Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

Let's ride ten miles up / 

Just inside the stratosphere /

More sky, more blue jets / 

Stream by, you're gonna love it here / When you’re high, you never, ever wanna come down.

There’s some wisdom in those words.

Not that Pontiff hasn’t given a perpetual state a try, mind you.  Honestly, he already does, if you count weed, which Sage does not. If you did, you’d be at least lightly concerned by his intake, which tends to number the joints taken in on the daily as almost hitting a double digit, to say nothing of when he feels the need to unwind, where 100mg of edible sacrament is his preferred prescription. That’s of course not counting what he considers a “maintenance dose” of psilocybin ( 2 dried grams ) or his “heroic dose” ( upwards of 6 ), or if he can luck into some 2CE, LSD, or Ayahuasca.

So the sensation of a hangover isn’t something he’s friends with.  Not that he fears it, he understands that there’s a cost extracted for the knowledge of the cosmos.  Odin had his eye plucked out for the unseen knowledge, after all.  The Bodhisattva does, however, believe that needless suffering isn’t conducive to spiritual health, especially if that suffering can be avoided and has no greater point.  He’s a flagellant, not a masochist…in his mind, at least.  The outside observer may draw a different conclusion, given how often he puts every part of his body on the line regardless of importance.

But this hangover isn’t like anything he’s experienced.

He has been high off of energy before, sure.  But that was a different trip, that was him as a figure of adoration, that was the high off of so many people being enthralled by him.  Wanting him.  Desiring of his flesh and his spiritual medicine and his thoughts on the state of the world.  That’s a high that he could always taper off, usually with a succession of lovers in the back of the Biodiesel Camper across the state parks of America, carving a path from Daniel Boone to Bankhead to Ozark to San Isabel dick first.  No need for a hangover when you’ve got good company–but that was when his high was solitary.

This shit?

This shit is another level.

Success.  Survival.  Camaraderie, unlikely though it was.  Friendship, even more unlikely.  Sweat and flesh and blood and the crowd, chanting him along, chanting his people along.  Sometimes, Sage would blink and they wouldn't be in a ring.  They were in the coliseum, stripped to the waist, driving pikes and falcatas into hoplites and tigers while flower petals rained down from the stands.  Then he would blink and they’d be back where they were.  He tried to shake it off, blame it on the drugs, but he realized he didn't have anything that would peak him when he was seeing it.  The only thing you can really do in those moments is find a skull and bash it.  And every hit he took was transporting him somewhere different.  Hit, Thermopylae.  Hit, Wales.  Hit, Boudican revolt.  Hit, Wales.  Hit, Longewala.  Hit, Wales.  Because this high, this energy, wasn’t just him battling against odds.  This was a team, something approaching friends, their own army in a war against all comers.  His energy danced with Paxton’s who found camaraderie of violence with FLAMBERGE who was empowered by The Muse who’s energy welcomed in Hayes who found a comrade in The Irishman, all of them brought under the banner of a man who may not have understood his people but certainly understood how capable they could be in that setting.  Every other army on the battlefield thought they had done what Sage and his friends had done, but once they were faced with the real thing, their pale imitations of togetherness wilted and crumbled.   Triumph.  Victory.  Defeating odds, because on paper they weren't supposed to do this–a fact that everyone didn't mind reminding every one of them of.

If you think you can chief on a raw cone and match that sort of high, you’re a fool.

Sage…has been a fool.

So now his world seems grayscale sepia, and that’s not just because he’s stuck in the perpetual February of London.   He just can’t find anything to compare, and he’s been to a few places and taken a few things.  They were…distractions.  That’s it.  And Sage has rarely ever felt like that about his mind expansion sacrament, he’s always referred to it with the reverence he holds for powerful medicine.  But much like we can develop medicine-resistant strains of infection, our Bodhisattva is beleaguered by a sickness that requires something much stronger than solutions lysergic.

He put the call out.  Not something he was normally that apt to do, but Sage realizes he’s swimming in waters that have yet to be mapped in his personal journey.  He wasn’t expecting…well, he’s not sure what he was expecting.  He has no idea what time it is in the states, and for all their closeness, he’s not sure if Paxton is even much of a phone guy.  But regardless of expectation, he knows one thing for sure: the lack of an answer threw him into a place of despair.  Not even really sure what he said, but he hopes it wasn’t too awkward or high-minded.

Monogamous and missing his man.

Wishing he was with his friend.

In these quiet moments, The Bodhisattva really wonders who he is anymore.  A person can respond to that sort of oscillation a few ways.  Rage, falling back on bad habits, doing enough drugs to render a rhinoceros legally comatose.

Sage decides to go on a walk.

That’s safe, right?

—

He haunts these streets like Hendrix in ‘66.

An anachronism to a point, with his propensity for paisley and tie dye, though right now he’s in some patterned bell bottoms and what is probably a blouse.  But when you wear it with his confidence–or chemically restricted ability to give a fuck–who cares what section you bought the shirt in?  The point is, you’re rocking it.

But he’s finding London to be a bit of a harsh on his mellow, honestly.

It’s not just the hangover and drop from such a massive shared triumph that has him down in the dumps.  He had figured he would at least get to pal around with Paxton, they could hate warm beer together and probably get into an ill-advised altercation.  They could eat kebab and currywurst and chill.  But Pax has business and as much as Sage wants to be there for him, he also knows that some paths need to be solitary.  Or at least solitary until you realize you could use some help.  Paxton is like that, Sage figures.  You can tell him something is dangerous, but until he tries and hurts himself, he won't listen.

Lots of folks like to call that stubbornness.  Sage sees it as a man doing his own form of violent solipsism.  He admires it about his friend, kind of wishes he had that particular brand of confidence.

He hasn’t been paying attention to where he’s walking, really.  Boutiques, kebab houses, it all starts to blur together when you’re considering the greater depressive aspects of newfound spiritual starvation.  He could find a distraction, that much is true–but he’s not a philanderer, no matter how much one might assume he is.  Commitments were made to Cliff, and that’s so far from his mind that he doesn't even notice the occasional appreciative glance he’s pulling.

But something does catch his attention.

The Bodhisattva is maybe a city block away from a pub, and though the bar traditions of two nations can seem foreign to one another, “drunk asshole” is an archetype that spans across civilizations.  And there are quite a few outside of said pub, tipping back pint number whatever and talking trash to anyone who passes.  That’s harmless fun in its way, but it can turn harmful real quick.

All the angry inebriated energy needs is somewhere to focus it.  And Sage Pontiff is getting that familiar itch in his hands.  He could be that focus.  He could feel alive again, every hit battering more and more technicolor into his gray mood.  Sure, it’s a bad idea–it’s a thoroughly bad idea.  But sometimes, Sage figures, doing something ill-advised is better than doing nothing.  And it sure feels better than doing nothing and moping about it.

He’s just about to advance, but his phone rings.  Fishing it from his backpack, he answers it in a haze, hardly looking at the screen.

Paxton: Yeah. Ya called?

Sage’s shoulders relax, for what feels like the first time in days.

Sage: Pax, dude, it’s great to hear from you.  Legitimately.  I feel like my mind and my spirit are going north and south.

Paxton: Birds of a fuckin’ feather, Sage. I need to board a plane before I burn this whole fuckin’ city down. ‘Bout the only thing stoppin’ me was your message.

Sage: You good?  Need me to head across the water or call up a favor?  I’m sure I’ve got some people near you…

Paxton: Nah, I gotta get outta here. I been feelin’ so lost, so outta control…I jus’ had a spar with a kid. Not even twenty. My mind went blank…I think I mighta killed ‘im, Sage.

There’s a long silence here, but it isn’t awkward.  It’s the kind of silence one expects after that kind of statement.  Mercifully, The Bodhisattva is no stranger to avoiding the porcine jackboots of the American police force.  Pontiff nods a few times, then doesn’t even hesitate any further.

Sage: Use cash as much as you can.  If you need some that won’t be tied to your ATM, let me know.  If you can, get a burner from a gas station and use that.  How sure are you?

Paxton: I got cash. An’ as for the boy…I ain’t sure. I jus’ felt the same way I felt when Jon went down, an’ durin’ the Belmont. I used t’feel good ‘bout that, like hurtin’ people made me who I am, but right now I don’t feel like much’a nothin’.

Sage: Get back over here.  Regroup.  I got a decent place to stay where you can reset…I know you don’t put a wealth of stock into the more spiritual end of this shit, but you’re out of sorts.  You know that as much as I do.

He pauses, then adds.

Sage: Also I miss hanging with you, man.  It’s pretty lonely in this city.

Paxton: Yeah, same. Save a joint for me. Pack it light though.

Sage: Philosopher’s blend, I can grok.  This is all gonna work out, Paxton.  And even if it doesn’t, you don’t gotta face it alone.  Maybe once you’re here you can give me some pointers on how I can shelf Nate Colton.

Paxton: Bet. I can give ya this bit’a advice for free, though. That dude? Don’t like gettin’ punched in the face. Thinks he’s too pretty for it.

Sage: That sort of self-centeredness is such poison.  We’re all decaying–who cares if it gets advanced with a few fists?

The Bodhisattva places his hand over his heart.

Sage: Safe travels, brother.  Text me your arrival time, cool?

Paxton: Word. An’ Sage? Thanks. The spirit stuff is like Greek t’me, but…ya help me get my mind right, an’ I ‘preciate it.

Sage: Pax, dude, I should be thanking you.  I’m pretty sure I was about to do something ill-advised…even for me.

Paxton: Well I’m glad ya didn’t. See ya in a bit.

Sage ends the call and softly smiles to himself, looking at nothing in particular.  While he doesn't relish in his friend possibly being an outlaw, he selfishly is glad that the circumstances might mean an early return to Albion.  It’s not entirely selfish, he reminds himself–Pax needs someone, and if their friendship can mean that he gets some measure of peace, all the better.

He looks back to the pub.  Back to all those juicy opportunities to elevate in the unhealthy ways he’s sworn off.

The Bodhisattva laughs, and walks away.

—

You think you’re pretty special, right?  I don’t mean that in an accusatory way.  It’s more a statement of fact.  One that I’m sure most people who know you would agree with.  “Yeah, Nate thinks he’s a special person.” And why not, right?  You’ve got the pedigree, you’ve got the resume.  You’ve got everything about you that says it, so why not listen?  I'm sure you've even got people telling you just how special you are, just how talented. It’s funny.  This is where I would normally tell you that we are all equal under the creator spirit, that your accolades don’t impress me, that you are simply a human being named Nate Colton standing across from another named Sage Anikulapo Pontiff.  I would tell you what this fight means, actually means, not your silly pursuit of records or titles but actual combat.  The real meaning of what we do.  I’d consider it educational–fun, even.  I’d hope you could grow, spiritually, from what we do.  I’d tell you how much I hoped for that, how deep in my soul all I wanted was for you to blossom out of the constraints of who you’ve been so that you could become who you were meant to be.  I’d hope that I could beat your flesh and bones into such a pulp that the edifice of your existence would just… Whoosh.   …Off into the breeze.   But I’m not going to do that.  Not a lick of it, dude.  Because that is the medicine I bring to those who deserve it.  And I’ve come to realize something. I don’t like you.  I don't know that I can really say that about a lot of people.  I don’t even really know if I like admitting it, man.  I don't like it about me, n’est-ce pas?  It’s not comfortable, it chafes me.  But me not liking it doesn't change it.  You’ve got a sickness in you, man.  Type of thing that I don’t want to elevate, help, or heal.  I just see you and this feeling overcomes me, heat crawls up my spine and settles at the base of my skull and this feeling just sticks in me.  Same way I feel when I’m fighting cops or fascists or anyone who wants to deny justice to those who deserve it.  You’ve got the spirit of a pig, and I’ve got no stomach for it.  No kindness for it. Just fists.  Violence.  Bone and muscle.  Shiva was Rudra, in the earliest texts.  This evolved, and Rudra came to be known as the most frightening aspect of Shiva.  Fearsome, ghastly, the type of vengeful aspect of the old world that polite civilization tells you has been scrubbed from the record.  The type of thing that learned men will tell you we have evolved past, but that destruction–senseless, motiveless–is never far away.  We built cities and schools and commerce and we told ourselves we were better, but the jungle is still in each of us, we all carry the primordial spark of our ancestors.  And they were right to fear the earthquakes, fear the floods.  Fear Rudra.  They said he would shoot death from his bow; his arrows were described as shafts of pure light that moved heaven and earth.  But he was also called the lord of remedies, because he knew the sickness in things and possessed a thousand medicines to heal the body, mind, heart, and soul.  But just as easily, Rudra–ghora, asaudevam, “the god with the golden braided hair”–would put down something that was too sick to go on.  And he wouldn’t blink an eye about it.  Because all things are present things, man.  Stories become caution become fulfilled.  There is no future for the experiment that is Nate Colton.  You will find no solace in your past triumphs.    There’s nothing to this that is higher-minded.  I could stand here and tell you that this is what’s needed, that I’m embracing the medicinal aspect of Rudra and cleansing the world of something that is stuck to it like a barnacle.  But there’s no part of it that’s like that, and I’m not here to lie.  You can call me many things–and you likely have, in your private conversations.  But you can never accuse me of lying.  I want you to focus.  Now and especially when we’re across from one another.  Let the crowd disappear until all you see is the face of destruction.    Look me in the eyes, Nate.  I'm not doing the world a favor by doing this.  I’m not giving you remedy.  I’m just doing it because I don’t like the glimpses of your soul that I’ve seen.  I don’t like your face, your voice, your bearing.  Shaivism is many things.  One must embrace the aspects of Shiva that do good deeds and create.  One must embrace the Tandava and dance.  But leaning into just those is a life that is out of balance.  It’s just as important to embrace the destruction.  It’s just as important to fuck some things up.  It’s just as important to destroy, break, beat, bloody, butcher–and Shiva/Rudura don’t care for our petty reasons for these things.  The devotion is in the act. I am…becoming more comfortable in the act for the sake of the act.  But I would be a liar if I told you that I’m not looking forward to this.    And once it’s over, I will not embrace you as my brother.  I will not pray for you to become a better man.  I’ll just wear your blood on my throat in an offering to the aspect Neelkantha. And I’ll spit on what’s left of you.  And you will be a memory.  Namaste.