This journal, by the Village Voice theatre critic, is the kind of pseudo-transcendental tonnage that comes winging in from far left stage whenever an unstable sensitive falls under the sphere of The Living Theatre. And Mr. Smith was jolted into exaltation while attending rehearsals and tuning in to the Livinglifestyles during their European junket when they built their Frankenstein. He becomes overtly preoccupied with his own aesthetic place in the less than divine scheme things -- theatre is either gross mediocrity (with the exception of the Becks of course and Growtowski's Workshop in Poland) or ""I can't afford to take theatre criticism seriously because if I did I Would have to be much better at it."" He is also distracted by sex, pills, pot, and self-abnegation and only manages to come up with a few worthwhile objective comments. Like his laudable dissection of the Berliner Ensemble. But mostly it's an interior trip full of odds and end-less.