Closed on Sunday

Featuring: A Double Exposure Photograph; of a Shirtless Christian + Some Tree Branches

I am writing this inches away from an infant changing area—hoping the cold water I just splashed on my face will keep me awake a little longer, and believing if I do not think about it anymore, I will forget how hungry I am. It is Sunday morning. The pastor is telling the uncomfortable story of how sharing his faith at the Barbers Shop went. I am in a Church’s restroom toilet…again.

You should have no trouble guessing how I got myself into this mess. But in case you do, let's just say that the freedom to pick your bedtime is a lie.

---

Three years ago, on my way to a (compulsory) Chapel service, I stopped by someone's room to use the mirror and recruit fellow latecomers to my punishable cause. It was there this photo found me—in front of someone dressing up.

Now, I never point a camera at topless people without their approval first, and that has always been the case. So with his explicit consent, I took the photograph you see today. It was shot on an Ash Wednesday, I remember. February 2020.

It was the cross that got my attention. It was nothing out of place. It just stood out—just like this photo has again today.

You see, Christianity has been a constant part of my life longer than I have been alive. It was a catalyst in my parents meeting, and my teenage realisation that I am indeed an agnostic-theist. It is the reason I joke about being an idiot and mutter “God forbid” under my breath. And it is one of the many explanations for how I met the most interesting people—not just terrible ones, I promise.

I know a lot of Christians. Some who wear their faith on their necks; and many who have to keep it close to their chest, for reasons that border life or death.

As I get ready to walk out the door, and fight my nocturnal habits a few feet from a stained glass cross, I am left wondering what my life would have been if I grew up as one of the latter. Perhaps my pastor would be telling a more uncomfortable story about blades that weren’t made for hair. Maybe my muse’s pose would not have been his choice.

---

Last Time: I Used To Write Poetry

A Self-Portrait of sorts

My cameras & I have been privy to many moods: loss, lust, and a lot of longing—too many L's. Thankfully, with a bit of love and laughter every now and again. The photograph above is one of the latter. A place in their story, an invitation to laugh with.

Keep reading

---

Hey! Umm…so somehow, we’ve gotten to week four already. It’s been easier than I thought. It’s just a commitment to sit and write—even on a phone or from the toilet. Then do it again and again, and on time. It’s becoming less difficult because of those of you who: read it, like it and let me know you do when you share it, leave comments, and subscribe too. Thank you so much.

I know I was supposed to air my grievances with dodo lovers today, but the spirit is weak, and the flesh is unbothered. If you have chosen to love rubbish, then I have one thing to ask.

Be kinder to yourself, ok?

Tam Olobio