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Sometimes I read "Beauty and the Beast" as a dream a person is having, where the girl and the beast are the same person.
They have to try and love the growing cracks inside, and make their monster beautiful.
I hope this email never finds you, I hope you are wandering the wilderness, dressed in leaves and children's rhymes. I hope you have spoken so long and so deeply with the trees and stones and rain that you can't actually recall exactly what the internet is.
Are you actually anxious? Or do you just need a larder full of winter vegetables, braids of garlic, aged rosemary sausages hanging from the ceiling, and ruby jars of wildberry jam lining the walls?
C'mon, let's have some hot tea, a few marmalade crumpets, and listen to the rain.
The business of witches is one of harvesting truths like plants,
of predicting babies and midwifing divorces,
taking midnight phone calls from love haunted sisters,
and keeping omens of death to ourselves. (1/4)
There are no fairytales for queer communities. Lost to time, whispered into closets, eaten by goblins, now all stories reflect the majority, but not the whole. Not the swan fathers and whale lovers and lion goddesses. The land made us, and it keeps our tales, still.
Pumpkin gnomes are extremely active today. They live beneath the vines, in underground holes. Every season they nourish their plant by feeding it occasional hikers. Any gardener knows the value of "blood & bone" fertilizer. The old woman tries to rescue their victims, if she can.
At the cottage a witch made of twigs and dead leaves hides beneath the stairs, a patch of shadows that twitches and shudders. Once in a while, when a guest is sitting alone, lost in Twitter, she crawls up behind them and plucks a single hair from their head.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin is passing by the wood today, but he won't get much work. Not after the rats... the children. He never stole anyone, of course. Their parents sent them away, to die in distant wars. Parents don't like admitting to that sort of thing. #FairytaleTuesday