Sundays move us. These become our engine as we try, as much as we can, to live our diasporic and exilic lives.
We live insular lives now, five insular lives that knew what the big city was in that city on steroids we call the metropolis of grace and crime, of hope and filth, and benediction and corruption of the lowest kind.
Corruption frames the narratives of infested streets in those cities forming a bigger city of small truths and big lies.
So today, we try to retrace what was: a visit to the residence of the divine to say a prayer, some ceremony of window for things we do not need, and then some partaking of a poor man’s meal that approximates those of the rich, at least in name, them who have to count the calories they shove into their oftentimes closed mouths, because 1. they have to maintain their social figure, and 2. they have to be lean to be clean.
Hon, HI/Oct 12, 2013