Shakespeare's Chair
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1.
Railway Stations and Harbours accumulate a particular arrangement of debris...
A cement dolphin leaps from a circular pond, gargling, froth bubbling from a copper pipe embedded in its grinning mouth.
The house has a red tiled roof, a window on either side of a green door. A naked boy is squirting water from a garden hose into the pond.
Night. The house is as if empty. The adults are behind doors, down passageways. The boy lies in his bed in the darkness, listening to the sounds of rain dripping from gutters and trees, watching the flow of patterns cast across the ceiling by the headlights of passing cars.
2.
The boy lies in the darkness thinking about prayer. He thinks about speaking to god. He imagines himself kneeling on the bedside mat, on the tufted weave of billowing sails, rolling clouds and ocean deep, eyes shut, thumbs jammed into the soft flesh behind the jawbone.
He recently discovered that all the continents on his enamelled globe fit perfectly into each other.
He hardly ever prayed after realizing that - despite certain inevitable signs - he was unlikely to be the long awaited Messiah ...
3.
A black and white film. The projector stutters, the beam of light flickers. A suburban backyard. A young mother in a dated summer frock sits on a white kitchen chair, knitting, watching a young boy hoist a small bundle to the underside of a grape pergola. When it reaches the pulley, he jerks the rope and a flag unfurls in the breeze. The boy is wearing grey shorts, a belt, a white long sleeved shirt and a navy blue tie. He tries the trick again and again.
The mother begins singing Scarlatti's Le Violette. The boy sits on a small wicker chair, talking to himself. The chair stands on a small mat that he has folded at one end to form a point, representing a ship. He is on a voyage, with his crew of stuffed animals seated on an arrangement of toy chairs.
The Boy refuses to believe the story of Jesus. Unless he be this Christ, returning to save the world, forever, and ever, amen.
Who would not want to be The Redeemer?
4.
An old man enters the room, dragging a large suitcase. The room is full of equipment. Tape recorders, oscillators, condenser microphones, amplifiers, and transformers. The man opens his suitcase and takes out two half coconut husks, a small block of beeswax, a large saw, a ball of waxen thread, a cello bow, seven large bunches of keys, five pairs of shoes, a sheet of thin metal, and a few cabbages. The man's name is Jack Foley.
5.
The Man stands in a pool of light on a wooden chair, upstage.
He is wearing a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. Hooked over his arm, a lightweight raincoat.
Downstage, the tape recorder turns. The tape spools off across the stage to the Chameleon Man, who hauls it in, hand over hand. The tape cascades down in a serpent's nest on the tablecloth.
Suddenly, the man tips sideways off the chair and slams into the floor. Again, the Man is standing on the chair. He falls, again, as before.
Again, the man stands on the chair. Again, he falls.
6.
In the darkness a Sputnik passes over Norfolk pines. Young ladies trail fairy lights, high heels, and cardigans. A Scottish pipe band is marching back and forth under the trees.
The Boy sat at the side of a pew near the back of the small church.
Tables had been specially arranged on either side of the pulpit. As the congregation filed into the church, each family sent a representative down the aisle carrying an offering, or sacrifice, to be added to the mounds of Melons, Hubbard Squash, Pumpkins, Sweet Potatoes, Eggplants, Marrows, and Butternuts.
The Boy willed God for a sign. A descending ball of light, a dead cat found under a pew, an aged congregant suddenly leaping into song and dance, but all he could see of any interest, when he opened his eyes and looked around, was the reflection of the organist's shiny head bobbing from side to side in the small overhead convex mirror.
7.
The Foley Man awakes, feverish, from a watery dream - he was drowning in the Red Sea. His ship leans slowly over to starboard and then as slowly back over to port. A glass thermometer rolls from side to side on top of a mahogany cabinet next to the bunk.
The last light of the setting sun slants in through a brass framed porthole. Marbled orange rays pulse across the riveted bulkhead. He reaches for the bottle of gin lodged in a corner of the bunk. He waits five minutes for the green flash, then laces his shoes and heads for the radio cabin. Near the porthole, a child's crayon drawing of an erupting Mount Etna has been inscribed in an adult hand: "A man who goes to sea must be a man in despair."
He left the ship in Valparaiso. Went ashore for a drink. His mates saved his life, carried him dead drunk to the railway station. He awoke the next day, hung-over, in the mountains on a train bound for Montevideo in the east. His ship vanished at sea, lost with all hands.
8.
He often dreams of the Siege of Nanking. Streets strewn with decapitated heads. The blades and the steel, ticked like notches on the wall of a jail cell. Torsos. Totems. Tombstones. Mounds of arms and hands. The distortion of time as the sword descends. Nanking, South of Manchuria.
A Demonstration of the Human Possibility for Carnage, Ancient Conquest in the Age of Photography. Words like Six Weeks, Surrender, Violation. The pit and molten rock beneath our comforts, fountains of blood dedicated to the future. The fire takes all; there are few that survive, few that escape.
The spatters and gobs that grease the city's cobbled squares.
9.
Is this an Alchemist's Laboratory? He can hear Filtration & Fermentation, Distillation, the bubbling retort.
10.
The Foley Man hears the sound of the projector, the sound of film running over sprockets. The glow of a lamp illuminates the film spools, revealing how much is yet to be screened, how much time remains.
The broken chairs lay in a heap, tangled like bones in a cave. Bones that rise up and dance in the dust. Shakespeare's Chair amongst them, fashioned by slaves, forged in the fire, red hot, quenched in ox-blood, even tempered, the judicial seat of witches and other miscreants. Trussed, reviled, dunked in the water again and again.
11.
In the vernacular they speak of Taking a Sight, Shooting the Sun.
They use the sextant and refer to a Nautical Almanac. The aim is at noon to create an imaginary line from the centre of the earth, through the observer on the earth's surface, to the centre of the sun.
12.
Now a chair is placed on its side as if used in a suicide, or as a perch in a recent lynching.
A clown routine which interrupts and trivializes the development of the performance: here we will refer to the actual historic clowns, their bawdy gigs, the playwright's hostility to these popular intrusions, and the influence of the figures of Vice and the Lord Of Misrule.
13.
The Captain joined the ship in Singapore, signed off in Tenerife. He was locked up in The Great Lakes; spoke only of rigs, decks, companionways, and binnacles. He had known Acolytes and Mentors, Synagogues, a two-headed shark, exotic brothels, and Baptist preachers.
He died in a cloud of chassis rust, leaving nuts and bolts and radio waves. The precise point of impact, according to Popular Mechanics was that men had designed the modern world. They died believing the battle won; they never knew the extent of their misrule, their failure to comprehend what needed to be done.
14.
The boy discovered a chocolate box inside an old suit case, full of fading snapshots of life on board square rigged sailing ships, including a picture of a captive albatross on a hatch cover, its wings stretched out for the camera by two crew men, and another of the young Captain, heavily bearded, eating a lump of blood pudding congealed in an enamel dish held under the slaughtered pig's neck, in mid-winter in the roaring forties. The suitcase also contained two seal pelts and a weather-beaten copy of The Ship Captain's Medical Guide (published by His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1946) which defines a malingerer as "... a person who deliberately makes out he has some complaint or illness which, in fact, he does not have at that time. In other words, he shams illness in order to gain his own ends.”
15.
The Foley man remembers being taken as a boy to view the Christmas decorations in a Department Store.
The ground floor lobby was transformed into a Rocket Launching Pad. The outside of the elevator enclosed with tin foil and painted cardboard. "Look, boy", his mother reads the sign:" DESTINATION MARS: A trip to the Red Planet and back! Awe inspiring scenes from the Martian landscape."
Sometimes, when his father was away at sea, things got a bit mixed up. In his right hand the boy grasps his Ray Gun. In his left, his mother's warm, dry hand. They enter the cabin of the spacecraft. The boy scrutinizes the other passengers and observes the familiar lift operator, now clad in a Space Ranger outfit.
"All aboard for Mars! All aboard" The Spaceman counts down: “5-4-3-2-1- Blast off.” Through heavily riveted circular portholes, the boy recognises the moon, comets, Saturn’s Rings, the Milky Way, all floating past as the rocket ascends.
16.
He understands that this scene is painted onto canvas attached to the insides of the lift shaft, yet he is on the lookout: he can hear the throb of extra-terrestrial life; they have some evil purpose in this building which has become a giant organism. He has X ray eyes and can see everything. He can see the soft green liquid skeleton of the alien life form pulsing beneath counterfeit human skins.
Brass capsules move restlessly through rubber tubes and veins connecting the operators, dropping off coins and notes, messages in secret code, then whoosh back through the hidden network to the Control Centre, where the Supreme Commander, known only as The Captain, pulls the levers and presses the buttons.
The Foley Man has no memory of Mars - the Toy Department, tables and counters draped in yards of red cloth, flat-topped mesas, battery powered robots, space dogs and satellites.
17.
The Foley Man heard voices that spoke only in lists, of chores, demands and
commitments, calendars and deadlines.
The ships that sailed on unknown waters have left no impression on the Foley Man, except by their absence. He remembers that he had no understanding of what might lurk beneath the surface, that he was scared of the depths, that the movement of the ships defined the surface and the surface, a hypothetical plane, was of less consequence at that moment than whatever lay above and below.
18.
The ship at anchor in a broad bay fed by slow flowing rivers
On shore smoke of cooking fires, dark forest, clustered dwellings
The children of our allies playing at the water's edge
A trading people. The captain means to barter water, fresh meat, and coconuts,
and has an eye for handy profit.
Captive peoples are ready trade, and we carry some gifts for the king
and stuff for his village, cloths and mirrors, printed cottons, bangles, beads
19.
The Captain is a strange bird
at Santé Santé he had us always at the work
making ready for southern storms
yet here barely 'cross the equator
daily we rehearse the royal revenge called The Second
A staged fratricide which we are to present to the King's brother
on board the ship's main deck this noon.
This brother with whom we trade,
fluent in Portuguese and with some English,
the Captain would see supplant the King
who has no stomach for the trade in slaves
and livestock.
20.
Is this light produced by the turning of an engine?
We dragged the broken timbers off the beach with block and tackle
sheer legs, davits, sheepshanks, bowlines. Lashed together,
this was the material of our first factory, where we sewed the jute bags,
broke the stones, laid the walls and dug the furrows.
21.
At dawn the company was assembled
for a ceremony.
at the end there is no light
at the end there is no expectation
at the end there is no production
at the end there is no memory
at the end there is no beginning
22.
The novelty of our situation
Illuminates Nothing
A passion without finesse
to enliven the lost
A Captain's mischief threatens thus the lassitude of idle hands
23.
My dearest darling girl
I am the ship that cannot be seized; I am the lash, the chains, the leg-irons. I am the ship scrubbed of dereliction. Keelhauled & broken and strung up in fetters. I am the ship, I am at my command, I sail under instructions. I am my ship owner's servant, I am the ship at his disposal, I am the ship for his display, He dines cleanly and slumbers wisely, I deliver his sacrifices. Behind the wrought iron gates, I am forged to his anchor. I surge and I veer, I pace and I plot. I accept his protection and slaver for action.
I trust you will receive this
Season’s winds have turned
against our ship's best passage.
24.
In the early days of Island settlement (the first generation of the free-born) The Boy’s great-great-grandmother, Catherine, aged 15 years, was alone at home on the plains when attacked by an Unknown Bushranger. She fought him off with a bullwhip (we are told) and he ran from the shack. Later that day, a young woman at an adjoining plot was raped and murdered, her throat slit by an unknown assailant. Nine months later Catherine married The Boy's great-great-grandfather, and their first child, The Boy's great-grandfather, was born at about the same time with a birthmark on the cheek, “where Catherine’s whip had slashed the Bushranger’s face”.
25.
It is a circle dance: a rising of the musical chairs, all attached to strings, now arranged in space, dancing, like skeletons. A beam of light from the heavens illuminates Shakespeare's Chair. The circle shuffles, curtsies, bobs and bows in obeisance. The many chairs offer thanksgiving. Shakespeare's Chair throbs, vain and honourable, levitating on this miasma of subservience. As the chair begins to ascend, the others rush forward and tear it into pieces, rip limb from limb, consuming every post and plank.
26.
And so it begins
in the middle
nearer the end than the beginning
Silence
Darkness
Then some light
More Sounds
"Welcome, welcome
Enrico, Your Majesty."
27.
The killing of the Kings is a hands-on business,
The King Brothers do it so very well.
The rattle of horse's hooves,
the creak of the carriage, the squeal of wheel on axle.
A pig underfoot
The gannets squawk.
A loaf of bread and a bowl of warm soup.
The dead cannot be seen; their slumber fails to wake them
28.
A storm is brewing
They said that magic was the science.
They knew magic made it turn.
It was The Magic when it worked, and The Magic when it broke.
Magic at the dawn, Magic at the dusk.
29.
They trussed the Liberator’s arms behind his back
until the shoulder joints ... and elbows ... and eyeballs...
Rope or wire or cord ... you have no stomach for the work they said
no bread
no butter
no milk
no lamb chops
no wife
no hearth.
Wild grasses and dark caves, he feared them to the end
30.
In those years on the island he became a husk, part flesh, part decayed timber, part fired clay and archaic machinery. Long days scanning the horizon, for a sail, a seabird, a hint of steam or funnel smoke. Evenings at the fire, head turned to the darkness, looking behind him. His Flesh and Timber surely turned to stone.
What are the likely interactions of one who perceives himself to be drowned or otherwise inhabiting the deep?
The light has faded, distance fills with the grain of swirling matter, microscopic beings, seaweed, plankton, phosphorescence. The outward gaze is lost as if in dark velvet drapery, it does not return. This place is unexpected: where is the armchair, where the inglenook, the long evenings in front of the hearth, mulled wine, music, familiar slippers, the book spilled from sleep loosed fingers, the comforting run of spittle on the chin, etc.
And this music of the deep: The Soprano Voice chill and austere cuts to the bone.
31.
My darling dearest girl
I am The Ship. I am a sea chest gorged with Specimens and Curiosities ...
oh god the whimpers of the lost
on the ninth day lots were drawn
the meat did us no good
too late, too far gone in body and mind
First we took one of the others
the moor, or a fool or a fat man or the thin meat of a cousin foreigner.
Day by day in common cause they never spoke a word.
The lifeboat's bilges, salt bleached, fear and memory washed into the deep.
Long grass ashore, tall trees, widow's weeds, bawling underfoot. Creaking timbers, gussets, noggins, planks and brad nails.
He said that he could build a box as good as any coffin.
32.
They lived close to a harbour. It was early summer and every evening after work The Captain took the boy fishing from the end of the pier. The Foley Man remembers catching mackerel - which they ate for supper - and, once, a baby octopus, which The Captain turned inside out. On christmas day the boy awoke to find a fishing rod under the tree. It was made of bamboo with fine cord lashings.
Later, the fishing rod was broken in half and used as a cane. In the days after the beating The Captain and the boy avoided each other. After a while - perhaps a few days - The Captain made a kite from the broken rod. He slit the bamboo into thin slivers, and bent the mainstays so that the kite was shaped like half an egg. It was covered in fine parachute cloth that he had salvaged from a ship's distress rocket kit, and had tiny brass fishing pivots in the line. When the boy followed him to the open plot across the road, a neighbourhood kid joined them. The Captain handed this friend the kite and asked him to run with it. It soared into the air. The boy watched his young friend pilot the kite and then went home.
33.
A few days later he told his mother that he would come with her if she left.
He secretly wanted his mother to take her blackwood writing desk, a bookcase with a hinge-down lid. The boy had seen that his mother sat at this desk, as if entranced, almost every day, writing letters to her family, to her mother and favourite brother, and all her sisters. The desk contained her books, books she had brought from The Island, some were leather-bound prizes, dark blue or deep red. Then, perhaps the next afternoon, she asked him if he wanted to make a kite with her. They found the other pieces of broken fishing rod, which were thick and knobbed and quite heavy and lashed them together with kitchen string. The Boy knew that her kite would not work, but pretended that it was beautiful. He put his finger on the knots for her, as if they were wrapping a gift. Then they covered the flat diamond shape with brown wrapping paper, and attached it to the ball of string. While they were in the backyard preparing for flight, the boy noticed that The Captain had arrived home. He was standing in the kitchen doorway watching with a grin on his face. The kite would not fly. Suddenly a small gust of wind took the kite up into the air and threw it into a tree. When the Boy tugged at the string to free it, the paper tore into three pieces and the kite tumbled to the ground, a wreck
34.
There has to be a beginning.
Perhaps, here, all proof of past glories and infamy erased,
witnesses barred at the doors and windows.
Our small fleet now anchors in the bay of golden coast
where the Captain aims to fill our foul casks with river water
and the ship's great hold with slaving stock.
He has set us to work on a play, an Assassin's Masquerade,
this to present on board our flagship to the Comprador,
brother to the local king.
35.
We have amongst our company the half-crippled Kruman Johnson,
which fool will jig with ship poised on pate.
This Captain will see dissent die of thirst above the splashing prow,
Krumen from the coast lashed for torment to the bowsprit alongside sharks fins,
whalebones and other curiosities.
Or forced under the surface, dragged under the hull,
at the bosun's whistle, to the fife and the drum, then discarded to the deep.
36.
Perhaps there is another chair, hauled up from a hidden stowage where it has lain, collapsed. Now it grows up huge and strange, like a coagulation of iron filings on a magnet, or bog flies on dead flesh.
37.
The Foley Man found himself in an old house, once grand, now dilapidated and abandoned.
The wall surrounding the house had fallen over in places, bricks scattered amongst the remnants of the front garden: a straggling rose bush, some clumps of long grass, here and there a stubborn geranium or an opportunistic invasion of khakibos.
The Foley Man inside the abandoned house: the floor littered with broken appliances, scraps of personal possessions, old paperwork, shards of glass. He is overwhelmed by the smell of mould and the sweet scent of death, perhaps a rat or cat has died in the basement.
From the outside the house had seemed inviting and benevolent, but now he is infected with foreboding. He moves on quickly, then stops at the entrance to the main hall, a wide high space, with archways and passages leading off in all directions. A delicately worked but old and decayed armchair stands alone in the centre.
38.
Jack Foley knew that this was Shakespeare's Chair, that it was being kept for his return, his second coming. It was either an actual chair that had been used by Shakespeare, a historic artefact, or a representation, a religious relic, a fake, but of ancient provenance, the icon or prop of a delusional cult. This chair was a constant temptation and challenge. Only knaves and fools were vain enough to try the seat.
A man on a bicycle slowly enters the space
and wheels around Shakespeare’s chair
like a solitary albatross
trailing clouds of dust
and rays of light
Then the man is gone, through an archway, down a passage.
39.
“Let the sea be rough and tempestuous and full of foam whirled among
the lofty waves, while the wind flings the lighter spray through the
stormy air, till it resembles a dense and swathing mist. Of the
ships that are therein some should be shown with rent sails and the
tatters fluttering through the air, with ropes broken and masts
split and fallen. And the ship itself lying in the trough of the sea
and wrecked by the fury of the waves with the men shrieking and
clinging to the fragments of the vessel.” **(attributed to Da Vinci, but considered to be a forgery)
40.
It was a summer's day, on the beach. The Captain home from his voyages. He takes the boy on his shoulders out into the waters. At first the boy, while apprehensive, enjoys the privileged vantage point and the power of his steed. The sea floor is almost flat. They gallop a great distance into the sea, without much change in depth. Occasionally an unbroken little wave, a ripple, rolls in and the Captain hops over it. The Boy turns and looks back at the beach. Couples play beach ball. A group of children are frolicking around a huge tractor tube at the shoreline. They pile aboard, cling to each other. Slowly, almost without movement, the glistening black tube tilts further and further, the children on the one side are half under water, those on the other side hang on as they are lifted up in the air and then they let go, one by one, and fall. The boy imagines that he can identify his mother, a woman who seems to be waving at him. Later the water is reaching the boy's toes; the Captain's body is submerged past the waist. They are moving on towards the deep, past the other offshore waders. The boy asks if they can go back now, but the Captain only laughs. His head, between the boy's legs, is aimed at the horizon. Promises are extracted, promises are broken. The boy turns his head again to seek solace in the sight of his mother, but they have travelled too far, the beach is now a distant pattern of unrecognizable sunbathers. The boy begins to panic. The water laps at The Captain's neck. The waves are bigger now. Does this man want to drown him? Will he never turn back? Or is this a test of the boy's courage, of his faith and loyalty?
41.
Whose dream is this? The Mother's? The dead mother, returned to the ocean of souls, amongst millions of women who drowned in the shallows. We are allowed the memory of Ophelia, of Desdemona, Juliet, and Lady Macbeth - mother of all vowels and consonants, verbs and conjunctions, who cries at night with the owls, while her unborn children dream of proper nouns. She is now speechless, without arms, strapped on the ship's prow, an effigy thrust into the enemy sea. Her body burnt with the ashes of servants and horses on her husband's pyre. Her judgment is carried in the hearts of men, they wash her feet at the altar, and they hold her head under the water, they stand on her back, on her shoulders, with fists thrust high they eat her bread.
42.
Imagine: the Soprano singing ancient songs, the narrator a lost sailor or drowned soul. His vantage point is within a cleft in rocks deep underwater. He has the haunted expression of a huge Moray Eel, but we don't see him: he describes what he sees. He can't imagine this as anything other than a marine graveyard, the site of a great sinking. Bodies of course, but decomposed, stringy, skeletal, strips of blanched flesh streaming gently to and fro in the current, the sea floor is randomly marked by a collection of wasted treasure, the debris of a cargo, oxidized & encrusted. There is a limousine, there a refrigerator. A crate of books has burst open, etc., etc. A grand piano, the bones of prize Arabian broodmares, etc., etc. The iron wreck of the ship is a great Gothic cathedral, its bones the buttresses and arches. Shafts of light filter through the murk.
43.
What can one do with the overworked image of The Burning Ship? Could the Captain, the last man left aboard, do other than sail her under the waters? The crew are standing off now, in lifeboats, witnessing these last moments. Does the water fail to extinguish the fire? Does she go down like a rocket in the Stratosphere, trailing fire and smoke through the depths of the darkest Atlantic Trench?
44.
Does the camera tilt up as the curtain falls like gossamer traversed by this last glimpse of the Captain, glowing, erect, at the wheel? The camera tracks back over stars painted on the cinema's roof. We're outside now, the streets wet in the darkness, the whole cinema is visible. It is huge, it fills the city. The stage behind the screen is open. The ship, the flames, the Captain, shimmering in the darkness. The ocean extends back, beyond the stage to the outskirts of a sunken town.
Perhaps The Mother sings a lament or elegy for the absent or presumed lost at sea Captain, his red mailbox head shining above a blue sequined dress, a wig of entwined flaxen rope, a crown or coronet of golden brass - perhaps it is a sailing ship, wreathed in stars.
Blue confetti or blue sequins fall from above, large drops of tropical rain, adrift from the heavens.
The sequins stick to his red visage, to his dress, to his ship headdress. He sparkles like an undersea creature, a captain lost in an alien port. The Foley Man accompanies this lament: The Captain has gone to the sea, the sacrifice has been offered, we few survivors await deliverance from the storm's wrath.
45.
The island sanctuary a dark hole surrounded by a larger emptiness. The sky god and the earth god now geriatric, without memory of their passion, the tree in the clearing uprooted, the fruit withered on the vine, the snake and the lion and the lamb consumed, their fat rendered in our factories, their bones ground in our great mills.
46.
The sun dips towards the horizon. In the centre of the great oceanic dome, a ship is tracing a voyage between ports unknown. Now this vessel can be described, the huge hull, trailing a white arrow of foam, the lights of myriad portholes, three red funnels, tall masts, layered topsides.
The swimming pool set into the ship's deck glows a deep emerald. Moonlight glints across the ocean. A couple in evening wear stand at the poolside, languidly smoking cigarettes. His white dinner jacket and black bowtie are a perfect camouflage - from a distance he could be mistaken for an off-duty officer in summer uniform. The woman is dressed in a south sea print.
In the foreground, at the poolside, the young couple exchange glances and silent intimacies. Is their mutual attraction the work of a wizard, or of some mischievous genetic mechanism that entangles the destinies of strangers?
47.
Jack Foley, unborn, dives into the pool, and is immediately separated from his future parents and the gaiety on deck. The water extends to darker depths. The surface, when he looks up, is taut and reflective, inverted, a skin under the sky. He sees the Captain and his future mother, liquid wraiths, but cannot hear them; he is being pulled away, dragged down into the water.
It's so easy to sink down; there is no vortex, no fear, and no bottom to the pool. He can hear the high-pitched ping of sonar, the throb of engines, the churning of the propeller. He is underneath the ship, washed aft beneath propellor shafts, rudder, rivets and barnacles.
The Foley Man, bobbing in the great ship’s wake, realises that he cannot remember the legal distinction between Flotsam and Jetsam, floating wreckage and jettisoned cargo.
