In Upper Egypt, the remains of temples past are both confounding and astounding. Rubble fragments strewn across beds of sand make for intricate housekeeping at hem of each ancient structure. Tales gods and goddesses like Osiris and Isis and the kings, Ptolomy to Ramses to Tut, all stimulate rusty brain cells. The multiple layers of framed doorways climb inwards towards temple sanctuaries in each nucleus, while giant columns render one minute along central aisles.
In this desert life, my eyes have become keenly sensitive to color. The slightest touch of color fires up my need for a world beyond hues of beige, khaki, ocher, buff and putty. I have written about a tendency to look down toward my feet for coloration; in the temples, looking upwards reveals natural dyes stained upon ceilings where wind, rain nor sun has dampened their saturation. Nothing has excited me more than to find that the remaining shells of the temples seen today were not intended to blend into the sands; rather they have been rinsed bare, with delicate signs left for those who trace the walls with careful eyes.