rain in Turkey

this morning woke up to mehmet telling me he had to go in early for work.

he left me a phone and his phone number and after a few minutes of movement downstairs the house went still, i fell back asleep to crazy dreams of pushing paper in the house i grew up in, and bathing in the back of a pickup truck, and awoke an hour or so later to cloudy skies and a quiet house.

thoughtfully breakfast had been left out for me -- bread toasting on the stove, water heating, and in the kitchen soft cream cheese -- really good, very creamy -- and honey to go on the bread. the stove was only just smouldering when i went into the sitting room with coffee. the room was cool but comfortable and i had padded down in my warm clothes.

however.

there was not a lot of kindling wood, just two big logs other than a bundle of aromatic wood tied with red thread that i figured i shouldn't tear into. i went to the wood box outside -- unexpectedly wet underneath my wool socks on the white tile of the porch. no suitable wood there. however there was a lot of newspaper and cardboard leftover from ikea furniture assembly, and a new box of reclaimed olive pits. so i piled up the cardboard and the newspaper and put in one log. everything caught at once. i tried to lower the stove top. the log was too big for the lid to close and furthermore was not burning well. it had however caught around its edges making it impossible to lift out. the cardboard burned with carcinogenic green flame. i poured on some olive pits. the fire choked. smoke billowed.

so i have had to open up the doors and windows to let the air clear. it is hazy in here now and smells of smoke and wet dog (happy to be in from the rain). cold air is coming in, fresh smelling but cold. the room is nor warmer nor cooler, but it is smokier. my socks are damp from the wet outside. how is this all a metaphor for my search for self and the true deal with airline peanuts? let me count the ways.