A succulent woman violinist slurping her way on stage, commanding presence and power. Her bow strokes were like big scoops of honey, dripping goodness down her flowery dress past her boots and sliding across the stage, dribbling over the edge and bathing us all in sticky deliciousness. Make no mistake: this woman was a large lady, round and plump and jiggly on stage. Which made her all the more captivating to me, her soft plush arms playing her fiddle with abandon, without thought, with lush feeling. To me, she was the star of the weekend, wailing high siren calls and chucking rough rhythms. Tameness and fragility and ladylikeness were politely scorned and not invited back. Honey, honey, honey, dripping from the resonating trees until we were wading in the wildflower taste of her music. When she was really ripping, this diva of strings and bow, her body would collapse in with the concentration, concentrating that sound and those notes like train whistles, wild trains lonely in the middle of the country, lonely trains no one thought about until they arrived bearing goods or people, only to return to the utter loneliness. Honey crawling up the hill of spectators, the amphitheater of minds chemically enhanced, the smiles of giddy happiness and wonder.
– from Elizabeth’s weekly writing group, 7.22.14