Get Busy Living.

Let’s Pretend We Don’t Exist

A shift has occurred.

It can be said that our bodies simply house our spirits, allowing us to perceive this world in so many different ways. But somewhere during the course of human history, western society forgot. Now nearly every person sees the world through similar prisms: success, money, the opposite sex, entertainment, food, instant gratification. Everything must be at our fingertips all of the time. Its not exactly our fault, its just the direction that capitalism took us. 

Somewhere along the lines we lost sight of what it meant to be human. Existentialism was part of every day culture for thousands of different races, tribes, and ancient societies all over the world. They believed in interconnectivity and communion with the world. They gave the spirits names. The great and mystical forces that we encounter every day (knowingly or not) were as much a part of life for these ancient people as cell phones are for us. They were able to communicate with the universe.

Many people believe that humans are more “intelligent” now than our predecessors. I disagree. There is a difference between knowledge and intelligence, and we are no more intelligent than the Native Americans and Ancient Mayans were. We are more “knowledgeable” because of technology and what it has allowed us to discover. But I ask you, for every disease that has been cured and every person helped by technology today, how many are hurt by it? What hands sewed the stitching on my clothes? Who assembled my MacBookPro? And how much were they paid? What are their living conditions? Is this technology helping them?

If we are so much better off living the way we do now, consider this: Apple made $13 Billion in profit in the fourth quarter of last year, while at least 80% of HUMANITY lives on less than $10.00 a day. In the past century technology has grown at an exponential rate that is so utterly astounding it boggles the mind. For literally 99.99999% of the time humans have lived on this planet, we didn’t have cars. Cell phones. Google. Handguns. Abercrombie & Fitch. Television. Snooki. 

And we Americans are considered the luckiest people on Earth because we have the means to acquire all of these THINGS. Its basically handed to us. Even those of us who have had hard lives are not seeing clearly. We can only compare ourselves to what we see on a daily basis. But our scale is so skewed. We are not Americans first. We are humans. And on a human scale, the excess that surrounds us in this county compared to everyone else is embarrassing.

We are sucking all the oil out of the ground, and soon it will be gone. Then what will we do? We have an entire generation of people being taught by their parents how to live off the government. Our nation is in danger of EATING TOO MUCH. Children starve, but not ours. We get fat. Then we get self conscious because we look more like KFC spokesmen than super models, yet we do nothing differently. Vanity runs deep in our culture. Do displaced African refugees congratulate each other on how they dropped to a size 0 thanks to their rice and water diet?

There was a time when all these things that we deem “normal” were not even thought of yet. Because it wasn’t necessary. When white men arrived on this continent in fancy ships with fancy clothes and compasses and telescopes looking for treasure, they encountered “primitive” peoples living the same way they had been living for thousands of years. They were considered primitive because they didn’t have the technology that those explorers and settlers had. So what did we do about it? What we do best: clean up. We committed genocide on a thousand societies without bothering to learn anything about their philosophies or ways of life. The first english colonization attempt in this country was no more than a business venture for a tobacco company. What a precedent we have set for ourselves. 

But simply making these observations does not mean anything. My eyes are open, but what I think and feel is inconsequential. What everyone does and thinks and feels is inconsequential because, ultimately, our bodies will die. And the time we spent here will amount to nothing. What else is beyond the sky? Surely Earth is not the only place where things happen in this universe. Its amazing to think that what we experience here in our daily lives is such a small percentage of what actually goes on in the universe that there is no analogy for it. I want to see these invisible things and know the unknowable. I want to be free from this body, even if only for a moment.

Anyone else?

Anonymous said: Just tell them... This elusive soul mate, I mean. What if they're out there thinking about you like you're thinking about them? They may not feel worthy of you because they may not think you reciprocate their feelings, or, maybe, they might be stuck feeling unworthy in general; they've accepted habit over chance, comfort over love. Despite the circumstance, you should just fucking tell them. Because you know what? If they're out there, they probably feel the same.

Telling them isn’t enough. Its not a matter of unspoken feelings and missed opportunities getting in the way. Its not a question of reciprocity. Its about being with the right person. And there’s no way of knowing until you’ve been with the wrong person enough times to know exactly what you want and don’t want out of a relationship. So its never a question of telling. Its timing.

Honor Forbids Me, But Honor Be Damned.

I have this theory.

I’ve been trying to ignore this part of my brain that seems determined to make me yearn for love. I think its there in everyone, either subconsciously or blatantly on the surface. So we’re programmed to reproduce, thats a given. But underneath all those desires to fuck and forget, there’s something else. Its this hope that gnaws on the fibers of our hearts. That maybe the girl sitting across across from me at this coffee shop is the one. 

Don’t quit reading now just because I mentioned that seemingly ridiculous idea. Soul mates. Pssshttt. Whatevs. But no, there is true validity to that idea. It might even be the driving force behind everything. If I’m honest with myself, I know I didn’t come to Starbucks tonight to purposefully write this tumblr post. I came because somewhere deep down, I thought “Oh golly gee, I might have a conversation with an actual girl! Yowsers!”. I was sort of right: the cashier who took my order was a matronly young woman. 

But I digress. So we all want to find true love, and anyone who says otherwise is a bitter old fart. Certainly everyone is entitled to their own beliefs when it comes to love. Maybe growing up in the Disney princess generation has fucked it all up for us. Maybe the media (bastards!) planted this idea into our minds about soul mates. But the source doesn’t matter. Its there and everyone thinks about it and you’re full of shit if you disagree. Some are conscious enough to denounce the idea of soul mates, but yet they sit around and complain about not meeting the right person. Here is where my theory comes into play.

Yes, it begins with the idea that there is someone out there for everyone. I honestly believe that. What I don’t believe is that we are destined to be with this person. Bullshit, I tell you! That doesn’t mean we won’t meet them at some point. You just might not know it. But what you also probably don’t think about is that, when you meet, that person isn’t just your soul mate; you’re theirs too. But here’s the kicker: meeting this person isn’t just some goddamn fairy tale bullshit. Its not like as soon as you make googly eyes at them from across the bar, the rest is history. You have to be worthy of them, and they of you. 

We can convince ourselves to love someone. Its not hard. I’m sure just about everyone has done it. We disregard their flaws or justify them to ourselves so that they can fit into our neat little love box. But guess what? NOT. You can’t put an elephant into a flatrate box, even if you’re determined to ship that elephant to your new apartment in Portland. So what happens next? 

Either your meeting with this person is significant, or it isn’t. There’s no way to know until you’re married to that person and telling your grandkids how their Pop Pop and Nanna met. So you have to prepare for it. If real bonafide love is something you really truly want, you’re halfway there. It takes some people forever to realize that they don’t wanna sleep around anymore, but want to share their life with someone. The sooner you come to that conclusion, the better. 

Now the second half of the battle: if you want this “destiny” to actually materialize and work out with your soul mate, you have got to be worthy of each other when you meet. Otherwise, one of you is gonna fuck it up. I’m not saying that you both have to be perfect, but you do have to be decent enough to treat that person with as much respect as they deserve. If your significant other doesn’t do this, then they are not worthy of your love. And that is baseline. You can’t paint a tiger’s stripes. I mean I guess technically you can but that tiger is gonna be one pissed off kitty cat. You have to both be at the point where you can help each other overcome your weaknesses and strengthen your love to its maximum potential. It takes forever, and some never quite get there, but if you’re with the right person, it doesn’t feel like a struggle. It should never be a weight on your back. It should be like staring down a long fucking road that you know will bring you back home no matter how far you have to go. There will either be a sun at your back or right in front of you. You have to recognize that or you’re both gonna be lost on the same journey. But you’re both holding half the map and you have to put it together to read it. I fucking love metaphors.

If you aren’t worthy of your soul mate when you meet, you won’t make it together. Shit, you might never even go out on a date together. But I like to think that, once you’re both worthy of each other, you’ll find each other again and make it together. Some people go their whole lives not being worthy, and thus they never end up with the right person. And there’s no rubric for measuring yourself. You have to constantly strive to be that person. But as long as you’re working towards it, love will shine through all things. 

Too Drunk For Poetry.

I got on to tumblr tonight with great ambitions. 

I was going to write a devastatingly beautiful poem that expressed both my depression and my affection. But then I drank some whiskey, and that bullshit went out the window.

I’ve probably watched Garden State way too many times. Its a great movie, don’t get me wrong. The problem is, it doesn’t even approach reality. The manic-pixie-dream-girl is such a frustrating compilation of everything every single guy who owns a peacoat wants. But its simply unattainable in its true form. Zach Braff really fucked the dog on that one. I mean seriously, how many Samantha’s are there in this world? Impossibly understanding, nerdy, gorgeous, inquisitive, innocent, quirky, sweet, and gullible enough to fall in love with a guy that paralyzed his own mother? 

Anyways. Its not possible to define my feelings by archetype. Maybe stereotype. But certainly not the former. Its too vicious, hypocritical, self-serving, idealistic, and shitty. I mean just plain shit shit shitty. How could I ever even approach the idea of a protagonist in my own life-story? Its not possible. I can’t live up to those self-imposed expectations.  But seriously, can anyone? 

All I want in the world is to find a girl who sees all these ridiculous things in me. Brilliance, compassion, understanding, resilience, chivalry. But if I ever found that girl, it would be a pity. Because I am none of those things. Self-serving, self-deprecating, delusional, emotionally disturbed, combatant. Give me someone who appreciates those qualities more than the former ones, and we’ll burn this motherfucker down. Except I wouldn’t want a girl who has as low an opinion of me as I have of myself. Lets add hypocrisy to the latter list.

Shit son, if that isn’t some form of poetry, I don’t know what is. Robert Frost my balls. 

The imaginary love of my non-existent life.

The imaginary love of my non-existent life.

The Moth.

This morning I went outside by the creek, coffee cup in one hand, cigarette in the other. My morning ritual. I thought to myself “Golly I’m in a good mood this morning”. But then I noticed something.

In the creek, there was what appeared to be the perpetual creation of ripples stemming from a source I could not make out. It was as if something was vibrating in the water, creating a multitude of these small, perfect circles. I walked down the edge of the water to investigate.

There, at the center of these infinite ripples was a moth. I guess it had had some purpose for landing in the water. I must have noticed it at the perfect moment, for it was still alive, and the ripples were being created by the moth’s desperate attempts to raise its water-saturated wings up from the creek and take flight. 

It was drowning. But the ripples continued to pour out from around the moth so quickly that it looked as though a motor was in the water creating those beautiful rings. And then the ripples slowed. Then they stopped and started up again, and did that several times until they finally ceased. The moth was dead. I had witnessed the very end of its life, the exact moment amplified by the surrounding water, the catalyst for its very death. The water was still now.

So I threw my cigarette into the creek and went back inside, slightly more melancholy than before.

A Heart(less) Beating of Feet Against The Ground

In a word, selfish. In a sentence, a selfish young man. In a longer sentence, a selfish young man who was undoubtedly an ass hole. Self-deprecation was my best subject in school. Top marks.

In short breaths, suffocation. In a deep breath, resuscitation. I did not understand that less was more. Quality over quantity. A pretty face, taken at face value. And how valuable it was in my youth.

In a grave, shallow. In a coffin of styrofoam. The dead will rise. My hands blistered from digging digging digging never finding finding finding. No one is buried here. They’re in the cool cemetery. And what to do with these perfectly good holes in the ground?

In a step, forward. In two steps, backwards. The horizon kept its distance. But awareness suffers when staring at the ground. Oh, its moving against me! Oh, me against the world! Oh, look up you fool! You’re going the wrong way.

In my mind, perfection. In reality, flawed. The great reconciliation of the two. How this war has raged within me. Seeing is not believing when you are shortsighted. Hindsight is blah blah blah. I know, but I don’t look backwards anymore. 

In a word, maturity. In a sentence, the selfish young man is growing up. In a longer sentence, the selfish young man is shedding his ass-hole skin. His eyes are open, his feet planted.

To know where you are going, and to take the first step. What a feat of feet moving forward forward forward. Now you are running. The horizon is just out of reach. But your hand is outstretched. You will see the sun if you keep looking.

Avoid the graves you dug. 

Rant McRantpants.

Okay, so I might complain a lot, but I have a good reason to complain most of the time. I’ll tell you who doesn’t: pretty girls.

Yes, pretty girls. They complain all the goddamn time. It doesn’t make any sense. They complain that “guys are dicks” or that they “cant find the right guy” or what the fuck ever. They act like they don’t think they’re pretty even though they know goddamn well that they are. Its sort of an understood fact that at least 50% of all the pretty girls in the world have a black hole where their personalities should be. But the other 50% have no excuse. (Okay, we’ll leave a 10% margin of error in my totally hypothesized statistics).

So lets say that maybe half of all pretty girls have personalities. How long does it take them to develop said personalities? I would say well into their twenties. Which means that they’ll spend almost their entire highschool or college careers complaining that Mr. Fratty Jock McAsshole cheated on her for the 10 billionth time.

Meanwhile, you’ve got the nerdy/shy/geeky guy named Melvin sitting in the corner who is nothing but awesome and nice. The guy who buys them fucking chocolates on Valentines Day and a big ass teddy bear for their birthdays, who is always there for them when Dick McShitface does something to make their mascara run down their cheeks like a black waterfall of emotion. But poor Melvin gets stonewalled because he doesn’t have the two six packs necessary to bag the prized pony (I’m talking abs and beer, because in college thats about all it takes).

So then Miss “I only date trust fund babies” gets all mad when she gets dumped for a dumb sorority skank, and Melvin gets called into action as the first class shoulder to cry on. And he’s so hopelessly romantic that he lets himself become that guy over and over, always wondering why he never ends up being the one who gets HIS pants dated off by Hotlegs McGee. And she’ll continue to date guys who essentially treat her as a vagina with legs until she’s 28 and finally wises the hell up and realizes that poor Melvin is a bajillionaire and married the ugly duckling that turned into a swan while Hotlegs was getting fucked in her boyfriend’s Miata. 

So she starts complaining well into her 40’s after she became the trophy wife of some lawyer who has a woman in every state. Maybe she still thinks about poor Melvin, but you can bet your boathouse he’s forgotten all about her. And mind you, this is one of the pretty girls who actually developed a personality. Too little too late. Meanwhile, Melvin dipped into the 10% margin of pretty girl error and will be happy ever after. So all those awkward years of high school and college have been erased from his memory forever, as the rest of his life becomes his true glory days for all the right reasons.

And Hotstuff McSlutbitch can’t stop thinking about her old highschool/college glory days because all she has left is a life of sitting on the shelf and looking pretty while her douchebag husband bangs his secretary in their marriage bed. 

Should have gone with Melvin when you had the chance, baby girl.

Jewels In Your Crown
Christopher Robinette/Demo

Jewels In Your Crown by Chris Robinette

Life is Only On Earth, And Not For Long

Today, there was a defining moment in my life.

I was prompted by one of my friends to look into the theory that an unknown planet may very well be on its way towards Earth, either on a collision course, or one with such proximity that it will likely end all life on Earth. (This has not been proven by scientists, but there is some reason to believe it is true) So, naturally, I watched a movie that deals with the same exact topic.

And afterwards I found I simply could not function. Everything I did felt so utterly pointless, that the only real thing I could allow myself to do was nothing. It was the only action I could take that made any sense to me. I spent a prolonged amount of time standing in the yard.

It was beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky, warm enough with a cool breeze to make a t-shirt and pants appropriate attire. And I just stood there. I couldn’t think of anything important enough to think about except the very nature of thinking itself, so instead I thought of nothing. I simply was. And contrary to the idea that I was existing for the sake of knowing that I exist, I was doing it only because it was the only thing to do.

And after a while, I came back inside and sat in my bed and watched TV because I needed to feel something that wasn’t nothing. It did the trick for a while, but after the sun set I went back outside and stood out on a hill near my house. It was such a clear night that I could see the milky way. And again I just stood and stared up at the sky, all of the stars like needle holes in a black paper covering up the light of the universe.

And I realized what I was a part of. What we are a part of. And how small that part is cannot be explained even with the most clever analogy. This world that we live in has such cosmic significance to us. Everything that happens to us in this world is important because we deem it so. All the way from which pair of socks you will wear to what is the nature of your very existence, it is important. 

But it is not. As I stood there and gazed out, seeing all but seeing nothing, I quit being who I was and became who we are, who we were, and who we will be. And I realized the duality of it all. How nothing could be of less significance than each breath we take, and how nothing is more crucial. How selfish it is to sit down and to have goals for your life, and how utterly necessary it is. Because we are nothing, we must become everything. There is no reason for us, and in that there is every reason. 

Somewhere out there is our doom. The proverbial asteroid, the jupiter-sized planet hurtling towards us to snuff out the most importantly pointless thing in the universe: humanity. Whether it be by our own hand or by the fabric of the universe itself, we will come to an end. And all the other planets and stars and galaxies will look on and not see, for was there ever anything to see? Was anyone ever looking? We will be a dissolving grain of sand in an infinite desert, and think we were the desert itself.

And so I went back inside and made a sandwich. And it never tasted so good.

Well, You Know.

Even the littlest thing reminds me of everything.

The dreams are getting worse and worse. I can count on seeing her at least four nights a week in my sleep. I accept this because in my waking hours I’ll never see her again. I guess thats something.

I mean fuck. Its like Mal in Inception, she keeps popping up and stabbing my heart over and over and then ripping out my eye balls. Literally. Well, not literally. But if feels that way. I don’t know if this is the guilty conscience of my subconscious or my subconscious awareness of my guilty conscience. Dreams within dreams within shit within toilets. I wanna throw up.

Facebook. FACEBOOK. I shouldn’t but of course I do. It just lends itself to more negativity. Oh, that her page was private! But its not. So, naturally, I view it once a day. Ceremoniously. As if to say to myself, “Look how bad you messed up”. My friends are tired of hearing about it. So I can’t talk to anyone about it. And why should I? I’m past beating a dead horse. I’m beating a decaying, rotten, smelly pile of meat and shit. No wonder no one wants to hear about it anymore.

But I always have you, Tumblr. You’re my best friend. You never judge, you never tell me I’m wrong, you just sit back and take it while I violate you repeatedly with my pity parties and my depressive existentialism and my shitty music.

I’m descending into madness.


Bon Iver - ballpoint pen



Bon Iver - ballpoint pen


(Source: bobloblawlawblogg)

This is Beginning To Feel Like the Dawn of a Loser Forever.

When I wake up in the morning I don’t feel a fucking thing like P. Diddy. I don’t know what that white girl is talking about. Pop music is destroying our youth. I’m awesome because I listen to indie music. If you don’t like my taste in music, then you are stupid. If you don’t like my clothes, then you are stupid. If you don’t like my attitude, then you are stupid.

Everyone is stupid.

I smoke cigarettes because it makes me look cool. I wear sunglasses when its cloudy because it makes me look cool. I go to Starbucks and drink coffee and type on my MacBook because it makes me look cool. I use big words when I talk because I’m smart. I read literature. I watch films.

I’m so fucking cool.

I’m lonely and insecure. I don’t have enough facial hair. I don’t have enough money. I don’t have a goddamn job. I don’t have any friends. My family lives in a different state. Thats a song lyric, which is all I post in my Facebook statuses. I don’t have enough friends on facebook. I watch movies all damn day. I don’t get enough exercise. I have a poor diet. I’m not fat but I think I am, so I wear sweaters all the time, even in the summer. Sometimes I get so goddamn sad that I don’t get out of bed. If I was 21, you can bet your boathouse I’d be an alcoholic. I cry almost every time I watch a movie. I can’t watch romantic films because it makes my heart die a little. But I watch them anyways. I’ll never get married. I’ll never be a director. I’ll never travel the world. I’ll eat my fatass to death.

Do you know this about me?

Fuck no. Unless you read my tumblr. I cannot present this face to the world. I can man up and bite the bullet. I have it so fucking good compared to 80% of the world. How dare I complain? Because I can. Thats why Americans do what we do. Because WE CAN. Well, I can’t anymore. Guess I’m un-american.

All The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands
Christopher Robinette/Christopher Robinette's Album

My cover of All The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands. I’m doing all the parts. Including the shitty falsetto.