if you live in portland and you have the chance to see storm large's crazy enough, do it.  but be prepared.  it is intense and dark and funny and it will break your heart into a million sharp pieces that will continue to prick at your insides long after the show is done.   and all of you will find something in it that will make you go oh fuck that's my head, heart, life.  but for me, as a singer and as an orphaned daughter, today it was my head, heart, life that went boom.  i walked out of the the theater into the bright light of a gorgeous saturday afternoon, made it to my car and broke down into gales of weeping.   thank god for my brother who listens to me as i sob into the phone.  i miss my mom.  i miss the life i was supposed to have.  i miss myself.  i'm not sure that the person i am now is actually the person i was supposed to be.  but then the harder thing is that maybe it is.  maybe i am.  maybe this is all it is, and my rock and roll stardom is just a wee bit smaller than i hoped it would be.  and maybe it's not a maybe at all but just an is.  and all this comes flooding in from watching, living this show today.  not a shallow moment.

from that to this: we went to visit with a woman who was one of my mother's heartsisters.  she was recently diagnosed with a brain tumor, and though the prognosis seems to be good, it is still a painful mindsouldestroying thing to see this vibrant woman who was such a good friend to us, such a strong friend to us, weakened by a stupid mass of cells in her head.  and it feels too close to me again.  too close to my mother's death (her fifth year of being gone is coming up--it's wood this year).  too close to more loss and sadness and grief and mourning.  and it's hard to be at a ceremony of celebration and support when all i want to do is lay my head down and howl.   so here is my howl.  god i am so sad.