Horoscopes based on An Actor

Tomorrow your day will begin ...with letters, syllables, words- these are the musical tones of speech, out of which to fashion measures, aria, whole symphonies. pg129

During the morning you...will have been creating yourself in  inner consciousness for a long time. p121

Remember!!! 
-Every worker in the theatre from the doorman, the ticket taker, the hat-check girl. to the usher, all the people the contact with as they enter the theater on up to the managers, the staff, and finally the actors themselves- the are all co-creators with the playwright ..for the sake of whose play the audience assembles. pg37
-
constantly practice to achieve a true  creative mood at all times,whether he is performing, rehearsing or at home pg117

-and finally,

make sure at late night...at moments of intense creativeness one's memory may fail...and break the continuity of the line of transmitting the verbal text of the play pg. 97

Our Weather forecast has a 

Sunday                 of a episode

Monday               Attention

Tuesday               Identifcation

Wednesday          Contact with Audience

Thursday             Carping

Friday for            Faith

and

Saturday for        Plot

That's your Weather forecast. Stay Tuned!

The news cast was taken from quotes randomly picked by literally random from An Actor's Handbook by Constatin Stanislavski

And the forecast was random words I would stop with in between the book.

mental

I haven't edited or written anything in the past month besides what you see here. I'm a mess, emotionally, physically and mentally. My Truths have become subsided by alter realities. My brain a topic of discussion over sane and insanity. Am I a full person? People around me look at me strangely, or it may be an ignoble incognito. The books I am reading hold no purpose for I cannot sit still enough to engulf the facts and chapters with the Existential realm for which they propose. Family is distraught with sickness and at once I am summoned to save them all. My body is a torn mess from gyro meat and lack of exercise. Doesth thou see no hope? My body I can save one day, through fitness, but the others fate I cannot predict. Why couldn't the pain be justly put on me instead of them? I ask you. Scientifically, if there is a way I can think, please whisper it into my ear. Unworldly, let you do as you may. I may be disappearing for days on end, when I am at the tether of a clasp of chains to my maiden bed. I set sail in my dreamworld, quivering, sweating, waking up in terror and asking more questions than one could have all the answers for. She calls for me, I can hear her, my savior, for she has not married yet. But I have failed her in the past and will forever be unforgivable. All I can say now is pray. I will, and may god have mercy on our souls. For if there is no mercy, let there be justice and love will transcend through us all.

my time as the duke

Holey Jesus! Goddamn iguanas fucking like no man ever imaginable. Their tongues, my god, their tongues in every orifice of their scaly, green and black mess of a being. I can't bear to watch but it's there and I see it, see it like a fly. With 99 goddamn eyes all projecting the same holey Jesus image. I have to vomit but I can't smell the washroom. I get inside the men's room and lo and behold it's a trough overflowing with piss and shit and occasional scum sucking vagabond journalist looking for his shoes down the drainpipe. I pull out my member and all that crawls out is moths, heathens of moths, by the plentiful. I can squint only to find my pecker in the gray dust that is left behind. I eradicate all fluids and proceed to wash my hands and some drunken hillbilly looks at me right in the retina and says, "hey man you look like Charlie Chaplin." What do I say? How can I make this as least awkward as possible? I call him Socialist and walk out the door dreaming of iguanas that are still fucking and I vomit blood. And that was just checking into the hotel.

telecaster

The conquest of many starts here in the telecaster. But as many toast jubilee with their forks and knives, celebrating the kingdom of the fief, what virtue is truly held high. When all is forgotten and many more led aside, we look to our heroes, the genuine. What happens to the rest of us? The plebeians and peasants. Do we go to heaven? Do we dream of the clouds and demigods? Or do we face reckoning for our works on land as work meant to be done for eternity by us and our sons? Don't quiver yet, my child, for we grasp a hold of this story, the call is coming through and it is an omniscient one.

stay tuned to channel five for the late breaking, alter crushing, doomsday device.