roommate from a long-ago summer internship shot to B-list glory.
(I have to add that walking around NYC with this woman, who is unequivocally, no-holds-barred beautiful in the manner of the Televised, was like entering a parallel dimension. The gorgeous do not inhabit the same world as the rest of us. And their world has way more free stuff.)
I've never seen the soap, but the name splintered and lodged. I like the rhythm of it, a hop and a gallop. I like, too, the way it conjures, with a troubling yet pleasant vagueness, one of the central tensions of our lives.
Were home; we're away. What's home shifts- our mother's arms, our bedroom, our hometown, our comfort zone. Away changes, too. It's the coffee table we toddle toward; the wilderness of the backyard; our first love; Alaska. What's constant is the transit. We're on the move, wandering somewhere between hearth and horizon.
At this point in my life, a lot of this is literal. I've been home for about a week; in another few weeks, I'm leaving again. Then home, then away, then home, then away, then home....later, rinse, repeat. I've gotten used to it, which is to say I hate it and I crave it, both. There's something essential in going away; there's something equally vital in coming home.
How will I find unearth these necessities when I'm homebound? I say "when," not "if;" there will come a time in my life when I won't, or can't, travel anymore. What's your home? What's your away?
And how come the rest of us don't get free drinks?