Hans and the Funny-nosed Boys

"How come I end up where I started?
 How come I end up where I went wrong?
 Won't take my eyes off the ball again,
 You reel me out then you cut the string."
 -15 Step, Radiohead

Hans was a very poor boy. He lived in a small village with no one in the world to care for him. You see, Hans was the brat of a witch and a troll. His parents abandoned in a ditch soon after his birth, and gave him nothing but their demented genetics to remember them by. Luckily, the local priest spotted Hans laying on the side of the road rescued him to a decrepit shack near the outside of town to live in. The priest normally took in orphans, but even at that young age Hans' parentage was obviously demonic. What a scandal to bring a demon to a monastery! Thus, Hans was a lonely, poor boy.

Hans' lived in a rather wealthy village and survived on the shoelaces and boot-leather from the too-often discarded footwear of the villagers. After years of such a tough diet, however, Hans' teeth chipped away and ground down. By the time Hans' turned thirteen, he'd already lost many of his newly-acquired adult teeth. Those that remained rotted grotesquely, badly stinking and making Hans all the more unpleasant to be with. His eyes were of a milky white color and had impossibly black pupils. His skin was tough and gray. All these facts reminded him daily that he'd never belong in the village, among regular humans, an idea the villagers certainly didn't help to dispell.

Near the center of the village lived, quite a different family, a wealthy father and his four rather unusual sons. Each of the sons were tall and slender capped their heads with pointed green caps. Most extraordinarily, however, each of the sons had very long noses, nearly a foot from tip to base. Despite their strange appearance, the boys were brilliant and strong, so the villagers lauded them with praise worthy of a king. The villagers loved the boys so much they'd buy all their tools and supplies from the father's local store, and even paid extra if one of the funny-nosed boys would help them carry their goods home. In this way the father and sons were able to amass their great wealth.

Hans worshiped the funny-nosed boys and followed them everywhere in hopes that someday they, who also looked different, might accept him as one of them. No matter how much the funny-nosed boys abused him, he persisted in trying to play their sports and jumping into any subject they began to study. At first the boys had fun playing tricks on Hans and making him the butt of their jokes, but after weeks of this they determined that Hans must go.

Early one morning, the boys with the funny noses stood outside Hans' shack and called out to him to come play with them. Hans could hardly believe his ears when he heard their cries. The boys had never come to ask him to play. Hans quickly his raggy clothes and rushed out of the house and met them. One of the boys held a large brown bag in his slender fingers. Another of the boys, addressing Hans, explained, "Hans, we're sorry that we've not treated you very well and we've brought you this magic sack to make up for it. We've filled this bag with gold from a magical fairy fortress. There are over 100 pieces in here, and we'd like to give them to you! However, you must keep a careful watch over this bag for the next hour, or before you know it the fairies will have stolen all their gold back. Hans, don't take your eyes off this bag for an hour and you'll be a wealthy man by nightfall!"

Hans jumped with joy! The funny-nosed boys chuckled with glee. The boys were not laughing with Hans, however, but with the pleasure of seeing their plan succeed. You see, the boys had not really filled the bag with faerie gold, but only fools gold they'd collected in the hills. Because they knew that Hans wouldn't dare to take his eyes off the bag they could abuse him as they pleased for a full hour. When the hour was up they'd simply snatch away the bag and tell him the fairies had taken it. Surely a joke so cruel would rid them of Hans forever.

The funny-nosed boys shoved the bag into Hans' hands and shouted, "Come Hans! let's go play in the forest!" Hans nearly leapt out of his skin with excitement at the invitation, and, dropping the bag, rushed to go play with the funny-nosed boys. The most agile boys, however, had already snatched up the bag and hidden it behind his back. Next moment, Hans realized what he'd done and spun around to reclaim his prize. Upon finding no bag, Hans burst out into tears. He pulled his hair and gnawed on his hands. Hans roared, "Ack! Ho!! Now I'm back to my poverty! What a cruel trick, what a cruel fate to send me back to that shack!" He raged and finally laid on the ground and moaned in a sorrowful fit. The funny-nosed boys laughed at first, but laughter soon turned to panic. They'd never seen anyone act so strangely! The boy with the bag lost his nerve and, rushing to Hans side shouted, "Hans! Look! We've found your bag. You'd just dropped it behind a bush. Look Hans! Look!" Hans face immediately turned to joy! His salvation had returned!

Seeing Hans in such a happy state had a cruel effect on the cruel funny-nosed boys. "Well, if he's quite recovered," the boys whispered among themselves, "we'll continue our little game." They called Hans over to them and told him, "Alright Hans, we're happy to see you've been saved this time but you'd better watch your bag for two hours now, just to be safe!" Hans rejoiced! "I won't look away this time! I won't," he sang.

The boys gave Hans back his fools gold and led him into the forest. The boys tried to break Hans determination by taking hin through all the hardest parts of the forest and rushing through thorns and bushes. None of their tricks seemed to work, however, and Hans clung to his bag tenaciously, fiercely watched his prize. When the funny-nosed boys had nearly run out of tricks, they began to fear that Hans may actually win the sack! Their deception would surely be revealed once Hans tried to trade his fools gold to any merchant. All was on the line! It was just then the boys hear the sound of a nearby river. "What luck!" they thought. They rushed to the river and Hans ran behind them, following the sounds of their footsteps. Poor Hans was so focused on his watching and his running, that he hardly noticed the river until he was wet up to his neck. Suddenly realizing his trouble Hans thrashed his arms about and flung the bag to the opposite shore. One of the long-nosed boys, who'd already arrived at the other side, quickly snatched up the bag, feeling their reputation secured! When Hans finally struggled to the shore, the flung himself to the ground and moaned once more, "Ack! Ho!! Now I'm back to my poverty! What a cruel trick, what a cruel fate to send me back to my shack!" The boys began to panic again. Perhaps this time his heart was broken permanently and he'd die here on the shore! The boy who held the bag this time thought quick action might save Hans and, rushing to Hans side shouted, "Hans! Look! We've found your bag. It was here on the shore. Look Hans! Look!"

Hans leapt for joy! "Saved twice in what day! What luck," Hans screamed for all to hear, "I'll never take my eyes off this bag again!" Seeing Hans recovered, and hearing of his newly reinforced determination, the long-nosed boys decided they must try one last trick. "Come Hans, let us tie this rope around your waist so we can lead you through the forest. You won't have to waste your eyes or ears following us, but can focus on your bag!" they suggested. Hans didn't even make a reply.

The boys pulled Hans through the forest. They dragged him through all the forbidden paths and dangerous nettles they could remember, but nothing would break Hans' focus for a second. Finally the boys arrived at a cliff they knew, hundreds of feet tall. "Come!" they said among themselves, "Hans will never hold onto the bag if we push him off that cliff! Best of all he'll drop it far below where no one can ever find the gold and learn of our deception." The boys led Hans to the edge of the cliff, hesitated for just a moment, and pushed him off. Three of the boys braced themselves with the rope and the fourth ran to the cliff edge to see Hans drop his bag of gold. The rope went tight. The fourth boy glanced over the edge and called back to the other three, "He's... He's not dropped it!" The funny-nosed boys jaws dropped. Panic overtook them! If this wouldn't cause Hans to drop his bag, nothing would. Their plot would be uncovered! The boys holding the rope mournfully began pulling Hans back to safety. "Wait! the fourth funny-nosed boy called out. "He's dropped the bag?!" the others rejoiced in reply.

"No," whispered the fourth boy, pulling a dagger from his belt, "but he shall."

The funny-nosed boy set his knife to the rope.


 

As If the Internet Needed Another Cliche Quote...

"As if you could kill time without injuring eternity"
-Henry Thoreau

And yet, here I am, killing time because I really don't want to work on the Religion essay I should've started days ago.

The library here at BYU always has an art exhibit or two on the bottom floor. The art isn't ever particularly famous. I don't know how many artists who've grown accustomed to seeing their names in the headlines of art exhibits would let their work be presented like this. I still think the exhibits are noteworthy though. Through them, I've been introduced to a half dozen of the most talented people on and around campus.

I'm most impressed by each artist's ability to find their "voice." That niche that they perform in, a stage reserved for them. Right now the exhibit displays art from three students here on campus. My favorite artist made her ravens with only a piece of paper and what looks to me like various pencils, you'd have to have an artist tell you for sure though. Although each raven looks different (some in flight, some with backwards-turned necks), they all feel the same. Each has the same aura, the same personality and soul insofar as ravens have either. Each raven holds a length of ribbon in its beak, and the strands seem to tie them all together. The ribbons in the beaks seem to endow the ravens with an infant-like curiosity. Its easy to picture how moments before they each snatched up their shiny treasures from the shadows. Who knows what they'll do with all that ribbon.

Moral of the story: Go look at art, you never know when you might find something shiny.

A little explanation...

A little explanation for the last post.

I'm rusty and I haven't written in a long time.

The End.

English Reading Series, 11/21/08

I sat in my chair and trembled.

I haven't felt that way in a long time and now it's happened twice in as many days. I shake, physically shake, with the pressure of feelings and ideas rushing to press my skin (like a balloon, streched and tense). My bones flex like a scaffolding under too much weight. I lose focus because of the tickling feeling inside my skull.

So, I sat in my chair and trembled.

The vibrations of my body slow, and slip away unnoticed. I'm here now. I'm ready to listen and expect to be impressed. The professor, an older woman with a comfortable stance and voice like my sixth-grade teacher, introduces each of the writers. The writers (an essayist, a poet and an author, all girls) listen to their introductions with strict attention. All three girls seem confident and ready for what's to come, but the way they shift their weight and pick at their clothes gives them away. Each writer walks up to the podium in turn. Although they performs in their own genre, their own voice, all the girls are there for the same reason. They've come to gouge out an eye, slice off a finger or amputate an arm and display the bloodied articles there on the podium.

The girls perform their sacrifices with all the dignity of priests. Hardly a quivering word escapes their lips as they saw and rip, slaughtering their own bodies. They place the limbs, organs, skin (now detatched), where all can see. Like barbarians showcasing the heads of vanquished foes, they showcase their own bodies, now segmented and crimson. The smell of blood fills the room. The taste enters eyes and mouth. The whole thing feels irreverent, like a dirty joke told at church, but everyone watches carefully. Some silently whisper to neighbors.

A question and answer session follows:

Q: "What's it like to write about something so personal, so painful?"

A: "Writing is an abstraction. When I write about something personal, it allows me to distance myself from that thing. It becomes something physical that I can confront and grapple with."

Somehow, that's an idea I can live with.

The Fence

Therefore, hold on thy way, and the priesthood shall remain with thee; for their bounds are set, they cannot pass. Thy days are known and thy years shall not be numbered less; therefore, fear not what man can do, for God shall be with you forever and ever.

- Doctrine and Covenants 121:9 (emphasis added)

It seems reasonable to believe that I'll never run a four-minute mile. Of course I'll never read every book ever written, or discover the answers to the math, physics and medical problems plaguing mankind. It's obvious that I have limits, my bounds are set, and yet I continue to live my life as if they weren't there.

I can't remember the last time I carefully pored over which books I would check-out from the library, knowing my selection would mean one less book I could ever read. I know I've never hesitated about listening to CD, knowing every track I selected also symbolized another song I would never hear. Some may call this irresponsible, living my life as if I had all the time in the world. Others may believe I'm simply living in denial. The truth is that I don't actually believe in my limits.

Bear with me.

Have you ever thought about how horrific it would be to have a point you could never pass, regardless of how much work or time or money you pored into it? To finally run as fast as you could ever run? To make the last dollar you were capable of earning? What a terrible world to live in! A world with an end in sight. In other words, a world without eternal progression?

Some may choose to live in that world, however, none of us have to. Our God has provided us with a way out. The bounds of the wicked are set, but the righteous, with God's help, have literally unlimited potential. We can (and will) pursue our interests and our loves, forever. Eternally improving, continually progressing past points which time could never measure.

How much better to serve in Heaven than to rule in Hell.

Further up and further in!

A Tale of Two Styles

Alright! I'm going to try something new so you'll have to forgive the experimental nature of the blog for the next (hopefully) few weeks.

The more diligent readers among you (HA!) may have noticed the huge dearth of posts lately. I've had a few big changes lately (what with moving out of the house) and, more importantly, I frankly haven't been reading much poetry.

I think a blog should reflect its writer, even if it isn't specifically about the author. And hence, since I've gone home to prose, this blog will widen its scope. I'm officially shifting to writing about whatever I'm reading! Perhaps I'll even occasionally record the rare thought unprovoked by my reading. Scandalous I know.

Let's get into it.

Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it ... Keep back nothing. Nothing that you have not given away will be really yours. Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. But look for Christ and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in. - C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

I couldn't write about thoughts inspired by literature without letting Brother Lewis start me off. No, I'm not technically reading any of his work right now but the concepts he illustrates are never too far from my thoughts.

Sometimes you read an idea or hear a lyric in a song that resonates deeply with you. That's how I felt the first time I read this closing paragraph in one of my all-time favorite books. What a terrifying and radical and yet truly beautiful idea to feel deeply!

Have you ever considered what it would actually mean to sacrifice your entire will to God? Everything? Not just your sins and infirmities but even your most good and powerful instincts, ideas and emotions? What a sacrifice of self! Could it truly leave anything we could call uniquely ours?

I think the answer is no. However, I think it's important to note that even now we can't really call any part of our self truly ours. It's all been given to us by virtue of our creation. Even our agency came to us as a gift. Now we see why it makes sense that we're never truly ourselves until we give all that back. Who are we truly? Beggars, 100% reliant on God for even our daily breath, and it's only by coming unto God and ceasing to pretend we truly own anything, even our own will, that we're finally left with who we really are.

 

More prose soon!

The Writer

I had a strange encounter tonight.

I rode my bike down near Liberty Heights Fresh trying to catch the a little fleeting sunset for a "10 Minutes from Home" photography assignment. After a few minutes of futile searching, I stepped off my bike and started to walk, hoping my slower pace would help me to spot a subject. I had just finished a nervous photo-shoot on a neighborhood doorstep when I heard a voice call out from behind me. The man asked me to come a closer to where he sat on his porch across the street, and, surprised and unsettled, I obliged him.

He first showed me a beautiful rose he'd nurtured near the front wall of his house. I quickly took a few pictures in hopes that he'd let me go. Just as I began to walk away, however, he asked me in a smooth, quiet voice, "Hey, do you have 15 bucks?" I immediately started backing away, "Oh great, he wants to sell me drugs," I thought.

"No, I don't have any money on me."

"I don't care if you have it on you! Have you ever had 15 bucks?" He asked.

Phew, what a relief! He's not going to try and rob me!

"Well, yeah, I guess so."

"Well head up to the Museum of Fine Arts!"

He then spent about the next half hour delivering a subtle and eloquent narration of his experiences with Picasso and Monet, artists he previously hadn't cared much for. "When their pictures were only this big, Pssh!" He told me, indicating with his hands the small size we normally view these masterworks in. His story resonated with simplicity and beauty, like a true contemporary writer.

I've always imagined it'd be a little strange to meet an author in real life. They almost feel a little too disconnected from normal life in their work to have real interactions with people. Now, I think I know what that is really like.

***

The PoetLoses his position on worksheet or page in textbook
May speak much but makes little sense
Cannot give clear verbal instructions
Does not understand what he reads
Does not understand what he hears
Cannot handle “yes-no” questions

Has great difficulty interpreting proverbs
Has difficulty recalling what he ate for breakfast, etc.
Cannot tell a story from a picture
Cannot recognize visual absurdities

Has difficulty classifying and categorizing objects
Has difficulty retaining such things as
addition and subtraction facts, or multiplication tables
May recognize a word one day and not the next

-Tom Wayman