Jakob's Exclamation Mark(!) |
Jakob Boyd, 17 year old blonde dude of Perth. Passionate. Passionate about writing, listening to music, being with good-friends and the ability to smile for no reason. Come for the poetry, stay for the rants about outdated personal problems that I usually get over in a week. And the ocasional reblog. "Dude, Dude. That's like, Dude!" |
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Notes"You should date an illiterate girl.
Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life. *
"Charles Warnke
(via view-from-nowhere)
This is magnificent.
(Source: jarrodis, via whenigrowupiwannabeadonut)
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Anonymous asked: Describe your perfect girl friend and boyfriend.
Someone under 107, with two eyes (or at least two eye sockets) and maybe they’ve vomited at one point.
My point is that perfection is a bastardized thing when I think about it, I don’t want to get all particular, but it is something I think about and when I do think about it it’s more what I’d do with a person, the kind of nights I want to have. I want to have the kind of nights that are comfortable and undisturbed, where we make spaghetti and watch Doctor Who or some cool 90’s movie, sing along to the Pixies or the White Stripes, get moderately drunk, dance and fall asleep on the couch after some awesome sex (by sex I mean sexual things, with no need necessarily to go the big 4th base). Then we’d wake up and laugh a lot. Seriously, the laughter is an important thing.
So without getting overly specific, my ideal person would be someone cool, funny, conversationally interesting, somewhat sexually adventurous and would have to understand that the above would be a very fun night indeed, and they would want to spend such a night with me. Oh and passionate. Passionate about something, anything and that’s a pretty important trait for me.
Other than tha,t the perfect, or relationshipable person would be filled in by all that is them, because you don’t realise what you want out of your ideal person (and that person can only ever be ideal for the time) to be until you meet them and their voice and stories and mannerisms fill in all those small and beautiful gaps that you can’t possibly think of in any fantasy. In fact, I can think of someone right now.
Though, I will always hold on to the fantasy of a Halo girl, a girl who would be as insanely into Halo as I am. I guy can always dream. :3 -
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Anonymous asked: Would you rather have a girl friend or a boy friend?
Whether it’s out of social conditioning or (I like to think) my genuine romantic preferences, I would rather have a girlfriend by a long shot. In fact I was pondering this the other day. If I did want a boyfriend, it would be a very particular type of guy. I was pondering how I couldn’t go out with a feminine guy. But then again my ideal girlfriend wouldn’t be definitively feminine.
I dunno, it’s a complex point I’m trying to make. Basically I would much prefer a girlfriend, like when I imagine having that sort of companionship, it’s with a female. But I have thought about having a boyfriend and it’s a pretty cool thought. But the more I actually thinka about it the less gender specific I am. Because the kind of (non-sexual) things I’d want to do with a partner, the kind of closeness I’d want with them, is farily gender neutral. Anyway. Rant over lolz. -
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A litle girl over the fence is singing the lyrics to “We Will Rock You” to her Dad while he saws some wood or something. She’s missing out lyrics she doesn’t know.
“Daddy! I’ve got this song stuck in my head!” -
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Notes(Source: inthes-ky, via d-i-c-k-h-e-a-d)
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A Long Nostalgia
Saw some school-kids on the bus toady, going about their slow school-kid life. Originally I got nostalgic about those beautiful Fridays where everyone is full of energy and anticipation, with social networks coming out the harris and the breif good-byes to bring on the weekend. There are scarce days like that here and now. Solitude is the key on those long trains home. It’d be easy to say that we’re all always tired. Nostalgia is always an easy thing, the ‘graduation goggles’ are very comfortable.
But to go with that metaphor and be all corny, when you take off any old glasses there’s that blue sheen to everything, it’s brighter and clearer and that’s what I did today just before getting home , just after bumping into a newer friend. I easily forgot, and I still barely remember that long, long haul of the day by day school kid. The whole time being shuffled to and fro the classes that are boring, some that you hate. The brief respite of the weekend filled with relationships of uncertain anxt. But like I said, overall it’s that long haul, that epic, long-arse time that so blurrily began in Year 8 and that always far off end of Year 12. Up until Year 10, things are easy, the easiest to get nostalgic about, but still that long waiting room of puberty. Then there’s that enormous journey of the senior years, the impossibly culminative narrative of stress and competition and division and time, epic time with milestone after milestone all building up to those final exams that felt like a passing pointlessness.
And then the summer, that instant summer jumping out of school after all that impossible time and into relaxation and beautiful nothing.
Now, every day, I’m doing something I love. And despite that becoming naturally monotonous, it’s not all building up to a more stressful time that will make or break your life. Now it builds to projects and creation. The binary now isn’t shitty school time and brief holidays. Now it’s stuff that’s awesome, and stuff that more relaxing and still awesome.
And then I think beyond that, so much beyond that. Despite the angst in the infighting, I no longer feel lesser that teachers or parents or even friends. Now as I’m growing up and getting more experience I can smile for no material reason, now I can be happy and alone, now I get it. I really get what it is to enjoy life.
Now, I know that there will be shit. There are no happy endings (and I’m writing an Assignment about that right now) and I will be unhappy, more powerfully so. And I have been. But when I’m happy I’m actually happy and energetic and creative. -
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(Source: pleatedjeans, via burnyourbridgesdown)
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(Source: samdraws, via joshblogsstuff)
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Notes Sonnet the Mortal Poets(this is the latest (anf final for a while) version of this poem I’ve revisited and I just last weekend performed at the Perth Poetry Club)
and it’s like a fuck with
Willy Shakespeare.
Those dark, pubic curls
twitcheth your nostril hairs
period peice,
bloodscrape your knees
That Immortal Bard physique
towereth over you
That speare, shaken’ so lov-el-ee and temperate.
His darling buds of may
compares thee to a summers day,
and a
T-
T-
Tradgedy occurs
a C-c-comedy occurs!
He cometh too soon.
So you take it all down and stand the hell up.
With a car crash in a quater achre block.
Go see a flick,
no more frolickin’ the seats or under the sheets.
Popped corn kernels,
water cooler converse
those codes,
conventions,
sexy scene transit
and Purpose.
Purpose.
That word that never answered it’s ohone.
Throat all burnt,
cunt all sticky with
voice mail:
you scream,
shout,
scream,
shout,
scream,
shout
again,
it’s like sex with Shakespeare.
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Strangled for a Reason
That’s what they call the cult of suicidists that lives down the road from me
Meet every Wednesday
Totala-tellin-us all about their
Cancertastic tap dancing lessons
and mastebatory binge sessions
By the black waves
we struggle
life, death on the foreshore beachgoer
Sand in my ears,
sand in his tears
sand in your fears
Waves versus rocks with his body in tow
Girlfriend in the bleachers singin’ No No No
and Awww SHIT
there-he-goes-again
a bullet in his socket
and I can’t reach for a pen
but I want to
Ink dribbles down a long and lonely place
skull and bones yellin’ in my face
to the tune of a Dali piss
scribble and I won’t miss
I won’t miss Jim
flyin’ off that cliff
nothin’ but a moth net,
guilt defiance keepin’ him up
no foreplay intellectual bondage
no time.
sure
Choke
take me with you
were all those times you counted weights for cum-on-her-face?
Or for this rugby brawl
The ball;
Not having to tuck you in
the waves
That bitch death can do it for me
Child, don’t get too excited
If this were sex I’d still have sand in my dick. -
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Late
So when it’s late, and I’m tired, I get into this mode where my mind revolves around my sense of art and my efforts not tosoundpretentious fly out the window. I probably sound like a total hipster dick but thinking about music and writing and stuff just takes hold. I always end up talking to people about my book ideas that I wouldn’t normally talk about with.
I should harness this, stay up late all the time and reserve writing for coming home on busses (because this is another hugely creative spike) or at 2 in the morning. Though, I’m not a high functioner on 4 hours sleep.
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Fearless of Looking Down
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Anonymous asked: i will put my dick in your left ear
What’s wrong with the right ear babe?
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NotesAnonymous asked: would you fuck us both right now?
Both? What? There’s two of you guys?
