joshhansen.net

Category: my life

  • “Quoth the Raven”; Or, On the Demise of Schmoopsy-poo

    Cancelled
    Well, I got back to Provo last night and one of the first things I did was run like a frightened child to the ever-loving side of my dear Jenny, or Schmoopsy-poo as I like to call her when my heart is most profusely gushing forth its unending affections towards her.

    We had been divided by hundreds—nay! thousands—of miles, and the tendrils of enduring obsession binding our hearts together were stretched to the breaking point. And so it was no surprise that when we got together last night it seemed that the petals of our fiery flower of love had wilted like a corsage in a microwave. I mean, all she could do was talk about Neal Diamond. And I, for my part, just kept on raving about the ridiculousness of Notting Hill. The very air was poisoned against us and the love that once was, but is now condemned to be no more than a tormenting memory of mushy pet names and awkward photo shoots! So—with mutual admiration, but unable to overcome the widening gulf rending our relationship in two—we called it off.

    Alas and wo unto us for that past promise of eternal ping-pong matches which now is not! Alas that Jenny-sweets no longer shall gaze into my eyes like a mosquito drawn towards a bug zapper! Alas that my keyboard now is short-circuited by my free-flowing tears!

    And so I ask myself if ever the blissful days of yore shall return; if ever I shall dare to leap joyously with heals a-clicking over an oily puddle of rainwater; or if I will once more in this life chuckle at the wit of graffiti on an underpass wall. And then into my dimming mind echo the words I know so well: for thus quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” And so, dear Jenny, farewell!

  • A Friend’s Poem

    After about 5 years of separation from most of my earthly belongings, I finally went with my dad to his storage unit to pick up all of the old junk that I left behind when I went back to college after my mission. Well, it’s really cool to go through this stuff after so much time has elapsed. I just looked in the writing anthology that my 7th grade language arts class produced, and decided this poem by my good friend Ben Wilson deserved to be transcribed:

    Water Cycle

    In the days of rain
    the earth is dark
    And skies are gray with sorrow,
    but on the eve when
    the sun breaks through
    rejoice is on the morrow.

    In the days of sun
    the Earth is green
    but soon becomes in vain,
    For when plants go parched
    and start to die
    you wish for days of rain
    –Ben Wilson

    You know, it’s not Nobel Prize material. But it’s good, especially for a 7th-grader. Nice job, 7th Grade Ben!

  • The Epic of Zagmurf

    I went to Cheney to visit Susanna yesterday, and had a great time. After going out to lunch, she, Ben, and I all sat around watching me play World of Warcraft. I love games like that—which is why I forbid myself from regularly playing them, because I can’t seem to play in moderation. But, this just once wouldn’t hurt, right? 😉

    Anyway, I created a character—a night elf hunter, as a matter of fact. He was an mighty man, whose name, in the annals, was said to be Zagmurf. Yea, and in the first year of his hunting Zagmurf did slay many beasts of the forest: nasty spider things, and boars, and a rabbit. And Zagmurf waxed strong in the ways of questing, and he did level up.

    But lo, Zagmurf’s bow-hunting skills were wonderful great, even to exceed all in the realm of Shadowglen. Yea, he slew the beasts from afar, and their poison spraying upon him was like the soothing fall of rain on his skin. And in the second year of his hunting, Zagmurf did gain the Stalk Beasts skill, and received many a ruined pelt as his prize. Nevertheless, Zagmurf was a friend unto the beasts, slaying only that which was meet. And he was beloved of the woodland creatures.

    Yet in the third year of his hunting, Zagmurf was afflicted with an strange ailment, and did linger on the threshold of death, even until the forest animals did howl and cry at the sickening of so mighty a man. And in the fourth year, Zagmurf gave up the ghost, and returned to crumble unto dust upon the earth. And in that very hour, a boar did break forth into song, singing:

    The mighty hunter, Zagmurf, is dead!
    whose marvelous skill was exceeded only by his care.
    May his bowstring spring ever-tight!
    May his knife-blade glint ever-bright!
    Though his body rot in the grave’s earthy bed,
    In our mem’ry he’ll always be fair!

    And when the boar had sung his verse memorial, he was seen to shed a tear. Then stood forth a deer to speak honorful words over the corse of Zagmurf, saying:

    “Behold, all ye who loved Zagmurf! and hark, though your fathers were slain by his bow! Here lieth a man in the glory of death. Yet better it were”—and he paused, and with his mouth layed a wreath of ivy upon Zagmurf’s cold brow—“to remember the glory of life which he showed us.”

    And he kissed the man’s face, though its aspect was funereal-somber. The deer then righted himself, and continued:

    “Indeed, mayhap his love—which was great—shall be magnified in death, unto the gain of the living. Yea, haply his power—which was fearsome—shall not weaken with his flesh but shall invigorate us to yet nobler deeds of valor. And haply his heart—which was great—at his passing beat not its last beat, but its first unto our lasting welfare.

    “So all hail Zagmurf! and all praise! For he was, verily, an mighty man!”

    Thus fell Zagmurf, the mighty hunter, whose ways were the ways of the just. And he quested no more in the land of Shadowglen.