January 18, 2010

Tossing and thrashing about the house in the midst of, for me, a rare emotion: anxiety. I helped load-in the set this morning, though from the pieces I couldn’t get a sense of how it will look set up and ready. This means that before arriving at the theater tonight I’ll be worried that the set might look like crap, or be unusable, and if it does, or is, what to do about it. What if the actors still don’t know their lines? What if there is some stunning expense nobody anticipated? I’ll be sick with what if’s until 7 o’clock tonight. And then on Tuesday we add the band. . . and then on Thursday we see if we have sold any tickets. . . . I swear to God I will never do this again.

Jack and Bruce want a conference call tomorrow afternoon, about The Loves of Mr Lincoln, I suppose. Expect the worst and be relieved if it’s not, is my motto. But that adds to the anxiety.

Sweet, blue-eyed day nevertheless. Dreamed of a flying woman who was either Ellen or Sigourney Weaver. Dreamed that I was arriving at an airport with plenty of time to catch my flight. The parking lot was at the edge of the most beautiful, flowery marsh.