Posted in bookmaggot, grief, little gorgeous things, sanity, the empty space | Comments Off on self-medicating with artġ. Michelle McNamara and death fought one another to a draw. Maybe Judas is his Mary Sue, as Doctor Horrible is Whedon’s.
Wale the mixtape about nothing kickass full#
It’s puzzling that Lloyd Webber could have written this one decent thing, in a career otherwise so very full of crap. Between my parents loving the Sydney production and the Spiral Oasis staging at Burning Man in 99, I have such an odd relationship with this play. Jesus was so good she almost upstaged Judas.
I took the kids to see an all-woman production of Jesus Christ Superstar. It was fabulous, all Resistance and bisexual lighting. This book encouraged me to go back to the stories I’ve already told that still haunt me. Nights are endless because you wake at the softest cough or sob, then lie awake listening to her breathe so softly, like a child. The world is on fire, and everything seems to be about death right now, but some things have dealt with death in a way that makes me feel less terrible.
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