The last few days
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.