|
Canopic Jars
by Aubrey Bjork Canopic jars. What can be better than that? I wonder how they should be painted. Of course, I want them to look like actual canopic jars. No chintzy glitter or chevrons, which essentially ruins my list of craft product knowledge dry. Google, speak to me. Hear, I speak. The search results range from creepy cat lady to state-of-the-art airplane magazine. The steel canisters look too Tron to me—very handy if aliens invade, but a little bit too stiff for everyday use. Maybe pseudo wood? Ooh. Mufasa. The polished mahogany glints in the sun—or at least in the fake photography flash, which is almost like the sun—hinting at the birth of Africa and shaman sticks. My dad is printing me a complete set on his 3-D printer, the hobby fad of the closet genius. The printer, that is—not the complete set of Canopic jars soon to grace my humble abode. Canopic jars, incidentally, are the containers where the embalmers entomb a mummy’s organs. Organs rot, but skin preserves. It’s pretty simple, really. Since the body is part of Ka, the soul, it wouldn’t do to take out necessary pieces and throw them away. The stomach, intestines, lungs, and liver rest safely in ceremonial and highly decorated jars. Well, at least the jars should be highly decorated; I don’t want my set to look like I accidentally tripped over a sacred alligator or something. It’s one thing to be cursed in life, and another to be cursed for eternity. (The Egyptians don’t do YOLO.) Hilariously, the Egyptians didn’t think the brain important enough to keep, and extracted it by fishing it out a little metal hook through your nose. Whoop! Amygdala soup. I wonder who made that executive decision when organ relegation came up on the Pharaoh’s staff meeting agenda. I return to the Google search. No, I don’t want the jars to look like an actual excavation find, all crumbly and dirt-covered with broken ears and whatnot. I want the heyday jars, not the run me down, discovered by a Brit with a pick jars. More options flitter by, but none settle an impression as did the pseudo dark wood. I learn the names of the guardians: Duamutef, Hapi, Imseti, and Qebehsenuef. Was Tut just a fluke, or did he luck out with a one-syllable name? Oh—that’s short for Tutankhamun. His jars definitely make a statement—large, pristine heads of Pharaohs bearing the symbols of each guardian like phylacteries, each decapitated member nestled in a box ringed in royal inscription. An obliging meme informs me that Tutankhamun only had one set of grandparents because of intermarrying. Awkward. But oh—my eye alights on the gold jars. Now that’s what I call classy. They’re the color of real gold, not the kindergarten-almost-yellow variety. I pause in my search to appreciate the full affect. Not quite as earthy as the wood jars, but regal, mysterious, as Horus himself perched on his noble throne. I envision the finished products, burnished gold and lovingly polished; each jar graces the kitchen display spot of honor (on the low counter, next to the spice rack). What would I keep in them? Gummy worms. I chortle. Would anyone get that but me? Sugar or flour, perhaps, or coconut shavings. No matter—I can decide content later. It’s the fascia that’s critical now. The burnished gold transports me to Ramses, to the pyramids nestled in shifting beds of hot, dry sand. Now I’m torn. The throaty call of matte pseudo wood echoed through my soul—not my brain or my heart, mind you, but through my very being. The burnished gold contests that connection, usurping the roots of Uganda and supplanting in their place the authority of the upper and lower kingdoms. Why the liver would need a guardian is beyond me. What do normal people do during the day? |
|
