Sage. Wendy Anne
search outside their interests to impress others because time is too valuable to forfeit actual interests for pretend ones, but plenty of people do it. Exhaling heavily, I make a token effort to stare them down; a simple glare to instill fear. My response is unexpected, and they are caught off guard. They seem to notice that I am fearless and in a contemptuous mood as my eyes solidify the conviction behind a stare that instates a warning of potential craziness. All of this accomplished with a single look. An intent look backed by genuine irritation burning hot in my stomach and expressed by my eyes. Body language is the oldest of all languages, and I sometimes have the body language of a rabid animal.
Luckily, the tense moment passes swiftly as the herd of socialites moves on to their next fifty-second painting conquest. All of them except an old lady remain in my vicinity. Her eyes are focused on me rather than the painting, and I try to ignore her to no avail. What a curious creature she is, as her stare tries to pierce straight through me. I sigh. Must every part of this day follow a downward spiral? It seems to me that the Boucher painting must have grown tired of my company because the universe sent plenty of disturbances to break our connection, so I move on and away from the creepy lady and Boucher, to a wonderful European painting, heavily influenced by the Egyptians. I feel a deep connection with historical artifacts found in the Middle East, and I love how certain European artists interpret Egypt with such beautiful confusion, even while saddened by the prospect of endless forgeries ruining divine teachings. Many religions and great empires have gathered something wonderful from Egypt, especially during Egypt’s golden age, which seemed to be a time of peace and great wealth. I believe their time of greatness was heavily induced by their belief systems, which were often more progressive than twenty-first-century ones. Many twenty-first-century systems, in numerous factions of religious government, degrade or oppress feminine nature, rather than admire and worship her as Egyptians once did. Some of my favorite ascended masters come from Mesopotamian carvings, Hindu teachings, and ancient Egyptian knowledge.
I particularly love the stories of Isis, Osiris, Horus, and Thoth, because I find so much continuity with Greek, Roman, and many other religious tales. Some of that influence is demonstrated in the European painting in front of me. Even though my mind feels compelled to elucidate the difference between commonly acknowledged Egyptian and European art, I defer and appreciate diversity instead.
Suddenly Boucher images and eighteenth-century Europe dissipate into the backdrop of my new intention, which is to shift my physical body to the ancient Egypt section of the museum. As anticipated, I am mesmerized. The dead have so much to show us. Time travel is a state of mind, but you only have limited resources and your imagination to get there, though I’m able to forge opinions as if I was there and worshipping the same gods and goddesses as they might have. My psyche integrates personal fantasy with ancient art, as my mind swims between realms of arbitrary space and museum knowledge. There are unique finds from the Valley of the Kings that portray the New Kingdom and Late era collections (around 1550–760 BC), slightly flawed, but masterfully preserved. The overall collection is quite amazing and radiates so much historical energy. The only difficult decision is choosing which piece of art to set aside quality time to explore. While deciding which way to head first, my thoughts are interrupted by a new addition in the center of the main exhibit hall, which happens to be a painting of an ankh, my favorite Egyptian symbol. The picture is glorious, and the colors are vibrant and fresh as if it were recently brought here anew. All crosses have a specific meaning, and because the Egyptian cross is one of the oldest, to me, it’s a powerful symbol. It’s right up there with the sacred flower of life and the pagan circle of protection. Belief is such an influential way humans manifest strong energy vibrations.
For this reason, I am taken by symbols, prayers, and routines that manage to last for millennia. I believe an honest poem, spell, or prayer said aloud, with wholehearted emotional faith, can create powerful vibration fields that connect with the universe. Therefore, thousands of years’ worth of particular spells or prayers said with profound faith using the ankh, or performed around the ankh, has created its intriguing essence, at least in my eyes. It is said that the ankh is the symbol of eternal life. If the gods are depicted holding the ankh to someone’s lips, it is considered an offering or the “the breath of life”—the breath, they say, you will eventually need to achieve a high place in the afterlife. I feel a chill in the back of my neck. The kind of chill one feels when they are being stalked or experiencing a scary story during the black of night. As a result of my quivering chill, I seek this being. Pretending to glance over at a piece of art to my far right, I catch the offender in the periphery of my vision. It is the old woman, still looking in my direction and standing unreasonably close. She must have followed me here because I am moving in a random sequence.
I have a great deal of respect for my elders and, in a better state of mind, would avoid any conflict with them. However, I am not one to be intimidated, nor someone who enjoys being followed, so I do what most people try to avoid and look back at her just as obviously as she is staring at me. She does not budge from my third-degree stare. She merely smirks, as if enjoying the recognition. Irritated, I beckon her with a slight motion of my finger. I realize this is rude, but so is staring, so we are speaking the same lingo. With straggly white hair and dark-brown, deep-set eyes, she inches her way over to me, unblinking. Like something from Tales from the Crypt, she is. At no more than five feet tall, she barely stands at my breasts.
She speaks without introduction or basic formality.
To listen to your voice is pomegranate wine to me:
I draw life from hearing it.
Could I see you with every glance?
It would be better for me
Then to eat or to drink.
I recognized it immediately—a poem from an Egyptian Pharaoh to his beloved wife. Though it isn’t a prolific piece, it would take someone adept in scribe several days to carve a single hieroglyph during the time made. The first instance I heard the poem, the words penetrated my heart as if carved for me, and I were as desired as she, whose king would rather starve than to live without her. Even while Bruce loves me wholeheartedly, he does not know the kind of desperate love that I crave as well as that this poem depicts.
It was like a bandage on my emotional wound that constantly bleeds from disappointment. A few lyrically inclined musicians worked as an antibiotic to prevent my wounds from becoming infected, but it all started with this Pharaoh’s ancient expression of true love.
How fascinating she has knowledge of one of my favorite pieces of poetry from that time; just as I am about to allow my intrigue to deter me from brushing her away, she speaks again.
“I know you, from another time and dimension. Your true splendor is hidden, and your temporary life cycle is a mousetrap intended to mask the essence of your truth. You picked an attractive and sophisticated shell, but that’s all the more reason you are distracted from who you truly are. You need to divorce all that prevents your full potential from becoming a reality.” How random and obscure this woman is, what could she possibly mean? I don’t know whether she is a hopeless romantic drawn to my frequency, and feels like sharing her craziness, or if she’s an intellectual toying with my mind and hoping that my reaction will fulfill a void in the shape of elderly boredom.
“Um, I am not Egyptian that I know of,” I begin, humoring her, “I’m Roman and Syrian to the best of my knowledge, but people in the Mediterranean area have mixed for thousands of years, so it’s possible. Otherwise, all of this Egyptian paraphernalia could be infecting me literally, and I’m about to have tea with Isis while considering whether or not I should let her know that she has five goddess doppelgangers and a terrorist group that stole her name. I feel like she should know about this. I’d use my great potential for such a purpose right now if I could.” My response is sarcastic with heavy doses of condescending undertones, but she’s unimpressed and draws a crumpled business card from her pocket.
“You will see things in a different light soon, and do tell Marcus I said hello when your twenty-first-century snobbery ceases to infect your true grace.” What in god’s name is she talking about? Who the hell is Marcus? It certainly doesn’t sound Egyptian.
How interesting and delightfully mad she seems. Her eyes hold validity