Celeste Regal observes life from marginalized pasts. She uses epigrammatic statements to establish an environment of loss and redemption. Her work using the codex form employs nontraditional substrates infused with image and text. Regal divides her time between India and America. These essays allow an exorcism of sorts.
Friday, September 16, 2016
River of No Return
Aries (12 Women)
You did not ask to come but were unraveled in a cavern somewhat
unwelcome. The walls housed an expectation of life beyond the anatomical,
beyond the biological. Fierce determination, or complete comfortability with the
space of more than living. Always present it is, often without question.
Systems hold nothing you can grab on to. Fitting is not a useful word. At the horizon you will see yourself clearly.
Nothing travels that cannot be understood or endured. Platitudes are pointless
compasses leading to a fetid concrete wall. Stear to the left of them. The
space is invaded by non consequential reverberations that will only force an
eviction. Your quest lays in unquantifiable currency little understood by the
general public although you may find an audience there. Forget signposts. They
will revel nothing but how fresh the paint is. Trust the fear of falling. It is
the gauge you must live by only because that is what was allotted.
On the street corner, the ghost of the beggar boy reminds
you of your origins. He has disappeared into corporate living but essences can
never be liquidated. He is replaceable no matter where in the world you are.
Meaning transcends current fashion. This sentence will not sell but shall the
sold soul bring comfort or gain in the end? Understand who you are. The price
is stolen, the balance sheet a disaster. Forget this reality. Stay in the realm
of who you must be. To be the other wastes time. In the end the profit will
disappear anyway. When everyone leaves the table, do not think you are alone.
Do not feel forsaken. This is your natural habitat.
When rivers burst from the north, all of life washed away in
a cascade so deadly, all thought the end was inevitable. But still this held no
truth–the prediction had no consequence. The light and sound, ethereal and
tormenting, could never be reported accurately by the media. Poets had the day
straight. The dawn almost missed, the possibilities almost lost. The small
voice, almost buried in the thunder moved past the catastrophe, past its own
death, and is still heard millenniums later. Still revered regularly. Who remembers
the winner at roulette? They change by the second. Beware the instant minute.
It’s eternity that counts. When the rainbow of existence splays across a fetid
landscape, it will be missed by the objective makers. Radiance is fleeting.
Only the watchers perceive this thing so unmarketable, so disregarded that is
barely exists but in the heart of the seer. Even if only one sees it, it will
live on. The herd never carries water in the desert. They are too busy at the
gaming table. One must pick a side, true to their nature, and take what comes
You may shout from the rooftops of your displeasure and
loneliness. As long as you go back to the keyboard, the pencil, the wax, the
paint, the needle and thread, all will be worthy at the opening of the river
when the water turns red, the iridescence astounds, the day goes on and
retribution may or may not be acquired. The sight is all that matters. Author thanks the photographer of ram retrieved from internet search 9/15/16. (wordpainter81)