March 26, 2014

Thinnest blanket of snow. Rehearsal canceled last night half way through, which I think was a bit of a panic, because the roads in town were clear. We open tomorrow night. I’ve been overconfident, and though all is well when I run lines in my head, when I get on stage I don’t always recognize my cue line, or I stumble over a word, or come off thinking I had not done well. I get no notes, except from Adrian, which is that I could be “bigger.”: “You’re doing it very naturalistic. You could be bigger.” He’s right. It’s hard for me to break the habit of striving for the truth of a character. I forget that some things are just meant to be silly.

The anniversary of mother’s death. Deep snow on Ithaca that day. Borrowing money from Denny so I could take the bus in the dark of the morning . . . .

Dreams before morning which I think were about defeat. I was in Dublin–which was like the real city but stretched out over big, rambling hills. I had failed terribly at something, and I was walking the streets, sitting down at cafes to peruse the magazines on the tables, or just to sit. The light was warm and comforting. Everywhere I went there were underground stables out of which emerged, at some point, gigantic bulls, like the one on the wall at Knossos.