In the 1970’s when I was in college in provincial Geneva, New York, I felt myself to be too blind to go alone to New York City. I wanted so much to visit CBGB and Max’s Kansas City—to hear Lou Reed and Patti Smith; to attend poetry readings on the lower east side at St. Mark’s Place. But in those days I didn’t know how to go. And suddenly in 1994 there we were—guide dog Corky and I just noodling along, talking with almost anyone.
We went to Bradley’s, now gone, a great little jazz bar on University Place just opposite the old offices of the Village Voice. I listened to John Hicks at the piano. I shook hands with Art Blakey. I discussed the work of Larry Rivers with the bar tender. I was having spontaneous conversation. Stan Getz said: “as far as playing jazz, no other art form, other than conversation, can give the satisfaction of spontaneous interaction.” And that was the thing: we were taking jazz steps.
“What’s your guide dog’s name?” people would ask at street corners. “Jazz,” I said.
Planet of the Blind 