Itchy Feet

It began as a passing thought, then a thought that became more frequent, then an idea at the back of my mind, then an idea that stepped forward from the back of my mind more frequently, politely coughing to get my attention.

And the idea is this: it may be time to leave Chicago.

There are so many things to love about Chicago: the lake, the public spaces, the restaurants, the music, the theater, the affordability of renting or owning.

And yet, the thing that makes this part of the country so charming -- its Midwesternness -- is what's got me thinking it may be time to move on.

No matter how large a city you are, no matter how much you have going for you, when you are in the middle of nowhere, you develop an insularity that shows. The inward focus, the dialogue that gets passed back and forth and back again with little outside influence.

The unrelenting obsession with sports, sports, sports. The pride in being willfully ignorant, of embracing a smoking culture, appalling eating habits, drunkenness and obesity.

The crime. The gangs. The municipal corruption so extreme and pervasive that it would be laughable if it weren't so crippling and insultingly stupid.

I'm not saying any city has the answer, and Chicago is better than most places for livability. But there is a homogeneity to this area that is starting to wear. I should hasten to say that Chicago lived up to its promise: plenty to do, lots to explore, and (since here, too, I do most things alone), I'm rarely bored. In the five years since I moved here, I've met so many good people, and felt accepted by so many. There are artists who greet me with bear hugs that lift me off the floor, people who've offered to let me live in their house when the job situation looked bad, neighbors who look after my animals, people to whom I give my house keys without a second thought. People who have inspired me. Amazing people.

Yet...the parochialism, the feeling that I just don't...quite fit in. An inability to yet find my tribe.

I suspect, as with most things, the main issue is me, how I interact with my world. Coming to Chicago was an incredible growing experience for me. I had to take care of myself, which included finding others on whom I could depend. Five years ago I knew nobody here save an acquaintance of a friend. Moving to Chicago meant getting an apartment beforehand, arranging for movers, finding work, finding connections, learning how to get a transit card, a driver's license and plates, carrying a map everywhere, figuring out where to shop, where to find a vet, a doctor, a bike shop, a supply of timothy hay. I had to find a mechanic, a chiropractor, an insurance agent. I took improv classes at The Second City, had an art studio, took stained-glass classes, showed my paintings in cafes and neighborhood shows, acted in a number of sketch shows. I bought a condo, got onto the board. I've hiked, biked, slept in a tent in Wisconsin, took a permaculture class. Walked the green roof of a local restaurant, stood at the Baha'i temple with a candle to mark the passing of a friend's father. I've stood at the graves of Mies van der Rohe and Louis Sullivan,  looked over the site of the 1893 Columbian Exposition White City, seen breathtaking theater, eaten fantastic food, danced to music I hoped would never end. Stood six feet from Fountains of Wayne on a Tuesday afternoon, listening to them with Robbie Fulks standing beside me. I've been sneered at by Sarah Vowell for confessing I've never seen "The O.C.," heard Peter Sagal read from one of his books. Watched Paula Poundstone almost wet herself laughing at a taping of "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me." Stood in Grant Park and hugged strangers when Obama was elected president.

I've been mugged, called "White Girl," walked though gangs, been afraid. Been angry.

I've had not one job here I've enjoyed.

There is still a sense that I've only scratched the surface here, that there is more to see, but the truth is, I still crave a steady friend with whom to share it. I know many people, but have no best friend. My friends here suffer from depression, a lack of imagination, and a steady decline toward a suburban mentality that unnerves me. Is this here, or is it everywhere? I felt lonely in Boston, left behind by friends who married and moved on or away.

Here, a neighbor and her husband, from New Jersey, admit they are ready to go back East. They love a lot of things here, but are finding the city a bit lacking in edge. A friend of mine in Boston, who did work with Chicago clients, once said, "It's not that the people in Boston are necessarily smarter than the people in Chicago; they just get more pleasure out of using their brains." I have to agree. Where do all the "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me" people go when the show is over?

It will be at least a year before -- and if-- I'm ready to make another transition. I don't want to have regrets about missed opportunities, so I'm going to use the next year to re-focus my perspective on what I came here for. One big regret I have is that many of my friends from Boston have not visited me. Not once in five years. Some have visited me a number of times, but not the ones I'd have bet on, which has been disappointing. I'd hoped more old friends would show an interest in my life here.

I also want to live a less encumbered life. I came here to live more cheaply so that I could do more, and yet here I sit with a mortgage, which while not necessarily wrong, has sidetracked me from my original purpose. Part of buying the condo was the hope that it would give me a sense of permanence in an established community. This has worked, to some extent: I have great neighbors, and a singing writer/cop living below me. A harp guilder on the top floor, an actor as well. The baby boy who lives next door is entranced with me and follows me around when he's out with his mother. She can call me to watch him and his sister if she has to run to the store, or borrow an onion. It's nice.

I fell in love with twin toddlers, much to everyone's surprise, including my own. So I do feel invested here in a way I never could in a city I grew up in, because what I have here is borne of a deliberate choice on my part to be here, the result of effort and determination, and the permission I gave myself to follow my heart.

So there's no rush, and there will be a lot of soul-searching, and reconnecting with the values I want: fewer encumbrances, a lower cost of living, more freedom. I've got some ideas, but that's for another time.

Channeling Mrs. Kravitz

So the owner of the unit above me finally rented it out. I met the new tenant, and he seemed like a really sweet guy.  I was waiting for him to move in so I could have the very fun "The noise insulation between apartments above and below is pretty poor, and I don't know if you want me to hear you having sex, but I know I don't want to hear you having sex, so if you anticipate a healthy social life, a nice thick rug would be ever so appreciated."

I'd finally had this conversation with the last tenant after a year of being periodically woken by the sound of him having monotonous, excruciatingly boring, repetitive sex right above my head.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming," the woman would chant. Endlessly. Like a really bad hip-hip song. One night, after about ten minutes of this, I almost screamed, "TALK IS CHEAP, AND ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS, SWEETHEART!"

The way it worked, I'd be woken up by either her loud, clunky shoes clomping on the hardwood floor right above my head, or the very loud squeaking of the floor as she and her boyfriend stomped around ten feet from my head. (I don't know where these two met, but it was NOT ballet class.)

Then silence, then the frenzied squeaking of the floorboards as they had at it in the bed, then her chanting, then silence, then the stomping as they both clomped to the bathroom (the layout of our apartments is identical).

I tried sleeping on my futon in the living room, I tried playing a portable CD player in my bedroom. The thing is, if you live here, you KNOW how thin the floors and ceilings are, so you have to know that if the floorboards are squealing like a catfight as you're screwing, it's reading loud and clear to your neighbor below.  Who is most likely trying to sleep because it's after 1am.

There are those who fall into the camp of "it's always OK to make intrusive noise during sex," as though sex were some sacrosanct function to which everyone has to indulge being an unwilling audience. I fall into the "you have no right to include me in your sex life without my permission, or ruin my sleep or invade my privacy" camp. This camp is located next to camp "any noise that wakes me up at 1am is out of bounds, whether it's your CD player or the girlfriend you mechanically screw to preserve your self-delusion that you're straight."

Oh, yes, I had my theories.

So I finally asked him if he could put a rug down, but he moved out for reasons unrelated to this. Now, the owner of the unit is the president of the condo board, so I asked him to see whether his next tenant would put a rug down. I'm sure that his eagerness to rent the place (it was empty for several months) led him to omit requiring a bedroom rug in the lease, or even mentioning the issue. But I shall. Oh yes, I will. The new tenant seems very sweet, although he was assembling new furniture upstairs in anticipation of his official move-in tomorrow, and I had to go up and knock on his door. I'm trying to be optimistic about a man who hammers and pushes furniture around at 10:30pm on a Sunday night. He apologized and promised to keep the noise down, but he and his friend sound like they're doing gymnastics.

Then again, I have a stereo with some pretty good speakers.

Let the negotiations begin.

Sometimes you just have to say no. Or maybe.

 The writer/director of the sketch show I did got in touch to say he'd written more scenes and wanted to do another show in late August through mid-September. He was also going to film the show for Comcast, and was I interested?

I had to say no because I'll be out of town for a cousin's wedding (I would not miss this - weddings in my family are far and few between, and having all of my relatives in one room makes for more entertainment than any television). I did mention that the other thing I could not do was live at rehearsals like we did for the first show. The other woman and I were losing our minds toward the end because we had our lines down way before most of the others, and we spent 4-5 nights a week in rehearsal. (We would have to run a scene three times each go because one guy could not master complex directions such as, "Don't deliver your lines with your back to the audience," or "When you say that line, cross upstage.") For a sketch show with no costumes, no scenery, minimal props and very basic tech, we way over-rehearsed it. I got so sick of the sound of my own voice I started rehearsing in accents.

And we rehearsed so much because, walking-and-talking issues aside, at least two other cast members didn't learn their lines until right before the show. I have little patience for this. So on the one hand, I'm sorry I might not be able to do more with this show, but on the other, I like having a balance in my life. I'm not sure who is being called back, but I heard from the other woman that two of the guys I would not have called back are being invited.

No word from the place where I auditioned the other night; when I looked at the take-away sheet describing the season, I sensed there might not be many roles suitable for me, age-wise.

Still holding out hopes for the Scottish play. There's always tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow!

You wanted two, right? OK.

Went to my audition after work. Had run through the troublesome monologue in the bathroom, and as I walked to the train I went over and over it in my head. I walked down Lake

I was the first to get out of the car and walk toward the cement stairs

to the El to catch the Blue Line

I was leading them, sort of

And took the train two stops,

The belt hanging down from his right hand

arriving in West Town

the crack as it hit my knees and ankles

 Oddly enough, I'm always much more nervous about an audition that requires a prepared piece when it's the day before or the morning of; when I'm there and waiting my turn I get a sort of giddy excitement about it all.

I got to the theater early. My mouth was dry, so I'd picked up a bottle of water, something I usually avoid like...well, like a wasted use of material and energy. I was greeted by a pleasant young woman who took my headshot and resume and gave me my info. sheet to fill out. There were two women and a man waiting already. All much younger than I.

This isn't unusual.

I sat in a chair beneath the headshots of the cast of the current show, noting that they, too, were mostly younger.

Telling myself I'd rather watch Judi Dench than Keira Knightley any day, I filled out my form, gave it to the girl, and returned to my chair. The  other auditioners studiously avoided eye contact with one another. I find this is often the case: there is a sense of awkward competition, the feeling that you can't make contact with one another because of some unspoken etiquette that you have to be at odds.  Me, I prefer to be relaxed. I enjoy auditioning, find it fun, and when I see people very tense and nervous I want to chat them up to calm them down, let them know that it's all about having a good time.

A couple more people came in. The women were all willowy. Long hair. in skirts. I'd changed into jeans and a simple black top. Sneakers. I thought about my short hair.

"Judi Dench," I thought.

I tried to get a look at the headshots being given. Color is common now. They were all professionally done. Very nice. Mine is still a black-and-white shot I took at home with my digital camera and printed on HP photo paper. It's pretty pathetic. A neighbor is a photographer, and he offered to do my headshot for free. He won't take money, so I might make him a glass piece.

I took a sip of my water, held up the bottle, and said, "The audition dilemma: a dry mouth, or a full bladder?" The others looked my way and smiled. We made a little small talk. I don't try to have my usual gregarious conversations at these times, because people need to focus and practice, and run lines in their head. The last thing they need is a distraction.

One of the girls came back from the restroom and I saw that her skirt was tucked inside her hose waistband at the back.

"Hold on," I said as she passed, and grabbed the bottom of her skirt and pulled it down.

"Gosh, thanks!" she said.

"Now, that may have been a strategy to get a part, but I don't think that's what they're looking for," I said.

Another young man had arrived and sat in the chair next to me, jittery, his foot crossed over his knee and jangling. The other young man paced back and forth, clearly running lines to himself. I tried to get his attention, but he was deep into his own head. Another girl sat stock still in her chair, eyes grimly  glued to a point on the ground in front of her. They all looked like they were waiting for their turn at the electric chair.

My chair was next to the stage entrance, and I could hear some of the monologues. Apparently, loud was in. Very Big was popular. I couldn't tell whether people were doing one monologue or two. I thought they'd asked for two.

Pacing Guy's turn came. As he passed me, I leaned over and grabbed his arm. He looked like he'd been Tasered.

"You have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe," I murmured.

He looked. "Oh! Thanks!" and he pulled it off.

Stuck Skirt Girl was putting on her coat. "You're saving all of us from disgrace tonight!" she laughed.

"Yes, well, as you all enter, just stop here, do a turn, and I'll do a wardrobe check," I joked.

My turn came. The theater was small, cute. The seats were raked steeply, and there were about six people, including directors, sitting there.  We exchanged pleasant hellos.

"Did you want two monologues?" I asked.

"If you have two, that would be preferred," said one of the directors.

"No, I have two, I just thought I might have been mistaken for a moment."

So I launched into my first, a monologue from Sam Shepard's La Turista, where a woman recounts being whipped with a belt in front of her family by her father  for a tiny show of defiance. I heard some murmurs after I said my last line, some "Oh"s, which I took to be a good sign.

And then I did an oddball piece from Christopher Durang's Laughing Wild, a crazy number that contrasted starkly with the first. I did it mostly because it could be fired off at full speed and let me stay within the time constraint.

I got some "very nice"-s.  Now, in dating, the first-date code for "I'm really not interested" is "I"ll call you," and we all know that "We need to talk," means "Your new address is Dumpsville." In theater, "very nice" is code for "I liked it." They may not love it and they may not cast you, but you did a decent job. When they're not impressed, or have made up their mind not to cast you, you get an informative response, something along the lines of "we're going to call people back by this date."

So I think they liked me. The thing is, as tedious as it is to rehearse a monologue, as hard as it is for me to discipline myself to do it over and over and over, I have to remember how much fun it is to perform it in front of people. In fact, I may just pick monologues by characters I've always wanted to play, and craft an acting career out of auditions. I'll always have an audience, and I'll get to play whom I want. This could work.

For my first piece...

Audition tomorrow after work. This is for a theater company's season, not just one show, and they pay, so it's a little more serious this time.  I've been honing my two monologues, and I'm sure my neighbors think I've been having psychotic breaks all evening. The thing that gets me nerved up isn't the performing of the monologues, it's the time constraint. I know I won't go over, but I have this irrational fear that I'll be at the high point of a scene, a place where I feel most vulnerable, and a voice calling from the darkened chairs of the audience will interrupt with a clearly bored, "Ok. We've seen enough."

For some reason, I can't quite get my lines perfect in one scene, so I'll have to take the script to work tomorrow and practice in Millennium Park, where my psychotic breaks might blend in. Either that or go to the lockable "sick room" and practice in a very low voice. I have a lot of trouble controlling myself, though, even while reading a scene. On the train I tell myself to just *read* the passage, don't act it, but I have this kind of expressive Tourette's, and suddenly realize that my lips are moving, my eyebrows are raised, and I'm poised to tell York that his sons have all been killed, and how does he like THOSE apples, HMMMMMMMM? Surreptitious looks around me confirm that I've been drawing some attention with my silent theatrics. Oh, for a burka. Yikes, look at the time. Must get my rest!

Ahoy Commenter from New England!

I published your comment with out remarking which entry you were responding to, and I lost you. I'm gad you're reading the blog from "How It All Began" -- I was fresh to the city and saw more things, was less inured to my environment. I wanted to check out your site - if you read this, please post again, so I can respond properly!

JC

Diverted, C'est Moi.

Next Tuesday, I have an audition for which I need to prepare two monologues totaling three minutes. On June 6 I have an audition for which I need to prepare a monologue in verse (Shakespeare). My plan?

Do everything but, apparently.

Called SP in London to thank him for the book he sent ("The Freedom Manifesto"). Heard about his attempts to swarm his bees (no luck; no queen larvae).

Went to glass studio, but was thwarted when my instructor proved out of the glass I needed.  Cut what I could, came home, did laundry, sorted out storage bin in basement. Masked, primed, and put the first coat of paint on the wood-faced replacement windows in my bedroom that had been unfinished since I bought my place two years ago. Got out a cookbook and made a divine couscous/stew dish. Danced to Fountains of Wayne's "Red Dragon Tattoo" five times in a row.

Gave cats Petromalt. Watched latest "Dr. Who" episode (remain unimpressed by Amy Pond; the actress is either misdirected or just not interpreting the character in a way that grabs me. Very one-note).

Did time two monologues (while eating couscous dish)  to make sure they fit the time constraint. Worked the one I've yet to perform. Found some good decisions about delivery.

Gave rabbits fresh hay. And time for bed.