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then drink the water or drip it over their bodies. That way they could actually ingest or be<br />
covered in the protection of the words, the gods. Tiny papyrus or votives with invocations<br />
or spells inscribed were put into amulets or armbands and worn as protection. They<br />
believed the words had life, and by altering or changing a script you would affect the reality<br />
that was associated with it. This wasn’t a game of simple translation.<br />
Each word, each symbol is a spirit waiting to be released into the world, not just the<br />
world of its creation but every world after that. Everyday, I see so much sadness here,<br />
everyone seems convinced that they will be alone in the next world, just as they walk alone in<br />
this one. Sometimes I never want to lift my face from the page.<br />
All of a sudden we were packing up and heading out the door. Erin gripped my arm<br />
as we stood, grabbing her thin jacket and scarf without letting go. We shuffled out, weaving<br />
around the tables, past Pam who was clutching the bar with both hands, head down between<br />
her heaving shoulder blades, vibrating.<br />
Take me to see it, Erin says to me. I want to see the Stela.<br />
It was such a bad idea. They don’t get any worse. Sure, I had keys and things, but<br />
the British Museum had guard stations manned twenty-four hours a day. You can’t just<br />
waltz in at two in the morning toting a wall-eyed young woman with perfect breasts and<br />
purple-tipped hair. But I enjoyed the way her fingers held the napkins, framing the symbols<br />
with delicate strands of skin and nail.<br />
You know, she said, I’ve never been in the British Museum before. It’s true! I’m a<br />
bit embarrassed to say so, but it’s not exactly what I do. You know what I mean?<br />
I didn’t. What did she do? I slipped my hand into hers and she looked at me quickly.<br />
She seemed startled by it, and in that moment I felt the pull of something close to what we<br />
might call love, as close as I could understand it.<br />
You should sit up straight, eyes wide and listen sometimes. Take the route that<br />
seems clear and reasonable. But you don’t. You have that last drink, stay the extra hour, the<br />
extra week, year, you take another chance on something you don’t even understand. And<br />
then the cities and towns are spiraling away under your feet on cold bleary-eyed mornings<br />
spent rubbing your eyes in the baggage check to your next destination. The signs, the<br />
symbols become vague reminders of where you’ve been, whom you’ve known there. You<br />
haven’t really seen anything but a representation of old hope and faint regret.<br />
There is a vastness to age that compels one to gather things of this world about<br />
them, as if to make a larger piece, something that may be noticed. The ancient Egyptians<br />
were not only aware of this compulsion – they embraced it. People collect people too I<br />
suppose, some people have children for these reasons. You can see it in their faces, the<br />
slope of their shoulders as they stand in line for the cashier or reception lines, the realization<br />
of it hitting them like a club across the back of the neck, a slumping, stunning sensation.<br />
There are worse things I guess. But building people and things around you only makes a<br />
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