Stress-Induced Post.

Stress Face Number One.

And so the blogs about directing The Sidewalk commence. I find myself at home in the middle of the week, for the first time since Spring Break, and doing nothing but worrying myself into a complete and utter state of idiotic panic. Auditions are on Friday for the first major show I've directed since Cabaret (December of 2006), and I am still not caught up from the marathon weekend that was last Thursday-Sunday's performances of The Medium at UCLA. I feel entirely unprepared to charge into the theatre and see the amateur actors of the Antelope Valley bring my words to life. It seems as if most of the people I was counting on to come in and make this play good are turning their backs on the project for whatever miniscule, trivial reason they can think of. Which doesn't make any sense to me, as at least one of them has repeatedly told me how much he enjoys working with me as a director, and how much he respects me as an artist. GET OVER YOURSELF AND DO THE FUCKING SHOW. You know how people describe a feeling of drowning when everything seems to be coming on top of them? A feeling of suffocation, like they can't escape some sort of impending doom? Yeah. That's exactly how I feel. And what's worse is that I don't feel like I'm giving Hunter as much time as he deserves, I feel like I've been so preoccupied with this ridiculous, meaningless shit that I haven't been able to devote my time and my brain to the one thing in my life that actually deserves it. I should be with him right now in the gayest theatre in West Hollywood, seeing a super gay song cycle, and feeling that indescribable sensation that sweeps over me whenever I'm near him. I should be telling him how much he means to me and how grateful I am to have him in my life, and how none of this STUPID shit matters. But no. I'm here, sitting on my bed in Lancaster, staring at my unopened script, afraid to open it and do some actual work because I'm scared to death of the things I have to pull together in the next sixty-one days. I tell myself that if this were someone else's play, I wouldn't be so upset about it. I wouldn't be so nervous that I'm going to end up with three or four completely untalented actors that I'm forced to work with. I wouldn't be so frustrated about re-doing the scheduling over and over and over again. I wouldn't be so physically, emotionally, and mentally sick right now. I would be happy, and excited, and prepared. But this is the child of my brain - the first actual, real, big production of something that was created entirely by my brain cells and fingertips. Sure, I've directed my plays before, but at Highland, with people I knew would be amazing. I'm just in the mood to complain, clearly, and you, lucky blog readers, get to waste your time with my inane rambling. I apologize, I just need to get some of this out - to cleanse my system of this unnecessary worry. I'm sure it will work out, actually, and I'm sure Hunter understands, and I'm sure that once I slap the world in the face, it will wake up and realize it should stop treating me like crap.