Ruby Stark

On Monday, I came home and went into a cooking frenzy and made spinach and ricotta cannelloni and banana pancakes for my housemates and I. I listened to Bob Dylan and sniffed because of my cold and fended the cats off my pots and pans. As I cooked, I pretended I was making supper for a boy who was waiting patiently in the sitting room and that maybe I would serve him his meal and then give him a blow job.

We sat to eat and it was very lovely.

Since Wednesday, I’ve been out four nights running. I have finally had a week in Berlin where I had nothing planned and was busy. Things have happened under their own momentum.

On Wednesday, I went to see Yeasayer. Natasha and her bloke were there, but I didn’t manage to find them, and I invited Malt, my boss, and forgot I’d invited Cal, and bumped into a guy from work and went with him and Cal for a delicious, greasy fried-mozzarella burger in a punk rock place and then got to the venue and bumped into four other people from work so we were a big gang.

We talked about the first track of the album Cal and I are going to write: The Time I Got Thrown Out of The Lesbian Bookshop/The Lesbians Said No. Malt talked about a visit to Kit Kat Club, and so we were able to name track two: I Went to a Sex Club With a Gynecologist.

I wrapped myself up in Malt’s attention, snuggling into his alpha maleness. He is tall, and has an arresting way of towering over me and looking down into my eyes with a half-mocking, half-tender expression on his face.

We watched the gig. I was completely carried away by their rendition of I Remember as the singer’s voice echoed up high high in the rafters. Malt put his hands under my arms and momentarily lifted me up so I could see what his view of the band was like. I am starting to feel that two-people-revolving-around-each-other-within-a-group feeling. I am starting to feel that luxuriation in his company that I feel with Dusk and my closest boy friends from University.

After the gig, Cal, I and four others from work set out into the night. We hiked across a large barren area around the gig venue that felt like no man’s land, like machine gun fire was about to burst out from the darkness. We surged along, a happy gang, laughing and talking and shouting. We got to the bar and I spoke at length about pop music to one guy, and about online-dating to another girl. We drank beer and talked about the Bible and places we’ve lived and drug-dealers and the German language. The beer went down easy and, suddenly, it was two a.m. so I picked up and walked home along the wide, deserted, still, crisp streets listening to I Remember which goes, “You’re stuck in my mind. All the time.” I reached a cross-roads and stood in the middle of the street and looked down at the stillness in all four directions. I got to my apartment building and leaned against the wall to finish my cigarette, and my head flushed with the beer and smoke and filled with happiness and my smile was so wide and I couldn’t help but laugh.

I came inside and wrote all this to Cat, ending with, “I wish I could lie down with you and whisper all this in your ear.”

On Thursday, Dust came for lunch at work. I met him a while ago on the organising committee of those unconferences I was involved with in London. He looks very like Dusk: same smile, same colour hair, same shape of face, and I think my attraction to him is at least partially owing to that. Anyway, he, Malt and I talked about our jobs and it was good.

A little later, Dust asked me if I wanted to go to see Alice in Wonderland with him and a friend. I had put on a dress that morning, chiefly for Dust’s and Malt’s benefit. I now walked to the cinema in it, freezing fucking cold. We sat on a wall like a group of kids slumped on the pavement while Dust and his friend smoked a spliff, then went in. The film was terrible. We went to a Turkish place afterwards and I ate a falafel sandwich and then I walked home, yet again basking in the wonder of living in such a central and lively place.

On Friday night, I went for some drinks with people from work. We drank in a Russian place and cracked coding jokes (from fist import pain) and talked about Wally’s old job as a theatre technician (or, honk, a person with no special skills – “OK, I’m going to need three honks to set up this lighting rig”). We laughed a lot and drank a lot and talked about Dark Star and John Carpenter and the third song, Just Call Me Hank, on Cal and I’s record. A few of us went onto another bar in Kreuzberg and played table football and I walked home drunk again listening to Between the Buried and Me that I discovered on some geek’s blog.

I slowly recuperated on Saturday, making it out of the house for long enough to buy some food. I went up to Prenslauer Berg for Brown’s extremely genteel, grown-up party. The occasion was the installing of her new sofa that conspicuously lacks a boyfriend to sit on it. I talked to the journos about the dying newspaper industry and drank yet more beer and had a long, jokey conversation and half fell in love with with a pretty, blonde-redhead editor who looks like Lauren Lee Smith.

Malt texted me and said he was at Kottbusser Tor and I yipped excitedly inside and left the party about twelve a.m. On my way out, I walked through Brown’s apartment building and felt like I was in a bombed-out Russian hallway heading out into the unknown.

On the way to the U-Bahn, I thought about and interview I’d read with Al Pacino. He said that when they were making the film, he was in love, for one of the few times in his life. And he would come home from the horribleness and the violence to his girl and they would just be together. It made me wish for that railroadedness, that sanctuary, that marked-out-of-timeness.

Malt picked me up at Kottbusser Tor, and, in an endearingly formal move, held out his hand for me to shake it, and brought me inside. He was there with a very old friend from school, an interesting man who told me about his job as a diplomat, a girl he knows from University, and a third woman who, when I smiled, gave me an astonishingly blank expression that felt like a challenge. Later on, she warmed up a bit.

The bar was upstairs and small, and we were wedged in a corner on stools, surrounded by people and head-nodding techno. After more beer (my tolerance seems to have gone up quite a bit), everyone else left and Malt and I were left alone. We talked my perfect mix of bullshit and serious: his ideas for a terror trombone replacement for the Death Star, my puppy-drowning career and membership in the top 1% of programmers (a running joke), gender politics of the German language and spandex suits. We leant against each other, my legs tucked against his, laughing close and lovely.

Then, the conversation took an alarming and baffling turn. I began on a dissertation about why I think Rails is much better than TurboGears and he attacked my arguments, speaking in a tone of voice that bordered on angry. We vigourously debated the points for a while, and he trotted out the old argument about it not being OK to trust €XX million of the company’s business to default configs. I felt anger rising inside me at the feting of the earning of money. I wondered whether I was talking myself out of a job, and thought I didn’t much care if I was. Fortunately, we were able to get back on track, and had a good laugh again.

We left the bar about five a.m. and I walked home.

On Monday, I set off north from my house. I walked up through Kreuzkölln and saw a few squats and went into a record shop. I got to Orangienstr. and went into another, good punk/hardcore record shop that sells CDs for stupideuros. I went to a vegetarian restaurant for a really tasty veggie burger (I had to tip an imaginary glass to my mouth to find out what drinks they have) and read David Foster Wallace on the annual US porn convention.

I was just walking up through the squatting district of Kreuzberg when my landlord called and said they could mend the internet if I came home. I rushed back, they did mending and then I was connected again. I can’t tell you how worryingly normal I feel now I can tweet, research Berlin, email my friends, talk with Cat via Facebook and write Ruby Stark. I was even able to have supper with my step-Dad and little sisters over Skype.

The next day, I went to get my Einwohnermeldeamt, my residence registration. I queued up in the Bürgeramt, a big office building full of long, linoleum-floored corridors that feel like a hospital or like University. I waited and waited, trapped in bureaucracy, and finally got the stamped piece of paper I need. I felt like someone trying to get across the border to safety and having to put my life in the hands of a capricious official.

I came home and hung out and then went to the vokü at a squat up in Friedrichshain. I finally found the right door, went in and nervously asked where the vokü was. An old punk rolled a cigarette and told me that they weren’t serving tonight and recommended a place down the road. I went out and down the road and found a promising-looking bar. I went in and it was like a punk heaven: candles everywhere, a mix of hardcore and crusty and squatter people, red walls, pool, people milling around behind the bar, some serving drinks and some just hanging out. I sat on a stool and drank a Becks and smoked some cigarettes and looked at the tall, skinny, bleach/black-haired bartender. I struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me and we talked about squatting in Philadelphia and England. After a while, I slipped down from my stool, put on my coat, said goodbye and caught the U home.

On a whim, I went to find the queer bar near my house. I went in and found myself surrounded by straight looking people. I drank a bottle of Pilsner and asked the barmaid what the place is called and she said something that definitely wasn’t the name of the queer bar. So, I leaned against the bar and pretended to be Joseph Gordon-Levitt as a rent boy in Mysterious Skin. I went out into the street and found the right place right next door. I sat at the bar and drank limonade and then asked the woman next to me for a light that I didn’t need. We smoked and talked about music and Berlin. She was nice.

My little sister texted me to ask if we could talk on Skype. So, I left, and we talked for an hour about her dicksuck ex-boyfriend. Then, I re-read Cat’s letter, then I went to sleep and dreamt about Allure again and I touched her in the hollow between her leg and her hip and she sighed with pleasure.

Now, I’m going to make a lasagne for lunch/supper/supper.

Jerry: “I hear you’ve been seeing a bit of Casey?”
Emma, scoffing: “What?”
Jerry: “I just hear you’ve been seeing a bit of him, that’s all.”

- Betrayal, by Harold Pinter

A few days ago, I texted two old crushes, asking if they want to meet up. First was Allure, a girl who still makes me tremble a bit when I think of her. I also credit her and her short, slightly protruding upper lip for my love for Julianne Moore. (On a side note, credit goes to Activisto and his down-eyed, sardonic looks for my adoration for Peter Saarsgaard.) She didn’t reply. Whatever.

Second was Chesire, a girl I knew slightly at the last place I lived. We helped run a rock camp together in London a while ago, and she also came to ATP with me. She’s queer, but in an I basically only like girls way, a bit older, seems to be kind of wrapped up in herself in an interesting way. She rang me a few days ago and suggested I go round for lunch.

I traveled there, kissing London for its variability the whole way. We hung out in the kitchen as Cheshire cooked a bean bake thing with cheese. She wears workman-type clothes: straight up and down trousers, hoodies faded t-shirts. We talked about me dying, and me moving to Berlin, and her recent tour. She does good abstract noise/drone guitar stuff. She said the reception on her latest tour was kind of mixed: some loved it, some seemed unimpressed. She said she’s going to turn away from a record, release, tour cycle and just make music for its own sake.

Her housemate, Vargas, joined us for lunch (“This is Ruby, she’s a queer”) and we talked about Dilute [get the live album; it will change your life] and making music and pop punk. Afterwards, Cheshire and I talked about relationships. We talked about non-monogamy and being up-front about it; we talked about how non-monogamous and monogamous relationships have equal potential for getting you bent out of shape by love; we talked about hanging out with exes; we talked about her forays on a website called gaydar; we talked about my dislike of mainstream gayness and mainstream gay people and I revealed my homophobic, misogynist side to a reassuring amount of laughter.

I really like Cheshire, and I fancy her, too. Our footing as friends meant that we could have a far more interesting conversation than if we’d been feeling each other out romantically: less guarded, a far wider range of topics available for conversation. Is that always going to be the case?

We went to see an exhibition about Olive Morris, an activist from the ’70s who pioneered squatting and women’s rights in Brixton, then we said goodbye. She was going to try and meet women “outside the pond” at a lesbian night in Shoreditch. I was like, “Um, you’re going where? Let me just recap the key words here. Lesbian and Shoreditch. The two most unpromising words imaginable. What’s it called? What does that mean? It comes from a Hole song? Jesus fuck I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”

I went to a gig down the road. The first guy was a scrappy punk-rock rapper with old-school drum machines and activist lyrics. “I live in my heart.” Third was the Islamic call-to-prayer plus distressing noise guy. Before his set, he struck up a conversation with me, asking, “Who is Saint Jude?” referring to my t-shirt. I explained that he is the patron saint of lost causes and omitted the fact that the valve in my heart was named after him because everyone who had what I have was a goner. We talked about books a bit and about how he gets panic attacks when he plays in his hometown. Then, a guy told him it was time to setup and he went off. He looks like a bookish punk rock squat guy. He’s cute. I tried to find him later, but he was gone. Some guy who looks exactly like the drummer that the guy in Mutual Appreciation enlists for his band struck up a conversation and we talked about Portishead and choirs.

Later, I walked home in the rain and watched Humpday. It’s about two guys who make a drunken bet to have sex with each other on film for an amateur porn festival. I know, it sounds like a shocker. It’s actually about their friendship and one guy’s marriage, and how their bet becomes really important in their lives. I found myself extremely moved by the subtlety of the conversations, their relationships. I just sat in bed and watched and grinned.

Yesterday, I met my old Uni friend, Grain, for lunch. We ate steak and drank coffee and orange juice and talked about our friends and old times. Afterwards, we went back to mine and watched Der Baader-Meinhof Komplex.

That is my favourite film of the last two years. It blows my mind that there were left-wing fighters in a rich European country who wouldn’t hesitate to open fire on the police.

After the film, we talked about Matte, and Grain’s girlfriend. We talked about how relationships are so much more complicated than they appear when you are a child. We talked about the way that individual problems can be solved with a rational approach, but that whole relationships cannot be analysed logically: either it makes you happy enough, or it doesn’t.

We discussed marriage and children and watched the Hitler Doesn’t Get His MDMA Pizza video on YouTube.

I had been feeling intermittent chest pain under my arm all afternoon and, faced with the prospect of an evening alone, decided to ring NHS Direct just to be safe. I answered no to all the heart attack questions, but, upon hearing about my recent cardiac arrest, they sent an ambulance.

The paramedics arrived and did an ECG and took blood and asked me heart attack questions. They decided to take me to hospital – again, just to be safe. Grain instantly charmed the paramedics with his calm buoyancy and was excited that we were riding with blues and twos.

We arrived at A&E and the nurses put on a blood pressure cuff and oxygen saturation snapper. They took blood and I said Grain could stay while they put on dots and clips for an ECG. I desperately wanted him to see me with no top on. I think because I wanted him to be my boyfriend. He remarked later that my boobs are bigger than he remembered them.

Wave one of doctors decided that I wasn’t about to die. Wave two said that the only possible explanation for re pain was that my grafted bypass had come away. They would check that later with a blood test.

In the meantime, Grain sat on my bed and we held hands and he told me the story of his friend who lost his mind whilst tripping on mushrooms.

I realised that I didn’t want any of the girls I like: not Matte or Allure. I wanted nurture and strength: Grain and Dusk.

We saw a gurney go past with a covered body on it. We looked at each other in silence. I felt terribly upset that someone had died while we were there. I leant forward and Grain hugged me for a long time and said I was precious to him and that he loved me. For the hundredth time, I fell on love with him.

A little later, I was taken up to the cardiac ward. At two a.m., the nurse took some blood. I got about three hours’ sleep and then woke at six a.m. I’ve just heard that my blood test came back normal and that I should be discharged when the doctors do their rounds.

A few days ago, I watched a film called Lost and Delirious. It’s about two girls at a boarding school who are in a relationship. And whenever I think of the one who was more in love, or perhaps less cautious, the doomed one I get that same feeling of sadness and comfort that I get when I think of Aimee Argote from Des Ark.

Today, I have that strange, close feeling when I think of Grain. It’s like that feeling you have when you think of someone you dreamed intimately of the previous night. I know if he walked onto the ward, he would greet me with his usual enthusiastic, broad hello and a hug and a kiss on the mouth. But the closeness I feel is nearer to the thought that, last night, he saw me half undressed.

Last week: appointment with doc where I was taken off some drugs and put on others, long, boring meeting at squat about a party, geek camp by the seaside where I spent the first night puking and went home to the warm embrace of my family and the This Life DVD box set, super fun job interview with music software company in Berlin, helping to run the geek camp I’ve been involved with organising and also learning about Go, a push internet protocol, fonts on the web, NES emulators in Javascript and design in LOST, lots of ohwhydoIloveitso banter with a lovely, long-term-girlfriended boy who I developed a painful crush on.

This week: an answer on whether I have the job, two random gigs, Efterklang with an orchestra, house hunting, supper with two old friends from school and a geeky conference about the artistic aspects of game design.

This evening, I sat in the bath. My laptop was on the deployed ironing board and, after a few minutes of waiting while the water filled, with Brokeback Mountain paused, the screen went off. The room was dark and I remembered that, last winter, I had a lot of baths in the dark, and usually without a film. I’d just sit in the really hot water as the sweat gathered on my forehead and let me sweep my fringe up and sideways into a quiff, and I’d think. I can’t really remember whether it was a happy time or a sad time, but the memory feels nice.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Berlin for a job interview with a very cool music company. I’ll arrive late at night and take a cab across the city to Alexanderplatz, check into my hotel, get some sleep and then interview on Thursday. I won’t have time see Gertrude, my old auxiliary girlfriend musician whom I cheated on Matte with for several months. I won’t even tell her I’m there, because I will probably not get the job and since I was a bit of a dick to Gertrude, there seems no sense in rocking that boat until it needs to be rocked.

I went to see District 9 this evening with Frost. When she arrived outside the cinema, I realised that I do fancy her. She was looking like a haughty adolescent boy in a hoodie, gray jacket, jeans and tin-can headphones. The problem is, as soon as we start talking, I stop fancying her. She drones about technology and is bashful and slight. In my head, she should be brutishly pushing me up against a wall and putting her hand up my dress.

We came out of the cinema and she said she felt like a cup of tea. I said I didn’t know where we could get one, except for my house. She said she needed to sleep and I said cool and got on a bus.

This afternoon, I was in the mood for a swashbuckler and so I watched The Count Of Monte Cristo.  The protagonist’s turn from God and towards his desire appealed to me.

For a long time, I’ve been thinking about how the people I admire, the qualities I admire, are not particularly good.  They’re not malicious, or nasty, but they sacrifice niceness for excitement, kindness for desire.  There are quite a few very good things I proud of: my closeness with my little sisters, my friends who love me.  But, the things I’ve done that I look back on and feel pleased about are not so nice: the time when I had two girlfriends at the same time, the time I kissed a girl my friend was in love with, the time I joined in with my housemates and laughed to tears when my friend came in to show off her new haircut, the times I fucked my friends.

I am slowly trying to come up with a way of living: less nice, more impulsive, better to the people I love, more offhand, more dickish.