The Way Home

~What I am

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 22 Aug 2004 04:26:00 +0000

I'm in love.

I'm in love. I'm in love. I'm in love.

~Just plain goofy

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Thu, 19 Aug 2004 07:10:00 +0000

It's amazing, the number of hits I get while NOT blogging.

~The Wright time

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 15 Aug 2004 04:52:00 +0000

Dear Ben,

I think of you when I listen to Genesis. You and Josh. I think about the bunch of us... the hamsters up in the loft. I think about when Genesis was intense... about when U2 and REM were new... and I miss you. I wonder what you're doing now. I wonder what the lot of us are doing now. Then was so intense... there was love with no words... there was just us... the bunch of us.

Time passes. People come and go. Memories remain though. The intense ones last forever.

I hope that you're smiling somewhere.

...and I hope that you think of us all... sometimes.

~Meds

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 15 Aug 2004 04:40:00 +0000

sometimes, you just gotta

~Gotta love a metaphor

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 15 Aug 2004 01:01:00 +0000

The hurricane thing is about an hour or so from me... a little water, a little wind.

I suppose that I should be worrying about the weather, instead of everything else running around in my noggin. Can't seem to do that though. My brain has a mind of its own. Sometimes the hurricane is in my head. Sometimes I just have to do my best to wait it out... Cling to the trees... and hope that they're strong enough.

~Sad indeed.

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sat, 14 Aug 2004 06:36:00 +0000

Yeah, this is the part that sucks most about getting old... knowing it's all past, and very few will ever know what it was all about.We got to be king of the world, for a time. Now we're just old whiny fucks who try to dress like teenagers, or so some say.

I think that it was all about "community"... all about people really giving a shit about one another. Maybe it wasn't though. Everyone drifted away... so how much was it really worth to them? How much were we really worth to one another?

~Bring it on

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Thu, 12 Aug 2004 15:13:00 +0000

It's funny. Out of all the entries, this blog entry is at the very core of why I started this blog. True, not many have actually started from the beginning of my blog and read the whole thing, but I'd like to think that people who read a blog daily would at least check out the beginning of it.

You can't go back in time... but you carry your past with you. It shapes you... admit it or not.

I've been to the bottom. I've had those I love most spit on me. I've been locked away. I've been branded a freak. I've shit in buckets in abandoned houses. I've had doctors poke at my genitals as if poking at a dead frog. I've sucked dick for drugs. I've been fucked and kept a smile for food. I've slept under trash. I've had my ass kicked for my appearance. I've had my belongings given away, thrown away, and burned. I've used my leather jacket as a pillow, and as a blanket. I've been mugged at gunpoint. I've had my head slammed with wood. I've had cameras stuck up my urethra. I've passed blood clots the size of my fist through an opening the size of a pea. I've been operated on. I've had bugs living under my skin. I've been cut, punched, slapped, had my hair ripped out, kicked, and stabbed in the back repeatedly. I've had friends and family die. I've lost the right to be around children. I've lost the right to be around family. I've had diseases. I've been in car accidents. I've been in a fire. I've been lost in strange places. I've been on Welfare. I've eaten in soup kitchens. I've spent evenings in Crack houses and late nights in Emergency Rooms. I've been to Rehab. I've had my skin engraved. I've had teeth pulled. I've broken bones. I've punched brick walls. I know what chains feel like while being beat with them, what leather feels like when it stings your skin, and what it feels like to get on stage in front of hundreds of people.

I know what it's like to have people trying to make a movie out of your core.

~16 candles

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Wed, 11 Aug 2004 02:36:00 +0000

It's my nephew's birthday tomorrow... the one I'm forbidden from seeing... the one who's been raised being told I'm a freak by his pedophile of a father. I wasn't allowed to see my sister either, not after about maybe a year of their son being born. My sister "wasn't allowed" to have contact with me and she didn't protest a whole hell of a lot. We both did what we felt we had to do in order to have people love us and want us around. In her case, keeping her mouth shut was something she felt she had to do. Why she still keeps it shut, I don't know. Maybe she forgot what she wanted to say.

After my sister left the pedophile, I think it was sometime in '94 or '95, I managed to see my nephew once, by showing up at my sister's dorm room. The kid really really liked me, as he did when he was first born. I really really liked him too.

When he went home to his dad, and his dad found out that I'd seen him, all was not well. His father took him to a shrink to make sure that he really did like me, and that being around me wouldn't damage him horribly. The result was that my nephew forgot all about liking me. To this day, his "memories" of me are not good... and no one is trying to change that by telling him the truth.

Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Happy 16, Sean. Here's hoping you can rise above. I heard we're a lot alike. That makes me smile.

~Good head

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Mon, 09 Aug 2004 22:36:00 +0000

Haven't felt much like blogging lately. In all honesty, I haven't felt a whole hell of a lot like turning on my computer at all. I'd rather pick up the phone and call people. More and more I'm realizing that I don't want to share my life with people who really don't give a rat's ass about me. The few people who do care in the way I want them to, I can get in touch with otherwise.

After 5 years or so of serving as entertainment for people, I guess I'm just a little sick of it. I'm not getting paid for this... and I'm really not making a whole lot of difference in people's lives. I used to think that I did, but then, I did say that I had a big head.

I found what I wanted to find. When I first connected to the Internet in '99, I was looking for someone.

I stopped looking...

...then I found her.

That's the key, folks. "Stop looking." Stop wanting it. Stop needing it. There's nothing more attractive than a person who can stand on their own two feet... even if they're growling, with a beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.

~More pining

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 08 Aug 2004 15:31:00 +0000

It's 46°F with 86% humidity where you are.
It's 64°F with 68% humidity here.

I like the way we compliment one another.

~Did you know

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sat, 07 Aug 2004 15:22:00 +0000

If you drink two cups of coffee, a large Pepsi, and a half gallon of Lipton Iced Tea, in a day, you'll wake up the next morning with a caffeine hangover.

ouch.

~To beg for meds

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Fri, 06 Aug 2004 12:47:00 +0000

I have to get in the shower, call a cab, take a train, then walk to the doctor's office.

Yes, I'm stalling.

I'll get there. I just wish that it was easier. I wish that I could just walk the 15 minute walk to the doctor near me.

Someday, the world will be different. Someday, people like me won't have to fear being molested or being treated like lab rats just to keep an eye on their health.

Until then... I guess I'd better get moving. My doc may be one of the good ones, but even he has an appointment book.

Off I go...

~It's a family affair

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Thu, 05 Aug 2004 17:52:00 +0000

I do not have a traditional family. Why this is the case could fill volumes, but suffice it to say that in the world of Cutter, blood isn't much thicker than air.

I'm starting a new relationship. I'm building a family with the woman I love, with our love for one another as the foundation. To this new relationship, we bring our existing families, and the love we have for them. In her case, her family is more traditional. In mine, it's far from that.

To my new "immediate family" which consists of the most beautiful woman in the world, and two equally beautiful kids, I add myself and attach those who I consider to be my family. That family consists of 3 siblings, and a bunch of second and third cousins. I share DNA with my brother. I do not with either of my two sisters. I do with a few second and third cousins, but not all of them.

My brother is technically my half-brother, but he is no less my brother. My sisters are my "best friend" and the friend I've had in my life the longest, but they are no less my sisters. My extended cousins, blood relatives or not, are people I can take or leave. I feel fondly towards them, but I feel no sense of obligation and not a whole hell of a lot of love.

I'm lucky that I have family. I'm lucky that I got to choose my family. I'm lucky that my family chose me. As much as I piss and moan about my "mother", my "father", or any of the rest of those I share DNA with, I do know how lucky I am to have people in my life who care for me, and whom I care for.

I'm proud, lucky, and elated that I have the opportunity to add 3 new wonderful people to my life. I'm truly blessed.

~Glum

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Thu, 05 Aug 2004 01:28:00 +0000

I don't know that my head is doing too well at the moment. I feel odd... a combination of bored, depressed, apathetic, and frustrated. Even writing is difficult.

Not drinking on days like these is difficult, but I'm trying to quit, and running next door would end me up pissed off at myself.

My best friend has been on vacation for the last few days. I miss being able to talk with her. My girlfriend is busy unpacking and setting up house. I don't want to go next door to visit, because there's always beer and more over there... and I'd end up pissed off at myself.

I need to snap out of the funk, but I'm not too sure how. This morning I was very happy. I bought my train ticket West, and that really had me ecstatic. Somehow, between now and then, I slid downhill. I'm not sure what I need. I don't know if I really need anything. I'm thinking that maybe it just needs to pass.

Maybe I just need a bag of Cheetos.

~Still Gothic, after all these years

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Wed, 04 Aug 2004 12:18:00 +0000

A few years ago, on my message board, the subject of "Goth" came up. The topic was raised by a guy about my age, who considered himself Goth. In my opinion, the label was perfect for him. True, my introduction to "Goth" happened in the rather unique early/mid eighties Philly Hardcore scene, so my concept of it may differ from many elsewhere, but in my opinion, what "Goth" is now is not what "Goth" started off being. My friend, who brought up the subject, was (and is) a real Goth. He still lives it. His Goth core is hard as nails.

This was my full reply to the topic:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As enslaved as I am to my memories... it just makes me realize how much of a masochist I really am. There's so much pain there... and so I cling... must cling to the nails, pick at the scabs, not let go of that which causes me to FEEL.

All parts of the world were different, I only know the early to mid 80's Goth scene in Philly... so... I can only speak from that perspective.

From what I recall, Goth started out a lot more "positive"... true, it turned into a fashion craze, just like "punk" and "skin" and "preppie"... but before it was a fad and fashion it had roots in something a lot more meaty. I think it started as a response to the bomb, actually. It was the basic attitude of, "well, we're all gonna die anyway, might as well have fun... do drugs, get laid, fuck the world and what it tells me is good for me. We're all dead anyway!". Actually, its roots are a lot more in line with what you just said about your current attitude. It's not giving up on life, it's realizing that it's already over so you might as well enjoy the time you have however you want to.

Although I had a "Goth" attitude and I wore a lot of black and also dyed my hair black quite often, I didn't really fit into the "Goth" group... my head was usually shaved actually, and my clothing was usually ripped or bloody, and not always black... Most of the "Goths" were not squatters or runaways... looking really "Goth" costed money.. more money than looking "punk" did anyway... whatever the reason though, the "Goths" were usually from a higher income bracket. Every now and again I looked Goth, but I was often mistaken for a "skinhead" as well. I was out of the closet, so to speak, as a Vampire and as a sexual mutant and as a masochist (...even earned the nickname of "Slasher" from the locals). In truth, I never really had a secure label... I had friends from many groups. We somehow met in the middle and hung out together, in a way, becoming a crowd... but in another still staying true to our individuality and some to their respective groups. True, we lived hard, but as well, we didn't break or change for anyone, no matter how hard they tried to break us... they couldn't change who were were, tell us how to act, what to wear, or what to believe in... and so, the term "hardcore" stuck. Many of us never called ourselves "punks", even though everyone else did... "Punk" became the standard name for "non-preppie" or "non-Jock". Even "Goths" were called "Punk". Among us were Adam, Jen, Andrea, Siouxzie and Catherine, the "Goths"... Ed and Laura, the "preppies"... Ron and Mike, the "metal heads"... Ben J., Kim and I, the usually bald psycho "punks" and the mohawked and/or dyed, spiky "punk" ones, Jeannie, Heather, Nicole and Pam. There was Mary, who was a cross between Goth, punk, and just plain psycho... we'd often drink 40s then see who could get down the stairs the quickest by purposely falling down them. There was John, the "skinhead". There was Ben W. and Josh, brothers who just looked pretty artsy and poor. There was Karen, a punker version of Grace Jones and also my girlfriend for a while. There was Matt, the out of the closet, beautiful male prostitute. There was Bill, the acid burnout, dealer, Vietnam Vet (?). I could go on for hours, detailing the entire face of the West Philly Hardcore crew during the years of '83 - 86... but that's not what this thread is about. This thread is about Goth, and about change, and about perspectives...

I think that as we age, many of our labels slide off... and we do our best to hang onto the ones we have pride in. I have my West Philly Hardcore tattoo. I'm proud of my roots, I AM my roots in many ways, no matter how much I grow. In my teens, I thought I had it all figured out... I knew everything. In my twenties, I knew that I had been wrong about knowing it all as a kid. In my thirties, I'm proud to announce that I knew everything from day one... I just needed to learn words to explain it all to others.

No matter how much I grow... I am who I am... that doesn't change... I just learn new words to explain who that is to everyone else. There are labels that stick, some that don't, and some that become tattoos. My "Hardcore" tattoo is permanent... physically and metaphorically. I will ALWAYS be a part of defining what "Hardcore" is, was, and always will be. I will ALWAYS be pompous about it and always inflict my standards on other people. *shrugs* It's one of the few things I'll never bend on... there's no, "well, if you're hardcore then I'm not"... there's only I'm Hardcore, period. If you want to know what that is, just get to know me. Part of being Hardcore is that you're a stubborn pompous ass about who you are and the fact that it'll never change because of society's standards. It's pride in the self (or selves, in my case)... no matter what that self happens to look like or chooses to do, feel, think, or what that self chooses to act on or do.

Hold onto that Goth label... the rest of the world honestly needs to learn what the fuck Goth is, was, and will always be... and I can think of no better example of it than you are (Jim Morrison is no longer doing interviews).
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My core is hard. Does it have a label? Did it ever? Like Mary, I was a cross of Goth, punk, and just plain psycho. I was "Orphan Edge". I was the little, cut up, freak in a leather jacket which had a history. I was I was I was. In Philly, in Israel, in Kentucky, in the burbs, in school, on South Street, on drugs, at the squat, at the shows, in the Institute, in the gutter, in the bars, at work, at home... I was. I am what I was. I am what I am. I am what I will always be.

I'm Cutter.

~Repeat after me

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Tue, 03 Aug 2004 14:51:00 +0000

Another day of purging.

I slept for a little while. Two rounds, I think. 6:40 and 8 or so, from what I can recall.

There's a lot I want to do today, and a lot I have to do. Paying the rent is on the agenda, as is the therapist. Hair cutting can be put off, but I'm not liking my current fuzzy state. I'm so vain. I probably think this blog is about me.

Tips and mantras for an easier purge:

If you have to keep a thing in order to remember someone, and that person is still alive, how caring and present in your life is that person? Get rid of it!

Make someone's day and give something of value to Good Will or Salvation Army. Let the potential smile on someone else's face make you feel good.

You bought it once, you can buy it again.

If you need your things to show others who you are, how strong of a person are you?

You can't take it with you. You could die tomorrow. Let go.

Memories live in hearts and minds, not on bookshelves.

~The book of love

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Tue, 03 Aug 2004 09:51:00 +0000

I was trying to purge, but I had to walk out of the room. My "library". The non-smoking room. Harold's room. The bedroom I can't use because the a/c is in the living room, and the building's washing machine is on the other side of the too-thin wall.

Hundreds of dollars worth of books. Books I never wanted. Books that got dumped on me because Art didn't feel like taking them to the book trader before he ran off to hide in his fucking desert. In my life, there has been thousands of dollars worth of Art's stuff in my possession.

I never wanted his books or his electronics or his posters or his fucking toaster oven. I just wanted him not to leave. I wanted him to be a father.

So, I stack the hundreds of dollars worth of books in my closet. They'll end up at the Salvation Army, in the hands of people who don't know the worth of them, who will bend the pages, rip the covers, and crack the spines. He'd hate that.

Funny how my heart was the only thing he wasn't anal-retentive about.

~Pining Westward

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Mon, 02 Aug 2004 14:14:00 +0000

I have a lot of work to do. I have a few months to do it in, which is good and bad. Good, in that I can be a little obsessive compulsive about it. Bad, in that I don't want to wait a few months to be where I want to be.

I know that the months will fly by, on some levels, and on others they'll crawl.

Nights and mornings, they already crawl.

At night and in the morning, when I want to fall asleep next to her, and wake up beside her, yesterday isn't soon enough.

~Pack is good

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Mon, 02 Aug 2004 04:57:00 +0000

Cutter is a very very happy woofy.

Yes, you can quote me on that.

~The Seen

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 01 Aug 2004 17:58:00 +0000

So, they're making a movie out of my youth... ok, not about my youth specifically, but about an aspect of what I was a part of.

This freaks me out a bit... I can't help but wonder what the movie will reflect... how close to what was actually going on, and what it was all about, it will be.

Old punks don't die, they just get more leathery.

~When your number is up

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 01 Aug 2004 14:34:00 +0000

A rather loud thunderstorm served as my alarm clock this morning.

I like thunderstorms. I like the adrenaline rush that comes with them. Being struck by lightning, I think, is a lot like winning the lottery. It's either supposed to happen, or it's not. There's not much you can do to make it go your way.

I can't help but play the lottery and I can't help but want to sit out in the rain, every now and again...

It's the adrenaline rush of "what if..."

~My happy place

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sun, 01 Aug 2004 03:50:00 +0000

You know, I'm really in love right now. This is a good thing. It feels really really good. Too, it feels healthy.

In the past, I've thought that I was in love. In time, you begin to see your feelings for what they were, and you start recognizing things for what they are.

I'm actually in love.

I like being in love.

~Don’t forget to flush

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Sat, 31 Jul 2004 14:27:00 +0000

I don't like it when I can't get my head to the place it needs to be in order to write. Sometimes, I think that I write easiest while hiding where people can't find me... in a book with a lock on it. Yet, here I am on an open blog, attempting to.

I remember, when I was about 10 or so, hiding in the bathroom. I think that the bathroom didn't have a lock on the door, and that alone freaked me out. I used to go in there, sit on the floor, in front of the door, and do my "rituals". I had a white box. It was an old white purse which had belonged to my (step)grandmother. It was basically a box, covered in white patent leather, with cheap metal chain as the strap. I removed the chain, and turned it into my personal box... where I kept my holy things.

Writing in my diary was part of the ritual, but too was reading/murmuring passages from the Old Testament... the ones you're supposed to say every day, or so I was told, in order to be a good person, safe from the wrath of God.

So, the bathroom was the place I went to protect myself, and express myself, thanks to my own back.

Sometimes, where you have to go in order to protect yourself, smells like shit.

~18 part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Thu, 29 Jul 2004 16:54:00 +0000

December 5, 1987 10:35 PM

Here I sit with a quart of Miller. I'm tired, frustrated, and confused. I feel violent, yet I feel like giving up. I hate what life is, I hate society and the ignorance it stands for. I don't want to die, I just want to really live not merely exist.

There's Polly, and I do love her, but the whole damn situation is beginning to be a bit tiresome. There's nothing I can do for her, and she refuses to do what she can help herself. She has to kiss ass and won't, she has to lie. She's 15 years old and has no choice, it's lie or get locked up. It's sad, but it's the truth.

I always get myself into these stupid relationships that emotionally tear me apart. I guess I ask for trouble, I don't know.

I guess it's the beer, maybe it's making me depressed. Ugh.

~About stalling at 18

noreply@blogger.com (Cutter) — Thu, 29 Jul 2004 07:22:00 +0000

I figure I can continue with the storytelling/journal entry thing, or I can simply pick pieces of writing, some from my journal, and some not, and toss them out there. I'm actually feeling like I don't want to keep storytelling. I don't want to keep scratching my scars... especially the ones that don't even itch.

It's my blog. I can do whatever the hell I want to do on it.

I wonder why I have to keep reminding myself that.