Standing on the balcony, I overlook endless* rows of cinderblock high-rises. Jutting balconies cluttered with orange tubing and half-broken furniture, flapping with laundry or shower-curtain-like drapes that blunt the sun. But this is evening.
In the dusty concrete valley, the murmur of the mosques begins to rise again. The murmur seeps out as if the land is rousing itself, or mumbling in the middle of a dream. A point of sound coalesces -- a nearby mosque, to the left. Then, one in the middle. Two, more distant. Then suddenly ten, many echoing miles away, interweaving with dissonance.
*(Or, rather, only the near, visible edge of what suggests endlessness. Of course, it ends. I know very well, having lived in a place that was nothing like this. At any rate, the droning chant of the dude at the local mosque lulls us into a nonliteral state of mind. It's all jumbled up -- the metaphysical realm. The land of make-believe. The imaginary realm of the Star Wars cantina.)
It subsides in the same staggered manner, until just one lagger is moaning a little off-key. Then the mundane sounds resume their spots, stray dogs, car horns, construction site kids.
--October 6, 2002