conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Fez, Prix, Language with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'The Bottom of the Jar'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Bottom of the Jar
  Before that, time had been a somewhat foreign concept. Days and weeks had never really coalesced into a grand narrative, whereas months and years faded into a blurry haze. This was why he'd always felt he was living in expectation. Fridays were the only blips on the flat line. Friday, when parents are in a good mood, when the midday meal is bountiful, when we would "Friday" ourselves and pay visits to other members of our family, visit the graves of our nearest and dearest, and, even more exciting, go for walks in the Jnan Sbil gardens – not to mention the possibility of going to the cinema.
  Since the first day of school, the train of time had come into view and set itself onto its rails. A fixed schedule of arrivals and departures. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and so forth. The day of rest was switched from Friday to Sunday. What had happened? The Hijri calendar had simply been replaced by the Gregorian. Every morning, Mr. Benaïssa drummed the date into our heads by writing it at the top of the blackboard: Monday... November 1949.
  Thus regulated and signposted, time began to take giant strides, turning into a purveyor of information. With each passing week, Namouss amassed knowledge and marveled.
  Ah, competition, that virus! Namouss got carried away to such an extent that the rest of the class faded into the background and his sole concern was his relationship with Mr. Benaïssa, who was God in the flesh, who gave and took, punished and rewarded, but who above all shepherded his flock into a new world teeming with life and perpetually in flux, a world where men were so accustomed to fables and legends that they became a part of everyday life.
  His first adventure wasn't a strictly glorious one. The school owned a kitchen garden surrounded by wire mesh, where aside from a handful of trees, there were also various types of vegetables, as well as, unusually, a couple of turkeys that had been left to roam freely, though under the nominal supervision of a watchman who was rarely around. Two rascals in Namouss's class had spotted a flaw in the fence: a small opening located away from prying eyes, where a predator had obviously already made an incursion without an alarm being raised. This lack of surveillance emboldened the two accomplices, who then offered Namouss the opportunity to join their wild caper. After much deliberating, Namouss accepted their offer, though he found the object of their desire a little laughable: the eggs laid by the turkey hen. How had his companions found out about the eggs? Probably because they were originally from the countryside, where children are able to read the movements and changes a bird makes when it's brooding. So Namouss followed their lead, his heart racing wildly. The theft was carried out toward the end of the afternoon, just before the school gates were shut. A meager booty: there wasn't even enough to go around; only a couple of eggs for all their troubles. Once outside, there was the problem of what do with them. Eating them or taking them home was out of the question. The solution they came to was to sell them to the local grocer and split the proceeds between them. In order to better incriminate Namouss, whose success in class irritated them, the two accomplices made a democratic decision – they were, after all, in the majority – that he was the one who should sell the eggs to the grocer. Having no choice, and with a heavy heart, he complied. How would the grocer react? Wouldn't he just confiscate the eggs and blow the whistle on him? That was what he feared as he entered and repeatedly gave up his place in line until there was nobody left in the shop. Miraculously, though renowned for his avarice, the grocer reacted positively to the offer. Amused, the grocer looked at the little boy of pure Fezzi stock as he held out the eggs as if he were a peasant entering the Medina for the first time. He took the suspicious goods and in return handed Namouss a ten-cent coin – two douros. Hell, they were worth at least three times that! When Namouss caught up with his accomplices, they put their heads together and realized it would be difficult to split the sum equally between them. They therefore decided to use the coins to buy some sweets. Namouss went back to the grocer's. The number of sweets the grocer proposed to give him was considerably lower than the usual going price. The grocer had come out a winner on both ends.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Panting, they reached the top of the climb. Prone to sudden reversals, Ghita took a left down Lemtiyine and said, "Let go of my hand now. I can walk by myself. You think my bones have crumbled away or something? I've still got my own wings and I can come and go, rise and fall. The blade's still sharp enough to chop the onion. Let's go, we're almost there."
  A few interminable seconds passed before Ghita reappeared, her expression cheerful, making this trivial observation: "Allah, I felt like I was going to burst! What a relief! Well then, get going. It's just here."
  Ghita lowered her eyes in a gesture of feigned modesty and indifference, although she was in fact on cloud nine and had picked up on every allusion the song was making.
  The unbridled, almost carnivalesque party taking place inside the large house they enter is a far cry from the intimate poetry and discreet melodies of that song. The crowd of spectators surrounding the Gnaoua is almost exclusively composed of women and children. The atmosphere is overheated. Clouds of incense smoke are rising from a number of braziers, gradually forming a thick fog where one can barely see anyone's face. Volleys of ululations are unleashed at regular intervals as the rattles and drums play on. In the midst of this hubbub, Ghita suddenly leaves her child behind and, as if moved by mysterious forces, elbows her way to the front of the crowd. Namouss tries to catch up, but having opened for her, the wall of bodies quickly closes ranks again. Panicking, he tries to come up with a solution. Lifting his eyes, he notices that a number of other spectators are following the ceremony from the floor above by leaning on the parapet. He runs up. Moved to pity by how frazzled Namouss seems, a woman makes a little room for him, but in doing so squashes up against him, overwhelming him with the heavy smell of her perfume. Braving these nuisances, Namouss's only desire is to find his mother again. He tries to make her out in the crowd by spotting the color of her djellaba. There's no point. The cloud of incense has thickened and turned opaque. His gaze is then drawn to a group of women dancing in the middle of the room. Dancing is not quite the word for it. Their agitation has nothing to do with swaying arms and hips or quivering bellies and shoulders, movements Namouss associated with dance as he knew it, the sort that women threw themselves into with a coquettish air at fêtes and festivities. Instead, the only movement these women are making is snapping their heads back and forth in an increasingly staccato rhythm. The rest of their bodies remain immobile, except for when one of them sinks to her knees and begins shaking her torso back and forth with extraordinary strength. Freed from her head scarf, her hair would fall free and toss back and forth, then it began to fly around like a giant eagle experiencing turbulence in flight. Inspired by this ecstasy, the Gnaoua musicians play faster and faster, shouting hoarse sounds to egg the women on. The women reply by ululating in unison. At its climax, the ceremony takes an unexpected turn: A young female spectator leaps into the middle of the ring, and as if she's been bitten by a scorpion, collapses onto the ground. Gripped by convulsions, she starts rolling and wriggling every which way on the floor. At this sight, a few dancers who haven't yet lost all sense of reason run over to her, but instead of calming her down, they merely restrict her freedom of movement by surrounding her in a tighter circle. In doing so, these women look not only delighted but even envious of this "poor epileptic." Moved to pity and racked by anxiety, Namouss pronounces the diagnosis. He knew all about epilepsy. Cases of it were not so rare in the Medina. Whenever they occurred, the first-aid workers immediately set to their principal aim: freeing these bodies of the evil spirits that had possessed them. They would put a large iron key in the victim's hand and sprinkle a little water in his face. Whereas here no one was doing anything to stop the attack. The young woman continued to writhe while the women around her ululated, taking the girl's affliction as a blessing.
  And where was Ghita during all of this? She was nowhere to be seen. Namouss began to despair of ever finding her in this courtyard of miracles. He felt bound up and wanted to be sprung out of this cage. He decided to slip away and leave his mother to her stories of Lalla Mira.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The "yellow spirit," a jinni that loves perfume, music, and dance and leaves laughter and happiness in her wake. When she takes possession of an individual, she sharpens their wit.
  A Moroccan myth: a spirit that can inhabit the bodies of women or take the shape of women. In southern Morocco, Aïcha Kandisha takes the form of a goat, while her shapely, alluring legs remain human. In the north, however, Kandisha has the body of a woman but the legs of a camel. She entices men and then tears them apart.
  Gnaoua are descendants of former slaves brought back by the Moroccans after they conquered Timbuktu. They have a rich cultural tradition where music occupies a large place.
  Laâbi's note: Joha in classical Arabic, Goha in Egyptian, Khodja in Turkish, Guisha in Albanian, Giufa in Sicilian, Odja in Greek, Djahan in Maltese, etc.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Laâbi's note: Joha in classical Arabic, Goha in Egyptian, Khodja in Turkish, Guisha in Albanian, Giufa in Sicilian, Odja in Greek, Djahan in Maltese, etc.. They have a rich cultural tradition where music occupies a large place.
  Gnaoua are descendants of former slaves brought back by the Moroccans after they conquered Timbuktu. She entices men and then tears them apart. In the north, however, Kandisha has the body of a woman but the legs of a camel. In southern Morocco, Aïcha Kandisha takes the form of a goat, while her shapely, alluring legs remain human.
  A Moroccan myth: a spirit that can inhabit the bodies of women or take the shape of women. When she takes possession of an individual, she sharpens their wit.The "yellow spirit," a jinni that loves perfume, music, and dance and leaves laughter and happiness in her wake