Blind graffiti is an art. I carry my invisible marker wherever I go. I write nothing you can see. That is a metaphysical statement of course, but trust me, the things you don’t see will affect you. That is another metaphysical statement. I hate the cliche, but the blind are loaded with post-visionary stuff How’s that for a figure? Post-visionary. Indeed.
Yesterday I left an invisible graffito on an elevator. One in twenty sighted persons will pick it up. He or she will be thinking about stale tuna fish while riding to the third floor, when, voila, the graffito will pop into his or her consciousness like Athena in the head of Zeus.
Here’s another metaphysical idea: blind graffiti isn’t public, like the scrawl on the side of a bridge, aimed at commuters, that says: Why do I do this everyday? Instead, its the atavistic twitch of a very old idea.
Blind graffiti comes from the universal unconscious, that seed bed of all we try to forget, but with this difference: it upends superstition.
So its metempsychosis, the blind graffito, a flash from a past life. It aint schadenfreude. For a flash to go on, life after life, it must be a good idea.
I left this thought in the elevator: everyone needs an animal guide. A horse, a pig, it doesn’t matter. The industrial rev taught us contempt for this need. And now look at you, you poor soul, trapped in a rising and falling box with nothing but tuna in your cerebellum and no loyal creature by your side.
Planet of the Blind 