Okay, my ribs hurt, my left eye has suddenly developed 'floaters' just like the right eye did two years ago, I've had low grade sinus/throat/coughy stuff for two & a half months and, after our hell-week run-for-the-opening melodramas, director is still not happy.

Fuck him/her.

Well, not really, but here's the thing: outside the rarified territory of the actor's interior landscape, there are terrible monsters…

Pacing.

LINES, LINES, LINES.

Can't hear.

Losing ends of dialog.

Shirt shows underneath dress in ACT I, sc iv.

Where was the jello??

Energy!!

I can't sleep, can't turn over without waking up.

Can't let go of a scene until I've run through the blocking. Again. At 2 am.

I love my family, but EVERYONE OF THEM has a crisis, right now.

Feeling the audience—is it a mirage? Why does it seem real? Do the tiny filaments stretching out there into the dark actually end in a melted clumps—and not, as I want to believe, embedded in hearts? At the stage door did my brother hug me & say 'now I have a headache from crying' & my sister-in-law shrink away, embarrassed, wanting to get control of herself in private & my friend beam with pleasure & my colleague clap me on the back? 

Capturing & analyzing beats…would that help?  Would EST beat the resistance or ego out of the process? How about brown-nosing to keep the peace…or overt rebellion. Like the guys who sit around reading the newspaper while notes are being given. Oops, not cool, I think, but if a critical (no pun intended) mass is reached that director=idiot…

Can I ever trust anything?