Back home for Christmas? How doth one revert to childhood - ah, let me count the ways ... At least one has one's old stuffed toys for comfort ... That's hyperbolic cheating, of course: Sheepy is only about thirty five years old - a veritable lamb. However, I do wish I could capture that sense of identity with objects (books? pictures? place, even?) that constitutes a recognition of one's selfhood, and that offers a sense of continuity. To remark on that goes flagrantly against every residual post-modern bone in my body, and perhaps constitutes pretty much a dismembering of the same. For I certainly do viscerally - if not always intellectually - believe, or need to believe, in such a continuity - the kind that makes me lie in bed at night, hunting after sleep, and piecing together an autobiography that would be pulled together through paintings/illustrations that I recollect, going way back in time (but there again, sleep-seeking, maybe I'd do better counting sheep).