I feel an

obligation to my two faithful readers, I know I have at least two. One of them is a dear friend who keeps saying “Where are your blogs? I live vicariously through you!” Which I’m sure is unusual, as I stand as a case study in how not to life your life. What has happened is merely this; I’m trying to enter the world again. Those damn blogs took five hours a day to create — two hours of movie — three hours of writing. It was a perilous daily deep sea dive into a underwater cave when there was nothing else to do; but now I must exit the cave and stand in the sun, naked. I can’t begin to tell you how difficult that is. Have you noticed? First of all I don’t trust that anything is actually going to happen again. Then there is the craven nature of the Toronto theatre community. What are you doing? What are you afraid of? As far as I know, theatres in Ontario are permitted to open today at 50% capacity. So what's up, Ontario? People have been going to plays in Montreal for quite some time. I hesitate to speculate, but of course I will, could it be that COVID19 is an excuse? Could it be that the incredible socio-cultural changes (#MeToo, BLM etc) are causing theatres to take time to deal with well — whatever it is they have to deal with? I won’t imagine — yes I will — the endless, fraught, boring, vile, accusatory meetings, as theatres become social work, and it’s suddenly necessary to please everyone in the community, and theatre artists become politicians who must placate their audience, rather than innovators who lead. I hope I’m mistaken, I hope the next six months is just about putting in new air filtration systems and sanitising the seats. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that women will no longer be abused (good luck just slapping a  new coat of paint on that!) and trans people will no longer be neglected and rejected, but shouldn’t theatre be about something other than ideas? For the great artists, ideas are just fodder, tools, you throw them in the audience’s face but you, yourself don’t actually believe anything, except that the world is scary and delightful, brimful of sex, candy, death, and putrefaction; and difficult to define, in words — but something you wish to have your audience experience during the two hour traffic of the stage. All you can do if you are an artist (I stole this from James Baldwin) is try and somehow understand the riddle of the world —but not by articulating it, or god forbid solving it. Well, one part of my life is solved; sex. My abandonment issues are over (for now). I thought it would all go away — that I was too old, that no one would ever want me again. Okay: so he was about 6’4”, furry, breathtakingly handsome, lean, probably an older man (but still younger than me) and from the moment he entered my room at the baths I knew he was taking charge. That’s all I really need. And I  realise now that I was rehearsing — all those years as a breathless feminine drag queen  — and have now compressed that into what has become my requisite sexual rputine. (If you’re going to have sex with me don’t bother, as I’m going to tell you how it usually goes). I become a shy, yearning, doe-eyed female in straight porn movies -- or a semi-reluctant, moaning, yielding boy in the gay ones. Every touch — that is every touch of his — is magic; he likes that  and continues to touch me. I’m in agony and ecstasy and he has all the power. Let’s get the distasteful stuff over with. Yes, there was a teeny-weeny bit of strangling, but I trusted that he was acting, he only took it so far, and yes, he put it inside me, and yes it was heaven. Is that euphemistic enough for you? I must differentiate between euphemism and euphuism. The first I detest; my life has been devoted, up until now, to telling it like it is, it’s what’s gotten me into so much trouble, like when I said that Viveck Shraya was homophobic (latest infraction) or that perhaps HIV was not the sole cause of AIDs (my midlife misdemeanour) or that sex is good and everyone should be doing it constantly (I make that mistake all the time, to this day). I know I should just talk about how lovely dogs are (i.e. actual dogs, not gay male ‘pups’) and how thrilled I am to be doubly vaccinated. Aren’t you thrilled? Doesn’t it just give you a tingling sensation knowing the blood clots got somebody else, and you are squeaky clean -- in anticipation of the fourth wave (or is it the third; I’m such a ditz)? Anyway, I digress, yes euphemism is what an artist doesn’t do, it’s what Rod McKuen did. Euphuism is something else; it is the key to Shakespeare and all Elizabethan writing. I am convinced now that Shakespeare was John Lyly and invented euphuism -- which is simply language for the sake of language in the tradition of the Greek rhetor Gorgias — and the beauty of that language is its own persuasion. It cares not for truth, and yet it does. The truth is in the spaces between the things you say, and in what does not make sense, but primarily in the contradictions. I have a date tonight with an older man, his name is Roger (pronounced Roget) and we are meeting at the Eagle in Montreal. To me, it’s like a dream -- that I might have friends in the town where I mostly just screw and don’t as yet have a stick of work to call my own (i.e. theatre work). But I am trying to talk to the guys at the baths more. I really am. Mikey, I think that was his name (on Wednesday night) was a hardcore submissive, and he mentioned dogs in just the right way (i.e. that he was one) and serviced me mercilessly. There was something about him that makes me think he is working class, and that he hangs out under the bridge in Hochelaga. (That's a secret place; we mustn't talk about it, so I won’t.) I will be back. I promise -- not that any of you care!  But I have to get out there and feel it all eat it all (not food) and submit. Perhaps I will submit until I disappear; but remember you will always find me here, eventually.