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flax-golden tales: the magic number

the magic number

Math has never been my strong suit, but I do love numbers individually when they don’t require addition or subtraction or complex calculations. When they can just be what they are and not change.

When I learned them in school I gave them all personalities. 4 was the peacemaker. 6 had an attitude problem.

3 was always my favorite.

Partially because of the shape, the way it looks like a backwards E, but mostly for the things it evokes.

Trios of bears and little pigs and Shakespearean witches.

Third-time charms and trilogies and trinities and past, present, future.

It is the magic number, after all.

 

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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now we are thirty-three.

It seems like an auspicious sort of age. So far it is raining, but I am rather fond of rain.

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links in lieu of actual post.

I am still in post-moving recovery mode. There are lots of cardboard boxes involved.

It is also my birthday tomorrow.

So I will still be internet-light for a bit while I’m settling in and turning thirty-three and all.

In the meantime, here are some Night Circus related interview-y articles to peruse:

Word & Film: Coming to – and Casting The Night Circus with Erin Morgenstern

&

Digital Book World: A Ticket to The Night Circus

Now I just need to figure out where to procure cake tomorrow, since my cake-baking supplies are still packed.

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flax-golden tales: sunken ships and siren songs

sunken ships & siren songs

They say the sea is filled with nothing but claw-snapping creatures and danger. That it should be avoided at all costs, that it is something to fear.

I can’t be certain, but I think they’re wrong. I have glimpsed gardens of coral through rippling waves, explored stately sunken ships in half-remembered dreams with seaweed tangled in my hair.

Even when I’m awake I hear the siren songs that no one else can discern, their ears too full of air to interpret the water sounds.

They tease me when I try to explain. Joke that my long-dead mother must have been a mermaid. Sometimes I wonder if it’s true.

I sit alone on the forbidden shore, drowning my longing in salt-tinged wine and listening to the songs in the waves as they fall against the rocks, begging me to come home.

Wishing I could drink myself to the bottom of the sea where I belong.

 

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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