Revertigo: An Off-Kilter Memoir

4. Playing the Cock

59 4 Play­ ing the Cock Th’ ­ Cock’s ­ comin’! . . . Into your ­ houses, shut to th’ win­ dows, bar th’ doors! Sean ­ O’Casey, from ­ Cock-a-Doodle Dandy For two weeks in the win­ ter of 1968 I spent my even­ ings as the in­ car­ na­ tion of ­ erotic power. I was a life­ size danc­ ing fig­ ure of fer­ til­ ity and sex­ ual temp­ ta­ tion, the dark ­ prophet of the life force, the proud pranc­ ing Cock who em­ bod­ ied the ­ sex-call, the ac­ tive ­ spirit, the sheer joy of liv­ ing. I was a ba­ dass bird who se­ duces the women, al­ ien­ ates the men, and pre­ cip­ i­ tates a cri­ sis of com­ mu­ nity mo­ rals. It was ex­ haust­ ing work. I lost ten ­ pounds. Cov­ ered in ­ bruises and­ rashes, I shed feath­ ers, ­ smelled funky, ­ couldn’t sit down be­ cause my tail was too stiff and long. My face ­ itched but I ­ couldn’t ­ scratch it be­ cause of how my wings ­ worked. After the first week, my ­ shanks­ sagged and I ­ stepped on my spurs when I ­ whirled. I had a sore ­ throat but still had to crow with sex­ ual ur­ gency. On and Off the Page 60­ Here’s what I was sup­ posed to look like: He is of a deep black plum­ age, fit­ ted to his agile and slen­ der body like a glove on a ­ lady’s hand; yel­ low feet and an­ kles, ­ bright-green flaps like wings, and a stiff cloak fall­ ing like a tail be­ hind him. A big crim­ son crest flow­ ers over his head, and crim­ son flaps hang from his jaws. His face has the look of a cyn­ i­ cal­ jester. I did have the pre­ scribed huge, hand­ some crim­ son comb, and was yel­ low from hock to claw, but my wings ­ weren’t green. They­ matched my black plum­ age and that plum­ age ­ puffed far out from my body, more like an ­ umpire’s chest pro­ tec­ tor than a ­ lady’s glove. My yel­ low beak ­ blinded me when I ­ jumped or ­ turned my head. c To boost my spir­ its, the di­ rec­ tor who cast me said the Cock was the title role in the play. The lead. But the lead­ ing actor in Sean ­ O’Casey’s 1949 play, ­ Cock-a-Doodle Dandy, is a big ­ rooster, de­ scribed by an­ O’Casey biog­ ra­ pher, Garry ­ O’Connor, as the beau­ ti­ ful and ef­ fec­ tive sym­ bol of the cock who says noth­ ing, only crows: the Lord of Mis­ rule, the pagan Oisin. He is an ex­ pres­ sion­ is­ tic de­ vice, the epit­ ome of those in­ stinc­ tive and crea­ tive urges which men sup­ press at their peril. ­ O’Casey him­ self said the Cock sym­ bolizes the de­ sire of man for a woman and the de­ sire of woman for the de­ sire of man. I had no lines to speak, only—ac­ cord­ ing to the stage di­ rec­ tions— a mix­ ture of some­ times lusty, some­ times short and sharp, or vi­ o­ lent and tri­ um­ phant, or loud ex­ ul­ tant, or ­ mighty crows. Also some cack­ ling with a note of satis­ fac­ tion, even vic­ tory in it. I had to mas­ ter the nu­ anced­ cock-crow and ­ cackle. I also had to dance and ­ prance, per­ form a ­ goose-step march, glide and weave ­ around var­ i­ ous ob­ sta­ cles and peo­ ple, ­ spring over walls, run atop nar­ row, ­ steeply ­ sloped stone ­ fences, pir­ ou­ ette, ap­ pear out of no­ where and van­ ish back into it. I had to ­ sprint di­ rectly to­ ward the au­ di­ ence and stop in a flash with­ out skid­ ding off the stage. I had to Playing the Cock 61 trans­ form into a tall hat. Wear­ ing a bulky ­ forty-pound cos­ tume with a heavy tail and slip­ pery ­ cock-footed yel­ low ­ tights, with my hands­ strapped to ­ flapping-sticks sewn in­ side long wings, and with that blind­ ing beak, I had to por­ tray the glory of ­ erotic power. Had to be a human sized ­ bird-like crea­ ture ex­ ud...