""What do you see?" S. looks at the two dimensional piece of paper for some time, rotating it and tilting it and twisting it, finally bending the paper back on itself. This lifeless spill of black is accented with deliberately random blotches of red, the asymmetry creating new patterns. Bewildered by the doctor's question and weary of the task S. hesitates, avoiding eye contact. Desperate for distraction and vaguely aware of the emerging image of an awkward, uncomfortable-looking school chair, S. hears a child's voice coming through the window behind him. The vigorous voice rushes into the office space like a late-autumn, afternoon wind. The office is on the sixth floor; nevertheless, S. turns to the window yearning to see the source of this misplaced song, this forgotten freedom. For years the doctor has placed his patients with their backs to the window in hopes of concentrating their attention. To his chagrin every patient manages to recover a glimpse of inspiration from the window. S. doesn't gaze long, certainly not long enough to see the trees; perhaps he only senses the light proudly bouncing off the leaves in a mundane green. Turning back, S. feigns seriousness and pretends the lyrical sounds are not resonating in his skull, causing the colors to fall, crawl and fly again. S. returns to the ink blot laying in his lap. His eyes are unfocused and an unmistakable smile overcomes his face, though his lips remain pursed in ineffable joy. Brightly, his eyes follow the story flowing out of the card into some untold energy. The card eagerly awaits solicitation and the pander in the chair opposite offers a facilitative smile. This procurer of personalities shirks the growing instinct that this man's attentions, while seemingly concentrated on his prop, are perhaps being sustained by another impulse. Perhaps. Perhaps everything of consequence will defy definition, whimsy included. This particular energy, this secret talisman buried in every soul's belly, speaks softly. Through the tall windows and wrought iron tracery, strange oaks seem to be hanging on the window sill, discreetly whispering into the ears of this promiscuous, late-autumn, afternoon wind. S. feels the wind softly but eagerly put its fingers about the neck of his spine: thundering kisses radiate, most running up the back of his neck with a liberating chill. The aged oaks peer in at this odd encounter.

I hear Schumann in the background, as if the people downstairs are playing it. It's quiet. I've heard this piece before, but couldn't tell you the title. Peaceful. You understand, I have a hard time concentrating; it's difficult for me to stay focused. The sun is bright and the air is brisk and that feeling of being in the shade on a warm day fills me with unexplainable acuity. I smell something familiar, something,... hmm, I don't know. Suddenly and simply the field is full of trees; the image is not static, not well defined but rather blurred,... suggestive. Yes, that's it, the trees are suggestive. The trunks are unimpressed by the wind, the branches reluctantly sway in it, and the leaves, the leaves flutter restlessly. The leaves blend into the wind, the light and smell spinning into the surrounding space. I sense raised eyes, dilated pupils, eyes that are somehow absorbing heat as they balloon. Do you know what I mean? Genuine eyes. Turning, I see this woman, the kind of woman you fancy you recognize: A strangely beautiful woman. I can't stop looking at her face; her eyes are binding. She is lying beneath a tree and when she moves her leg I notice she watches my gaze closely. We stare tranquilly at one another and the sense of a soft smile fills the air, an air which is suddenly heavy with the promise of summer. It's at this moment that the light feet of a piano piece are heard quickly approaching, running to me in bursts with archaic secrets. Secrets communicated with courage and sincerity. Promises promising Spring. Spring. Somewhere in that slow dream I am touched' it's perplexing that I don't know exactly when. My eyes are stubbornly closed: my mind forever failing to persuade my body into sleep. I deliberately study this woman, I carefully watch her: her peaceful gestures, the asymmetric rhythm of light dancing on her skin, the queer shapes the shadows create about her. Murmurs of appreciation, you see. Her grace. Her pale eyes, commanding light, transform before me. A fleeting image, an image barely slow enough to capture, invites longing and intuition; Picasso's Pregnant Woman in front of a Mirror elicits a fiercely proud emotion celebrating love and imagination and time. And all this time, the music... Why is it I understand the heart of the musician? I am holding this whole person with a completeness I champion to be the dilation of the present. Time is bending back on itself as it nears the ultimate. I"m confused, or rather disoriented. Her hair races down her back as she arches her neck to look into the trees. The prominent curve about her hips diminishes. I look at her face again and see she is perhaps twelve. Again her body: The stomach becomes unremarkably flat having lost that imperceptible elevation under the umbilicus, the ribs visible, the arms and legs strangely thin and the neck insubstantial. She smiles at me. Still further back, a six year old jumps on my chest and grabs my arms giggling. Suddenly she is one, eyes intensely attentive. Now I see a womb and the unmistakable strength of our most compelling organ pushing and pulling, our soul's confidant. She is a mass of moving wetness, but she is warm so I hold her near. Still further back, she is in her fifties, awkwardly stiff and hours before an accidental death. Conscientiously, she is thinking Why must I die by fire? She is melancholic, fragile. Unforgettable characters from long since forgotten plays cloud the ideas of tragedy and renewal. She progresses to the age of thirty five, intelligent, confident and passionate. In her eyes I see the breath that surrounds a child's smile. Finally, she approaches the moment, discharging an amazing energy from her mouth. And the music! So much heat... Where does it all go? Our bodies collapse together, our mouths meet and gladly asphyxiate one another, we melt into one matter as if falling into the silence of a warm pool. I sense both the child and the aged in my blood, I feel her pulse in my mouth and it awakens a sense of compassion beyond understanding. I believe I am dying; I believe I am alive. I suspect that truth is inconsequential. I am certain however, that I have faith in my love, in her possibilities, in... S. pauses, having heard this thought spoken for the first time. He marvels at the transformation his attention survived as it was articulated, now only waiting the brutality of interpretation. Language is a peculiar sculptor, he thinks flatly. However, he argues with himself expression is not sound or stone. Light is fickle. The colors are not concerned with communication (they laugh impolitely!))and subtly flow around the necessity of perception. Inanimately, S. turns to the window unaware of his prolonged stare, unaware of his desire. Alone, he ventures through the window to be among the trees, to sing with the late-autumn, afternoon wind. "I see, yes... I"m curious, can you tell me more about this woman?"

Bing Hinton