In a way, the diagnosis was an honor,the doctor assured. A new flaw of the body
dashed through the brain as a seam of cobaltore to be mined for perspective and citation.
Of course, there were difficulties. Getting in,for one. Getting out, for another. But
this was not so different than the life before.We all need help. People palm the world open
for us, unthinking. He came to appreciate this.Still, of course, changes had to be made.
Whitman would be pleased. The locks, the jambs,the doors: all now removed from his perception
by neuronal quirk, as well as from his homeby tipped professionals. And so he resided
comfortably in a house of arches and gaps.Thus established, he wanted more. Access
to theaters, bakeries, his old cafes. Doctordearest suggested a solution old and elegant:
knocking.
Thus, when there was no one to open a door,he would circle the walls with percussive hands,
making rhythms on cool stone, warm wood,the breastbones of friends—until admission.
He came to love the sound.