flax-golden

building blocks

Our blocks are every shape and every color: pink and green and yellow, sky blue and ocean blue and melancholy blue.

We build them up in colorful stacks.

Turning them from blocks to homes and businesses and temples and museums.

Towns and cities and countries.

We let them live and breathe and grow taller and bigger and more complicated.

Then we knock them down, again.

We shriek and laugh at the noise and the chaos and sometimes we’re just a little bit sad to see them go, favorite towers toppled and hidden corners exposed.

And then we build them up, again.

Higher and better than we built before.

Different but the same.

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

life tests judged by silent horses

There are no instructions.

Only the box.

Well, the box and the four horses.

But the box holds everything you need and plenty of things you don’t.

To insure that it is indeed a challenge.

All you truly need to concern yourself with is finding the proper combinations.

There are countless possibilities.

Infinite inquiries.

The horses already know the answers to all the unformed questions.

They’re waiting to see if you know the right ones to ask.

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

a persistent turtle possibly having an existential crisis

The turtle keeps trying to get into the house.

Sometimes it even manages to sneak inside despite the fact that we lock all the windows and doors and rigged a fancy mesh over the air vents.

It just appears, like magic. Tucked amongst the mangoes in the fruit bowl or hidden behind the gin in the liquor cabinet.

Once I found it on a bookshelf in the library. It pulled its head into its shell when it saw me but I think it had been reading Kafka. I put it out in the garden and asked it politely to stay outside like we always do, but it doesn’t understand or it just doesn’t listen.

We tried leaving it in the park once and for a few days that seemed to work but then the turtle was back, scratching plaintively at the windows.

Lately it’s taken to sitting very still next to the river rocks near the koi pond and sobbing quietly.

We haven’t discussed what to do about it but we did take the mesh off of the air vents.

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

preservation

The new things, once found, are immediately placed in glass. Carefully captured in jars or frames depending on their nature and size.

Then they are catalogued and organized for preservation.

Before they have a chance to grow wild.

With time they will harden and dry and become extremely delicate.

(More so than they were before, but such matters are not discussed.)

So delicate they must remain contained.

To free them after glass is all they’ve ever known would be disaster.

It’s safer this way.

They would agree, if they could understand.

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

buy love here

It appears to be a store and not a test, because they find people are more comfortable thinking about it as a transaction rather than a judgement.

The numbers listed are not the true prices, the paper money is mostly for administrative fees and processing.

The real costs are paid in secrets and wishes, unspoken desires and buried emotions.

Step up to the window, empty your pockets and show your soul and make your promises.

They’ll know which ones are true.

Which ones you only wish were true and how much you’re willing to give.

They take all this from you and close the window and debate if what you have to offer is acceptable.

They calculate passions and fears and weigh needs against wants.

Once they’ve decided, the window will open again and if you’ve met their approvals they will stamp a heart on the back of your hand and send you on your way.

But only if they’ve determined that you’re ready for love.

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

happily

He says he’ll build us a castle somewhere.

And our castle will be guarded by a dragon.

A dragon who plays the mandolin.

And eats unwelcome visitors.

And in this castle, guarded by its carnivorous, mandolin-playing dragon, we will live happily ever after.

I tell him that I don’t need a castle.

And I already have my own mandolin and he knows that because he gave it to me.

And someday I will learn to play it properly, for love song serenades.

And we are already living happily right here and right now, and we will continue to do so ever after, whatever that means, regardless of location, because that’s how this story goes.

But if he actually knows where to get a dragon, especially one who plays the mandolin better than I can, that might be nice.

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