THE ROOM IN THE WORLD

ONE NIGHT I DREAMT I WAS IN A WARM, WELCOMING ROOM THAT BECKONED ME TOWARDS A PEACEFUL AFTERNOON’S READING. THE WALLS WERE COVERED IN BEAUTIFUL WALLPAPER; EVERYTHING WAS HAPPILY COLORFUL. BUT LOOKING CLOSER AT THE CHEERFUL PATTERNS DECORATING EVERY SURFACE I SAW THEY WERE SCENES OF VIOLENCE AND DESTRUCTION. I’D SEEN THEM ALL IN PRINT OR ON TV, IN THAT DAILY DELUGE OF GLOBAL TRAGEDIES WHOSE IMAGES RAIN DOWN ON US. WE’RE SO INURED TO THE PHENOMENON, WE SPARE THEM LITTLE MORE THAN A DISTRACTED GLANCE. THOSE SAME IMAGES HAD SETTLED ONTO THE WALLS AND ROOMS OF MY MEMORY – ONE UPON ANOTHER. THAT WAS WHERE I FOUND MYSELF, AND LIKE AN ARCHAEOLOGIST, THAT’S WHERE I WENT, TO BRING THESE IMAGES BACK INTO THE LIGHT AND RESTORE THEIR STORY-TELLING POWER. A POWER THAT WOULD HAVE TOUCHED ME HAD I NOT BEEN SO DISTRACTED