Acting has never been such a surreal experience before. It’s probably the fact the first act of the show consists of eating a real, three-course meal in the course of 45 minutes, in front of an audience of over 100. It feels odd. It feels a little twisted, even if it is theatre – more twisted, than say, prancing around naked and having sex on stage (which is not something that occurs in this show, in case you were curious).
The show opens tomorrow, and I’m dreading it. Can I say that outloud? I can. I’m so nervous. Not of performing, but more of passing out into my soup in the first act because my costume is binding and has the ability of producing a mini-sauna inside my body.
Nerves, nerves, nerves. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find some joy in this soon.
You have no idea how much I used to be obsessed with snow. It was probably because I had never lived in a place that got any, and probably because I had an overactive imagination and underactive social life as a kid. I used to stage Snow Watches, which consisted of me sitting at a desk and reading fake news reports to my stuffed animals and a camera I set up. My favorite book was The Babysitter’s Club Special Edition Snowbound. I cut out paper snowflakes in summer and pasted them on my ceiling.
There is a literal blizzard going on outside my window, and all I can think of is, Shit, I have to drive in this mess. I have no love for it. I curse it. It’s not even really that attractive to me; each flake is an evil little winter elf to make my tires slip and plunge deathlong into a ravine.
I wish I was lucky enough to not to have my driver’s license, and be able to enjoy the snow from a strictly non-driving standpoint, as some of my roommates can.
This is not my new re-design, if there even is one. I just thought I would put back some old links, in case you were looking for them.
My show opens next Thursday. I can’t wait to let go of this breath. I also have to let go of my breasts during the show, as I have to appear prepubescent in the last act.
So much poetry in my head and what I see, and none to write down. It’s the way it always goes. Have Griselda-like patience, I will return to normal soon.
Excuse the absence. There was some drama involving someone reading my page and reporting back to someone I had written about, and oh, the embarassment.
Zosia is not back up out of lack of want; rather, lack of time. You might be exclaiming the fact that I obviously have time if I’m typing this out now, but a-ha, brave soldier, I am currently in the midst of eating a very sweet orange and ingesting my sixth ibuprofen of the day to get me through a photo shoot for the newspaper and a four hour rehearsal.
I will also let you know that my keyboard is currently lacking the follow functions: exclamation point, parenthesis, quotation marks, tildae and the ability to make capital Gs and Hs without the aid of the CAPS LOCK key.
It’s snowing. I need to trudge out in it.
If you would like to notified by e-mail when this officially goes up, go ahead and send me an e-mail, and I’ll let you know.
Here.
I don’t think I’m that difficult to read. I used to be strictly an in-between-the-lines type of girl, but now I just spit it out, the obvious things that shouldn’t even have to be said. But he doesn’t hear me. I begin to get a little worried that what I love isn’t what I really need.
I had a dream I was kissing a new lover on the bottom of a spiraling staircase. We were holding a spool of green yarn and as we advanced up the stairs, we twisted the yarn around our bodies until we were wound so tightly our body heat caused steam.
There is something missing, and I know what it is. I just don’t know if it’s enough to complain about.
I just set my shirt on fire. I was leaning over a lit candle, and my left sleeve went up in flames. Before I could even think to panic or blow it out, however, it went out on it’s own. I’m invincible against fire. This gives me confidence for the rest of the day.
Things:
1. I cried like a baby today in rehearsal because I was so frustrated. What made it more embarrassing was the fact that the Props Master was there for the first time, and he happened to have been the director of the last show I was in, during which I also cried like a baby. He thinks he’s bad luck.
2. Speaking of bad luck, I was called a “bad luck troll” today and also given a note that said, word for word: “We need to refit your armor after the British.” (translated: you have a costume fitting after Brit Lit). I feel like I’m a Magic card.
3. Erik is starting to listen to Fiona Apple. My Nick in high school was completely obsessed with her, had an eight foot poster of her in his room and listened to her CD constantly. I irrationally hated her. I now like her music, many years later, but I just can’t stomach Erik liking her. Not because I’m irrationally jealous again; more because there’s a memory in every note of her music, and they’re all memories I’m not ready to look at yet.
4. French fries + sour cream = yummy midnight snack.
I have to get up at 8 AM. My rehearsal didn’t let out until after 11:30. I’ll be such a sleepy child tomorrow
Here’s a basic summary of the show I’m in right now. It’s not the best and is a little dense, but I’m too lazy to write out a summary and there’s not a lot of resources out there for it, for some reason. I’m Dull Griet and Angie.
Okay. I know that I’m not doing so well in rehearsals right now, though I’m trying so damn hard, but I feel like I just need to hear some tiny bit of praise about anything I’m doing. No one has told me one good thing, and while I don’t want people to lie and I don’t want to fish for compliments, I still feel like a starving puppy trying to look cute and everyone is just kicking me. Or, rather, not kicking me per se; more like patting me on the head gingerly and then gently looking away from me in order to avoid realizing I am an ugly dumb and untalented piece of crap.
No more metaphors. Must read for class – Weiland, by Charles Brockdon Brown. A man spontaneously combusts in it and people freak out over ghostly voices, all 18th century style.
/self-pity and novel description
I’m not as deep and dark as I thought I was because I apparently can’t even begin to get to the depths I have to with my emotionally screwed up abused teenager character (in the show I’m doing). I’m so frustrated that I want to crawl into a Magic Hole of Acting and come out perfect on the other side. I’m so tired. Last night I was so exhausted I couldn’t catch my breath and it took standing out in the chill of the night to shock my lungs and my eyes back into awakening.
But I like this. When I’m this busy, I don’t have any time to have anxiety attacks or to think about the millions of tragic diseases I could die from. Because I do that, you know. I’m the only healthy bouncy 21-year-old with a list of cancer symptoms bookmarked in her browser. Odd, and pathetically tragic.
I’ve been trying to write a little everyday (outside of this) to get back into the swing of it, and all I seem to write is drivel drivel mushy drivel. There is this teenage girl in a pink angora sweater and a notebook with NKOTB plastered on the cover bleeding through my keyboard when I try to write. This actually transferred from my head to my fingers the other night: “I would say we were more like fire than anything, primal, red, burning quickly, immediately wanting more when the ashes came.”
Um. Am I 12? Because where the fuck did that come from?
Time to sleep off my grumpiness and wake positive and blondly chipper in the morning.
Only as a (lapsed) theatre major will you find yourself, at 3 PM on an average Monday, having plastic armor duct taped to your breasts while you hold a sword in your left hand and a cup of vending machine coffee in the other.
I’m alive. I missed writing the date 02.02.02, damn it, though I did get to write it on a check to the liquor store, where I spent entirely too much money. 21 is an expensive expensive age.
My large purchase at the liquor store lead to the awful puking hangover I had to endure at rehearsal this morning. Throughout the entire show, I’m a depressed murderess – except for the one scene we rehearsed today, in which I’m a happy chipper annoying brat. Nausea + perkiness = your basic disaster.
The party was fun, however. I drank too much and became my usual Bridget Jones extroverted counterpart. I switched clothes with Dane, trading my gray tight pants and even tighter red shirt for his baggy jeans and button up shirt. Quite the spectacle. I flirted and bonded with people I hadn’t bonded with in a while and then woke up this morning feeling as if little elves with sharp knives were having violent battles in my veins.
So much to read. So little time to do it. Must sleep. Must eat. Must self destruct, but in a beautiful pink-cheeked way.