lunch under the storks

the ephesus museum was dry and we only toured the gladiator exhibit and its matter of fact statement that, "stadium and circus, in no other circumstances (other than sex) can emotions _soar to such heights." but what about chocolate?

marble sculptures of bulls wearing wreaths that made me think the old civilizations had as little sense of what to do with death as we do. reconstructed skeletons from a gladiator cemetary detailing injuries to elbow, jaw, wrist, and with diagrams showing with red arrows how each one died: one executed by a blade under the back of the skull, one sliced under the shoulder blade, one stuck with a four-point spear through the femur -- terrible way to die, and the walls of the exhibit painted red.

lunch in selcuk under the ruins of an old aquaduct atop which storks return every year to build their nests, big wide swaths of swoop and backbending knees, big black eyes and long beaks.

we followed the aquaduct up to the basilica of saint john, built in selcuk because saint john brought the virgin mary to ephesus after the death of christ. forgot my camera! made me realize i have fallen a little out of practice finding the exact truth of a scene, such as how the walls of the baptistry alone were intact, red brick and red mortar, and the domes of course fallen, but how the foundations and the columns allowed you to feel the math wrapping the cupola up over your head, or how the tourists kept interrupting the muscled black cat intently waiting by little burrows, not moving a muscle, eyes down, or how the walls were made of even mud bricks with a layer of irregular stones at shoulder height and how every now and one of the irregular stones would be a broken piece of sculpture, vines or leaves or fruits, as if they broke up imperfect sculpted pieces to use elsewhere in construction, or how swallows swooped through the standing colums of the basilica tracing through the air like a conductor's expressive left hand under the baton, or how random green and colour choked the cracked terracotta wine jugs, or how the snake plants were so big and meaty they had to be pruned with a scythe, or how astrid kerr drew me through the weeds to see a persimmon(?) tree using just her index finger and saying, "come."

then walking back down as a stork flew up the hill high overhead, nest branches in its mouth, back down to ephesus for pickup.

loving my inner photographer (2) : patterns in tile at ephesus

tile patterns in the sidewalks leading up to the terraced houses of ephesus.



and look!

three nights at attila's getaway

definitely a misadventure meeting astrid kerr at the grubby and small-town izmir airport with its counterintuitive layout.

"A Comedy Of Errors," i said.

"have you actually read that play?" said she, twenty straight hours of travelling, four connections, and a seven hour stop in gatwick, all of this with an injured knee. "it's not actually very funny."

"no, i haven't." (pause) "but i guess All's Well That Ends Well."

"have you actually read _that one?"

in truth i do not much like plays, i prefer novels.

from izmir to selcuk. selcuk is one of the major tourist attractions in turkey because of the nearby ruins of ephesus. because so many tourists come to visit, and competition is fierce for their business, hotel rates are cheap even in the high season and many of the hotels and hostels offer all sorts of little incentives to sweeten the deal.

so, arriving in selcuk, and having phoned ahead to stay at a little campground and hotel called Attila's Getaway, we stepped off the bus to find attila there waiting for us with a shuttle to take us in to his resort which was a few minutes removed from the town.

once we got there, deep breath and the resort was conducive to deep breathing and a cup of tea. the van pulled in and stopped, and we stepped around the corner into a view of the blue-bottomed pool and the little patio with covered decks and low cushions where we would each lunch. the pool was framed on two sides by plaster columns, and rose gardens, and you could look out the other way to an open vista of patchy mountains with round shapes of pine and more linear straight up and down shapes.. there was a bar with water pipes and austrailian kitsch that hung unobtrusively -- flags, koala bears, a kangaroo crossing sign. bamboo wind chimes, and several backgammon boards as well as checkers and chess. at the head of the pool was a doric statue holding a vessel from which water poured making ripples across the water. at the other end was a stone fountain that ran into a little channel and under a foot bridge to empty into the pool, also making ripples. in the mornings when the fountains were off and the water was still, little forked-tail swallows would circle over the pool then quickly swoop in for a splash. blue cat paw prints on the cement pavestones from where a cat once walked in the wet paint at the bottom of the pool.

goreme : a sketch

goreme has two poles: the bus station at one end and the mosque at the other. separating the two is about a five minute walk.

there are three lanes that run between the two ends. on the one side is the roadway with a median painted with flaking yellow paint. in the middle is a sitting area with picnic tables and wrought iron lamp posts, trees that aren't yet in bloom, and torn branches on the cobblestones, a sign perhaps of a difficult winter. the picnic area is flanked by pines and cedars. beyond, on the other side, is the brick walkway, with shops and carpet boutiques.

out either end of the main street you can see the desert badlands. the traffic lights at the bus station end flash yellow except during morning and evening rush hour when then cycle. little metal signs point the way to small hotels.

the buildings here are mostly stone, white stone with dust that sticks to my dark clothes, and pink granite for ornamentation, like in arches over doors. the stone bricks have quarrymarks that look like they were make with a fork, like on the top of a peanut butter cookie. on every roof is a satellite dish and a solar water heater. the power lines run low.

tourists walk with plastic bags of bread and fruits. i recognize the lithuanian girls from my hostel, wearing sunglasses now. an old man and woman walk hand in hand. a man rides by on a horse. the sound of rusty bells from a carriage running on wood wheels behind a donkey.

it is a tourist town. the cafes and restaurants have placards in front in english. one states, in caps, if you don't like, you don't <pay>. many restaurants with clay pots on display out front, for baking turkish dishes; the pots blackened and sometimes cracked.

each store has a bright plastic sign above the entrance, and often posters in the windows. camera shops will transfer memory cards to cd. drugstores advertise batteries. many shops sell inflatable neck pillows. most stores have postcards on racks out front. the deals get better further from the bus station; five postcards for one lira, then ten; further up, eleven. restaurants have shaded patios, tables with tablecloths, wicker chairs, potted plants. music coming from one.

outside the little food markets, coolers with bottled water, cartons of juice, bottles of Efes, tubs of ayran. blue plastic bins stacked with fruits and vegetables. 6's of 2L coke bottles in shrinkwrapped plastic. in the windows there are glass cases holding loaves of goldcrust bread. iceboxes hold ice cream treats under sliding glass tops; milk and chocolate pictured on the front. inside the markets, shelves of chocolate bars, cookies, tea, dish soap; deli counters with cheese and sausage.

construction: stacks of marble slabs, piles of broken brick. sometimes, the sound of rock pieces dumped down a chute into a dumpster below. the sound of hammers. a pile of mismatched granite blocks with paint on mismatched sides.

there are a few cars parked in both directions along one side of the main street. further up, the picnic area ends and a parking lot begins, mostly filled with white tourbuses. the sound of motorbikes and tractors.

at the edge of the town is the cemetary. trees grow out of sand. i hear a bird i have never heard before: fast chatterclucking.

often in the mornings it is rainey; often in the afternoons, sunny. today is such a day. i am in the hostel common area. the wind comes down the chimeny of the common area and bafs the styrofoam that has been cut and fitted to keep out the draft. from the kitchen i smell them cooking eggplants and sweet vegetables.

Act Two, Scene Three : into goreme

in goreme the single mosque's prayer call echoes, then echoes again in the eroded valley. you can see how water has dripped and flowed for a thousand years.

arrived this morning after an easy midnight bus ride, though nothing guaranteed it to be easy.

from sundance they saw me off with brown bread, not white, and a mouth-watering spreadpaste made from walnuts, red pepper, hot pepper, black pepper, like, twelve cloves of garlic, and juice of a half lemon, blended til smooth, _so delicious. i been to the river, i been baptized -- you can take me to my hangin' ground.

left sundance later than i intended. luckily antalya was closer than i thought. found a ticket in the bus station where tour companies with their banner signs clamour for attention like flowers in the bee-keeper's field: departed from platform three. chided for putting my feet on the seat, meant i had to stay sitting straight forward and upright with no way to curl up and rest; still, slept most of the way. used halvah as a sleeping drug: so creamy and rich and heavy in the blood; ate it from the blade of my camping knife. woke to the crunchy plastic-on-plastic sound of the bus hitting something on the road and gasps from the people in the front seats. the driver and another man going down and out in front while the four-way flashers clicked; soon back on our way.

then into nevsehir, chilly and scrubby, as the sun rose. onto a smaller bus, stewarded there by travel agents with plenty to sell. hot air balloons over the valley.

arrived in goreme around 8:00 am. from there walked down the main street to Hard Rock Travel, next to Café Turca, to meet with jade, who will see me square; friend of a friend from burning man. potential today to leave many things behind. flocks of birds: I'll Fly Away.

goreme is alien landscape, turkish badlands. many of the hostels here make the promise of hot water, guaranteed. the signs done in capital lettering have capital i's with a dot overtop, a quirk of turkish alphabet (there are two variants of i, with and without the dot). there is a square where twice a week is a farmer's market. there is a music shop with guitars.

got set up in a hostel, the second in a room for five. my bags in one corner next to a red hard plastic suitcase tagged from air france. when i arrived: on a chair an open cosmetic bag with eyeliner pencils and a bottle of perfume; on the radiator an open make-up compact with severe colours, reds and blues and purples; a tube of "dentifrice blancheur" in the bathroom.

the room itself: stone brick walls; a wooden door with an iron latch; thin scuffed carpet, feels like stone underneath; translucent curtains; someone's watercolour riverscape hanging in an alcove cut into the wall. an infrared heater on a stand pointed down onto bed number four where la francaise's clothes lay folded. the walls, carpet grey; the wood of the door and windowframe crimson and peeling.

went for a wander to get food, first meal i will have to make for myself in i don't remember how long: bread, cheese, tomatoes, chocolate, apricots, squishy candy. the shopkeeper gave me a sweet carrot bar with nuts for desert. back at the hostel, coffee made in my travel mug with boiled water.

the sound of children outside my window, looks onto a road, a ditch, a stoneblock wall, a driveway with soccer, houses with solar water heaters. as i leave, the door frame low: i bonk my head.

<< aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper? >>

it is coming to the end of my time at sundance.

my time abroad has been extended by one month which puts us square in the middle of this story. it is ten weeks now that i have been gone, and as of today i have been away for longer than i have ever been away before (again).

this has been an amazing, and an unexpected stay at sundance where the sounds of nature just about drown out the sound of the prayer call from the nearby town. it is pretty here and still, and everything waiting there for me to just discover it, and a lot of it i did. many days i prayed for rain so i could stay in the dining hall, MSN'ing or putzing, instead of being out in the world trying sometimes too hard to "discover" it. i stood ambivalent on top of turkey and was very pleasantly surprised in dug-out little churches with faded paintings. some days i overnapped. i hiked. i walked. i trudged. i chased the chickens.

i learned the words: honesty, hope, faith, courage, integrity, willingness, humility, love, justice, perseverance, vision, service. daily i fed the black cat a bit of cheese even though i know i probably should have not.

i had the hugpounce emoticon sent to me -- these two yellow smiley faces, and one creeps up behind the other, pounces and hugs. crazy kids these days and their fancypants animated smileys, but i did appreciate it. i am far from home.

i did little things that are good for my soul and my karma, i really did, but i feel i deserved to be bitten by that dog. leave it at that.

and i have healed. and although i was so swollen that for a while i had no lefthand knuckles, i have healed now and i have learned a new song on the little blue guitar and it is very much fun.

and littler things. like being able to ride the highway buses, and when it it time to move on i will be able to buy my own ticket, orient myself, and make my way to the cave cities of cappadocia.

i have acquired a taste for creamyrich halvah, but you still can see my bottommost ribs. that is how i like it.

the flowerbeds have been upturned by hand and shovel now and the earth is wet. today you can see the water running off the land, through the tall grasses and over the feet of the contented ducks, into the creek that flows to the sea but runs backwards when the moon is rising. it is close to nature here: you can see the actual cycles. i am a little sad to be leaving.

yesterday a bird flew smack into the window of my cabin and was stiff and motionless on the ground when i went out to see what had happened. she was tiny and very fine, soft feathers, on her back in the wet leaves. i sat over her for a long time wanting to do something but of course there was nothing to be done. this morning her body was gone when i checked again. maybe she was just severely stunned. maybe the cats got to her. anyways time for me to leave sundance now, and what i have done here i have done.

just the facts, ma'am (3a) : the building with mosaics

the most impressive building in the ruins of olympos is forgotten, now, dug out and restored only in 1992 and known simply as the "building with mosaics." the building with mosaics is deep in the forest. you get to it by walking down a long stone walkway.

who can trace the canyoned paths
cattle have carved into time,
wandering from meadowlands to feasts?
layer upon layer upon layer
of autumn leaves are swept away --
something forgets us perfectly.

it used to be a two-storey building with a courtyard. now it is rubble. the tile mosaics all lie smashed and broken on the ground. the domes and arches that held up the second level are broken too.

the mosaics are done with very small square tiles, fitted into swirling or angular geometric patterns, gummed onto big slabs of stone. they are caked with a thousand years of dust and dirt, and grown over with grasses.









very neat.

that is what i tell myself. truth is i walked right over something important, didn't even notice. i would have missed it if i had not read the informational plaque on the building's other side. it said: the floors of the building with mosaics once were decorated with motifs of vines, as well as birds. i had not seen any birds in the tiles. so i went back and looked more closely and there they were.

living is easy with eyes closed -- a theme of my time here at sundance.

the stone walkway carries you out beyond the building with mosaics, taking you past a creek where reeds grow tall and where frogs sing as the sun goes down, back to the main site.

how do you like your eggs?

<< been thinkin 'bout alicia keys >>

strange, wonderful, magical things are happening to your protagonist.

i been thinkin 'bout alicia keys,
couldn't keep from cryin
but she was born in hell's kitchen,
i was livin down the line --
i'm wonderin where in the world alicia keys could be:
i been lookin for her right clear through tennessee.


recall that last year i went on a summertime adventure seeking -- well, call it seeking astrid kerr. today i slightly found her.

for a few reasons of neediness and love and desire, astrid and i did not so much talk leading up to my departure, making me think that i had perhaps seen the last of my torch-singer vegan friend. so off i went to wander and maybe find her again. i did not know exactly what i was looking for. seeking astrid kerr is just code, after all: i knew only that i had to let go of many things deeper than what went down between her and me, though i didn't know what -- neko case singing, if i knew then what's so obvious now, you'd still be here, baby.

when i got back i found astrid working at an organic cafe and she came with me to her first rave, where she was a star. she is coming to europe this summer and we are considering a train ride together.

and she is perhaps even coming to burning man, her first time. and she needs someone to help her with the basics, like, that rubbermaid bins work best for storing gear and that you want to take plenty of ziplocks. today we talked for hours. and one more grudge i hold against myself is slowly melting.

the universe is affording me chance after chance at redemption. late last night the unicorn girl, getting home from chef school in montreal (where she is studying), messaged me to say:

"you need to see how much of a trashy chef i look right now."

"tell me," i said.

but she didn't want to tell me, she wanted to show me. i swear every single word of this is true. sitting at her computer she turned on her little camera. she waved. she had a white chef's coat with pockets in the sleeves; in the pockets, a felt pen and a spoon; a black kerchief at her neck; a white apron over a skirt. her hair is as red as it is black, her eyes as grey as they are blue. her smile pushes up her cheekbones. she undid her kerchief. she loosened the top buttons of her jacket. then the jacket came off. she had a black t-shirt on underneath. she wore three black necklaces. she lit a cigarette.

then she undid the apron; a black skirt. then she slid out of the skirt and sat there in black boyshorts and black fishnet stockings. she stretched her legs long out to the camera.

"i quite like that contrast," she typed, "uniform and fishnets. very sneaky."

and then she climbed under her covers typing she was cold and then she typed 'sleep time' and kissed me with an x and that was it -- gone.

i ask you: what do i ever do to deserve anything.

today the world SPARKLED. i saw turtles. i saw frogs. i saw river pebbles. i saw dragonflies. i saw swarms of bees. i saw bright yellow birds. i saw bushes with razor sharp thorns. i touched the rocks and in the forest shade they were colder than my someday tomb. the trees burst with their flowers. the dark sea gleamed white under the sun. i saw a little boy chasing after a cat with a pine cone in his hands, for no reason at all, because everyone knows you don't catch cats with pine cones, you catch them with cheese -- his mother close behind. a man walked carrying two fishing rods and a wire basket.

i walked through the forest til i found the ruins of Phaselis. i came in overland, walked out through the town til i got to the little harbour, a small bay made with rolled-in stone pieces and rocks to isolate it from the bigger waves out on the sea. then i turned around to look back and the whole city leapt to life: you suddenly could see the oldtime people coming in by ship, not the way i came, but over the water, docking their boats and walking up the triplets of stone steps. you could see the city's logic, the movement of caravans down the main street, from the shore along the road that disappeared now into the forest. you could see the left turn up to the theatre, the baths on the right with the tile mosaic leading you in. you could see the baskets, the fish, the bread, the fronts of shops in the worn down stone walls. all this under the daytime moon.

walking back home along the beach, girls in the surf and for once it mattered not if they were wearing swimsuits or bikinis or even just suntan lotion --

and you see your girl's brown body dancing in the turquoise
and her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea --

it mattered _less. and feeling like for some things i am damn near forgiven, just like war is over (if you want it).

signs of life

awoke today to singing birds, blue skies and the smell of wetness and headed down for breakfast, which i like to eat the same way each day, with lots of tea. i am fond of having my peach jam for desert, like sweet fruit preserves, since it's way more like fruit than like jam. everything outside is greener for last night's rain. there is a mare here who is in the last days of pregnancy and last night her baby dropped in her. found someone's black bra along the sea shore. today i can touch my left thumb to all four of my left fingers which is two more than yesterday. made a new friend, maybe -- and scored an inside joke: "i like unicorns -- with gravy and a side of mashed potatoes." ha ha! you had to be there.

<< sky full of fire / rain fallin down >>

cold abruptly and there is a thunderstorm moved in overhead. i am sitting inside the main building here. water drips through the ceiling where there has been a hole cut, and fitted, to allow a tree up and through from where it is growing in the centre of the dining area. spider plans in pots hang from its branches, and hula hoops that await the arrival of summer hippies. on the gravel beneath there is a basket for garbage and one for used batteries. a scraggly cactus stretches up almost to the ceiling, and in a grey ceramic pot there is an elephant plant with new leaves still folded and redrubberywrapped, soon to unfurl. in the windows hang long strings with pinecones and feathers tied one after the other. the big wooden doors leading to the kitchen have reliefs carved into them, men with curls plyaing lutes, tambourines, with ornate belts and wrapped skirts. this white tablecloth has blue eye beads woven in. the chairs are uniform wood chairs but each one has been painted a different colour with those elementary school paints that come in pucks. i have a steaming cup of tea. they are lighting the stove. from where i sit i can see the choppy sea. outside some visitors stroll wearing borrowed orange rain ponchos. the ducks are right at home in the puddles. two chickens hide under a picnic table.

my chocolate supplies are finite out here but today is the day to have a piece. know that everything challenging that i thought i could leave behind by merely coming to turkey, every single thing that needs to change in me has come right along with me, even right along to sundance where the *sun *itself *dances (although not today). it's like that saying, the only zen you find at the top of a mountain is the zen you take up there. anyways you make me smile. stay beautiful and _take _no _prisoners : )

Act Two, Scene Two : from seemingly nowhere

yesterday's bus trip started at two in the morning, very tired but restless, an aisle seat. and it dragged: all in all a fifteen hour journey, some of it on a minibus where my head brushed the ceiling, and too hot.

but now i am here at sundance eco-preserve outside tikirova, overlooked by a mountain and on the stony shore of the mediterranean sea.

there are six people here my age, three couples. there are eleven cats. there are horses. there are cacti. there are little birds so small that if they land in the grass you lose them, and they fly in and out of the trees in big flocks.

i hear crickets. i hear frogs. i hear water.

feeling: that this is like the hostel on vancouver island with the little kitchen where i met sara, the girl i did not kiss. she took my hand as we wandered after dark past cafes with posters in the windows, blurred photos of a local songwriter singing her heart out in a tourist town. sara wore a black hoodie and a little black tanktop underneath and black corduroy pants that picked up the fine white sand when we went to sit by the water. and she took a purple flower from me that i'd picked up and carried it all the way down to the beach, and when we stopped she attached it to a tress of her hair with quick fingers and a black elastic she made appear from seemingly nowhere. and when she drew pictures of herself she darkened under the eyes.

she lives in jerusalem. i have not heard from her. it's after dark now. it's pretty here.

thoughts on ankara

i have held off putting together my thoughts about ankara because it's a philosophical problem too.

everyone told me ankara is an ugly city, and in a lot of ways it was. there was so much pollution that you couldn't see the sprawled-out edge of the city on account of the smog. and not a lot there that gripped me.

the basic question is : did i see ankara for myself at all, or just see what other people told me to see?

i did try to force myself out for walks to see the downtown and to wander around, but by day two i was tired of being lost, and the street signs are all tiny and hidden so i had no hope, and if they're not going to make their city more visitor-friendly then fine, i will take my existential crises elsewhere.

and none of the pet stores sold cat toys suitable to mail back home.

there was a little park with swans, but also tape to keep people off the grass. water dripped from the birds' beaks. what keeps them from flying away? can swans fly?

we went for pizza at a college pizza joint that had been redone, swank now. that was one night. and the other i tried iskander which is rice, croutons, yoghourt, and donair meat, with extra butter, and served extra hot because once it cools it gets filmy. we ate at a restaurant called Aspava -- an acronym for allah saglik para afiyet versin amir, may allah grant you health, affluence, and good appetite. there were four restaurants in a row all the same, all with the same name, all serving more or less the same menu, so when we pulled up in the car parking attendents all clamoured to get us to park in front of their restaurant and jumped to open the doors for us. we chose the leftmost restaurant. inside one person had a canadian flag on her backpack. bottles of turnip juice on the table and when it was time to go they brought us towelettes and offered perfume water.

later that night to an old college haunt where they played blues, where mo knew the owner who wore black and hadn't shaved and drank whisky from a short glass with ice. life, women, music, we talked about. there was a bottle of wine on each empty table along with the table settings, and a group of people our age talking, and a woman at the bar, and another couple. we stayed until they dimmed the lights.

at home watching the news they brought the anchorman tea on camera.

but the real truth of ankara was time spent in mo's office doing homework and hearing montreal call me louder and louder, beautiful sophisticated montreal, and thinking in general and also specific terms about summer plans, and of riding my bike again. my time in turkey is half over.

<< forward they cried from the rear, and the front lines died >>

from çanakkale i caught the ferry across the dardanelles to a town called ecabet, and from there i went to see the battlefields of gallipoli.

i went with a heavy head. i knew generally how many men that died there, learned the specific number from the plaques at the information centre, a quarter million. i knew the general outline of the IWW and how it started, nations vying for control of what used to be the ottoman empire. i knew that i should feel the souls around me, bodies stacked like cordwood. but i did not. it was foggy and the pines reached up in the fog like fingers clutching, that was pretty and ghostly. i saw many birds, heard them singing to each other in the mist about how life goes in circles. and there was one particular hill that the anzacs tried to rush to gain control of the slopes on the other side. one hundred metres of dirt and scrub that made me think of the general pettiness of our species, maybe just of men. i knew what i _should feel, glory and all that. but i am not sure that i buy it. i am pretty sure we are on the wrong side of a war now. and we watched how they started it. it would be funny if it weren't serious -- we know where the chemical weapons are, they're somewhere to the north, south, east or west of baghdad. right? those men were my age or younger. one was an animal handler. maybe he understood the wise, mournful look in horses' eyes. maybe he didn't believe in fighting.


it stayed foggy all day. the sun came out only for an hour and during that hour i curled up on a picnic table and napped on the quiet battlefield as the water lapped on the pebbley beach. i was the only person there -- i hardly saw one other person. i saw two falcons, though, or eagles, big chesty birds high up in the scragley trees. if i come back i will come explore on a bike. it was definitely wrong to use a big pickup to tour the memorials of a colonial war.

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.