How I Wish Everyday Sunshine

Sobriety, Day 39. Its not the avoiding the act that really consumes you.

It’s the not thinking about it all the fucking time.

To be clear, Sage is being a good boy and doing the thing he knows to do.  He attends his meetings–sometimes he does a two a day.  He takes in the knowledge from both wise men and fools, and holds himself not above the proceedings, no matter what.  There’s a…Pontiff hesitates to call it darkness.  Hesitates to assign value judgements in most cases.  But there is something within him that hungers, at minimum.  That drums at his chest and his skull, steady, rhythmic, jungle tribes summoning their great monster type of shit.

That never goes away.  That’s something he’s learning.  You can figure out a control on the animal in you, but you’ll never send him away.

Problem is that word.  Control.

Speaks to colonialism, fascism, reactionary jackbooted situations.

Is Sage meant to be the cop in his own head?  Is he even capable of that, any more?

You see a lot of folks claim a status of ‘outlaw’, oftentimes with the trappings of Hollywood’s definition of cowboy cool.  The hat, the walk, the belt, the boots.  But those people bought their hat from a store, they respect the police, they pay their taxes and never miss a car payment on their gigantic pickup trucks.  There’s nothing outlaw about them.  The Bodhisattva hasn’t had a steady address in years, treats the laws of man as annoyances in the face of the laws of his own particular interpretation of nature and scripture.  He will tell a cop that he’s going to rot spiritually while resisting arrest, and has fought them in the streets more than once.

There’s a seduction of being that outlaw, even more than he is already.

Pull the pin and just fuckin’ go, hard as he can, until either change is affected or he burns out in a massive ball of energy.

But he knows somewhere in him that he cant.

Maybe it’s aging.  Maybe he’s just maturing, like very adult in his life said he would, getting ossified in his soul and becoming the kind of man who worries about the far reaching implications of things.  But is that so bad?  To be a man who cares for things?

He has walked the path of the fool for some time.  No worries, no cares, a song in his head and a dance in his step.  City to city, bed to bed, festival to festival.

He will now only visit the mindset of the fool, because it holds wisdom.

But this Sage is a different, more mature person.  This Sage is trying to make a difference.  This Sage is trying to become estimable.

And he’s doing good.  He’s a good boy, doing the things he knows how to do.  He attends his meetings, takes in his knowledge, and consumes truth.

But he’s scared of who he’s becoming.

Not afraid.

But scared of the unknown.

And the fact that he even is scared, even just a little?

Guts him. 

—

Ring Ring. Ring Ring.  Bedoop. 

Cliff Pike: Hey there, handsome.

The face on the screen is frankly looking a bit worse for wear.  Cliff hasn’t had a chance to comb out his mustache, may be pre-coffee–always a dangerous proposition.  He clearly hasn't shaved in more than is his customary two days, and for a man who sports a five o’clock at 11 in the AM, it’s noticeable.  But most distinct is the shiner that he’s sporting, a lumpy black eye that’s clearly bugging him a little.

Sage Pontiff: I need to drive out there and teach someone some manners?

His questing is clearly a comical one, based on the size of his partner and the laugh that follows.

Cliff Pike: Oh, he got taught some manners.  So did his friend.  And their friends.

Sage Pontiff: Doesn’t sound like the world’s most uneventful protest.

Cliff Pike: What are you gonna do, though?  Cops all but fuckin’ walked the Proud Boys up to us.  Same as the KKK busting up strikes in the early days of the labor movement, just these guys don’t wear no bed sheets.

Sage Pontiff: And they don’t know how to fuckin’ fight, either.

It’s a strange thing to see a shared laugh over this, but then again, this pairing has always read more unique than anything.  Clearly a lid for every pot, just Sage would have never assumed his lid was a mustached, street-fighting anarchist with beefcake muscles out of a 1988 fitness magazine.  He looks at his phone with a somewhat morose eye, which Cliff picks up on instantly.

Cliff Pike: Talk to me, hippy.  What’s chewin’ at ya?

Sage Pontiff: What else?  I miss you, lummox.

Cliff Pike: Don’t got no hot dates with the favorite son of the swamp?

Sage Pontiff: Nah, Pax is handling some shit right now.  Frankly, I’m handling a little for him, too–but I always feel like I could do more.  I dunno if he’s not asking me for as much help because he doesn't want to bother me with it or if it’s because he doesn’t trust me not to go off into some big engagement with a head full of good acid, which…

Cliff Pike: …which is a fair concern.

Sage Pontiff: Kiss my ass, I’m more straight on strong drugs than when I’m not.

There’s a pause here, The Bodhisattva watching his man smile and roll his eyes.  There’s a beautiful quietness to this, something that both men crave, the simple act of existing together.  Finally, Sage speaks up.

Sage Pontiff: But I do wish he needed me more.  For purely selfish reasons.  Because then I wouldn’t have to exist inside my head so much.

Cliff Pike: It’s not all purple clouds and lotus flowers in there?

Sage Pontiff: Is that a serious question, or are you fucking with me?

Cliff Pike: Bit of column a, bit of column b.  You got this remarkable knack for kinda just getting your head right by will alone.  And ‘cause of that, I don’t really hear too often about any sort of darkness in you.  I saw it manifest once or twice in small ways, and then there’s that situation you found yourself in…

At this, Sage winces slightly.  Cliff notices.

Cliff Pike: …which, hey, behind us.  Still here, still love you.  But if you don’t like whats rattlin’ around in that skull, tell me what it is.

Sage Pontiff: …I can stay on the straight and narrow.  I’m not bad at it.  But it leaves me with just so much time to think, and in that time, I end up second guessing myself.  Not a sensation or exercise that I’m used to.  I look at like, this guy I’m about to face, right?  And I start asking myself do I have it still, does this change in how I’m living make me weaker than I want to be?

He sighs, taking a big lungful of sacrament from his joint.

Sage Pontiff: I’m used to being an entity of extreme confidence, the type of unshakable confidence that allows me to achieve great things.  And I don’t feel that shit in me any more.  And that’s all I seem to think about when it’s quiet.

This creates a different sort of silence, not the silence of lovers at distance enjoying the quiet amongst one another.  This one is full of pregnant thoughts.  Finally, Cliff talks.

Cliff Pike: Babe, you ain’t never been like the…picture of agility and finesse.

Sage Pontiff: Yeah?

Cliff Pike: Fuck yeah!  You’re chaos, you’re a dervish of limbs and violence, you go out there and do anything you can to win.  No one else digs as deep as you, has less regard for themselves than you–it’s an exercise that’s free of ego, y’know?  You ain’t worried about looking pretty, you just are, and you don’t worry about looking cool.  That’s a sacred act to you.  You don’t need confidence.  You need to remember your convictions.

Sage’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise.

Sage Pontiff: Listen at you.  Clifford Pike, man of philosophy!

Cliff Pike: Fuck yerself, Ponitff.  Tell me I’m wrong.

The chuckles die down, and Sage can’t meet his lover’s eyes.  He’s deep in thought.  But he nods, taking a small hit of sacred smoke.

Sage Pontiff: You aren’t wrong.  It’s not confidence, just the lack of it made me think it was.  It’s that I want this.  I don’t know if he does.

Cliff Pike: That’s what I wanna hear.  Remember who you are.  You’re Sage fuckin’ Pontiff, you’re a nightmare once that bell rings.  Don’t you forget it.

A brief pause.

Cliff Pike: And get your ass back home after you win.  I’ll show you how much you’re missed, heard?

Sage Pontiff: Ha, heard.  Heard in a big way.  Love you, Cliff.

Pike blows him a kiss with a grin.

Cliff Pike: Love you too, Sage.

Bedoop.

—

I’m stuck wondering if I’ve lost a step.  Or maybe I’m not myself wondering, but more wondering if you’re wondering.  That’s a unique sensation, not one I’m used to.  They warn you about this when you’re at the group, talk about how now you just have all this time on your hands, and that time just leads you to think.  And you think over and over again about the wasted opportunities, right?  Maybe if I just ducked that punch, slipped that lockup, maybe if I was just one percentage point better than i was?  Then what would have happened?  It’s a fool’s wondering, but I feel like a bit of one as of late.  That is not me denigrating myself, either.  The fool has a lot of wisdom to impart.  The fool is often the mirror–funhouse, right?--that shows the rest of the world how ridiculous they’re being.  So if I have to just sit and fuckin’ think all the time, it leads me to thinking about my match.  Which leads to me thinking about my opponent.  So I’m thinking about you, Jason.  Which is also kind of novel for me.  See what I do here is I normally try to give you a lot more credit than you’re due.  In turn, I get to gas myself up.  Assign to the fight some greater cosmic or spiritual purpose, one only visible to me.  You watch and listen and you probably shake your head–it’s a neat trick, one that I’m really good at, where you discount me as some deeply unserious person and underestimate me come fight day.  It’s a trick that’s served me pretty well, too.  I’ve carved a living out here, and while I may lack the accolades or the belts that you’ve accumulated?  I’m rich, dude.  I am spiritually on a level that Bezos can’t touch.  Health, good looks, friendship, love, the ability to make a difference in people’s lives because of what I earn doing the one thing that has ever made sense to me.  You?  You show up.  Run wreck.  Win, a lot, if your reputation is to be believed.  But you also run away.  A lot, if your reputation is to be believed.  And we could hash all of that shit out if you really wanted to, but I’ve seen your eyes, bro.  You aren’t ready for that yet.  So rather than drag you through the minutiae of what’s poisoning you on a psychic level, let’s talk on broader terms.  You’re probably more comfortable with those, but what I’m about to lay on you is gonna chafe.  You don’t believe you deserve this.  You never once have.  If you beat me–and shit, you can–then you’ll wonder if you deserve it.  If you beat ten others like me, it’ll still gnaw at you.  If you win every piece of gold you can get from this place, you know what you’ll do?  You’ll run.  Because there’s a sickness inside of you that stares back at you when you look in a mirror. And you can’t ever be rid of that, man.  I’ve been all over it.  Looked at it from every angle.  But those broken parts in us, they don’t go away.  We just learn to control them.  And you haven’t.  So I’m going to save you the trouble, man.  I’m going to take you to the mat, I’m going to beat you like you’re my most hated enemy.  I’m going to do things to you in that ring that would be criminal in any other context.  Not because I wish you any ill will–far from it.  I wish you health and love and happiness, I wish you a warm home and good rest free from nightmares of a life that you’re not ready to live and never have been.  I wish freedom for you, Jason.  Freedom from this cycle of success and fear.  Come on, man.  Let’s get free.  Namaste.