In Touch

The woman trembled slightly in the chill breeze, her long hair stirring about her shoulders. Her dancers body was a sculptors dream. She stared straight ahead of her, and what the men behind her could not see was that a soaring sweep of sparkling awareness had captured her eyes. It was a bizarre tabeau: the nuder and and superbly balanced woman at the edge of the precipice and the heavily clothed and armed men unable to get near her. And then came the cry. Please, dont jump. For Martha Seligson, the totality of everything she had been taught, been made to feel and understand, had passed into the realm of illusion.