Federico Wardal on Dr. Zahi Hawass, Egyptian archaeologist

The legendary Zahi Hawass, spokesman for ancient Egypt

Dr. Zahi Hawass


by Count Federico Wardal ——————————

When it comes to Egypt, scholars bow. Even those who don’t know much about Egypt, but have only seen the image of Tutankhamun’s golden mask, are enchanted. 

Egypt’s ancient culture crosses the limits of knowledge and much of it is still mysterious today. Egyptian culture has always focused its gaze on the infinite, calling to itself the unknown.  Egypt has built a staircase without limits towards the immense: each point shows a reality which in turn shows another reality, going beyond space and time.  

This can be clearly seen when visiting the funeral chambers of the ancient tombs, admiring the paintings which are exact star maps.  Egypt perfectly combines life and death, physicality and spirituality and represents both with Beauty in its supreme form. Science and knowledge in Egypt are instruments of beauty. So we can admire sublime and perfect faces carved in granite.  

But, great mysteries immediately emerge: it is impossible to imagine that sublime and perfect faces were made in granite 7-8000 years ago without having modern technological means.  Another Egyptian cultural goal was to pass on to posterity the image of the great deceased with all the important things they had used in life.  

To achieve this goal, to achieve perfect conservation of the human body, the absence of humidity, a constant temperature, and other elements unknown to us are necessary.  

The style of Egyptian art, which is metaphysical, is absolute in its uniqueness.  There is no previous, contemporary or subsequent civilization to the Egyptian one that was capable of producing such original art.  The Greek and Roman civilizations, subsequent to Egypt, certainly represented Beauty as well, but always in a more earthly form.  Only since the last century has art, for example abstract art, hovered again towards celestial forms and creatures.  

But why has Egyptian civilization, above all others, disappeared?  The answer would be simple, but it is not. One answer would be that Egyptian civilization disappeared because it had achieved perfection, the perfect balance in everything.  It had accomplished the mission for which it was born.  

I said “disappearance”, since our language is inadequate.  From another point of view, the Egyptian civilization has never disappeared: its echo, its energy is eternal and is eternally on earth and speaks to us, as it does to all of us. In every instant of our life, nature speaks to us,  the universe in an endless motion and cycle.  

The sensational discoveries of the mysteries of Egyptian civilization have no end and help us understand, each other, our times, and what our future could be.  And here is the importance of a great figure who for decades has given us amazing discoveries.  He is a man who wrote 44 books that are invaluable for human knowledge, the engine of our future and survival itself.  

For all this, he is considered a living legend: he is the archaeologist Dr. Zahi Hawass.  I recently met him in Egypt and San Francisco during his world tour.  He is a great man who sees peace and civilization, so he is a worthy son and spokesman for the immense Egyptian civilization.  He recently had al-Fath mosque restored in Cairo, St. Mark Cathedral in Alexandria and Moses Ben Maimon Synagogue in Cairo for a strong dialogue of brotherhood among Muslim, Christian and Judaic traditions. https://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3765207,00.html.

Dr. Hawass also explained to me that there was no slavery in ancient Egypt.  Those who built the fabulous and immense funeral monuments and Egyptian temples were people devoted to the pharaohs and divinities who were their life, their cult, their essence and existence.  Their work, which often lasted their entire lives, was a tribute to the universe and creation.  “They were buried in the sacred places of temples and funeral monuments and for this reason they could not be slaves,” Dr. Hawass tells me.

This year the Great Museum of Giza, the largest museum in the world, will be completed.  It is a project that was begun in the 90s. For Egypt, 2002 was a year of enormous historical importance: on January 5, 2002 President Hosny Mubarak laid the foundation stone of the Grand Museum of Giza and on October 16 heads of state and royalty  from all over the world were in Alexandria for the reopening of the legendary Bibliotheca Alexandrina presided over by the former First Lady HE  Suzanne Mubarak, defender of women’s and children’s rights.  

Dr. Hawass has strongly contributed to the conception of the Grand museum of Giza, always in cultural cooperation with the director of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, Dr. Moustafa El Feki and with the former minister of culture artist Farouk Hosny, inventor of the Cairo International Festival of Experimental Theater.  

Hawass has strongly cooperated with UNESCO in carrying out colossal works in Egypt and supported the author of the law against female genital mutilation, H.E.  Moushira Khattab, for her recent candidacy as UNESCO ‘s Secretary General.  

Dr. Hawass is constantly lecturing in the USA and, as soon as the coronavirus emergency is over, Dr. Hawass will hold the conferences that were scheduled for May. 

His speaking calendar is in this link https://hawasslectures.com/.  Over the course of millennia, Egypt has undergone various epidemics and has always survived.  President El-Sisi has long taken drastic measures against the spread of coronavirus, although there are few cases in Egypt.  Egypt and Dr. Hawass wish the world a very rapid resolution of this pandemic, being pleased to reopen the doors to the magic and splendor of Egyptian monuments and museums.

Poetry from John Dorroh

Pandemonium in the Pandemic

I woke up speaking Portuguese, wearing

red-hot pajama bottoms with black-and-white

penguins. My bottom lip was puffed up like

I had a Botox injection and I was

bleeding between my toes on my left foot.

The reflection in the mirror showed a palm

tree, a little gray squirrel monkey scurrying

to the top, a miniature machete in his right

paw. There were crows lined up on the

telephone wire across the street where

Mettler Construction raped the beautiful

ridge where my heart used to lie. And my

big dog has another tumor.

You spoke to me in a dream to tell me

that the house was on fire. Get out! You

exclaimed, run for your life. But I couldn’t.

The blood from my toes was filling

up the house, and I needed to swim but didn’t

know how. The toaster was glowing reddish-

orange and three flamingos started pecking

my knees.

There were unexplained abrasions and contusions,

scissors stuck in the fat at the back of my head,

and my car was a John Deere combine, too large

to drive out of the back yard. The dogs had wings

and the cat three black tongues. There was a tornado

heading my way and no place to go, no place to go,

no place to go….

I stopped and prayed: Jesus save me. That’s all I knew

to do. And I woke up inside the vault of a bank,

surrounded by cops who had mouths like pregnant

carp. My stomach harbored a knife wound and there

was a knot the size of a golf ball on the side of my face.

My house was gone except for the foundation, which

looked like a flattened trampoline. I can’t recall having

learned a lesson here so I checked into a local hotel

and took a much-needed nap.

Transparency

So often you look at me and say hello

as we pass each other, entering or leaving

our building like two strangers who easily

could become

friends. But we don’t. Instead I carry your

sweet smile in my head, take you to Barcelona

where we eat tapas and stay out until the salmon

sun slides up from the horizon where water meets

sky.  Too complicated to remove the plastic

sheet, not sanitary or prudent perhaps to peel

off our skins. We’re just neighbors, right?

We’re on Hiatus, or Abaude with Leaky Roof and Old Yeast

Please don’t ask me questions right now

or knock on the door. We’re staying inside

and not receiving guests. We’re making morning

bread with old yeast that might be too sluggish

to work.

Our roof leaks in this bad weather, and the big

dog has new tumors. Food has no taste.

I wake up in the morning wanting to climb

into my own body and never get up.

I cry at the drop of a hat.

We’re wiping down the kitchen counters

and table with homemade wipes, praying

that light will ooze into the windows while

we’re asleep and the whole thing will have

been nothing more than a seriously bad dream.

My teeth need cleaning but I don’t care.

Why I Quit Sunday School: Virtual Handshake with Peter, Breath like a Camel

An argument ensued about whether Jesus

had an odor, and I asked, “Was He a man?”
And they said yes, of course. And he was

perfect in every way.

But hygiene must have been an issue because

of the heat, and most humans sweat. Did He

bathe everyday? I’ll give you a few minutes

to prove one way or another whether He smelled

like everyone else.

I know you can find some Scripture in

your Bible. You always pull out Scripture

to prove your point, just as attorneys

often do, skewing the data in their favor,

expecting the world to accept their fluff.

So I ask you, Peter, did Jesus have bad breath?

Did he have dandruff and a mild case of eczema?

I say He did, Peter; had a breath like a camel

and toe jam between each and every toe.

But no one will ever know, so why do we spend

valuable time attempting to prove something

that never mattered in the first place? Can I get

an amen? How about a handshake, Peter? It’s

about all we had left.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

Author J.J. Campbell
Author J.J. Campbell

bio
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?)
was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Scum Gentry, Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, Raw Dog Press and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

in the next life 
she had a beauty
that would hit you
like a truck driven
by a drunk driver 

she could simply look at you
and your first reaction would be to melt

i asked her once if she would marry me 
she chuckled until
she noticed i was
serious she apologized and said she
would give it more thought
in the next life 

i walked away knowing
i would never be a lucky soul

buried in their phones 

they try to wheel out the dead ones
without alarming the other patients
in the waiting room
 most people have their faces buried in their phones 
and they wonder why crime is so damn easy these days

this virus going around 

got kicked out of a waiting area
because of this virus going around 
was told to go wait in the car 
everyone in the place had masks on 
modern day robbers i suppose

a small dog 

my mother wants to get a small dog 
i laughed and said as long as it comes with batteries,
sure she didn’t find that funny 

i asked her who will walk the dog
and bend over and pick up the shit 
she said you could do that 
i pointed to the ice on my back
and reminded her any chances of that happening
moved on years ago

to iron maiden songs 

you could smell
the hairspray from forty feet away 
she’s the type of woman that fucks to iron maiden songs 
expects your tongue to find her asshole
on a nightly basis

all this while she wants you
to ignore that the guy down the street
has the same deal 
he’s fifteen years younger
and you do understand

Essay from Chimezie Ihekuna

Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Chimezie Ihekuna

Humanity; Reconciling with Nature

Humanity depicts the remorseful;

As nature shows the resentful.

Humanity seeks reconciliation;

As evidenced in the follow-up conversation.

But humanity must apologize

For nature to recognize.

The Conversation

Humanity: I’ve tried to change your actually-designed program.

But I’m seeing an unfavourable diagram.

Nature: Oh! Now you know!

               Why stoop so low?

Humanity: I thought my fears of insecurity would be brave by my years of prosperity.

Nature: I see

Humanity: Besides, I’ve tried to tamper with your virtues

                   Only to realize I’ve been swayed from attaining my stature

Nature: You see how you’ve wronged yourself

Humanity: I’ve wronged myself

Humanity: I tried to affect your chief energy source

                   Only to realize I’m getting worse

Nature: Good to know you’re realizing!

Humanity: I’ve tried to change your truth vibration

                   Only to realize nothing but the illusion

Nature: Interesting!

Humanity: I’ve naively attempted to question your consciousness

                   Only to realize my action has tampered with my fitness

Nature: This’ incredible!

Humanity: I’ve tried to work-out a plan to negatively explore the totality of your infinite particles

                  Only to realize I’ve been moving in circles

Nature: Hmmm….A square peg in a round hole

                What a ratio of a mole!

Nature sees the genuinty of humanity’s plea

Purity of its consciousness is what Nature see

Humanity decides to switch on to the listening mode

To understand the messages of Nature’s code

Nature is about to engage humanity in communication

As evidenced in its reactions

Nature’s Reactions

Humanity,

Learn to understand the fact that:

I’m the universal Nourishment;

The Foundation Of Organized Development;

So, don’t act towards your detriment

I’m giving you room to be Adventurous;

The very reason for your not being (too) curious;

So, in your actions, don’t cause the precarious

I’m the worth of all Truths;

The completeness of all their roots;

So, don’t cast them away with your thought foots

I’m Universality-personified;

The reason energy is easily identified;

So, don’t let destruction be satisfied.

I’m all-Revealing;

The illumination that’s enlightening;

So, don’t dim the power of my lighting

I’m Eternal;

The infinitum of time’s material;

So, don’t be carnal

The reconciliation takes place…

Nature acceptance humanity’s apologies experiences a positive phase…

Humanity’s understanding of Nature’s information gathers great pace…

The result?

It turns out that:

Both parties experience peace;

Their mutual ease says it all

Both parties are genuinely free;

Their unrestricted activities will

Both parties are at equilibrium;

Their balancing (each other) depicts stability in momentum

Both parties witness longevity;

Their lives unveil the clarity

Both parties appreciates the reconciliation;

Their relationship portrays the cordial communication.

Poetry from Mahbub

Author Mahbub
Mahbub

Dengue Fever

The whole country is attacked

Not at all a negligible sigh

I always fear, O dear

Can’t fly to thee

The world is trembling with fever

Stay here a spirit alive or dead

Don’t cry but always beat the heart

Suffers from the temperature

Fall in and die, in an epidemic form platelets hunger

Garbage after garbage along with the unconsciousness

We passed our days long

Tired off the mood

Take a chance the Aedes, a yellow-fever mosquito

The little or the young or the old

Groaning on the bed day and night

Breathe the last and leave the earth forever

Reflects the spirit nobody tries to

A single bite of Aedes

What lesson does it teach?

If our eyes are open not to see

And consciences stopped to speed the gear

How can we live, how can we see the earth anymore

O dear, can you hear?

The bubbling words just before the last wink of the eye.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
 23/08/2019

To the Brim

Throwing and growing

Living and dying

Laughing and crying

Days are passing

Loving and caring

Make a space for both of us

See the horizon

Reach the earth’s summit

Look for what is not

Wish to have years more to touch

But time stands like the hilly lands

To the eyesight, for body and mind

Dull and dim

On the gulf with a ball

Soars higher and higher

A gleam to the brim.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
 24/08/2019

Rawhide Life

The seasonal rawhide business, damn

A life of a diseased person

On the bed silent to die

From time I can sense the price

This goat or cow rawhide

Never fall down like this time, Eid-ul-Azha

Many people dug them into the soil

Many throw away beside the roads

Instead of selling 

For a bottle water price

What’s the responsibility?

Though we teach our kids the meaning of Responsibility

Losing millions of crore money, a right to the poor

Have we forgotten to wear the shoes or sandals?

To whom are we standing before?

To whom are we getting marked?

When a lot of bank currency flew to the other country

Defaulters do not pay a big amount of loans

A mockery with a laughing face

Now and then would like to utter

‘Rubbish’.   It matters little to them

Whether we live or die

How life hovers around the country wide!

 Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
 24/08/2019

Meeting the Moments

While walking along the garden

A snake came to my sight

I could realize and my effort to see the next time

It was never found

Lost from the eyes and lost forever

The glamour and fascination of the day

Lie old and useless only after the night

The sun rises and the green reality

With soft healthy breeze

I can’t think how it burns just to the noon

Like the Amazon rain-forest, the heart of the world’s oxygen

Burnt to the whole carbon dioxide

How it burns! How does the animals and the trees!

Is it the balance of the earth we live and love?

The sun rises, the day becomes torn.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
24/08/2019

Who Cares

How can we get relief from this torture?

Somebody say to escape from the earth

Somebody living in a death trap

Wherever you take place

Same the circumstances

More than iron the heart so heard

You can laugh, smile

Instantly it appears pale

Tears don’t fall from the eyes

The mouth stops breaking the heart

Here days seem to be long

Always hope to go forward

Always come back futile

Always try to laugh

Always tears fall down from the eyes

Who cares if I lie dead or alive, dear?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
28/08/2019

Poetry from Chuck Taylor

Childhood, a Pantoum

Pat’s family on the outside could impress

They moved around seeking and finding less

Hidden, Pat’s dad, a mad alcoholic

Hidden, Pat’s mom, clinically depressed

They moved around seeking and finding less

Hidden, Pat’s sister was manic-depressive

Hidden, Pat’s mom, clinically depressed

Every day Pat dreamed of fleeing home

Hidden, Pat’s sister, manic-depressive

Pat played outside as much as Pat could

Every day Pat dreamed of fleeing home

The shy dad, a famous research doctor

Pat romped outside as often as Pat could

Two great pals Pat had in the neighborhood

Pat’s shy dad, a famous research doctor

Pat’s mom, a doctor who stayed at home

Two great pals Pat had in the neighborhood

Hidden, Pat’s dad, a mad alcoholic

Pat’s mother, a doctor who stayed at home

Two times Pat’s mother tried to kill herself

Hidden, Pat’s dad was a mad alcoholic

Pat’s mom did time on psychiatric wards

Pat’s mother, a doctor who stayed at home

Pat was too young to understand compassion

Pat’s mother did time on psychiatric wards

Pat ran on survival and did not learn love

Pat, too young to understand compassion

Pat’s family on the outside could impress

Binky Villanelle

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky,

The voice of the rational brain insists.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky.

 A binky’s to calm a cranky baby

When the crying insists and persists.

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky.

A binky is a baby’s sweet whiskey,

Fake tit of distress, that’s why it exists.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky,

In some cultures they’re considered kinky,

The way babies grip them in stiff fists.

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky.

Stealing poor baby’s binky is frisky.

Some say taking that knob brings an abyss.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky.

What if down the kid’s pipe it goes twisty?

Baby starts to choke, you could slit your wrists.

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky.

Nostalgia Villanelle

In our homes, families must now cluster

Playing video games, watching TV,

Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster.

Who recalls the joys of the newspaper

In these Covid pandemic times, whoopee?

In our homes, families must now cluster.

The paper used to offer such succor,

As you balanced its many sheets on a knee,

Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster.

Columns, horoscopes, puzzles, remember?

It set your inner timer to be free.

In our homes, families must now cluster.

All those sections to read, what a caper!

All at your fingertips, such peaceful glee,

Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster!

No talking head needed as instructor,

Your mind once on quiet print worked to see.

In our homes, families must now cluster,
Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster.

Poetry from Chris Butler

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. The 8th book in his Poems of Pain series, Montage of Madness, was published by Scars Publications. He is also the co-editor for The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal.


Employees Must Wash Hands
 One hand washes the other,
as the other hand washes the mind.

Still radiating from the mass graves of radium girls,
shining their minor economical sacrifice
with indentured smiles and a can-do attitude,
just so their obsolete creations could be sold.

Imagine employing human beings
to become nuclear nightlights.


Snowflakes (are Not Special)

Social justice warriors,
fair weather warfare
as warlords of words,
whining war whoops
with primal chants
of fascist correctness  
echoed from bullhorns,
virtue smoke signaling
freedom to hate speech,
wearing war paint,
resembling black face.



Blackpill

Boomers
are big babies born
into the economic spoils
of cold wars,
promised the security
of a nine to five career,
a brand new Cadillac
off the assembly line,
two-point-five children
in a nuclear family
and a suburban castle
with a picket fence,
painted white only.

Zoomers
are bigger babies
raised in the womb
of mother’s basement,
as the outside world
is far too slow paced
compared to their
technology on Adderall,
ubiquitous dumb phones
and the accumulations 
of friends and likes,
as culture is cancelled
for their privilege. 

Bloomers
frolic in the
poppy fields of
nature’s sunflower
petal embrace,
blissfully oblivious
to any sun not
shining smiles,
with every day
better than the last,
until the peaceful
passing reaches
pure perfection.

Gloomers
overdose on too
many blackpills.
a representation of
societal and civilized
degeneration, uninspired
despite wildfires
in the hearts of desire,
with self imposed 
alienation on all
antisocial networks,
until no longer a
negative side effect.

Doomers
accept a lonely fate
without resentment,
driving down every
dead end road,
tormented by each
unrequited love,
dulling all senses
with substances
in preparation for
pending death without
spiritual redemption, only
only hitting the brakes once they hear the glass break.



Knight and Death

When the white Knight
reaches the rocky beach
at the end of the earth, Death
challenges the unknown soldier
at the end of his last crusade 
to a game of height stakes chess.

Glistening steal armor versus a black cloak.
the game begins with pieces arranged
with endless possibilities, but only one
inevitably…the beheading of god.

Each move is followed by doubt, 
sending another soldier for casualty
as Death casually orders the murder
of the on the front line of frightened with pawns.

The Knight follows the horizontal 
And vertical positioning by the bishops,
neighing with doubt as each shoed
hoof clicks and clatters across the board.

The stampedes charged across the board,
but not in time to save the Queen,
the Knight’s only love, as her cries were left
unheard under the silent reply of god.

Death allows vengeful rage to lead to mistakes,
as the Knight unleashes upon the black army to jestingly
prolong the attacking warrior’s last show of defiance,
reaching the last row in the rear of his opponent,

“Check”

Death could not envision his army parting 
as the battled field by the raining blitzkrieg of the blood
of an inferior foe, unleashing a tornado of swords.

The inevitability still exists that Death
wins the war every time, but there’s
still a chance for victory in everyday battles.

“Mate”.


Catching the Dragon

She loved the drug more than she loved him. He loved the drug more than he loved her. This was not a Biblical revelation, but something both had settled to realize as he watched her shaking hands desperately combing her arms for a usable vein whilst stooped upon the toilet seat. Her bleach blonde streaks of hair slowly molding into dreaded knots, her robe was stained by weeks and months of tomato sauce spills and cigarette burns. One bunny slipper covered her left foot. The uncut toenails on her right foot grew coiled.
As the needle penetrated her skin, he looked away to avoid his own reflection in the misty bathroom mirror. Her bloodshot eyes tweaked their tinge from their sober blue. The dark bags dragged her sockets down. Her cheeks sunk so deep she appeared to be puckering for a model’s kiss to the camera. Her insipid skin haunted him, along with the skeleton pressing against it. Then the red ooze of life climaxed all over the white walls and porcelain. With the decay of time the blemishes became bilirubin.
But when she finished plunging the brown venom and escaped blood back into her stream, the need overcame his brain. He reached for his own needle, resting impatiently on the edge of the sink, and began cooking his own concoction of self-destruction. The charbroiled spoon was filled with brown powder, ready to spread a sugary blizzard over children’s cereal. His juddering hand turned the faucet with the letter C clockwise. He stirred his stew until the ingredients thoroughly mixed. The tip of the thirsty needle sucked the puddle on the spoon dry. With much effort he discovered his last useful cable on his infected arm. He closed his eyes as his bullets of blood shot the mirror like that aftermath of a butcher’s murderous horror scene. The tingling numbness conquered him. For the first time since his last dose he felt life and death pumping through him from his beaten heart. When he turned away from himself and towards her, she was still seated still upon the home’s throne, hunched forward, trying to prevent herself from falling over between each pipe dream.
He loved her more than he loved himself, but he needed the chase more than he needed her. And vice versa.