Dhanadapani, He Who Wields The Mace

It’s likely that the company has handled his room for the show, but Sage either has not heard ( unlikely ) or just doesn't care ( more likely ).

The Bodhisattva has found himself out of sorts.

That’s becoming a more comfortable mode for him, which scares him.

But what is he to do?  He can’t fly back to the midwest and see his man whenever he wants to.  The time difference is killing their communication, making what was once such an easy back and forth strained by distance and time apart.  Young love, he figures, is like a spark that needs to be nourished into a flame, and they had a bonfire going before this extended trip.  Now he can feel it whimper, and the only solace he’s taking is that it seems to be as painful for Cliff as it is for him.

And he feels like that’s a spiritually fucked place to be, taking pleasure in the sadness of someone he cares about.

Still, as he walks these sunny streets, barely clothed in more than cutoff shorts and Bedrocks, his mind has to wander.  Paxton, he feels, is someone he could learn from in this regard.  People perceive him as this violent thing, less a man than a force of nature.  But the Bodhisattva considers this to be people unwilling to see all the angles–and unwilling to learn the important lessons that can be found.  Because Paxton, for any of his faults which are the same faults of Sage’s, is a man who is capable of breathtaking self-assessment.  Deeper introspection than most give him credit for.  And he can handle himself, not in the fight sense.  He possesses a solipistic well being where others seek validation from external sources.  Pontiff, if given to an honest moment, wants to be the former…but he knows he’s the latter.  He needs love, hard emphasis, or hate, hard emphasis.  Without either, he’s adrift.

What makes him feel all the more confused is that he could, very very easily, have either.  He’s come to accept that he’s maybe more traditionally minded than he thought he would be in his teens.  From his emancipation until very recently, there was a certain romance to the drift.  There was beauty in the idea that he floated through so many lives, touching them all in ways both minimal and significant, never tied down, never held down, truly free.  And there may come a day, he worries, that he has to feel that freedom again.

But he knows that day isn’t today.  He’s become accustomed to the stability, and that disgusts a part of him.  He feels like he’s a corporate drone, an accountant, a conservative–which is rich coming from a man with the aura of Dead and Friends Jesus.

He even tried to flirt with it, like an alcoholic ordering virgin drinks at a bar.  Go to rough areas of town.  Go to places where there's ample flesh of his similar vagabond knit.  Flesh, either for the sacrifice or the enjoyment–and it isn’t like he wasn't quite heavily propositioned for either.  But the moment came to seal either deal and…he just didn't.  Heart wasn’t in it.  Sage thinks maybe his heart isn't actually with him in the spiritual sense, maybe he left it back at Cliff’s shitty apartment for safekeeping.  He likes that, because that feels safe.  Because that feels like Cliff is still in his life and still loves him.  He’s been worried that his absence has broken whatever spell he put on the big guy, because in a sense, Sage is not of his people.  And they certainly aren't each other’s type–Cliff has always preferred a fellow inked up gymrat, and Sage has carved a swath through all spectrum of paisley and tie dyed gender expression like Sherman’s march to the sea.  So maybe the magnetism that he holds on a person to person level just doesn't keep when he’s disappeared to Europe for so long?

He doesn’t know.

That’s mostly the problem.

He’s so used to having an answer for every single thing that when he doesn’t have one, he starts getting the itch to spiral.

The Bodhisattva is considering his move, his plays, and his options.  He’s wondering how he’s going to cope when Cliff does break it off with him–not that Pike has once indicated that he will, but that’s how anxiety and depression work.  Prepare for the worst outcome and then you can’t get hurt, right?  Pontiff can’t help but note that he’s never felt this way.  Never once felt an ache or even a pang of homesickness, he’s never once been back to the Geodesic dome in Joshua Tree.  He can’t manage well, and he’s been smoking absolutely heroic quantities of high quality Iberian kush at a series of “private clubs”, because that’s how drugs work in Spain.  And this isn’t to asperse the company he has found, musicians and artists and holy men like him, shamans and Catalonian brujos and medicine folks.  Tattooists, craftspeople, all the way up to a Metropolitan Bishop.  His days have been filled with good drugs, ample eye candy, excellent food, sunshine, the surf, everything that one would expect of a young man of his shape and interests.  He’s even played a match or two of futbol.  This is the type of shit that makes lifelong memories of lands far beyond the horizon.

But Sage Pontiff is miserable.

The drugs don’t high, the flesh doesn’t call the same way.

He’s adrift in a strange land.

Might as well call.

—

Ring ring.  Ring ring. Bedoop.

The face that greets Sage is as bright and as chipper as he’s seen Cliff Pike, and it makes his heart ache. It’s sunset where he is.  Cliff Pike is, of course, up bright and early at 7am local time–”You think the fascist pigs are sleeping in?”  He greets Sage with a wide, brilliant smile crawling across his cowcatcher jaw.

“You look like shit.”  This causes The Bodhisattva to sheepishly chuckle and lower his head.

“That obvious, huh?”

“I mean, I dunno if I’m an expert, but I got the rhythm of Sage Pontiff down half-decent.  I thought you’d be all sun-kissed and have a head fulla smoke at this point, gettin’ fat of paella and shit.  What’re you doing sitting in a room lookin’ all morose?” “I’m out of sorts, man.  Nothing heavy.”

“Oh, so we’re just lying to one another now.”

“What?  No.”

“Listen, Sage…you’re a great guy.  You actually are, underneath anything else you’re at your core a good person.  I know that.  I see the work you do, I get all your money transfers every time you cut a check, money that you know goes to the most vulnerable among us.  That’s beautiful stuff, and I have really enjoyed seeing you turn into someone who believes in the power of a simple act.  But lemme keep it very clear with you: You’re a dogshit liar and you think feeling feelings makes you weak.” This causes there to be a long, long pause in the facetime.  Cliff is cool and level headed, just sipping his coffee from his favorite chipped “Thou Shalt not Scab” mug.  Sage, on the other hand, is looking to the distance, to a wall, to a spot on the wall.  Avoiding?  No.  Gathering his courage.

“When I was a kid, I knew what I wanted to be.  Who I wanted to be.  My dad and I would watch Kung Fu, right?  Westerns, too.  Fight movies–he had gotten this like, pallet of movie reels with a busted projector.  And Dad always wanted to fix old stuff, he always said…what was it?  ‘These machines were built for a future that never happened.’  That spoke to him, I guess.  So we’d watch reel movies.  My favorites always had that kind of ronin in them, man.  A guy who has no roots, no companions, nothing weighing him down.  That was a guy who could afford to fight the tough fights, because he had no home or family to threaten.  That always felt so romantic.  And I thought I was living that sort of life.  I mean, fuck, I made the company give me a biodiesel van life camper just so I could live that kind of life.”

“Then what, you grew up?”

“Then you happened.  And this job happened.  And Paxton Ray happened.  All these things happened.  But I’m not like…a victim.  I think somewhere in the subconscious mind I wanted the stability.  I wanted something to be my own.  I wanted to know people, not just briefly.  I wanted to help a community, legitimately.  Not just with a spiritual path.  But there’s also the part of me that has to destroy.  That has to fight against something.  And I truthfully thought that just…wasn’t compatible with the first.  I’m sure you’ve felt that too, sometimes.”  To this, Cliff says nothing.  Sage busies himself with absently chewing on his thumbnail before continuing.  “The difference is…we wanted to make it work.  So we have.  But I’ve never been prepared for this, I didn't have the early formative experiences with love to callus me up.  This guy they booked me against, Rob Williams?  He could tear me apart, Cliff.  He could bash my skull and ruin my good looks and snap my limbs like a glow stick…and I’d welcome it.  I’d take it.  Because at least that’s pain I’m familiar with.”

There’s a long pause here.  And Sage legitimately looks worried, because Cliff isn’t meeting his gaze.  Cliff, the musclebound hardcore fan.  Cliff, the spreadsheets and food drives mutual aid nerd.  Cliff, the guy who has thrown himself chest first into a line of cops trying to phalanx during protests.  Pontiff admires so much about him, and at this moment, he’s realizing it’s not just his love that he needs–it’s his approval.  He needs to be esteemed by this man.

“So you miss me.”  Cliff chuckles at this, and The Bodhisattva can’t help it–to get that all off of his chest was new ground, and Cliff’s simple, direct response teeters him into a fit of his own giggles.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess I do.”

“Listen, Pontiff, I know you’re not used to this shit.  Fact is, I’m not either.  I been distracted as all hell as of late cause I keep thinking of you, I see your silk kimono hanging off the back of the closet door, I see the mason jar full of Yerba Mate that smells like a fuckin’ barn, I see your dab rig that looks like some Brutalist sculpture in the window.” “Yeah, it’s based on Boccioni’s Unique Forms of Continuity in Space.”

“See?  That’s what I miss.  Just learning,  Not about shit, but about you.  Like how you know that sculpture, was the rig gifted to you, did you commission it, did you get it in Peru or Vancouver or fucking…Dubuque?  That’s what I miss.  I miss proximity with you.”  This talk–these confessions, really, these sharing of what most see as weakness–cause a hush to occur in the conversation.  Cliff breaks it by changing the subject in as deft a way as he knows how, which is basically with all the grace of Killdozer in a botanical garden.

“Now what’s this horseshit about some chucklefuck breaking your limbs?!”

“What?  Oh, no, that was just an example.  I don’t think he’s got what it takes, if it’s just you and me talking.  He’s not so much a throwback or a vintage thing, he’s more like watching a Looney Tunes where Bugs Bunny does yellowface–you just kind of cringe and wonder how we were ever so backwards, y’know?”

“I do know.  But I also know that racist cartoons can’t rattle your teeth.”

“What do you want me to say here?  That he won’t get any licks in?  Because he will, I assure you.  I need them to even get to a place where I can win, Cliff.”

“What do I want you to say?!”  He scoffs in mock offense as he takes another sip of his coffee.  “I want you to say you’re gonna fuckin’ win, Sage.”

“Well, sure, but the win isn't the whole thing, this is a journey, not a destination.”

“Look, you ask me to accept your violent nature, I do.  It has scared me sometimes, but I back your play, because that’s what being together means.  Honestly, it’s come in handy a time or two when we’d have to rumble with IE or the Patriot Guard or Atomwaffen.  So I accept that you need the fight, that you need the battle, because you’re probably a lot closer to some Pict berserker than you’d like to admit.  What’s it you call it, Shaivism?  You devote yourself to destruction in so many ways.  But I’m there with you, I understand you.  But I’m gonna be honest…I won’t take you pussyfootin’ about the winning part.  I’ve seen you in the ring and I’ve seen you in the streets.  You’re far, far too talented at what you do to be doing some hemming and hawing, ‘gee shucks maybe’ kinda horseshit.” Sage smiles because Cliff is smiling.

“Okay, then let me rephrase it: This man is a relic of a bygone era.  The era is bygone for a reason, and he should have gone with it.  But he couldn’t, because being this is all he knows.  Honestly, that could have been me, so I look at him as a cautionary tale.  And I look at folks from his era with pity, not fear.  None of that, ‘oh, we were hard back in the day, not like you snowflakes today’ bullshit–he may have met a lot of Millennials and the millennial-adjacent, but he’s never met someone like me.  He’s gonna give me his bast shot and split my lip…and I’m going to bless him and thank him and then fucking dismantle him.”

“Fuck yeah!  That’s what I wanna hear!!” “And you say I’ve got a love affair with destruction…”

“What can I say?  You dragged me into this world, I might as well get comfortable.” Sage looks down, smiling and nodding to himself, finally feeling good about this match he has upcoming.  With a jolt and a sway of dreadlocks, his head raises up, his eyes alive, internationally recognized as the sign of a man with an idea.  “How long has it been since you took a vacation, Pike?”

“Uh…probably when I was 15?  My grandma took us on a Disney Cruise.”

“You’re fucking serious?  Dude, that’s been, what, over a decade?”

“Yeah, man.  I don’t make ‘vacation’ money.  Come to think of it, I don't really make any sort of money.”

“Take two weeks off.”

“And do what?  Sit at home with my thumb up my ass?”

“No, come here.  Come to Spain, travel with me for a little bit.  You have a passport, right?” “Yeah, I had to have one to see Incendiary and Power Trip open for Comeback Kid in Windsor.” “Perfect.  I’ll send you flight details.”

Sage’s smile is the stuff of legends on a regular day, all brilliance and beaming teeth and pouty lips framed by his long holy man beard.  It’s probably in the top three of his most infuriating qualities–it’s not enough that he’s a new age blowhard and that he has a seemingly boundless thirst for violence, but he has to be so goddamn pretty, too.  But this one?  This makes his regular smile seem like a sepia memory.  His cheeks are red, his eyes have brightened.

“You know what I’m excited to say, man?”

“Tell me, babe.”

“‘See you soon.’”

“Don’t even have to think about it.  See you soon too, hippie.” Bedoop. — I can’t blame you for who you are.  Truth be told, I dunno if I even have interest in changing anything about you.  A lot of people in my position would try that, y’know?  We’d see you as this thing that needs to understand how the world works in the modern day, we’d try to broaden your mind, expand your horizons, mold you into this whole-ass person.  By force, right?  Because that’s my whole thing.  If I can be said to have a shtick, mostly by people who doubt how sincere I am, it’s that.  “Transform through combat.” That’s the kind of transformative experience The Bodhisattva specializes in.  But that’s not what gives you value in this era, man.  Some part of me wishes it did.  But you won’t be changed by what we do in the ring.  You’ll still be you, because powerful as I am, I cannot make the horse drink the water, feel me?  So you have to remain you. That can be where you have value to this modern word.  As a cautionary tale.  As a history exhibit.  As living broken bleeding proof that you aren’t in your era of comfort and good ole boys carnyism.  I am something you have never experienced before.  That’s not ego, it’s fact.  Because there’s only ever been one of me, committed to walk this world and make the difference just like those movies I used to watch with my father.  My cowboy hat is my third eye, my big irons are connected to my wrists and ankles.  We won’t meet at high noon on the main street, but we will meet, and you’ll think all of your tricks will work, only to come up empty handed over and over again.  You will feel despair, the dread and the doom darkening the edges of your vision, as you realize that you aren't standing across from a good-natured hippie burnout.  You are witnessing Skanda, born from the bosom of the Ganges, raised by the stars of the Krittikas, six-faced, rising on a peacock made of the fire of the heavens…reborn.  I am not saying I am literally the son of Shiva.  That would be ridiculous.  But what he represented, the pure power of war, the horn across the sky and the unshakable spear in the Earth?  That is me.  And you are you.  Because that’s all you can ever be. And there will come a moment when you are forgotten as we all are.  There will come a moment where you are a footnote.  Where you are a bad memory of a time that we all want to leave behind.  But before you are…you will be an example.  Namaste.