I will employ

here Empson’s fifth type of ambiguity which is 'fortunate confusion;’ just let the words take me -- allow the words to do the thinking. I want to apologise for my last blog, I seem to have been held hostage by my own thoughts, I am certainly being held hostage, we all are. Can’t remember what I was watching the other day, where someone was talking about prison oh, I know The Lady and the Dale, —which I’ve already talked about here — but yes, prison yes, our life now. And now all I can think of is that you think I’m spoiled. Well I am. I’m not going to apologise for it though. When you’re spoiled you don’t apologise. But the prevailing myth these days is that if you are privileged (which I am) you don’t feel pain, or at the very least you don’t get to talk about it. Well I am going to. Really the news item that got my goat (it's an old expression -- whenever I think about goats I think of Greek tragedy, don't you?) Anyway that’s how boring my life is by the way — I'm going to tell you about an item on the news. If I was a conspiracy theorist I would call that a plot, but I’ll just call it an unfortunate accident -- that my life is so uninteresting that I might as well be dead. So it was a news item about a small lovely looking child who had special needs and recently died. Yes -- you saw it coming-- from COVID-19. Now clearly hardly any children die of COVID-19. But that doesn’t matter, her parents were given prime time to cry, and then to talk about the rash. They pointed to her sad now-dead little arm -- “Yes that’s the rash she had, so you should watch out if your child has a rash.” And then the reporter turned to the audience and said: “Yes folks, if you’re child has a rash you should be very concerned.” I’m not kidding. This was a special needs child, and I’m not saying her life doesn’t matter, what I’m saying is that she died of this rash because she was especially susceptible -- and need I go on? I’m so tired of going on and on, of putting one foot in front of the other, of pulling the curtains when it’s dusk, of sniffling and dripping through my mask, of brown people asking me if I have symptoms. (Jesus Christ! I’m trying to make an anti-racist observation that only brown people are being hired for these menial jobs so leave me alone will you?) Anyway… I’m just. Tired. I’m tired of crying at my computer while listening to Bellini -- and thinking: 'yes, once that tune used to make me happy, but now...' — I’m tired of trying to see boys’ faces through their masks, I’m tired of pretending I’m falling in love with their eyes because there is nothing else to fall in love with. I’m tired of being tortured — yes tortured! Today the Canadian government said ‘We see no need to tell you when the national lock down will be completely over.' Because why? Because we're lucky enough to have a leader who is not a floppy-haired right-wing sock puppet but the very model of youth and political correctness? Whatever the reason, not telling you 'when' is torture. I’m tired of waiting for people to return my phone calls and emails, and actually caring. No, more than that: worrying that they will never call back or email again. I’ve lost several friends recently. No, not to COVID-19 (Jesus!) -- to the fear of it. The idea of mutations or variations or whatever it is gets ahold of them, and wrings the life right out of them: “I’d better stay home.” I’m so angry at this one friend who didn’t return my emails all through the lock down -- and I used to love her so much -- and one of our mutual friends is dying right now. But I guess well — she’s too worried about COVID-19. And then there’s a guy who I used to get naked with -- that’s all we did, was get naked -- who has decided all of a sudden that I”m too ‘risky’ to hang out with. There used to be an experimental theatre series called ‘The Risk' at The Shaw Festival, and you’re going to have to hear about it, because I’ve got nothing to do but talk about old times, and since I’m getting prematurely old, well, why not? Anyway Christopher Newton asked me to direct Oscar Wilde’s Salome which I did, and it was a horrible production I’m sure. I tried to be ‘experimental,’ and it was nice that he asked me but — well it was very hard to be ‘experimental’ when some of the actors just thought of me as Christopher’s untalented fag boyfriend. For instance there was Barry — I can’t remember his last name, but anyway I think he’s dead now (no not of COVID-19, or AIDS - Damn! but you are a suspicious one, aren’t you?) And there was a party scene, and I made one of the straight actors kiss Duncan MacIntosh (who as I’ve mentioned before is now The  Queen Of PEI — look it up, her husband is the king). Anyway, I directed the play very ‘gayly,’ and Barry played Herod, and my friend Camille played Salome. And after opening night (the audience was quite underwhelmed, I think) Camille said: “Did you hear what Barry said?” And I said — no, what are you talking about — because I had no idea, and she said: “Didn’t you hear -- when he’s supposed to say 'Welcome to my party’ he didn’t say that.” Well what did he say then? “He said -- 'Welcome to my GAY party' -- I couldn’t believe it." “Was it an accident?," I asked. “No,” said Camille, “he totally did it on purpose.” I’ll never forget when Gina Mallet (yes that was a Toronto critic's name, once) gave Camille a bad review (in Of Mice and Men at Toronto Free Theatre) saying she was "a cement Lana Turner.” Camille was so crushed: “Am I a cement Lana Turner, Sky?" she wailed, “Am I?” I assured her that she most certainly was not. But right now I would welcome even a bad review. Even from the moronic, mean Martin Morrow (he said I was 'plodding and pointless'!). Yes, you guessed it, frankly I would relish a little attention from anybody. I guess that goes to show what a narcissist I am. But technically speaking, I am not a narcissist, that is, I am not as bad as Donald Trump. Wow, is that really something to be proud of? But what do I have to be proud of anyway? Well….I haven’t gained any weight during this friggin’ pandemic. But not gaining weight means that I have done lots of other things which are very bad -- but which I won’t list here because if my partner of 21 years finds out he’s liable to excommunicate me from his life. I haven’t stopped loving him. That’s one thing. And I haven’t stopped loving this. Writing this gives me a sort of perverse pleasure -- always will, I hope. Thanks for not reading it.