In Edinburgh I finally returned to my webspace. What, you thought I learned to write such stunning prose in school? Nah, I had a nice space on Yahoo, the old 360 that they eventually got rid of, where I had virtual friends, and where I could write the stuff nobody in my real life could give a flying fuck about. In fact, a lot of what I’m telling you here originally appeared on Y360 and – after that was gone – on multiply.
I had established my online presence in early ’07, mostly putting up Neil Gaiman quotes, taking the piss in other bloke’s comments, and chatting with dirty old men.
Some of those friendships actually endured.
There was JD, an Asian-Australian Christian, who began by wanting pics of my butt in undies, but ended chatting with me about religion and literature. There was “Uncle Ed”, the obese, insecure shoe salesman from New Jersey, who in all seriousness tried to get me to mend my wicked ways while audibly drooling whenever he asked me about my sins. There was Jim, the seventy year old ex military intelligence chap who lived in a little cabin in the wilderness of Michigan, tended his vegetable patch, and couldn’t for the life of him admit that he was into young blokes. He, too, wanted me to repent, but when I wouldn’t, he was quite content just to talk about people, politics, and philosophy instead. And there was Matt, the black father of two teenage daughters, who dreamed of having a white boy as his slave. We sort of got into a father-son sex role-play that over time got to be less and less about sex and more and more about being father and son.
Not all of them were naughty, mind you. Shawn, for example, a queer HIV+ ex-amphetamine-junkie from Philadelphia, and writer, director, and producer of small but increasingly successful Off-Off-Broadway plays, made it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t talk with me about anything sexual until at least my 18th birthday. We began chatting when I was 14, so if that had been his aim, he certainly was in it for the long haul. No, he was perfectly happy to just be a pen pal, follow my blog as I was following his, comment, listen, advise, and chat.
Or Bo, the unemployed teacher and writer of a sport celebrity biography and a historical novel, who claimed to be 100% straight (but who had a curious tickling fetish and a penchant to befriend teens on the web), and really never bothered me about wanting to cam or anything of the sort, but was just interested in talking about life, the universe, and everything.
I hadn’t blogged or chatted with anyone for over a month when I went back online from the ESCape Internet Café on London Road in the New Town of Edinburgh on August 13, four days after I had left Leeds. My online friends were suitably impressed about my daring, or dutifully admonished me to be sensible and return to my mum, though I suspect most of them didn’t believe a word of what I told them. Only Jim actually figured out a way to follow my IP addresses and reluctantly decided to trust me on the rest of what I blogged. He also became an increasing pain in the arse about me stopping this nonsense.
The other thing I returned to in Edinburgh was regular training. When I had been nine years old it had become apparent that my regular and unacceptably violent fights were part of a pattern. I was sent to a kiddie shrink and to Ergotherapy – and to an Aikido Dojo. Once I started doing Aikido my fights really did seem to abate. Of course, then my dad up and left, and two years later after a fashion so did ‘Nette. That was when things became really bad, rozzers and all.
But ever since then I had trained martial arts almost religiously. I always liked how it complemented football. Football was about interacting with the external world, about strategy, and friendship, and fighting the enemy. Martial Arts was about the internal enemy, about discipline.
Some people have raised eyebrows and commented that it was a really stupid idea to teach a troubled, violent kid how to dish out hurt more efficiently. But I am certain, if it hadn’t been for Aikido and for my sensei, I probably would have become a killer a long time ago. It really helps, you know.
Anyway, a while ago my sensei had kicked me out of the Dojo for dishonourable behaviour. But I continued to train on my own, mostly up on the roof above Berlin. I even did while I was locked up in juvie. It helped calm my nerves. But when I got back out, I stopped. The internal enemy had won anyway, hadn’t he? What was the point of continuing to fight a lost battle?
In Edinburgh I returned to training. I went for regular runs in Holyrood Park. Those two weeks I spent in Edinburgh it was raining almost constantly. Seriously. Even by British standards it must have been the wettest August in ages. Once it got so bad the sewers backed up all the way into the flat where I was crashing. I woke to screams of disgust and the stink of sewage soaking into the carpets.
I learned to love running up and down Arthur’s Seat in the pouring rain. The sweat and rain and mud all would become one and my self would almost dissolved in all the grey, brown, and green.
Mostly I ran so I wouldn’t lie awake on the couch, chasing sleep that just eluded me. There was too much I didn’t want to think about as I lay there and stared up at the ceiling. To avoid that my choices were either exhausting myself to the point of collapsing into comatose sleep, or drinking myself into a stupor. On some nights I resorted to the latter, but even I knew I felt much better the next day when I did the former.
Of course, after a week of this Charley introduced me to Ponyboy. I continued training, but after that I had other things to distract me during the nights.