Sunday’s clothes
or the ceremony of the museum
In my early years, my books called them Sunday’s clothes. The tip of the top, the cream of the crop, ironed before the dawn. Immaculate colours untarnished by the frequency of their cleaning expositions, the clothes were the winner’s outfit, or the prayers’ customs. And on Sunday, we went. On Sunday, they went.
Those specified attributes have been lost in a variety of fast-fashion clothes, the rhythm of which I’ve lost track. While they amount and lost visibility in the wardrobe, I remember the care and love encased in the occasions makers. Creating Sunday rituals, encompassing personalities for fervor and splendor to God made the ritual more embellished, more precious.
Now it was time to see my present-day Gods and Godesses, the ones I worshipped for their emotive openings. The painters and the creators were exposed, had exposed their vulnerability. Here on the canvas I saw entrails of thoughts and feelings, disposed for everyone to see, exhibited for everyone to gaze upon and review, review endlessly, till the end of time.
The courage of the artist, declaring to the world a need for saving, a woman he adores, a curve he’s obsessed with, a bravery she surmounts, a world she enters in, a myth he revives.
From the tails of their ego, the soul engulfs into one another, conveying meanings upon reflections like Russian dolls, and I’m either the smallest or the biggest.
Sundays resonated between stone murals and coloured windows, my tears on the threshold of my young soul touched from within by the naked and wounded son of God on the cross. Now I relent in the halls, hugging myself, holding my breath while colours circumvolve under my pupils and the jitters of the brushes are caressing my brain.
Miscellaneous touches, caressing old projects and new textures, my tank of love is full with the intent of the hour, into making and creation of unknown propensities.
Typing typing my heartbeats unto the small screen in my palm. Fingers slower than my pulse, eyes ricocheting between the piece and this thing, capturing capturing ever so slightly my mishaps compositions between french and english, between nuances of human emotions and the variations on my psyche, en-capsuling my past, my present and this new future I can gather with a smile and a tear.
Resting on the intensity of their message, I move round and around, catching reflections and aromas. Still a folded paper in my pocket too far away, too violently calling me away from this.
I’d rather stay fixated between their wooden frames. I see a passage towards otherness. Within a precious light I call out for every hour of my life and whom I find in my dreams only.
Surging from my epoch, the words start to gather while the compass of my insides is flickering between north and south. I feel, I feel wholeheartedly, and I understand the latter, once again. My whole is beating with my heart, I love with my skin, I love from my eyes, closing and opening, my breath continues the waltz, my cheeks raising in a smile.
Beneath the flirtatious glances, an envy to belong.
Until my last gaze, turning back to my abode, my chin upon my shoulder, the romantic story ends, and I must run down the stairs until my home.
There is no respite, for in those elegant clothes, I collected threads of meanings and now must catch myself to the work of my soul, my purpose bewildered. For I am ready to plunge in the newly found pools of love.
Threading those words, quilting my feels, to gather to remember. I must join them by writing away from their meeting.
Originally published as part of Copious Copy - A series of letters between the Earth and you: a weekly cosmos of words about metaphysics and enlightenment, through science and spirituality, consider joining the conversation.
