Sweatshirt Poesy
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Arctic Bound

Posted by jack in hullabaloo | whoopjamboreehoo - (3 Comments)

Although we had been thinking about it for months, Drew, Tommy, and I decided to scratch our plans to travel to Europe next summer. But a combination of factors make us even more excited for a different destination. After hearing from Laura about her trip to Alaska (and looking at some incredible pictures she took) we now have our hearts set on exploring the Last Wilderness. Then we hit the movie theater and saw Into The Wild, which had the strange effect of making us NOT want to go to Alaska and to desperately WANT to go to Alaska. It makes sense if you’ve seen it.

Plus, I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska, ever since I wrote about it for my “State Report” in Mrs. Powers’ 5th grade class. The state just seems so…endless.

Based on the fact that we have time but not that much money, our plan has developed an extra bit of quirkiness: we’re planning to drive there. That’s over 3,000 miles. Much of it will be spent on the infamous Alcan, the Alaska-Canadian Highway that Drew’s always wanted to drive on, which stretches from Dawson Creek to Fairbanks.

(I don’t know what it is about me, but something inside makes me want to go to these crazy northern places. Like “Nunavut” up there in the corner. Nunavut! I just like saying it!)

Not many more details at this point, but one thing’s for sure, it will definitely be an adventure.

Ears (and Standards) Lowered

Posted by jack in hullabaloo - (2 Comments)

There is a deep and distinct pendulum in my haircut cycle. I swing back and forth over a span of months from very short to very long. The thing is, though, it’s not like a normal pendulum where each swing is a bit smaller than the last, where eventually a middle is found and the pendulum rests. No, my pendulum increases on its ends, mostly the long end, though. Each time I let my hair grow out it grows longer and longer before I get sick of it and go see my barber who almost faints on the sight of my mop. Usually my desire to get a haircut grows proportionally with the number of tangles and curls that start to form. I’ve been focused (or not focused, really) for years on very simple grooming (what’s a “comb?”) because I had short hair. Wash, dry, done. Now I have to invest in things like “conditioner” and “combs” to make my hair manageable. And these things are working. My hair, despite being long, is kind of normal, meaning I’m not bothered enough to get my ears lowered (a great old phrase). So the hair gets longer. Who knows what will happen? I may end up looking like this:

Would that be so bad?

Poemosity takes a ride

Posted by jack in hullabaloo | whoopjamboreehoo - (4 Comments)

Hello and welcome to the new site, jacksonhays.com! Maybe a couple more of these: !! To everyone who followed me over here, thanks for doing so. Talking to yourself is much more interesting if you have an audience.

It’s taken me a few days to set this all up, but it’s coming together. I was getting a little frustrated over there at bigwhoop – not at the bigwhoopers themselves of course, but with the blogging software the bigwhoop happened to be running on, MovableType. MT upgraded to a new software version and it hasn’t been the same. I haven’t even been able to access my website for about a month, through no fault of bigwhoop. So I decided to cut loose and finally get my own site. Of course I am indebted to Matt Jankowski for giving me the chance to blog and put some of my writing online. But it’s time to move on, as they say. Who are “they”? I dunno. They said it though.

Let me tell you about the new arrangement here. As I ended my career at bigwhoop, my site had almost completely split into two sections: my own writing, and the “sweatshirt poesy” blog which, despite my infrequent updates, was taking on a life of its own as a sort of educational blog about poetry. That split is now permanent. Sweatshirt poesy will become its own blog/website at sweatshirtpoesy.com, where I can continue with theme posts like MONSTERS OF POETRY and Found Poetry, and begin writing posts on meter and rhyme and style and other fascinating things. Jacksonhays.com, then, will house my portfolio and this blog, which I’ll use to write “normal” journal-style blogs about my boring life, introduce new poems (Poemosity ____Day), write about music, and post my mixes.

So there you have it. Double the Jackson, double the awesome. Sweatshirtpoesy.com isn’t quite ready for primetime yet, but rest assured I’ll let you know when it’s up and running.

Found Poetry: Beer

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Ah, beer. Just look at that. How beautiful is that? You can’t make that color up, people. Photoshop can’t come up with that. Somewhere between red, yellow, orange, amber, somewhere between the population of Ireland and Neko Case. And yet, darker. But lighter. It’s almost radioactive, isn’t it? Not like anything you’d willingly drink, except that it looks so delicious. It almost seems a shame to drop that into your ugly gut. But of course the color is only the first indicator of good taste. Lean in and smell. There’s a bitter smell, like…like when you’d eat flowers as a kid. Please tell me I wasn’t the only one to try it. A bitter flower. A dandelion that got it on with a tangerine. Not quite a lemon, a tangerine. That’s the hops.

Below that a hint of sweetness – that’s maltose, a long, complex and funny-smelling sugar broken down into simpler sugars – glucoses, fructoses, and the like – by yeasts. There’s a lingering smell of roasted sugar, a caramel smell. Then taste it. Liquid, of course, but something almost solid about it. Then gaseous as it tingles away at your throat. The bitter flavor is firmer, and so is the citrus, and so is the caramel. It’s the caramel that gives it that thick feeling. Lean back, rest, and be happy.

As you finish the glass, and are feeling a bit lightheaded, the idea comes over you to write an obscenely flowery post on your blog, so you pour out another one, and – boy, you’re vain – you photograph your beer. Because you made this. Stood in the hot hot kitchen for hours brewing, stinking up the place. Waiting patiently as the yeast works its magic. Is there anything more evil that waiting for beer? Man. But now you know it was worth it. The first batch didn’t turn out so well – yeast didn’t work, it tastes too much like malt. But that’s what a first draft (oh, a good pun there) is for. A template for refinement. A trial. And it worked, because here you are drinking your second glass of beer you made at home – the Egyptians did it! and you! – and feeling pretty awesome, and a little bit omnipotent. Because what else is beer for?

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Found Poetry: The Sandwich

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I was reading Kat’s blog earlier and amongst some other nice (and rather poetic) observations, she mentioned going with Erik, her boyfriend, to the tidepools with a couple of sandwiches. So I got to thinking about sandwiches. The poetry of sandwiches. The word “sandwich” itself is a real – forgive me – mouthful. It requires a lot of lip-smacking and tongue movement. “Sandwich” seems to get your mouth moving and your appetite revved up.

The sandwich is a major food technology. Think about it. Is there no more perfect way to get food into your mouth as a sandwich? First, you’ve got the bread. For many, bread is just the sandwich receptacle, the medium for the food. But done right, the bread is nearly a meal itself – think thick sourdough, meaty Germanic pumpernickel (another word loaded with poetry). And within those two slices of goodness, the potential is limitless. The basic American sandwich is highly satisfying: ham/turkey/roast beef, cheese, mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickles. But wait. Maybe corned beef? Pastrami? Both? Pepperjack, aged gouda? Spinach, baby greens, sauerkraut, sundried tomatoes? Dill, sweet a wedge on the side? Toasted bread and some chunks of avocado and other veggies? Onions (red, white, yellow, sweet)? And we’re still inside the box here. How about tuna salad, egg salad, grilled cheese, PB&J, triple-decker club? And even…the ice cream sandwich.

What I’m saying is, the sandwich is an infinite contraption, suitable for any meal, any time of day. And there’s nothing a poet loves so much as something infinite. And not only is the sandwich infinite, it’s satisfying as hell. Munching through layers of food, crusty bread crusts – few forms of eating feel this good. In poetry, finding something that is both infinite and satisfying is rare indeed, and worthy of praise. Who’s hungry?