You felt she'd done a thousand secret things to her eyes. They needed no haze of cigarette smoke to look at you out of sexy and fathomless, but carried their own along with them. New York must have been for her a city of smoke, its streets the courtyards of limbo, its bodies like wraiths. Smoke seemed to be in her voice, in her movements; making her all the more substantial, more there, as if words, glances, small lewdnesses could only become baffled and brought to rest like smoke in her long hair; remain there useless till she released them, accidentally and unknowingly, with a toss of her head.

She has a fiery soul that cannot be tamed.She has free spirit that cannot be maimed.She moves with the wind and flows with the river.She howls at the moon and smiles at the sun.Just when you think she is finished, she declares, “I’ve just begun.”Like wild flowers, she grows where she decides to push through fallow ground.Like wild fires, she spreads with speed that can’t be drowned.She has mystery in her blood, magic in her touch and regardless of her frameshe can be too much-wild woman.She is not predictable, controllable nor the people pleasing kind.That’s why she is called wild woman and can never be defined.