Alas we enjoy our captivity and

we love those who enslave us. I met an old friend on the street last night; to be honest he was more like a business associate — an actor -- who had been in my plays many years ago. He is what we would nowadays call a ‘nice gay man.’ He was heavily masked, so when he said hello, I didn’t refrain from asking ‘Who are you?’ (And if that is COVID-19 rudeness, so be it.) When he told me who he was I greeted him warmly. It didn’t take two seconds for him to say: ‘This is the first time I've been out of the house in months!’ and he peered at me warily. But after that admission -- was it an admission, or a defense of sorts?  -- I was speechless. Who was my friend speaking to? He certainly knows me well enough to know that I probably have been out of the house once or twice in the last 10 months, and so why would he find it necessary to tell me that he had not? Then I remembered that during the AIDS epidemic, he was one who denied being promiscuous, but I would see him, nightly, in some ‘house of ill repute,’ along with me, showering after an encounter with a stranger. It’s called blind hypocrisy; no more than that — blind obedience. And I think it’s time we came to terms with it. People are stupid sheep; we love mute submission. Erich Fromm spoke of it in Escape From Freedom many years ago. It was shocking — the notion that people, generally, wish to live in a dictatorship. Well never mind ‘herd immunity’ what about ‘herd mentality'? People are overall much happier conforming; doing what other people do. They don’t want to think, they don’t want to stand up in a crowd and raise their voice ‘I object!’ These days the only voices that are raised are those of anti-racism and as important as that cause is — when it comes to anti-racism all reasonable people agree and so it's almost a nod to correctness. (No one actually listens -- or cops would not still be killing black men -- but we continue to go through the protocol of pretending to). And all reasonable people agree with staying at home and watching Netflix. I have finally given up. I will continue to unleash my dissatisfaction here, in Another Blog That Nobody Reads, but that is simply because no one reads it, and there is nothing more safe than the notion that I am only talking to myself, for myself, and if someone overhears, well it’s their fault. You see, when this all started -- and we weren’t a month into it -- I was telling everyone: ‘there will be riots in the streets — you can’t lock people up in their own homes!’ but the silence was deafening, it continues to be deafening. Oh yes there are the crazy ‘conspiracy theorists’ (aren’t they mostly all ‘Forever Trumpers’ or something?) who go on about ‘human rights.’ But everyone has now accepted that when it comes to ‘public health’ we have no rights. For me even to speak of rights is ridiculous --I realize that now -- because how can you have the ‘right’ to put someone else’s life in danger? So we must now accept that this frantic scurrying out to buy toilet paper, the empty streets filled with nothing but the drug addicted homeless, this slow sad withering of our friends into suicide, young people giving up on their lives, independent business giving way to Walmart,  no theatre/movies/ concerts/galleries/art, the triumph of the digital world, the death of promiscuity, but most of all the meek, mild, shy, apologetic acceptance of all that is preached at us on television -- the fear, most of all the fear of everything of everyone, of life, of experience itself; this is our lot. Education in the traditional sense is over, as is reading. (I will continue to read of course, as long as books are available somewhere. It’s interesting that  Farenheit 451 never literally occurred —  no books were publicly burned — but they might as well have been, as no one reads.) I think we can take our cue from the news; when was the last time you heard about Africa? About The Middle East? About starvation in India (I guarantee it’s happening)? No that was what being informed used to be, but now we don’t need House, ER, Gray’s Anatomy, Code Black as the news is all medical melodrama (her dying words were ‘I don’t believe in this virus!’), and we will never be sated. School will become, for young people, a place to be inculcated to the party line, they will learn about self sacrifice, caring, that even feelings have feelings, that we must make sure to stay out of everyone’s way and not infect them. These will not be ‘live’ classes, no -- universities have gotten a taste of the money that can be made from online learning, rich stay-at-home-parents will I am sure figure out a way to put their kid in the basement and do online learning, as they do their yoga upstairs, and bake cookies --  but of course many can’t. And that is who will continue to serve us; the ones who have no choice, the inevitable underclass, those who we don't talk about the ones who are dying right now, the poor people of colour who don’t have raw fruits and vegetables in their neighborhood supermarkets, who don’t have proper health care, who don’t have time or money to go to the doctor, who are morbidly obese and diabetic, they will drive our buses and clean our streets and antiseptic-wipe all the banisters— there will always be work there (thank God!) as pandemic will follow pandemic. And we will be safe, as we didn’t want that kind of freedom, what we wanted was freedom from dangerous ideas, dangerous choices, the freedom from the notion that life offers any choice at all. Now we have no choices, and can’t we just face it? We are happy. We are happy with our lives of nothing. The notifications on your iPhone tell you not to be guilty about curling up during lockdown with a glass of wine and a box of chocolates. Run, don’t walk to your nearest pillow. No better yet make a little blanket tent in your living room, run the cord from your computer there, pop some popcorn, settle in. It’s not just a difficult winter; our lives our now a perpetual winter, and there is something about the cold and being inside that makes us feel so much more cozy than being outside in the sun, naked and hot, forced to make decisions, thinking, screwing, hugging, singing and making art. But that’s all gone now. No need to worry. It's what you always wanted.

This is for all those fat

girls out there, because I was one. Perhaps 'figuratively speaking.' But isn’t everything 'figurative,' really, when it comes down to it? So I was watching Bill Maher and a very beautiful slender woman was saying that the problem with COVID-19 is that nobody is talking about obesity. We are supposed to be so concerned about everyone’s health right now, but the reason so many people are dying is not just because they are old, or poor, or they had a private birthday for their daughter and invited her friends  -- but because they are obese. The shame heaped upon those who like fun and alcohol goes on quite unabated; criticizing a fat girl is verboten. To quote a t-shirt I saw recently on TV: ‘even my feelings have feelings.’ This is the signature motto for all tearful, perennially hurt millennials. Well as Germaine Greer said it in an interview recently --when someone accused her of hurting some poor trans person’s feelings -- “I don’t care!” It’s not my responsibility! People get hurt all the time!” But nothing, it seems, can match the pain in the eyes of a fat girl who has been shamed. So we must not mention the word ‘fat,' even though being fat is actually unhealthy, especially when one is morbidly obese, as so many people in North America are. You don’t have to look at the statistics (which lie anyway) all you have to do is look at the photographs of the young people who die of COVID-19 on CNN. They all had sweet smiles -- and inevitably brought cheer into any room they entered— however most were morbidly obese. (But  we don’t want to say that about ‘Kelly-Anne’ because she sang that song from Wicked so gorgeously at the school prom!)  Everyone is all concerned about saving lives at any cost, and it is incumbent on all of us to hunker down, isolate, become mentally ill, and kill small businesses, indeed  our lives must come to a full stop -- but God help us if we are to even imply that it might be a good idea for a fat person to go on a diet. On the contrary ‘covid-weight’ is celebrated. I got a ‘notification’ on my phone recently saying: “It’s a lockdown! Enjoy your wine and chocolate!” I could opine against puritanism, but why? After all, we are all Irish nuns now. A young woman told me a harrowing story from her research into Irish history. Apparently young Irish unwed mothers were at one time ‘sheltered’ by nuns, who had a little ritual. Which was this. When the young woman was writhing in the agony of labour (no anasthetic of course) the nun would lean over -- at the moment of the most acute physical anguish -- and whisper: “Think of this the next time you decide to have that kind of fun!” Yes we have all become despicable, unhappy, repressed, bitter, vindictive, jealous, covetous Irish nuns these days — but somehow we can’t bring ourselves to even hint that it might do a fat girl some good to drop some tonnage. Why do I keep talking about ‘fat girls’? What about fat boys? Well they are dying of COVID-19 too, in droves — and no one seems to care about them either. But it is women who have it especially bad, because of sexism. I know all about this because I was — as I say, figuratively speaking — once a little fat girl. I was the next best thing; I was an effeminate little fat boy; a  pudgy sissy. The doctor told my mother I had ‘constitutional laxity” (I searched for that term and found it recently in a 2005 article on the National Library of Medicine website so I guess it really existed.) It all came down to bad muscle tone. It was not my fault that I was tubby and hated gym class. I hated gym class because I not only looked ridiculous in those shorts, but lusted after all the boys — only at that time it was more about romance. My first love Tad Crohn (his grandfather invented Crohn’s disease) had what would be now called a six pack at the age of 9 — when I was mad for him — we used to roll around in bed naked because — well, what else could we do? He was perfect and played tennis with Shane (who was from England and said ‘maul’ instead of ‘mal’ for the local ‘mall’). I wanted to kill Shane and marry Tad, but anyway, the point is, my first erotic encounter was with a boy with a perfectly muscled body — a body I never had and never will. It doesn’t matter how much I work out. I managed to lose 40 pounds for a hernia operation about a year ago and that would certainly be getting me laid if there were any friggin’ bars or bathhouses open anywhere. The point is that I know something about what it means to be a fat girl because I was a fat effeminate boy. So okay, I acknowledge there is so much shame and so much self-loathing because men like you to be trim, and gorgeous — why?  Either all men watch too much pornography or their hormones program them to be more ‘visual’ sexually, we will never know, shall we? (So let’s not debate it.) The point is most men with six-packs these days oppress feminine creatures such as myself — and women — unless they have a body fat percentage of less than 15%. I get it. I get it so much that when I was younger I used to dress up in drag regularly, wearing almost nothing. Check out this video:

https://ca.video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=AwrCxnZO.uNf.DwAJwQXFwx.;_ylu=Y29sbwNiZjEEcG9zAzIEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3Nj?p=sky+gilbert&fr=yhs-Lkry-SF3&hspart=Lkry&hsimp=yhs-SF3#id=9&vid=edc0557cb8d30fab57c08e2ef4bb876c&action=viewG
I don’t care what you think. I thought I looked gorgeous at the time! Gay liberation for me was partly about well, politics, but also about me showing off my not very trim feminine body to likely males; I can’t tell you how liberating it was to stand up on that stage and go on about getting a ticket for riding in a cab without a seatbelt (it’s a long story), and letting it mostly all hang out. I wish all fat girls could feel as good as I felt about myself on that day. Alas, they don’t. It’s not my fault. It’s a complex issue. But please understand we are not helping those fat girls by encouraging them to eat lots of chocolates to extinguish covid anxiety. The fact is — I don’t know how to tell you this — but if your feelings have feelings -- then you have too many feelings.

I am coming out in favour

of burqas for everyone. I know they are usually considered Muslim attire, but the word ‘Muslim’ means ‘submission,' and that pretty much describes what’s going on now. So ‘burqas for all’ seems quite appropriate. But more than being in favour, I want, desire — nay yearn, for the day we can all wear burqas — men, women, everybody. The great thing about burqas is that they are so sexy. Now just hold on and follow my train of thought. The origin of the burqa was not religious. The story goes like this: before they became a Muslim routine a woman ran through town wearing a burqa and everyone went crazy — i.e. the men found it wildly erotic and all of them wanted to have sex with  her. So from the start it was about the facilitation of eroticism; in other words the garment was clearly an aphrodisiac. I have no doubt it remains one to this day. For the burqa affirms the fetishisation of the female body. The reason for burqas is that fetishization; Muslim men are frank about this. Female bodies are considered by the Muslim religion (as in some Protestant sects and for people like Mike Pence) not just attractive under certain circumstances, (i.e. when the lights are low) no — if men are even to catch a passing glimpse of a naked ankle, they will and must become uncontrollably and dangerously erect and petrifyingly passionate, nothing will stop them, nothing must get in their way. This is apparently because men are -- evidently -- brutish unruly animals with no self control. Well, I would do almost anything to ensure men were sexually inflamed by my presence (outside of a getting butt implant — I won't ever do that!). So if all it takes is for me to wear a burqa  — well,  I’ll order one from Amazon now. And of course if everyone wore burqas we would be safe from the dreaded virus — no ‘should I take my mask off for minute?' It is about complete submission to the illness and all it’s persuasive paradigms, metaphors and myths. And as we have been told that this  pandemic is just the first of many and that viruses are always unpredictable and may mutate (COVID-19  is mutating right now, apparently), the big question becomes —  well — who knows? I mean, anything could happen. But beyond the safety and fetish aspects of burqas there is the complete submission of one’s entire person to the COVID-19 faith -- yes it is a new religion — not the least of all because it rivals the Muslim religion in its demand for utter and complete subservience. I always have been submissive — sexually (I know, TMI!) - but the pandemic offers an opportunity on a much wider, much more comprehensive scale to submit ourselves to whatever powers there be and to obey -- for ours is not to reason why — as we are clearly putting peoples lives in danger if we do. And the notion of ‘putting other people’s lives in danger’ is at the heart of this new religion and its demand for submission. A friend of mine who is a slut (she’s a dominatrix, actually) wanted to visit her 90 year old grandmother on her birthday. Her sister — who is somewhat of a religious zealot—  barred my dominatrix friend from visitation. This is even after my friend the dominatrix said she would only go to the door of her grandmother’s house, stand outside wearing a mask, greet her through the screen door, and leave the present on the doorstep. The 90 year old woman, of course, had no say in the matter -- though she did want to see her dominatrix granddaughter; but the evangelistic sister wouldn’t have it. And the finger wagging sister’s words are characteristic -- nay definitive -- of the religious dogma that dominates this pandemic: “It’s one thing if you want to kill yourself — but you have no right to kill our grandmother!” Wow. I bow in wonder at the magnificence of the rhetoric. J.L Austin introduced the concept of ‘illocutionary acts’ — the notion that certain combinations of words are actual acts, that change reality— as in during the marriage ceremony when we say ‘I do.’  The implications of the idea -- you have the right to ruin your life but not everyone else’s -- are beyond anything we might imagine. For at the heart of this divine eloquence lies not unselfishness, but revenge. The evangelistic sister who uttered these fatal words (and they are fatal) had always hated her dominatrix sister. Specifically, she had been jealous of her sister  making a tidy sum of money through her sexual control of men.  Undoubtedly she coveted her sister’s ‘lifestyle.’ But as a kind, religious woman she was never been able to say take responsibility for this jealousy (which had become contempt). And now, the new religion of COVID-19 has empowered her to curse her sister in the name of altruism. And surely there is a little bit of the evangelistic sister in all of us? COVID-19 invites us (I see it on TV every day) to provide an exhaustive and detailed catalogue of this sins that the selfish few bring upon the hapless many. One sees it play out excruciatingly in the stories of the COVID-19 deniers, the tragic victims who, up until the very end, have said 'this is a made-up illness, no different from the flu.' Inevitably and ironically they suffer the agonizing fate of succumbing to the virus themselves. The kind, older nurse will say "I just couldn’t understand it. Even up until the end, when he was choking for breath he would ask: 'What is happening? This can’t be real.'" Watching this wise nurse on CNN, we can’t help but chuckle at the way in which the virus sought to punish this wilfully ignorant unbeliever. No, that will not be us, only him, after all we all know that the wages of sin is death, so we submit. We will wear our burqa. I plan on going naked under mine. I think that men will know that I am naked. Yes I'll wash the dam thing -- don't worry -- just as I wash my mask. But  every swish and every sway of the delicate fabricate over my trembling limbs, as it brushes against my, tensely, vibrantly responsive naked body -- will tell a tale. And it will be the ultimate mask of all, the burqa -- my lover -- the mask that tells the truth.

Things You Can Do

 Outside

1) You can pee.
 I recommend peeing outside, as many public washrooms are closed — especially, it seems, when you need them most! I found a great outdoor spot to pee in Hamilton. There’s a wall on one side, and a little inset door, which says ‘no loitering’ (because lots of guys pee there). You just have to make sure there isn’t anybody in the parking lot behind you spying. Well, all they would see is your butt. (Of course they would know what you are doing.) Peeing outside is great! On the one hand you feel like you’re flaunting authority (which I love) and then of course, you get that pee out, which is often an absolute necessity. (I do apologize to all the women who don’t like to squat. But I know some of my best women friends quite happily, do! So go to it, ladies!)

2)  You can litter.
Littering is fun. For some reason the garbage cans have been removed from a lot of public places — I’m not sure what that has to do with COVID-19. But ours is not to reason why, ours is to obey. And most of the time you can’t eat inside so —. Well I found myself hurrying through a Tim Ho's coffee and bran muffin in sub-freezing temperatures while sitting on a cold rock, and there was no garbage can in sight. So yes, I littered. Again, there is something freeing about committing the ‘verboten.’ Also, as I’m watching the cup blowing away, I thought about that scene in American Beauty with the rumpled paper bag? Which was, I guess, all about beauty? (I was never sure.)

3) You can have sex.
This is awfully liberating!. Sure, you might freeze your nuts or vagina off. Or you could just throw somebody onto the back of an outdoor heating mechanism and have your way with them. If you are caught, you may be arrested for ‘public indecency.’ But you would be in good company! Oscar Wilde and many other homosexuals — famous and not — risked life and limb to have a good outdoor screw. Of course if you are an exhibitionist, it’s extra fun!

One more thing. I recommend you do any — or (preferably) all of the above — on a GO bus or train. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Toronto GO Transit system has gotten particularly drunk with power during the pandemic. It has given them the chance to cancel the express bus between Hamilton and Toronto — something they always wanted to do — but now they have an excuse. It doesn’t matter that the new COVID system of stuffing people on trains and tiny connecting buses between Toronto and Hamilton is actually dangerous for your health. But GO has always been corrupt. There are several GO stations built in lonely, empty neighbourhoods simply because ambitious MPs wanted to to tout this achievement in their election campaigns. So if you live in a tiny neighbourhood that doesn’t need a GO station—  but  for some inexplicable reason has one — you can thank the corrupt GO Transit! As you may have guessed, I hate Go transit -- ever since they wiped out Coach Canada (and Greyhoud, practically) in the name of not providing proper service to small towns.  I used to travel on GO from Hamilton to Guelph before COVID.  My daily commute to work was 5 hours (there and back-- it used to be 1 hour and a half before GO). It was worse when it snowed. So, yes, I recommend you litter, pee and have sex on GO Transit immediately! If you can manage to do all of these things at the same time, that would be even better!

As you can see I have become mentally unhinged. Well I always was, but COVID-19 has made it worse. I know I am not the only one. I am a rebellious creature, that’s the problem, and I absolutely detest being told what to do (however wonderful the cause is!). And there are many like me. The way that most people deal with the stress and strain of COVID-19 rules and restrictions is by becoming a drug addict (or — I should say — more of one) and/or by raping their innocent daughters, and/or by killing someone. Since these are extreme and unsavoury ways to deal with stress, I would suggest you just go outside and have a good pee, a good litter, or a good screw. I feel I am doing a public service by suggesting these alternatives (which is something we’ve all learned is more important than anything nowadays.) No, you wouldn’t be hurting anybody by peeing, littering or screwing out of doors. The worst you might do is shock someone. But shock is good for people generally -- and especially with their mind-numbing daily diet of Netflix and/or logging onto Facebook in order to finger wag the ‘COVID naughty.’

Happy Holidays!

This time it was a

sexual dream, so maybe you don’t want to hear about it. But you’re going to. I was at a party, wearing military gear (I remember looking down an seeing my military boots).  I don’t remember much about the party except it was a bacchanal, everything was wrecked; it started slowly and became chaos. I don’t know how to describe the room that the party was in — it was perhaps an artists house? Old wood? But the central incident that I woke up remembering was that I lost someone’s penis. Yes, it’s very complicated (and it must mean something, mustn’t it?). Anyway I stole it and then I lost it. I was having sex with him and he is somewhat dim -- in the detail. But his presence was strong and masculine, and he was an artist (was it his party?). Also I was not the only one who loved him at that party, everyone loved him, they all were protective of him, and were watching me with him. And with him, I had -- well — how shall I describe it -- tastefully? Shall we call it fabulous fellatio? Going down on him was fabulous. (I don’t know how to describe it except his penis just fit; it was heaven.) But when it was over I then suddenly had his penis in my hand, separate from him (odd that). Odd too, that his penis being separate from his body did not alarm me in the least. I just put it in my pocket. And then the worry came. Because the party was winding down and I had lost it. And I frantically searched my pockets, and pulled out all sorts of phallic paraphernalia, dropping them on the floor, but none of them alas, was his ‘equipment.’ Then the party was really over,  and people were cleaning up. And I caught of glimpse of him (handsome, masterful) and I wanted to talk to him. But oddly again, I didn’t seem to be in trouble -- for either stealing -- or for losing his penis. Oh yes, and I remember two other details, one very odd and the other not so much. The first detail was that before leaving the party I saw a large stuffed deer with diamonds for eyes. This may seem terribly symbolic. And perhaps it was - because I do know a beautiful young man who identifies as a deer ('deer' in gay lore is somewhat the opposite of 'bear'). And so this deer may have been that young man. But why was it dead? This worries me. But then again (and this is complicated to explain) taxidermy has been figuring prominently in my life of late (shall we leave it at that?). And finally, the other detail -- not so odd -- is I remember telling this gorgeous dominant, artist -- my lover -- during our lovemaking, that I was a slut, and that lots of people wanted to have sex with me. And I remember very clearly him saying “I can see why.” And when he said this I turned my head away from fellating him, and noticed that I was lying on my stomach and  my ass was exposed. Well as you might imagine when I woke up I was incredibly horny, and very worried about having stolen that guy's penis. But after all he hadn’t seemed very worried, so why should I be?  I find it coincidental that I dreamt this last night, because last night I had also watched a youtube video about Jung and dreams that a friend just sent me. Now I’ve never paid much attention to dreams. But in this video a therapist was talking about writing them down, which I thought was impossible. How can you remember your dreams? And then I remembered that I had written a blog about a dream recently. And when I woke up this morning, the image — but most of all the feeling of the dream — was overwhelming, so I wrote down all the details I could remember.  And now I’ve realised that dreams are not only the subconscious (which I’ve always been suspicious of because Freud used the subconscious for ridiculous ends sometimes) dreams are irrational. And the irrational is what I’m all about now (Heraclitus, Lucretius, Gorgias, Ovid — it’s a long story). And this woman in the video said — and I’m paraphrasing — that at the centre of Jung’s philosophy was the notion that everyone needs to believe in something, that we must have an irrational side even if we claim to be a creature of reason. In other words you may have that friend or relative or teacher or someone who says they are completely logical and dispassionate. I have such a friend now (or he seems to be an ex-friend as I hardly ever see him since COVID-19 so I can write about him here. I mean I still do love him but he’s definitely an ex-friend). And my ex-friend is one of those people who can no longer tolerate my anger (have you noticed that I'm a pretty angry guy?). And I’ve tried to explain to him that anger is a good thing but he very much above it all because he is a Buddhist. And in his mind anyway, the exemplary Buddhist is not emotional but instead above all human emotion. But emotion is irrational. And that’s what this woman was talking about in the Jung video -- that getting angry or frightened or whatever --  is necessary, because if we don’t allow ourselves to have feelings then they just go into hiding, but are still there, lurking. So we must be irrational. We must believe in things beyond reason. (So maybe my ex-friend still is irrational, and emotional, in one way -- because of his belief in his God. Because if there wasn’t a God we would invent him -- or her). Which brings me back to the penis incident. Now it seems almost de rigeur to analyse it. The circumstance seems, in fact, to invite analysis. But I would posit -- isn’t that somewhat contrary to the point? Why be rational about something that is irrational (i.e. a dream)? I mean why can’t it just be what it is, in the reality of a dream, i.e. I took someone’s penis by mistake and then lost it (silly me). I mean of course the dream had guilt in it; I’m guilty, I’m guilty all the time, my first novel was called Guilty, I have been suffocating in guilt ever since my mother told me to clean my room when I was a kid, and after I cleaned it she said: “I was worried because you made it too clean”. Or perhaps I’m the only male in the universe besides Woody Allen who has penis envy? Or perhaps I want to forget penises (horrifying thought). But really I do think we are ruining it if we try and figure out what any dream means. It doesn’t mean anything. Does water mean anything? What does a bowel movement mean? Does a whinnying horse mean anything? These things just are. It was a dream, and it must be respected, because well, right now, it’s what Shakespeare (oh yeah that guy again) said we are made of. And right now, frankly, my 'dream' is a lot more real than my 'reality.'

Since the fun is

gone I’ve been downloading lots of computer games. My latest is Fishdom and it’s lots of fun. You match gems and decorate little fishbowls. It’s good for loneliness, because the fish talk to you. They are pretty funny looking, and have personalities. Because it’s ‘interactive,’ you put your name into the app and the fish call you by your real name. And basically I have a lot of trouble getting together with my friends these days (they don’t answer emails, they’re depressed, it’s cold outside, etc etc) so the fish are like well — substitute friends. The only problem is they can get a bit sucky, and one of them reminds me of my father. Every time I win a game he says: ‘The way you win is just amazing Sky!” Near the end of his life my father used to call me and ask: “Any new achievements you want to tell me about, son?” I couldn’t  just talk with him about the weather, it had to be an achievement. So the only real problem with Fishdom is the one fish who lays it on a little thick and  reminds me of my father. Truth be told? I’m lacking an audience. I’ve always needed one, must have one, in fact. I’ve been zoom teaching, but the students are on Christmas break. So who am I going to entertain? My boyfriend resents it when I treat him like an ‘audience.’ And my friends, well as I said, it's just that the elements -- rain, snow, sleet -- and a dreadful fear not so much of COVID-19 but of being spotted on the streets laughing or having fun and then shamed by their Facebook friends  --  keep us apart. But I need to perform. Which made me think about Fran Leibowitz, and the HBO documentary Public Speaking, when she says: “All the best ones died.” And she’s right. Fran is so right, because the gay men who had crazy sex and died of AIDS were not only the greatest artists but the greatest audiences, because those three things go together, and if you don’t get that, then there is no hope for you (sorry for being so judgemental.). But anyway, she talks about how these arty sexy fags would go to the ballet and hold court on the way Susanne Farrell would turn her leg or flick her wrist. And that made me think about audiences. Because I need them so badly right now. I mean not just one person -- tons and tons of people to appreciate me -- and clap. (I can’t help it. It’s just the way I'm constructed. Some people are just made that way. It’s part of diversity okay?  Just like some people are made to hide in corners? Some are made to -- not.) Like Jerry Seinfeld said, there are people whose worst nightmare is to be dead, and there are others whose worst nightmare is to deliver the eulogy. In other words some people would rather die than speak in public. Me, I need to speak in public or I’ll die. Recently I caught myself speaking to the cat, and well -- the universe -- yesterday (my boyfriend was out, it would have bugged him; he would have thought I'd finally gone senile). That’s how desperate I am for applause. So let me make a case for audiences. What is an audience and why is it important? Because in the COVID-19 world there are no theatres or concerts or crowds of more than five (and what is the sound of ten hands clapping?) So what are we missing when we do away with audiences — i.e. if either they die of AIDS, or they just are not allowed to ‘audience’ anymore, like now, in the lockdown? A case could be made by conspiracy theorists that all these pandemics and epidemics have been whipped up to wipe out audiences forever. And it’s an important case to made, because audiences are important. I’m not saying that just because I love audiences and need them (though I do) but  because the world is a spectacle.  It’s not real or true, or right or wrong, it is simply a spectacle, and the wise ones know how to appreciate it (or critique it) in all it’s craziness.  And that means also realizing that it is a spectacle. And what is a spectacle? It’s something made up (i.e. in this case, by God). It’s fake. Spectacles are not real, they are manufactured. And that’s what the world is, it’s fooling you. Truth is a lie. I know that’s always a tough one for people to get, but if you understand this secret it will save you — it will save all of us. ‘The wise man,’ said Gorgias (who the f-was Gorgias? I’ll tell you someday) is the one who is fooled. But to be fooled means to know you are being fooled. I remember when my boyfriend and I (why does he keep cropping up in this blog -- probably because we are at home together all the time these days) we were walking down the street in drag on our way to the Dora Mavor Moore Awards many years ago, (what could be more natural?) and some kid lept off his little bike  and  yelled at us kinda fiercely: “You’re not fooling me!!!” It was very odd. But my answer was -- I can’t remember if I just thought it in my head or I actually said it -- ‘Relax — we were just putting on a spectacle.' Meaning it’s completely fake and we know it. And if you were a smart little boy you would know it too. It’s like COVID-19. (You knew I‘d get around to it eventually, didn’t you?) I’ll tell you some actualities (I won’t call them truths because I don’t believe there are any.) The COVID-19 test doesn’t mean anything. Any scientist knows this. It just means you might have a little COVID in your system. You are not a ‘case.’ If you test positive your life is not in danger and you are not necessarily even infectious. And in addition to that, they are going on and on about how all these people are dying — but I know for instance in Britain -- and I’m sure in Canada -- the overall national death rates have not increased. So it’s all a big deliciously juicy, scary lie. And what they should do is protect the people in old folks homes and those who are marginalized (what are called the poor 'black and brown folk' on TV)— those with no money for the doctor or health care. But instead they close theatres. And then there are no more audiences. And you know why they are closing the theatres? (Here's a conspiracy theory for ya!) Because if you were a discerning audience you wouldn’t just accept everything as truth. You’d be critical. You would question everything-- yes even the so-called truth.  You would see everything as a big spectacle, and enjoy it, but then say 'all this spectacle needs a little critique!' You would be like that old faggot, in the pink frilly shirt, and gold, too-tight, spangly pants, who died of AIDS, who would stand up all by himself at the opera, and give a standing 'o,' yelling 'brava!,' because he thought some fat opera diva sang Casta Diva as good as Callas -- which  of course is impossible. Where oh where has that very special faggot gone? Not only I— but you and me -- all of us, we shall not survive, without him.

It’s the victory of

the dead over the undead. Literally. Back in April one of my friends said, jokingly: ‘It’s here, The Zombie Apocalypse!" and we laughed -- oh how we laughed. (Little did we know.) Who are the dead? Well when I was young it was clearly my father -- expressionless -- saying little, and telling me to be careful when I folded the American flag. And my mother was clearly alive, as there were red roses on her dress, and she was always 'going through' something or other, and I used to sing songs from The Sound of Music to her (“I Am Sixteen…”). And later, of course, she drank. Being dead was being expressionless and careful, and being alive was singing and drinking. It was all pretty clear; anyone could understand. History, if you look at it, has been a continuous war between the dead and the undead.  In certain periods the dead win -- the lights go out for awhile, sometimes for a very long time, like in the Dark Ages. But then the light comes back -- and people are dancing — like in the 20s — and women are flashing their you-know-whats and riding bicycles, and things are on the up and up. But how long oh Lord, how long? And why are the dead so intent on silencing us? It’s clear that we are an affront to them. COVID has never made it any clearer. Even the bandit kerchief with the skulls on it I wear as a mask is a trigger to some; it’s obvious I am too cavalier about ‘infection.’ And the other day when they started to ask me the ‘five questions’ on my way into the gym, I just said: ‘No no no no no!” which made me sound — for the first time in a long while — like a virgin. But why don’t they like us? Is there something about me that has always been evidently ‘alive,’ that the dead ones always hated? I think so. When I was a boy they used to ask “why do you always talk with your hands?” It was a gay thing, but also part of me being 'not dead.' And then many years ago when I walked past Woody’s bar (will it ever open again?) on Church street, some guy turned to his friend and said “If Sky Gilbert can walk by, then you can dance!” which was somewhat about me being alive too. But that still doesn’t tell us why they resent us so. It’s probably because, deep down somewhere, the dead understand that people are meant to be alive, and if they aren’t alive, they are somehow betraying their humanity.  After all, it's not 'reason' that makes us human. You'll find scant evidence of reason nowadays -- what with COVID and all. Why yesterday apparently two people in England got headaches or whatever (I could care less) from the vaccine and everyone went hysterical: “Oh no, not side effects! What’s going to happen? Are people going to have to stop taking the vaccine?” Well it turns out those two people were allergic to vaccines. So why did they take the bloody thing? (It’s like when you go to the doctor and say ‘oh doctor when I do this it hurts’ and the doctor says ‘well then don’t do it!') “Don't be so COVID!’”-- is what they will say, hopefully -- after this passes. Because being 'so COVID' will just mean not facing the facts. Because the undead actually know this fact: we all die, and we are more likely to die if we are 90 years old and/ or are already seriously ill. Is that rocket science? No, but suddenly to the 'COVID mind' this salient fact has become a ‘tragic situation.’ Well, when I see a photo of a 90 year old married couple on TV dying of COVID in their hospital beds,  it’s simply not tragic (except for the fact that the COVID police made them die in separate rooms.) Of course it will get worse before it gets better. And I don’t mean the COVID (that will go away). I mean the judgement and the approbation, the clicking of tongues, the shaking of heads. I remember when I was dating (that’s a euphemism) Christopher (Newton) a thousand years ago, he told me that we would never ever walk down the street of Niagara-on-the-Lake together. I was wounded and shocked of course (though it did have the the allure of turning me into the ‘other woman’ which I sort of was, because of Duncan MacIntosh — who is now the First Lady of Prince Edward Island —  but that’s another story….). So anyway I was shocked. And I asked him why, and he said “The twitch of a curtain means a ruined reputation in this town!” Eventually we broke up, but he still came to visit me in Toronto. And when he was walking up the sidewalk to my flat on Robert Street (it was right across from the Morgentaler Clinic, I used to sit at my desk and write plays every day — and there would be the dead and the undead quarreling right in front of my window — because the Evangelists used to accost poor innocent young women and try to stop them from having abortions). Well as he approached the lawn Christopher saw the ugly plants my landlord had planted instead of grass, and he made an ugly face. ‘Oh spurge,’ he said. “What do you mean?” I asked -- (as I am definitely not a gardener). “He’s planted spurge instead of grass, but it’s not working.” “Oh, is that what that stuff is?” “Yes,” said Christopher (ever the gardener). And then he sighed, wistfully:  ‘Spurge never works.” And then later when we hadn’t dated each other for awhile — and we were both seeing other men — Christopher had met a beautiful boy who lived on Church Street, and he was having a gay old time with him (so to speak). But then he had to break it off. (I think the boys name was Bobbi.) I said “Oh no, what happened? Why did you have to break it off with Bobbi?” He said: “Bobbi kissed the cat.” “Ah," I said. “Yes,” he said wistfully. (Christopher was often wistful.) "I couldn’t take it after that.” If all this sounds like Greek to you, then you are probably dead, and you don’t approve of me. And when it comes down to it, you never have approved of me, and you know —  it’s just envy. It’s just bloody envy. The undead don’t want to be dead you see, but the dead want to be undead. But they know that for some reason they can never be. (Why?) So they will lock us up and take away our fun. It’s particularly bad now. If you are one of the undead, you kinda wish you were dead right now. But it won’t last for ever. Because you see there is….well, life. And that’s something the dead can never understand.