flax-golden tales: strength in numbers

strength in numbers

The first day there was one paper robot and my little brother said it was an invasion.

I told him one paper robot doesn’t count as a whole invasion. There would have to be like, three, at least, to be an invasion.

The next day there were three paper robots.

“I told you it was an invasion,” he said.

The day after that there were at least a dozen of them, and the day after that there were hundreds.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of little paper robots in all sorts of colors, in different boxy paper shapes, spread out over the sidewalk and the street, covering the subway platform while we waited for the train.

People just ignored them, walking right on them like they were left over confetti from New Year’s or something.

“They shouldn’t do that,” my little brother said. “They’re going to make them mad.”

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

on comments

I’ve seen a bit of discussion lately about moderating blog comments.

I don’t want to do it, but I have my comments set to moderated for one very simple reason.

I get a lot of spam comments.

I mean, a lot.

As in, I just deleted 50 before I started this post. I feel like I can better manage them if I can let them build up in the moderation queue, rather than worrying that they’re all over the blog already.

Also, this means I might very occasionally miss a real comment in all the junk, my apologies for that.

And it’s getting harder to quickly write things off as junk with a quick glance, too. I don’t know what the comment spammers are trying to accomplish but in between the random links I get things like this:

Who was the most important person you spent time with today? (from “direct buy membership cost”)

That is very sublime stuff. Never new that beliefs could be this varied. Thanks for all the enthusiasm to extend such helpful information at this site. (from “louis vuitton handbags”)

Easily, the post is genuinely the greatest on this deserving topic. I agree with your conclusions and will thirstily look forward to your approaching updates. Saying thanks will not just be enough, for that tremendous clarity in your writing. I will instantly grab your rss feed to stay privy of any updates. Gratifying work and a lot success in your business enterprize! (from “childrens table and chairs”)

Keep at it and your blog will be perfect in the future too!  (from “watch Supernatural”)

Also, The Parrot God wants me to buy accutane. Yeah, I don’t even know.

So that’s why my comments are moderated for now. Maybe if it calms down I’ll start leaving them unmoderated again. Maybe.

flax-golden tales: game of chance

game of chance

Pick a duck, any duck.

But first, you have to close your eyes.

The colors matter, but don’t bother trying to remember which ducks are which color. They spin the bowl as soon as your eyes are shut.

They all feel the same, so you won’t know what color duck you’ve chosen until you open your eyes, and there aren’t second duck-picking chances.

(Some of the blue ones aren’t actually blue, by the way.)

And it looks like there’s a decent percentage of yellow ducks, but hardly anyone ever gets a yellow one, which is too bad.

Really, you’re pretty safe unless you get a pink one.

Then, well…

Pick a duck, any duck.

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

flax-golden tales: the horse collector

the horse collector

The horse collector lives at the end of the street. He only pulls the curtains back on Tuesdays, from half-past seven in the morning until half-past four in the afternoon.

The horses in the windows are different each week. Different colors, different poses, different sizes.

It’s been going on for years. As far as anyone can tell, each horse displayed has never been displayed before, and after its particular Tuesday, it will not be displayed again.

Sometimes the neighbors wait outside on the street to see them when the curtain opens, pretending that they just happen to be there, walking dogs or out for the morning paper, pausing in front of the horse collector’s house, terribly interested in the overgrown hedge or the cracks in the sidewalk. They don’t often talk to each other, as if they are embarrassed to admit that they are out on the street so early on a Tuesday, waiting for such a silly thing.

The day the rocking horse appeared in the window, one of the waiting neighbors couldn’t help but giggle, and another smiled back, and they discussed the horses for awhile.

Somewhere during the conversation, they realized that no one had ever seen the horse collector himself.

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