the practical concerns of painted elephants: a dialogue
— The elephant is dreaming of the circus.
— No.
— No?
— That’s not a parasol, it’s an umbrella.
— What’s the difference?
— A parasol is decorative, or for blocking unwanted sun. That’s an umbrella.
— Then what’s the elephant doing with an umbrella?
— It’s a preventative measure. He’s concerned that the rain might wash him off the wall.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
meetings about nonconformist trees to which the trees themselves are not invited
They grew from the ground that way, so anyone who suggested that it was creative vandalism or a trick of some sort was immediately dismissed for being uninformed or unobservant.
The meetings were held so people could argue about what to do about them.
Someone suggested they might not even be real trees, but no one wanted to get close enough to check.
One person was dragged from a meeting by the guards after yelling that they were a Gift from Above and should not be touched.
It was a topic of heated conversation afterward, over coffee and stale cake, whether he meant god or aliens, which led to a debate about which god, but not which aliens. Someone pointed out they were more likely a Gift from Below since they grew out of the ground.
There were a lot of meetings, followed by a lot of similar conversations and more stale cake.
Eventually, they put up a fence.
It didn’t really do anything, but most people seemed to find it a satisfactory enough solution to stop having meetings.
The trees still change colors, though.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
piano player
I stopped trying to explain why I wanted a player piano, even though everyone asked, including the piano movers.
They probably figured it was meant to be a curiosity piece and not an instrument.
“You already have a great stereo, lady,” one of the movers said when they were leaving.
I just shrugged.
It’s different, the way a real piano echoes. The way the sound reverberates in the air.
No recording can sound like real keys and hammers and strings right there in the room.
And learning to play a standard piano myself would defeat the purpose.
This way, I can pretend he still plays “Clair de Lune” for me.
If I close my eyes, it’s almost the same.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
zombie snow squirrels on the rampage
“There is no such thing as a zombie snow squirrel,” I say, even though he has his serious eyebrows on. Normally the eyebrows are a good indicator as to whether or not he’s kidding.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” he asks, rhetorical because he knows the answer. “The squirrels go mad from lack of acorns and too much snow and when they can’t take it anymore they go into this sort of undead coma thing and then they rampage.”
“They rampage?”
“Yeah. Rampaging zombie snow squirrels are always a problem this time of year. I can get you a slingshot if you don’t have one. It’s a halfway decent way to fend them off unless you get ambushed.”
I wait for him to laugh, but he doesn’t.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
always watching
You can’t hide from eyes that never close.
Not even a blink, ever.
We’ve tried distractions, but they don’t work.
Even if the eyes glance to the side for a moment, it isn’t enough time to get the door open. And even if it was, only one of us could get through without being seen. Maybe two.
They say the door isn’t even locked, but no one’s really sure about that because they only got close enough to turn the handle once.
That was before my time, and no one really likes to talk about what happened after that, even though we’re pretty sure no one can hear us talking.
They’re just always watching.
Always.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
carousel elephant
No one ever wants to ride the elephant on the carousel.
Even though he moves just as gracefully as the horses.
The choosing is done before the ride is put in motion, out of necessity.
And first impressions are all the riders have to go on.
The elephant looks heavy, despite the impressive trunk held aloft and sturdy legs poised mid-gallop.
It’s usually the slowest runners, the last to climb aboard that end up on the elephant, with frowns of disappointment looming over his golden tusks.
But when the tempo of the music changes, when the space between feet and floor increases exponentially and the carousel spins ever faster…
Then the elephant riders are pleased with their good fortune.
No one is ever thrown from the elephant on the carousel.
The same cannot be said for the horses.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.