That’s what my mind is tonight: mush. But I feel pretty good. I finished the (third) draft of my screenplay - as I told you and I felt like a sprung spring. Then today’s Blue Jays game was a hand wringer.

I have started digging down through the mountains of paper that had piled up while I was working. I got the papers, clippings, hard copies and bills and even some letters sorted and culled. Now I just have to follow-up on all the to-dos, deadlines, replies and ideas that emerged, not to mention noodges. That, plus cleaning the place for a party next week, not cleaning, really, but clearing. It’s not a huge party but big enough for my apartment that I have to hide stuff, sort of like staging a house for sale. For a day, someone tidy will live here.

In the days of my speaking engagements, readings and promotion appearances for my books, my introduction always sounded like an obituary, or a publicity director’s idea of A Writer. The many accomplishments I was given credit for made me sound unreal, either unreal or driven, either driven or ruthless. So when I stood up, I usually told my audience a fact that reduced me to a common denominator.

“I don’t dust,” I said.

I still don’t, but this week I will.

My battery will sleep soon. Me too.

Another Stratford outing, begun with high hopes, sadly dashed.

I certainly do not want to denigrate the Stratford Festival. It consistently produces world-class theatre, and we are privileged to claim it as our own. Given that the level of performance is so high, one can be disappointed and highly critical when it falls short of one’e expectations - mine, anyway. Very short. I didn’t believe any of the actors, but one: Scott Wentworth. He is a consistently powerful performer, no matter what he plays, and utterly believable. I didn’t believe Macbeth for a minute. I couldn’t see him thinking and getting seduced by the witches and his own ambition. I just heard him shouting as he tried to convey conviction with more noise. And poor Lady Macbeth couldn’t get a fix on her role. She was a cute, sexy lady welcoming her warrior husband home; then she was a simpering hostess as she welcomed her king, Duncan. Then she became a fastidious wife and helpmeet expressing disgust at her messy, bloody hands. I don’t know how she played her walking nightmare. She had lost me by then. The best scene between her and her husband was silent. A long silence as she watched him wash away his battle stains and they both thought about his change of fortune, gave us a chance to think, too, and guess at their subsequent behaviour. It was the only sub-text they used.

The rest of the company was too fresh out of the Birmingham Conservatory, I guess (the in-house training school for rookie actors). They all still sounded as if they were reciting Shakespeare. Except Scott Wentworth. I still miss Brian Bedford. No matter what he was playing he spoke his lines as if they had just occurred to him. He made us part of his thought process.

You already know how I feel about standing ovations. This performance didn’t deserve one, at least the players didn’t. You can’t fault Stratford for production, though. The fights were great.

It was a long day, and I’m still behind in my blogs.

Anon, anon.