My early life was a blurred succession of houses, schools and countries. The memories, as sharp and clear as they are, are both unanchored in conventional time and have the patina of memory’s reworking them, consisting of both fantasy and wish fulfillment. Talismans, transitional object and relics are all a part of this rich, highly evocative tapestry. My father’s moth eaten indigenous sarape, in a traditional pattern, is never far from my sight. 
Similarly, my postage stamp collection was a magic carpet which catapulted me right out of my immediate environment. If I had a stamp with the flag of Luxemburg in front of me, I was soon hovering over the capital of Luxemburg, looking down at the little houses below. My hypothesis is that there is a little Lemuel Gulliver who lives inside all of us.
One of the saddest part of these memories is that I have no reference group to corroborate them as the witnesses are all gone. Hence, just like the Ancient Mariner I “grabeth one of three” and with him “I must share my tale.” Compelling similarities to Ishmael in “Moby Dick” (the novel, not the rock group) are somewhat comforting.
I can also walk into a room where I have never been before and, if I am particularly focused upon my external environment, something in the room will catch my attention and I will feel a strong tug of familiarity and the stimulus can be as peripheral as the wind blowing the curtains in an open window. “Wherever you go, there you are.” (Attributed to Confucius) says it all.
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