Where You Are

By Celeste Regal

Beneath the racket, you may find yourself in the stream of time, not drowning, but buoyantly surfing for the wave you missed, the wave you see, the wave you must reach. The endeavor may seem improbable but that’s your strength. The unencumbered, the unlikely, the one most definitely not. A pocket full of miracles, a bucket full of sorrows. Pick the dance you like the most. Change it if it is the worst. People talk, you know. Talking gets in the airwaves and can derail a person. Do not derail for long. See the horse (or trolley, or motorbike, or auto) and jump on its back. Jump up and in. Off you go.

Disregarding idle chatter is a gift. Disregarding what really is, provides the rift that will tear the day from the hands of the top earners. We are the sum of all we think, the equation of all we know outside of the thoughts of others. Stabilize it. Maximize it. Though you may not be part of the in crowd, be thankful you do not travel in packs. Top dogs change ever so slightly but when they do, the great shall fall.

In the news we find the perception of others, the occupations of others. This cannot be the truth unless you want it to be. I prefer the long fantasy. Full of ups and down, curves and monotonously straight lines; the geometry suits. Where I was in the beginning informs who I am now, with large slices of presumptuous pie and dazzling defeats in between. Above the Sea of Galilee, still as a sheet of glass, I have seen storks fly from a promontory only goats or rams could reach. I danced the tarantella with a whore in The Alhambra Bar in Tiberius, bringing to life dead-faced military nursing Arak in full tumblers. The bottom rung of hell is not all it's cracked up to be but it provides insight if you make it out. A legion of friends died there, reaching for something they could not put a finger on. While being shaken hard from a few mountain tops, a glittering text of remembrances can be found to give succor to the ever present now. Strange fruit all of it. We grow pungent with its relief.

Awakenings are not once but repetitious and delightful, encouraging the summit they allude to. Bend and stretch, reach for the stars. There goes Jupiter, here comes Mars. Going, going, keep on going. Don’t give up the ship. Never give in completely. Shake it all off like a dog fresh from the lake. Charmed life? Not here. Phantasmagorical life? Oh yes. Technicolor. Horribly gray. Dark. Bright. Transcendental. Oppressive. I can breathe freely, I cannot breathe. It is this. Then it is that. Everything past is not now but now keeps changing. If we say ‘then’, then there must be a before. The beginning is the end. The end of the beginning. That eternal, infinite, gyrating figure eight we can never quite grasp but that grasps us relentlessly. Embrace and retrace. Now and forever. Yes. Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.