Little Poem

By Berenice Rarig

This is not a proper review.  It can't be because no one would ask a small child to write a review . . .

So this is perhaps a poem.  A poem written with a dark purple crayon. 

I arrived at the green, leafy venue fully fledged, wearing grown up shoes and everything.  My head was full of important, technical words like "production continuity", "staging"  and "critical engagement" but after the last crunch on gravelly parking lot I suddenly needed an adult to hold my little hand and industry consonants and vowels were trampled underfoot. 

winery psalms is not a performance. It is a place, a momentary shivery, silvery space where feet whisper and skin shrieks and language feeds your ears with cream. Here, a painting is a dish of sherbet in which to wade knee deep. A kingdom secreted by velvet drapes of blanc, verdant and port, and unveiled through stem ware.

Within this space, tannined wood instruments string you like a daisy chain from laughter to flower to homesick to eternity to risk to fate, with music composed of blood and gold bar codes. Dancers flight muscles are constrained by sweet bubbles and petals and then released by a heaviness of voice and the weightiness of the other. Rooms are carved with buttery elbows and eyelashes brush the clouds from the roof.

Then in the thickest moment when you are slowly breathing dark, the magic place is swallowed by a black balloon moon and there is glass gravel under your grown up shoes, again . . . but no words.