Last night, I went to see “The Diary of Anne Frank” at the Steppenwolf Theater. It was well staged, although the acting was lacking. Altogether, it was a nicely done play. I found myself face to face with the director of Columbia’s Hillel group, who had me read at the Shabbat dinner just before Passover. I’m learning the Hebrew alphabet from Becky, but so far I only have a few letters down from a practice session over ice cream. We got the $28 tickets for free from a family that is generous enough to help support Coloumbia’s program. I’d forgotten how terrible it is to look down from a safe balcony and see people acting out the miseries of others. I truly love the theater because the emotions that run through it are intense. In the end, when the Nazis come to take them, the actors came up from a trapdoor in the stage, silently, to surprise the family eating the first strawberries they’d had in two years. The feeling ran through the audience, shared emotions, one for all. I had expected banging, clattering, noise when they arrived, warning the family, a little, at least. Shockingly well done, the end was. Mr. Frank, the only survivor, walks back onstage and begins a monologue of what happened to all the rest of the little company that had huddled in that building for two years.
Oddly enough, that was not the only violence I would conceive in my mind yesterday. I am currently engrossed in “Middlesex” by Jeffery Eugenides, the author of “The Virgin Suicides.” I am only 75 pages in, having started it yesterday morning during the sociology lecture about urban studies in Chicago. It tells of a massacre of Greeks in the early 1920s, particularly a family. The details were horrific, of course, as massacres always are, and I began to resent anyone who could kill another human being.
Coming off the train this morning back to Loyola, I grab the RedEye. It’s a free edition of the Chicago Tribune, and I attempt to get it whenever I can. The crosswords in it are wonderful. But, climbing back into bed to open it, I stare at the second page. The words “suicide bombing” jump right out at me. Here we are, living in what we believe to be an advanced society, yet we can’t stop killing each other. It’s disgusting and pathetic, and anyone who believes that any good will come from any unprovoked military action needs to be examined. It’s fine for them to quote their Bibles and hate homosexuals, and it’s also perfectly fine for them to condone sex and drugs, yet they rush at the chance to “do good” and bring their western culture to places that don’t want it, can’t use, don’t need it. We rush at the chance to kill the infidels, to spread democracy. What is our democracy really? We’re doing no good. We haven’t been now for four years, even longer. There is no way out, and no one sees that. There is no end to this war, there’s no end to the suffering. How long before we attempt to take on another project we’ll never be able to win? How long before the bombings start happening in our cities, killing our children? Will they stop then?
I saw “The Machinal” last month at Columbia College, and that’s where I am headed again tonight to see “Paradise Lost.” “Cinderella” opens this weekend at Loyola, so of course I’ll be seeing that. The last play they had was “The Visit,” translated out of the German and wonderfully done. I got in for free, because apparently Loyola has some thing where as a student, you get to see your first play for free. Granted, it saved me about five dollars, but that comes in handy sometimes.
The man who sells me alcohol was in a delightful mood last night. As we walked into the little store, he greeted us warmly as he always does, telling us his night was better now that we were there. He was sad, however, because his plants were dying from the cold. We spoke of talking to plants, encouraging them to grow. He told me that I needed to bring all of my plants inside (as if I had any…) and that he couldn’t wait for his tomato plants to bloom in the summer so he could tend them in his garden. I can see him now, smoking the cigarette he always smokes, bending over in the garden to whisper greetings to a small tomato tendril. As I type this, I am staring at my sad little bamboo plant, lonely on the heater, reaching for the light next to it. We get the morning sunlight in the room here, which is lovely if you sleep with the windows open. Sometimes I wake up to the sunrise, and am always amazed.
I’m crossing my fingers for the apartment. We went, in the rain, to look at it again on Wednesday. We saw the two bedroom for the first time. It’s lovely. It has a front door, giant living room with windows that open to look down at the street (it’s right above a grocery store). Right off of the living room is a small sun room, with french doors that could even be a small third bedroom if necessary, but with the rent at what it is, we’d hardly need a third roommate. There is a little tiny hallway that has a bathroom separating two small bedrooms. They each have nice closets similar to the one I have at home. The bathroom has a bathtub and vanity and a toilet, obviously. The kitchen isn’t as lovely as the first one we looked at, but the man assured us they were taking extra steps to clean it up. The previous tenants were evicted for not taking care of the place, and it’s wonderful to think that it would be even nicer once we move in. The rent is down to $995 per month, which, given the space, is ridiculously low. The building has an iron gate and fence that one must be buzzed into, which gives way to a tiny little courtyard with plants on the sides. The foyer of the building, if it could be called that, it a giant mass of space with a solitary stone table sitting in the middle. Then, you turn left down a hallway, and up a ramp. There is a flight of little stairs, and then (hopefully) our apartment. It’s a couple blocks to the train, or 8 to walk back to school, but the apartment literally looks onto Sheridan, which is the same street Loyola is on. We plan on getting window boxes, and candles, and all the random furniture we can find. Emily will sew on slipcovers, and we’ll live comfortably.
I wonder if dad would be willing to let me have my futon or my bowl chair. They are both mine, and would make lovely additions to the apartment. My purple rug that Grandma and Grandpa got me for Christmas one year would look nice in my tiny little bedroom, and Mom has a twin bed frame in the basement. That, with possibly the loveseat from the basement, or the recliner, would make excellent living. There is even space for a little table. It’s all hardwood, there is no carpet, which would make cleaning easy. There is enough space for closet storage, and if it comes through, I won’t have to worry about where to keep my stuff for the summer because I’ll have my own apartment.
We’ll post it on craigslist, of course, and sublet it if we can, because if not, we’re throwing away money. The only problem, however, is that this rent price is too amazing to pass up. The $995 includes heat, gas and water. I can’t even talk about it, it’s bad luck to get your hopes up.
I shoud be hearing back in the next ten days whether or not we’re released. Now, more than ever, is time to pray to whatever god or being you believe in. Please, let fate be on our side.

We’re going now,
he said to me,
the spirit in my dreams.
We’re going now, aren’t you ready yet?
Impatient little man.

He whisked me away
carried me as if by magic,
or by dreams.
We’re going now,
but which way?

We left myself at home
behind, instead choosing
to take flight
out of the window
in the middle of the night.

I felt the rush of air
against my cheek,
my legs dangled
but I did not fall
to the ground.

I begged him to tell me
where we were going
and what we were going to see.
But we’re going now,
was all he said to me.

We landed over water,
somehow, on some lake,
and stayed there watching
sunrise until it was too late.
I saw the sun begin to peek

and then he pulled me home.
And when I awoke
inside my bed
I knew then what he had known.
We’re going now, I whispered

and suddenly it was so.
I was gone
and back again.
Suddenly too much to take,
I shut my eyes again.

“Ignition”
By Laurie Lico Albanese, from her book blue suburbia

I was fifteen
when I felt myself
ignite–

it wasn’t one thing
like the back of a boy’s neck
or my breasts waiting under wool
for sweaty palms to awaken their nipples

it wasn’t the way I could buy a beer in Rudy’s bar,
get behind the wheel of a car
and feel the gears shaking in my hands.

No. I ignited that spring
when I walked up and down the turnpike
looking for a job

hands folded behind my back,
fingers rubbing at the spark
each time someone said sorry
and I could hear my mother sneer.

I flew across the road heading west,
ribbon ripped from my hair
by the spray of oncoming trucks,
footprints dimming in dirt

until that boy on the Harley Davidson
put one dark boot in my path,
gunning his motor for me to alight

I slipped my legs around his hips,
dumping everything out of my handbag
right there

in front of the old Dairy Queen
I burst into flames
when I felt how fast
I could move away from home.

The weeks are going faster now. Suddenly it’s all real, and I’m realizing it’s close. My mood is slowly lowering, surely to be lifted in a few hours. Apartments are shifting into shape, and the pressing issue is pressing closer. I need to go faster, I know I do. But there are things holding me back. Even now, I’m hiding from something, even though I know I shouldn’t be. How much do I pay to go here? I try to go to all of them, everyday, but so far, this week, I’m down three for the count. And I don’t care.
Too bad. Let’s wait for the stasis that next week will bring.

$780 per month. One bedroom.
I’m going to break this housing contract, whether Loyola likes it or not. Deal with it

She haunts your waking moments, your dreams, your nightmares. You wish she was there to soothe them, even though it’s her face you see in your eyes as you are thrown awake by the cold sweat dripping off your face, down your neck, pooling somewhere beneath you. You see her in every woman you pass on the train. Her hair, shining just down the platform; her legs, walking briskly, dancing through the streets; her eyes, behind you in the mirror. Her back, so lovely, in line at the deli. She is the ghost of everything you every wanted in life. She is perfection.

Now if only you could get her, keep her and make her yours. You see her, wearing one of those pretty sundresses, standing at a front door, watching the children play in the yard. You see her cooking, your hands sliding around her waist by way of greeting. You see her pretty, pregnant with your child and glowing. You watch your lives meld together, backward, from growing old to growing close. You watch from the steps of the nursing home, as she is wheeled toward you, arms outstretched. You watch as you sit uncomfortably on a picnic blanket in the middle of that park she loves because you’ve let her rest her head in your lap for a sunny afternoon nap. As you imagine, you hear her laugh, and it brings you back. Instead you see her every now and then, and pray she glances your way. You wish so desperately to hold her, to have her next to you, but instead she’s always too far away. She’s laughing, you know, becuase you’re watching. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are closed, her mouth open in a wide smile.

You hate her for being so damn happy, don’t you?You’ve never said anything, have you?You sit and wait, debating what words should pass through your lips and become sweet music in the air before they hit her hears and astound her. You practice, you have done it a million times, you have the witty banter planned out in your head.But she walks past, her concentration buried somewhere else, and you’ve lost your chance.Now what?

One day it’s too late. Your eyes are gleaming with gentle anticipation, your mind fresh with imagined conversation. You smell good, you know it. You look good, you hope. You match, at least. And as she walks her normal route, suddenly she does not walk alone. Her fingers are twisted with another’s. She’s laughing, having the conversation you wish you’d have started months ago. She’s smiling; her head is thrown back in delight. She sees you, finally, catches your eye, and smiles.

And that’s all you get. Somehow, it’s enough to keep her alive in your mind.

****
Apartment hunting began today. We will be able to get a two bedroom (possibly with utilities included for less than $1000 per month.) I have a friend who lives in Wrigleyville, and he pays $755 for a studio no bigger than my dorm room now. Three friends who live in Andersonville pay $750 per person per month to live in an awesome three bedroom, but we wouldn’t expect anything that nice. Rogers Park is a relatively lower-priced area.
Lord & Taylor is closing on Michigan Ave. I got a velvet dress, and a cotton one for $20 total. (They were 80% off the lowest ticketed price.) And…we bought a giant Armani ad and a Polo ad for $10 each to put in our apartment/dorm/living space next year.

The evening wore on,
after a day of frenzied cleaning,
games, movies, conversation,
drifted on and on.
A knock at the door,
people coming in.
Shaking hands, smiling.
Taking slow sips of drinks we’d conjured
out of freezers and imaginations,
we slowly moved toward madness,
the kind of fire and spirit.
Bottles of all sorts cluttered around
the deck of cards spread out on the table,
and I reached for something,
knocking liquid onto them.
“That’s the end of the game,”
the soggy cards cried.
We chatted, chatted, shared, compared, our own lives,
and the states we live in.
They share a different perspective.
Art school.
We smile; we shook hands.
We watched the movie we chose for a game.
Blood, swords, a fierce heroine
seeking revenge.
After a long walk, they left,
and I reached for my phone to call for company.
I drifted off to sleep,
wishing for the sound of his voice,
knowing it couldn’t happen.
I woke as the covers were lifted
off of my tired body,
and his voice was suddenly in my ear,
his hands pushed my body
over to the other side.
Nestled into a place neither of us belonged,
I opened my eyes, finally realizing it was him,
after moments of confusion.
He smiled, and I shook myself awake.
I ran out with a question, shaking her awake.
Explicit moments later,
I awoke, as light begged entrace
to our cave.
The cat was curled up at my side,
snuggled into me, as I was him.
We made quite a scene, I thought,
as my body begged
my brain for water and relief.
I realized he had drifted off,
with my blankets over his tired body.
I pulled, waking him,
and he pulled me back toward him.
He tasted of the morning,
but soon of me,
and my own morning
breath drawn in sharply,
my eyes closed for a moment,
feeling softness, warmth, comforted.
I was elected to run
out for breakfast,
bringing food back into the house
that keeps us willing prisoners
day after day.
Movies flashed on the screen,
I slept alone that afternoon,
tired and thinking,
half watching the bowling
championships on tv.
It was comfortable
time spent wasted.
Drawn out were the hours
that seemed as though they had
or could
become days.
But they won’t. Shame.