The Sun Beat Down Upon My Face With Stars To Fill My Dreams

You think of things for even a bit, and you’ll be shocked at where you’ve ended up.

The tableaux is almost like a Rembrandt, all dark shadows and harsh chiaroscuro mixed with golden light, which to The Bodhisattva's vision, seems to shift from one speaker to the next.

Often the voices are hard for him to discern words from.  Other times the words hit harder than sledgehammers.   They’re seated in a circle with no one in the center–an atom with no nucleus, he thinks–and the whole place has the smell of church to it, all cleaning supplies and burnt coffee.  It’s not just his own mind that torments him, however, as he can feel the glares and the glowers of the gathered attendants.  He walked in smelling like a misdemeanor in 12 states, and he hasn’t hid his proverbial thunder to any degree.

But those sledgehammer words.

Those are the ones that chew at him the most.

Because those are the ones that hit at truth.  And The Bodhisattva may have to modify the truth, he may have to fib to get a seat at this orbit of electrons, but the truth isn’t something that you can bury for long.  It always has this tricky way of bubbling to the surface of things, like foreign material in a closed wound.  Would this, the continual application of this, be the needed peroxide?  Or are you fooling yourself again?  Applying this the same way you apply philosophy and the sacred Vedas, justification on top of justification for the habits that you’re now understanding to be spiritually poisonous?  That’s what you have to ask yourself.  Because before it was all in control–or you thought.  That’s some of the truth being bandied about here: that if you’re indulging, even just a little bit, then you aren’t the one with the steering wheel in your hands.  You’re just borrowing it.

How long has he just been borrowing the reins?  Since high school, since he first found out what his talents meant?  Or did that happen later, after he assigned a more superior purpose to what it is he did?  Tattoos didn't scratch the itch.  Piercings, same.  Cell popping, cautery branding, ritual cutting, flagellation in front of great roaring bonfires under the calm gaze of Mother Gaia–none of it could scratch that itch,  None of it got the monkey from his scapula.  None of it hit.  Maybe that’s why, maybe that's…

Hold on, old top.  You’re being addressed.

The guy conducting this symphony of self-reflection and self-improvement has landed on Sage Pontiff, and that’s not too surprising, really.  He’s near six and a half feet, he looks perma-stoned, he is in fact the only guy in here rocking dreadlocks.

They want to know what brought you in.

Don’t leave them waiting.  But don’t bullshit them.  Time to live the philosophy, Anikulapo.

“I spent a lot of time traveling for work.  It’s part of my job, things are itinerant by nature.  That suits me.  And I made a promise to my partner at the place we stay a while back that I’d…I’d do better, right?  But then one evening came and that evening turned into a week and I did things that I promised him I wouldn’t.  I broke that, but we’re okay, because he’s far too fuckin’ good for me.  But there’s one part of it that keeps fucking me up.”

Breathe.  Place the words one in front of another.

“I was overseas for what felt like forever.  Touring Europe.  And I was able to stay away from all of that while I was over there, I was able to hold to my promise.  Well, actually.  Like it wasn’t even in the foreground of my thought sphere, I wasn’t…I dunno, fiending?  But as soon as I’m back in the states, as soon as I’m back somewhere that’s as familiar to me as anywhere…then I decide to go and fuck it up.  And that’s what I can’t get.  I’d almost forgive myself if I had across the ocean.  But no…no, it had to be here.” They’re silent.  They’re searching to determine if The Bodhisattva is full of shit.  But one glance at the confusion and frustration in that heterochromatic gaze is enough.  Pontiff is a man in pain, a man who is seeking answers to why his behavior is his behavior.

They tell him this is a good step.

Someone grasps his shoulder.

He doesn’t recoil, but he doesn't fall to pieces either, no matter how badly he wants to sob. — Narcotics Anonymous meetings meet the most important features of a consistent group setting for The Bodhisattva: They’re everywhere, they don’t ask a lot of questions, and they’re a hundred percent free.

Sage has emerged from Saint Barnabas Church with a seriousness in his eyes that indicates he’s been doing some heavy lifting, mentally.  He’s also the recipient of many stares, most confused, a few angry, but it’s not hard to see why.  The standard outfit of those who have worked this sort of program with devotion is a sort of safe nondescriptness.  These people are professionals, parolees, people here by court order, but all of them shed the trappings of their past lives.  Sage Pontiff, however, hasn’t changed his looks one bit.  While he’s still rocking a few butterfly bandages, he’s also rocking the dreads, rocking his full Jesus/hermit beard, still in what could probably be better described as a silk blouse and bellbottom jeans.  These folks look like productive members of society–Sage looks like one of The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers.

And, true to his inability to understand society in any terms that aren't his own, he sparks up a joint while the others are firing up their cigarettes and rotgut coffee.  He doesn’t stick around for the complaints, though–he starts walking to the corner, seeking the car he knows should be there.  But “car” may be a bit ambitious.  Rumbling down the block with all the grace and agility of John Matuszak is a White F-150 with an oversized radio antenna and multiple dents in the frame.  And the sound of Molly Hatchet.  Sage takes a big drag and smiles genuinely for what feels like the first time in a long time as the window rolls down.

“Hop in, ya fuckin’ addict!” Paxton hollers out the window.  Pontiff strides to the truck, opening the door, hopping in quite literally.  Paxton looks at the joint hanging out of his mouth, then to the building that he emerged from, clearly trying to piece the dichotomy together.  Sage shrugs, flashing his million dollar smile that is somehow only enhanced by his preponderance of facial cuts.

“I’m trying to be more esteemable in regards to my addictions.  This is just medicine.”

“Show me the doctor’s note,” Paxton says with a grin.  Sage rolls his eyes in a good natured way, cranking the window down.

“In my other pants, you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“Fair enough. So how’d it go? Ya all good? Cleansed a’all your ills?” In response to the windows being down, Paxton turned the speaker knob on its end, causing passersby to shoot daggers at the truck rumbling down the road.  Sage idly scratches his scalp, thinking things through.

“Cleansed, I guess, is a funny word.  Like I know I’m a fraud in there, I know they see the locs and the beads and the fact that I smell like a head shop and they think I’m not committing to it or whatever.  But I can’t exactly find an anonymous group for ‘I’ve become physically dependent on violence’, so this is the closest I can grab.”  He takes a hit, holding it in his lungs for a long moment before releasing.  “But it’s wild how the two addictions seem to align.”

“Yeah I feel ya on that.” If anyone is going to understand the intersection of violence and addiction, it’s the driver of this truck, who bonded with Sage over their love of wonton violence – and their vulnerabilities to it. “Julie tells me t’talk t’somebody, but there ain’t nobody ‘cept us who would hear us. It’s like we don’t speak the same language.”  To this, Sage scoffs, developing into a legitimate chuckle.

“Could you imagine?  ‘There’s a beast inside of me that’s separate from me but also is me.  I have to feed it or I act out in chaotic ways, so I’m a fighter by trade.  It’s like I’m carrying an atom bomb in my chest and every fight, every kick, every punch, every impact of my body that rattles my bones turns it’s detonation back minute by minute.  I’m afraid of who I’ll become once I’m too broken to do this.’  They don’t really teach folks how to deal with us.  At least not in any way that lets us live.  I’m pretty sure most professionals would try to get us away from fighting for a living but…as afraid as I am of who I’ll be once my fighting years are behind me, I’m way more afraid of living a neutered, washed out life.”

Paxton’s attitude shifts, and he frowns out the window. “Tell me ‘bout it. Hell, I can trace every bad thing that’s happened over the last two years t’me bein’ too stubborn to stop steppin’ through those ropes.” He drums his fingers against the outside of the truck. “But even then, what would I be if I didn’t have t’have this struggle? If I didn’t find people who’d struggle with me?” Paxton snorts. “Are we each other’s therapists?”

“Shit, sounds like it.  But there was this guy in there–old timer, y’know?  Had the wisdom of years wreathed around his aura.  And he was talking about how when he first got clean he thought he could just stay friends with people who were using, but that they didn't respect the paradigm shift, and eventually he had to cut those people from his existence.  And the educated thought, right, is that I should stay away from you, and we should stay away from each other, because we do nothing but enable one another’s violent endeavors.”  The Bodhisattva lets that hang in the air for a moment, picking at a scab on his knuckle.

“Ya got other thoughts, though.”

“I’m saying not a single thing in my life has gone wrong because of what we do for a living, and not a single thing in my life has gone wrong because I know you.  But they have gone wrong when I get too much free time on my hands, when I’m too far away from Cliff, when I’m in a strange place and feel out of sorts and the weed isn’t helping.  Being alone is what triggers me, not being a competitor.  So…thank you for agreeing to pick me up and kinda keep me company on these tours, man.  It means more than I can make into words.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” Paxton says, reaching over with a fist bump. “Like ya said, we ain’t the poison, we’re the fuckin’ antidote.” They ride in silence for a few minutes, and then Paxton looks over. “Speakin’ a’...uh…helpin’ out. We’re gettin’ close t’findin’ her. Nora, I mean. An’ I was wonderin’...not that I know how, or what, or whatever, but…would ya be willin’ t’help us? The people I’m workin’ with…well, they kinda hate me, an’ I’d love to have somebody on my side.”  Sage looks at Paxton with an almost offended confusion, long enough that the bayou half of Crunch and Punch affixes his eyes and brow with a furrow of concern.

“That shouldn’t be a question, Paxton.  You name the place, I’m there.”  He takes three big, Method Man-tier hits from the joint before chucking it to the street, exhaling slowly and clapping the Murdergator on the shoulder.  “We’re all we have in this world of avarice and deeply damaging oscillations in the psychosphere.  Keep having my back, I keep having yours, and nothing in the world can stop us.”

“Brains, hands, and hearts, brother,” Paxton says, his foot stepping harder on the gas pedal. “All workin’ together.”  Sage smiles.  He likes that thought.

And then, as if the cruel boot of the universe was playing Achilles Last Stand on his ribcage, his phone dings.

He’s been booked.  Title match.

Fuck.

—

You probably look at me and see something to be pitied.  Can’t really blame you, Kerry.  You’re not looking at the person who first showed up here.  I was so bright eyed about what this whole endeavor meant, man.  I was so bright eyed about a greater purpose.  I was going to change the world! But we can’t change a world that doesn't want it.  We can’t ascend as a people if so many of us are sick.  I’m sure a lot of people are seeing where I am and seeing a cautionary tale.  Maybe you are, too.  After all, that’s many people’s perception of me, isn't it?  Burnout.  Hippie.  Addict.  Loser.  The thing about those perceptions is…well, they’re your fault, aren't they?  Because most of you havent tried to understand the sermon, the lesson, the parable, the whole point of it.  And that turned something in me, I think.  Before, all the joy was there in the fight itself.  It brought me to somewhere golden and beautiful, man.  I could see the leylines of fate, the energies of the cosmos, the weather of the psychosphere.  I could feel a pressure in the center of my forehead that opened up into a great all-encompassing warmth as my third eye opened.  And you took that from me.  Not you specifically, Kerry.  Keep up.  The broader “you” of PRIME. Content to fight but not for anything.  And I’m not talking material goods, like your title belt, or the money we make as gladiators.  Most of you have no greater thing you want to achieve.  You’re just directionless animals consuming, fucking, shitting, and fighting over and over again until you blink and realize no one wants to enable you any more.  Was what I desired such a bad thing?  Did that make me a bad person, wanting to use the lens of violence to focus the rays of enlightenment upon us all?  Some days I wonder.  I’m more…distilled, now.  Because the sunshine that used to beam onto me when I fought hasn’t been shining for a little bit, but I was really avoiding facing that fact.  Avoiding it so much I went off a real deep end, spiritually.  Chasing what was is the move of a reactive being.  One who desires to control the fate laid in front of them.  Of someone obsessed with control.  The time of that Sage Pontiff is over, right?  But I don’t mourn it, strangely.  Mourning it gives the loss more power than it deserves.  That time is over–move on.  Move forward.  Accept what was and remain open for what is to come.  Don’t spend time trying to recapture a chrysalis version of who you’re developing into.  That’s the trap of Western, youth-based culture.  We sit here bemoaning what we were.  And we ignore the beauty of what we are in the present moment.  But make no mistakes, Kerry–You’re still looking at The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience.  That is the title of my soul and no amount of avarice and pain and psychic perversion can ever rob me of that.  But the definition of what that means has…shifted.  Changed.  The larval time has long concluded, the pupa stage has just now ended.  I am emerging from my own addictions as something new and beautiful and terrifying to behold, the awe-inducing power of the heavens shifting and the earth shuddering at its command.  Transformation cannot be for you and not for me. I have to be willing to take the medicine I prescribe.  I have to be willing to become what I am supposed to become. So this won’t be me hoping to bring you to the light, Kerry.  Because you haven't asked that of me, and you’ve never once indicated that you might be hungry for something more.  You’re…content.  I’m not.  And you may not need what goes on in that ring like some of us, but I very fucking much do.  So this won’t be an easy night for either of us.  But your night is going to go a lot worse if I get the feeling that you’re not giving me your all.  So if you’re thinking of holding back, or being coy, or trying to sneak a fast win on me to pad your stats and hold onto your belt?  Do me a favor.  Don’t show up.  Because I will make a sacrifice of your flesh to the altar of what combat means to me.  There is no win/loss record.  There is no Alias Title.  There is no PRIME. There are two truths.  That ring, and the blood we spill.  Namaste.  — Ring Ring.  Ring Ring.  Ring Ring. 

“You have reached the voice mail box of–Cliff Pike, ya shitbird!--to leave a message, press one.  To–”

Boop.  Beep. 

“Hey babe.  Just calling after group.  I’m at the hotel, I’ve burned a few behind the kitchen with the busboys and I just took a sleeptime edible.  Forgot you were at Midwest Hardcore Fest today…figure Knocked Loose is probably on right now.”

Sage looks out the window to the vast darkness.  Thinks of the words.

“The scariest thing when I finally came out of whatever I was in wasn’t the injuries or the property damage or even the fact that I was so confused.  It was two things.  The first was the look on Paxton’s face.  I’ve seen that dude make every expression from nonplussed to berserker rage, but I’d never seen that one.  Somewhere between pity and horror.  But as bad as that was, Cliff?”

He inhales.  Ragged.

“Nothing hurt me or frightened me more than your voice.  More than the way you hugged me when we saw each other again.  I could feel the fear in you, and I knew that I did that, that I was responsible for it.  That cut me down into my soul.  So it’s like, I know you told me I don’t need to check in a lot, but I am.  Call it an overcorrection.”

Pontiff’s look of melancholy is replaced by a smile, a soft one, as he considers the sky and it’s eternal presence.

“You’re a gift.  I’m gonna make sure I don’t take you for granted.  Try not to bash too many skulls in the pit, Beef Barn.  I love you.”

Bedoop.