I am not rooted in the everyday. I move from place to place like a sybarite in search of pleasure, always thinking the final resting place will be just around the corner, at the end of this plane ride, behind the next door. I can never release myself from the mercurial aspects, can't allow myself to stand on some kind of ground. Instead I tend toward that which destabilizes and feels most like home; change, impermanence, a pattern of in and out, here and there, city to city, place to place.
Houses are temporary containers. Some walls, a roof, a bathroom. I have exchanged spaces more times than I can count. I transition easily from neighborhood to neighborhood, coast to coast. I unpack and pack my belongings, shedding some and picking up others with ease and economy. The Miles Davis disc stays, Squeeze goes. The Esprit pants go, the Levi's stay. The Diary of Anne Franks stays, the Derrida reader goes. Letting go and holding on, letting go and holding on, this is the only constant. Not the people I love, not the person I become in their arms, under their gaze. There is only this process I have that is familiar: putting the sofa there, the books in stacks against the wall, hammering the nail for the painting here.
From Black, White and Jewish: Autobiography of a Shifting Self by Rebecca Walker, writing about the effects of moving back and forth between two worlds while growing up, after her parents' divorce.