Description - Theatre by Alison Croggon
The Gift leaning into a reflection that my eyes do not register as my belly dissolves as I vanish into the space your eyes devour. I have no place to be either woken or alone. I have no name and my lips are colder than imagining when I sleep on the ice of dreams. It is a vapour of fear that rises. It is a cold anaesthetic fume rising like a goddess. Her chilly feathers glancing on my skin like kisses. I have forgotten or gestures flinching between one shadow and another. I am often afraid.
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Platform Papers 61: Criticism, Performance and the Need for Conversation
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