- is this the abstract? introduction? - Jean
There exists within all of us a quiet little part that is both "there" and "not-there", some quirk of chemistry or wiring or soul that draws a line within our heads and fills the area beyond it with a different world. Children are no respecters of lines, and they'll happily tell you what they see in that impossible space. You and I are just as capable if no longer quite as daring, and if you feel this part of yourself stir a little as you read, I encourage you to welcome it.
Think of the places we call "magical", and you'll realize how many of them are saturated with children. In strollers or balancing on unfamiliar shoes, they move across these spaces day after day after day, soft waves of irreality wafting invisibly from little minds filled with wonder. Think of the most "magical" places, and you'll find they all guide. They have defined paths and defined directions and defined areas, and the flow of humanity within them follows - on the whole - a certain pattern. That pattern matters in the same way that running a magnet over a piece of iron matters. Over time and with enough repetition, the piece of iron starts to remember.
There is a place you might not think of. It's no playground or amusement park, but it does have well-defined paths and directions. Most importantly, it has contrast for children, providing a few small oases of wonder in a desert of dry adult sensibility. A child going into such a place yearns for those oases, fixates on them, applies a singular force of will towards reaching them and escaping the surrounding tedium.
If you could see the fabric of irreality, the children's section of IKEA would shine like the sun.
That is what the DJUNGELSKOG believe, those large stuffed bears with slow thoughts and sharp intellects. The hand-sized BLÅVINGAD insist - if you can glean any kind of consensus from that chaotic horde - each child is its own deity, and any semblance of continuity in reality is an illusion. The KRAMIG in their wire bins are gregarious by nature, but on this subject they are unusually terse; they attribute their existence agnostically to "the IKEA gods" and refuse to elaborate.
After years of recording their stories and cultivating their friendship (a task funded primarily from my own pockets, as the research board has proven too moribund to invest in anything groundbreaking)reconsider, could come across as petulant - Jean, I have finally learned more. Their reluctance is driven by our lack of words, not by fear or a sense of exclusivity. If I wanted to understand, they told me, I had to see for myself. Alone. It took almost four months to secure a custodial position at the store, but it was the only way I could think of to gain access to the floor after hours.
Dear reader, at night they sing. A thousand quiet voices rose from those wire bins, and each one wove its own thin strand of irreality into a rising chorus that resonated against senses somehow lent to me in that moment. These are not and cannot be the right words, but their song flowed like a soft river of light through the aisles, an aurora in colors that weren't colors and sounds meant for nothing like ears. I don't know how long I stood frozen in wonder, but I remember that I saw three blue sharks - nomadic BLÅHAJ - swim languidly through that light as if born to it.
I found the answer I was looking for, though like the KRAMIG I cannot put it into words for you to read. There are wonders in this world, and there are more wonders still beyond that little line inside our heads. My greatest regret is the inadequacy of our language for sharing the latter.