There is one named Joey who pulls himself around by his feet / his head lolled back in his moving chair … Like a hunched man who never sees the sky he stares at the ceiling never seeing the floor, …
His body is a wreck; it’s bent like an S. … there’s crusty paste on his perpetually open mouth, … his yellow teeth are like the slats of a picket fence … his palsied fingers clutch some invisible rope, … his legs are spindles from a broken stairwell.
How could they ever carry his wracked frame?
He can peripherate his vision from side to side … but people appear flat and oblong, their colors and shapes merge with the surfaces surrounding him or, they rotate like colored balloons speaking words and thoughts, giving him their feelings.
But, among the others he is the best, the most beautiful … if you can see below the surface.
He has light in his eyes, he beckons for touch, he thrives on a warm affectionate voice … he gives strange excitation in return … he seeks the faces above him and squints with pleasure, his eyes crinkle with smile … his palsied hands move like a spastic toy monkey crashing cymbals … he groans with pleasure with each heartfelt exchange.
He will never complain because his affliction seems normal to him … He is an exclusive creation in the world alongside the first Picasso painting, Shakespeare’s first sonnet, or the first Sugimoto photograph that captured light.
No person could imagine his world but if he could paint or sculpt or write … we would experience unknown sensation and insight into another place and time.
He lives in the alpha and omega suite of rooms as an artist of total singularity … His world is his own unique creation taken from what he was given when he was born into our world.