The Naked Stage

Nudity is surfacing as a theme of my present time in England. I don't know if it's going to stick with me for the duration, making it a motif, but it's at least come up a few times here and there.

First, Rhinoceros: had a person take off their clothes as they turned into a rhino. He wandered around tackle-out for a while doing Movement until BAM, a rhinoceros charged through the wall after he exited. Very effective. It was, however, one of those moments when you look at a naked man onstage and say, "Oh, well I guess it is a little chilly in here. I'm not the only one who thinks that."

That said, uber cudos to that guy from Rhinoceros. He rocked.

Second, working naked. Now a habit of mine that I have refined to an art form, except no one else gets to see it.

Thirdly, this coming weekend I will be traveling to London, AGAIN, to see King Lear with Ian McKellan, among other plays. For those of you who have not gotten all up in King Lear's grill, at one point the text suggests that Lear should be naked. As this is the Royal Shakespeare Company, my professor doubts that they will censure this implied stage direction. So, in other words, not only do I get to see Sir Ian McKellan as Lear, but I get to see Sir Ian McKellan's balls. And theoretically his penis too.

Fourthly, Thanksgiving. What? I hear you ask across the psychic distance between us, How can Thanksgiving involve nudity? What kind of Thanksgiving is he celebrating over there?

I will posit two answers:

The first is an old response that Emma Kirby gave once when trying to justify why Thanksgiving Day was "unscrupulous" in a game of Apples to Apples. She claimed that "Thanksgiving was all about lust. Think about it, the turkey comes out of the oven, all sweaty and greased up, with a little popped up thing sticking out of him and wearing nothing but his socks!"

And if this doesn't satisfy you, allow me to flex my English-Major-Muscles (the Bull-Shitteous Maximus, among others) to attempt to fit Thanksgiving into this theme of nudity.

Thanksgiving, as a holiday, is a time when your life is laid bare. Another year down, another year lived, and why? Your preconceived notions of your own accomplishments fall away as you "count your blessings," the blessings being the things beyond you that have kept you going, whether by chance or the intervention of some human - and/or perhaps, depending on your views, divine - agency (the grocery market brings you food, your best friend stopped you from being depressed, England makes tea. And so on and so on.). The list, as you think about it, seems endless, and a sense of self almost vanishes in a sea of blessings. Until you realize that's the point. What can you call self-dependence when so much is granted to you by that which is outside yourself? You are, in a sense, laid bare before the things that have shaped you, for some reason for the better.

Actually I don't know how much bullshit that was after all.

But it lets me tangent into this: Thanksgiving In England.

As per the tradition, Kenyon-Exeter held their Thanksgiving party in a pub called "The Bridge" in Topsham, which is the only pub that the Queen has ever visited. It's old, in that wonderfully English way. It, like The Turf, chronicled in the entry "Bedlam" in October, is right on the river Exe, and you can see where the moisture in the wood has had its effect. There was a little fireplace, real local beer (which I didn't have. I made the mistake of coming there with an empty stomach and downing a pint of local cider. Five minutes later I lost feeling in my lips. This said, to me: hold off on the boozahol.). They had comfy armchairs that, honestly, I could have seen at Mancuso Antiques selling for a good deal of money, I'm pretty sure. And the fabric was faded, ugh, it was great.

A funny story, actually, is that once properly numbed by the cider, I encountered not only Avery Macleod, age 12, but his friends from school that he brought with him. So there I was, mildly tipsy, being a terrible role model. As I find a lot of joy trying to be a good role model for kids, this was a little disheartening.

Then they brought out the food. MMM. Turkey, stuffing, brussel sprouts and bacon (which I thought was just something my family did, but it turns out to be an actual thing!), mashed potatoes, gravy...mmm. The mashed potatoes were the only thing I had a little trouble with - there was something in them that made them taste sweet, and as my friends Patrick Smyth and Anne Petdke concluded with me, it could only last for a few bites before you had to stop. But it was still good. Then came dessert, which was interesting - the British attempts to make pumpkin and apple pie. They served the pumpkin pie with clotted cream, not vanilla cream, which was kind of interesting. Clotted cream you eat with scones, it's very bland and buttery. Vanilla cream plays off of the spices in the pumpkin pie, and this subtlety was lost. Also, the attempt to make an apple pie was really just apple sauce in a pie crust, but given that it was actually pretty darn good!

Then, after three plates of food and a good deal of bread, also after about an hour since the first cider, I started into my second cider - Dragon Tears, a locally brewed mastery of yum. Also it's really sour, so you can't drink it too fast: a good detail.

I also met one of Wendy's current playwriting students at the bar, which was fun. We chatted about the Menace assignment, and Three Tall Women, and lots of good stuff. There were a few other of Wendy's British students there that I didn't really get to meet, which wasn't too fun, but oh well.

And again, Reader, you may ask why is he talking about Thanksgiving, even after so stunningly justifying it thematically? I mean, hasn't this gone on a little long? Where's all the nudity?

And I would respond: I mentioned I liked to work naked, and I'm taking a break from an essay. Who's to say I'm not naked RIGHT NOW?