holds the book steady with her left, she moves her left hand, closing the book and then reopening it
with the newly turned page.

Unable to find a replacement foot for the couch, he stands up, looks longingly for a moment at the girl,
and then sits down on the couch. It wobbles and makes a loud noise on the floor. She looks up, and he
catches her eye. She smiles forgivingly and motions for him to sit next to her on the couch.

He stands up and the couch rocks once more, causing her to giggle slightly. He walks in front of the table
and sits next to her. She attempts to read, but the book is boring her. She closes it, sets it down on the table.
They face one another on the couch. He moves to kiss her, but she stops him. He stands up, attempts
to walk away, but she stops him, grabbing his wrist. She kisses the palm of his hand, holding it to her face
for a few moments afterward.

He stops, his back to her, his whole body facing away from her with the exception of his right hand, which
is held behind him. He stares in the air somewhere, overcome by something intangible and fleeting.

She releases his hand, and he turns to face her. She rises to meet him, and they embrace. Over her shoulder,
he sees the book on the table and the leaning couch.

She grabs his hand and spins him, and the duo slowly dances back and forth in front of the couches to
some unheard music, spinning and gliding and laughing at themselves.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she stops, wraps her arms around him, and kisses him deeply.

His arms dangle at his sides.

The kiss ends, and he abruptly sits down on the stage left couch. It wobbles, and he jumps up and looks
around angrily. She is still standing where he left her, but she has turned out toward the audience. Her
gaze drops to the floor. His eyes fall on the book.

Lights. Exeunt omnes. Curtain.

























Act II.
Queer

Curtain opens on the a bare white stage. Cool, calm, indifferent light illuminates a table full of light-skinned, dark-headed
people. They sit in simple, dark, ebony-colored chairs, hunched along the simple, rectangular, dark table, some facing the audience,
some not. Each has a small neat mountain of papers and books in front of him or her. All are dressed in matching black:
knit turtlenecks, wool slacks, and dully shining dress shoes. All have short, conservative haircuts, their dark hair close to their
head, and all wear black, thin-rimmed spectacles. Determining the sex of each table resident should be fairly difficult. The
whole scene has a slick, inorganic, professional look about it.

However, there is a conspicuously empty spot at the table, where Jesus would have sat if this were some sort of corporate
think-tank Last Supper.

All seated at the table are furiously writing and flipping through books. A few may have sleek, slender,
inconspicuous laptops, and may be pounding at the keys. The noise of their thinking fills the theatre.

The Boy shuffles onstage. He, like the others, is dressed in black, but the shade doesn’t quite match. His
shoes are worn and dull. His hair is a medium length and disheveled. He appears to be carrying nothing.
His walk is methodical but disorganized; he doesn’t really know where he is going, and isn’t particularly
bothered by this fact. It takes him a few moments to spot the table.

He approaches the table. The workers take turns briefly glancing up at him, but each only for a split
second; no one stops working. He does not immediately sit, instead gradually making his way around the
table. He attempts to observe the others’ work nonchalantly through his peripheral vision as he walks, but
his actions are plainly apparent to all. As he approaches each person, they visibly stiffen, and their typing,
paper-shuffling, and writing becomes all the more tense and frantic.

After making a complete round, the pace of the table’s work has visibly and audibly accelerated; even the
Boy seems a bit more tense as he stands behind the empty chair. He looks briefly at a few people seated at
the table, then his gaze shifts over their shoulders and grows distant. He begins to nod his head slightly to
some unheard rhythm.

Someone at the table makes a loud noise. The source is not precisely clear; it is made by a largish book,
but no rapid movements can be seen. The Boy snaps out of his trance, drags the chair out from under the
table, and sits down. He takes a few moments to find a comfortable position.

After adjusting and re-adjusting, he awkwardly pulls a small spiral-bound notepad from his back pocket,
and fishes for a pen in his front pocket. He pulls out a worn, chewed-on Bic, flips open the notepad, and
begins to carefully and methodically write something. The moment that his pen touches the pad, all the
rest of the action at the table immediately and startlingly ceases. The rest of the people at the table are
frozen in place as he slowly writes a few words. He stops for a moment, and the noise continues. He
thinks, bites his pen, and as soon as he sets his pen to the pad, the table is silent. This pattern repeats for a
few times, slightly accelerating each time. Finally, his writing has lost all method. He is frantically scribbling,
filling page after page in the diminutive notepad. He is completely absorbed. His posture has changed
during this process from quiet, relaxed, and leaning back in his chair to hunched over the table, nodding
his head, rocking slightly and mumbling. This scribbling and mumbling, much more raw and primitive
than the earlier work done by the others, accelerates again to a breakneck pace. Finally, he is speaking
aloud, uttering whole wordless phrases [for reference, see Hugo Ball’s “sound poems”], rocking to the rhythm
of his chanting. His pen stops moving, remaining on the pad, and as his chanting gathers volume and
momentum, his eyes shift from the pad to a spot in the middle of the table. His staring, rocking, tapping,
and chanting continues for at least a minute or so; just long enough for the audience to begin to grow
restless or uncomfortable. Some laughter or nervous whispering may begin.

While this aural and visual build-up occurs, the lighting on stage gradually grows brighter and harsher.
The glare off the white stage becomes mildly irritating.

The actions of the Boy come to a climax with the lighting; he is nearly yelling, and his voice is becoming
hoarse. The rest of those at the table, still frozen in place, suddenly come to life, smashing whatever they
have in their hands to the floor or table, stomping their feat, and uttering one sudden, brief primal yell.
The lights drop instantly to black at the moment the table comes to life; the last thing seen should be the
sudden movements of the group just before the Noise, which should occur in complete darkness. All the
rest is silence.

Curtain. Exeunt omnes.


































Act III.
Eleven Woods & Warmth

Curtain opens on the bare white stage, which has chairs, stands, music, and marimbas set for eleven musicians: a string septet
(four violins, two violas, and a ‘cello) and a marimba quartet. Lighting is warm and inviting, seeming to beckon the musicians
on to the stage. Three instrument mikes hang above the seats of the string quartet.

The marimba quartet enters first, dressed in simple, muted, warm colors. They are followed shortly thereafter
by the string septet, dressed similarly, who carry their instruments on stage.

All are seated, and a moment’s silence ensues as all collect themselves; that excited, energetic tension that
seizes an audience when musicians are onstage but not yet playing is allowed to rise and settle in expectation
of sound.

The ensemble begins to perform. The piece is an arrangement of Steve Reich’s “Vermont Counterpoint”
for strings and marimba. The string players all play col legno [=with the wood of the bow] creating a
wonderfully rhythmic sound, which is accompanied by the four marimba players. Careful use of amplification
creates a startling balance between resonant and percussive wood.

Upon completion, the musicians take their bows and exit, then return to clear the stage.

Exeunt omnes. The curtain stays open while the audience exits. Tape phasing plays as the theatre empties.