This thin sliver, this sheef seems to draw me back along threads of history, strands of life that have emanated from that moment of birth when the air smelled of heavy sleet and driving snow and the fire yelled at that tiny tot who just made it through the worst winter in decades by being roasted in front of an open fire, basted to keep his temperature just warm enough.
The birth certificate is a sandwhich of my life that has been eaten and consumed by time, echoes of the past rise like mineral spring vapors, childhood playtimes in snow covered fields, first class at school, the sense of smallness while being dragged around gigantic shopping centres, all seem to pull me back like a magnet. I ride my eyes over the yellowing copy, place of birth WINDSOR, just near the castle … parents, Peter and Ida, now themselves gone to a new life beyond the veil. Really it’s just a piece of paper, but also a starting point a period a full stop in the sentence of the world, of the universe, together with a bunch of other dots we make this world ours as this world has made us and all the identity that I believe I have has sprung from that moment. Programmed, or through learned belief I am that I am.
