Ruby Stark

On Tuesday, I went on a work outing to a bowling alley. My boss and I prodded each other on our way past to the bar or the loo or the food laid out. I attempted to skittle the pins in the next lane, but missed. We went for a few drinks afterwards, and when I said I was leaving, Malt walked me to the U-Bahn. I wanted him to come home with me, but it didn’t happen.

On Wednesday, my friend, Suki, came for supper. I made gazpacho soup and bread and a salad with French dressing and tzatziki. We ate and talked about why people believe in homeopathy, and about boys and having multiple irons in the fire while we played with the cats.

On Thursday, I was beside myself with tiredness. I had had three early-morning visits to the doctor to get more drugs and have my INR level checked with a blood test, so I was completely shattered. At work, we had a review meeting and everyone wrote down good and bad things about the past two weeks’ work and then we grouped them into categories for discussion. When we got to the final item, all the points were positive, so someone suggested we have a group hug, so we did. Each of the fifteen people in the meeting hugged each other person and it was very moving. I love the company I work for so much.

In the evening, I went to a programmer meetup and watched Dust give a talk about running a certain programming language on a certain hand-held device. I decided against going home to get some sleep and went to meet Malt and some work friends for someone’s leaving drinks. On the way home, I listened to Sunset Rubdown.

Today, I have pottered and, soon, Malt will arrive for supper.

Tomorrow, I get on the sleeper to Paris.

Last night, I went to see my friend, Delicate, the one I didn’t realise was still living in Berlin. I knew him in Northerncity. We had supper at his dusty, exposed-plaster walled and wood-floored apartment in Prenslauer Berg. We ate pasta and tomato sauce and talked about when I died and about when he got beaten up and I troughed down some dense, brown, German bread with Parmesan and we talked about how he had a time when he did absolutely nothing: two hours over breakfast, then maybe a walk in the park, lots of thinking.

We walked around his neighbourhood in the snow and melt-water and talked a little about novels that, in the same sentence, zoom into the mundane and earthly and then out to the expansive and sweeping.

I came home on the tram and wrote some Clojure. I thought about a sensation I’ve had before, of experiencing events as they happen through the frame of my blog. Ariel Schrag reported the same thing in Potential. But, that is a cruder version of the way I put it to Cat in my letter to her this evening:

“I sometimes feel this cleaving of experience from events. Like, if something weird happens, or something fun, or something that will make a good story, I think of it in those terms, rather than just revelling in the moment. I almost compose the diary entry as it happens, re-appraise my character in terms of this ‘experience’.”

Tonight, I went out for a drink after work with a couple of colleagues. A girlfriend joined us, and we drank and it felt like a good, laughing night out with people I half click with. We talked about hypothermia and the Rocky films and German customs and Berlin residents and The xx (they played here recently and I missed them, sadly) and freelance graphic design work and dress codes. I idly thought about having sex with the cute girlfriend and the colleague. I ate some truly horrendous noodles drenched in cheese which I am at a loss to even describe. Supper turned into another bar, a kind of art gallery type place with white walls and projections and lots of hipsters. I struck out to another bar with the other colleague and we found ourselves standing in the rain in Kreuzberg, unable to find the place, so I decided it was time for 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.

“I have navigated Iceland. I’ve laid my claim on Portugal.” – Sunset Rubdown.

On Thursday, I went to see Matte in Bradford. On the train up, I thought about the scene in Magnolia where Tom Cruise is at his dying, absent father’s deathbed and he chokes out, “I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry for you.”

Matte is moving out of her house to go on the road on her bike to Scotland and stay in a protest camp in the woods for a while and then move on to who knows where? So, this weekend was the last of the normality in our relationship. From now on, we will see each other more intermittently: when I go to visit her in the forest or she comes to see me in London.

Weirder, Matte’s boyfriend was staying over with his band. She picked me up from the station and we walked back to her house holding hands like a shot from a Scorsese film, through the front door, down the stairs, past the kitchen and into the storeroom, and she said, “Ruby, this is Abel”, and I said, “Hi”, and he said, “Hi”. He is skinny and had on cycling shoes and baggy trousers tucked into the tops of his socks and a big knitted jumper and an old farmer flat-cap. He has slightly sticky-out eyes and an arrogant smile, blonde hair mis-shapenly cut and down to his shoulders in places. I fucking hate description in books: you should be able to suggest everything with one detail, or with the way the character acts. However, I studied Abel’s appearance very closely and tried to draw conclusions about how Matte saw him. (Later, I said since I would only meet him for a few days, could she tell me what was, “pretty great”, about him. She said he is fearless and gets really into the thing he is doing, he is sparky, he is very gentle and loving and he has nice eyes.)

We spent the first day in the sitting room: we fitted part of a new ceiling, moved a ton of stuff to other places in the house, rearranged furniture, hoovered and swept.

In the evening, we hung out in the kitchen. I talked to Abel a little, but he spent a lot of time reading. I mostly spoke to his bandmates, Canvas and Scandinavia, about Denver and the US. I also developed a crush on one of Matte’s housemates, Waxen: her animation and looseskinny t-shirt that I wanted to take off and her solid, soothing personality.

After a lovely supper of stir-fry and tofu with Matte, the band, Waxen and Matte’s other housemates, I had a long conversation with Abel’s other bandmate, Mohair, about whether an aeroplane on a conveyer belt will take off. Part way through, Abel and Matte began whispering and laughing and said then they got up and left, saying, “Let’s go into the sitting room.” I finished the aeroplane debate with my stomach in my mouth. I said goodbye to Mohair and went to get my book and sat back in the kitchen, now on my own, reading the same sentences over and over.

Eventually, Matte came back in and asked if I was OK and I said that the situation with Abel, her and I was a delicate balance that could be upset by any kind of us and themness and that I had felt left out when they had left. She said sorry and I said we were all learning and it was tricky. After that, though I felt tiny frissions of jealousy when Abel and Matte cuddled, things were basically fine. Matte divided herself between us amazingly well. When bedtime came, Matte said goodnight to Abel and we left the sitting room and went up to her bedroom and it felt fucking weird. I felt bad for him.

Matte and I got into bed and I kissed her hard and pulled her to me and wrapped her up in my arms. I did it because I needed to feel close, but I felt not a bit sexy. However, that came eventually and we made love a few times. We woke in the morning and made love again. I ate her out and felt like a good boy performing a duty he enjoys.

We did more tidying and pottering the next day. Being at Matte’s house means I live closer to the ground. I have less choice in how I spend my time and no base to retreat to. Everything takes more time: hours go by spent cooking, running a bath, putting up curtains, or hanging out in the kitchen talking to the people who wander in and out. The manual labour and lack of solitude and permanent feeling of cold mean I live far less in my head. It’s unsettling and hard work, but a relief.

In the evening, I went to see my old beloved boy, Dusk, in Leeds for supper. Matte had asked whether I wanted her to come and I had thought it politic to suggest she spend the evening with Abel.

When I arrived at the place, I sat on a stool at the bar and waited for Dusk and drank a glass of lager and let my face become more impassive and felt my cheeks go redder and my legs slacken and watched the bar staff serve the other customers.

Dusk arrived and he told me about his forest research trips to Gabon, Cameroon and Tanzania. He told me the story of how he broke his ankle. We discussed our sexual histories and talked a little of my polyamourous relationship (he had no advice because his only experience is based on being in Matte’s position).

The evening was a handy breather from the weirdness back in Bradford. I dashed off to get my train and realised that, perhaps for the first time ever, I wanted to be with Matte more than Dusk. For the first time, he wasn’t the centre of the universe.

When I got back, I hung out in Matte’s room with her and Abel. He and I talked a bit about Settlers of Catan, and some other board games I hadn’t heard of. He told me about his band and how they tell stories in their songs about a mutant cat, a clown, sea-life and things that have happened to them on tour.

I could tell that Matte was happy that we were all hanging out together. Unfortunately, the last hour was Abel surfing Myspace for old bands and events from Denver and the communal spirit fell apart. Matte and I cuddled on the bed and, eventually, he went downstairs to his mattress.

The next day, Matte and I began the day by making love, then went shopping and then hung out in the kitchen. I made her some pastry and she used it for her cinnamon and nutmeg pumpkin pie. I used the left-over pastry to make an apple pie which Matte would later drop on the floor. Matte made a vegan maple and pecan cheesecake.

The party began and I spent time talking to Highschool and Matte’s friend Clive, Matte’s sister, Hardcore Boy and his girl. The band played and their accordion and saw and double-bass were great, but the stories and glockenspiel not so much. I did like the band in general and, bar his saw-playing, I disliked Abel’s contributions.

While I was in Bradford, I thought a lot about whether I liked Abel. I vacillated between quite liking him and being able to admire his adventurousness and dedication to creating an alternate universe for himself and finding him a morose, cliquey, self-absorbed little boy. However, I can’t pretend to know whether my feelings about him are an accurate reflection of him. On a side note, he seemed pretty remote with Matte: she always went to snuggle with him, or hang out with him, and he was always absenting himself to read his book.

The night drifted away in smoked cigarettes and gentle conversations. I went to bed about four a.m. and Matte followed me soon afterwards. We snuggled in her filthy bed, me still wearing my hoodie.

The next day, we made love again and got up at half two in the afternoon. We hung out in the kitchen while Canvas very slowly made pancakes and the rest of us talked about the Lappersfort protest camp and tripping and lock-ons and work ethics and music. We ate and I made hot chocolates with home-made soya milk. Matte and I started work on a new pecan pie and then I had to leave.

She walked me to the station and when we got there, we sat and waited. I said as I looked down the platform at the red light in the humid Sunday goodbye air that I felt like time had stopped. We talked about a life where time had stopped for everyone and everything that wasn’t near us. We talked about how we would survive if we lived in a house. You’d have to be near to something to make it grow.

I got on the train and we talked until the doors closed. I pointed to myself and made a heart shape with my hands and pointed at Matte and she did the same back. The train pulled away and she slid out of the frame of the window and I went and sat down and cried all the way to Leeds.

“Seen from the back of a train.
I rode away from your station.
They drifted in the air.
Like memoirs of old conversations.”

- Sunset Rubdown.