Nazar

this morning i woke myself up which is a step in the right direction. last night seriously not tired when i should have been tired and stayed up late reading and drinking tea. Bob Dylan's Chronicles are a story and a half. the man has presence. this morning went downstairs for breakfast and told Mo (Mehmet) how my life was better for having tasted full fat yoghourt.

"that is only the beginning," he said, pouring me coffee and putting in cream so thick it globs into your cup. for breakfast we fried cheese til it squeaks between your teeth, ate it on toast.

then in to the factory again where I am writing this now and also going to steal away to the class room for some quiet book time. lunch was soup made with chickpeas, potato, and bulgar wheat, with a whole onion torn in half and served to us on a glass plate.

at the base of the hill where the olive trees grow there is a storefront for the factory. the classroom and kitchen are in this building. we stopped here for mo to talk to staff and exchange some papers. again the call to prayer, the voice lifting and holding and dropping, resting its weight on the flatted seventh of the scale, one step beneath the melody's tonal centre, a sound as recognizable and rich and as different as the taste of nutmeg.

walking across the tiles of the courtyard in front I saw a dozen blue glass eyes pressed into the mortar, looking up at me. the courtyard is very well tended -- not a single stick for me to throw for the dog to retrieve. not many birds here. i have seen perhaps three. i have seen more cats than birds. i am trying to remember to listen.