Rancho Mundo

Walk on sunshine, weary traveler.

Of course, these days, he can’t even wear the coat of the road-worn transient anymore.  The romance of suffering that most ascribe to life on the road holds no interest for him, not how it once did.  There was a certain poetry to his BC life–Before Cliff.  Not knowing where he would stay or who’s bed he would share, not factoring his meals, not really worrying all that much.  Trusting that the iridescent waves of the universe would carry him to a friendly shore.  And it always did.

And, coincidence or providence, Cliff came into his life just as he said goodbye to being a person of worship.  Which means he also came into Sage’s life right at the moment of greatest upheaval, and they fell in love, and the only thing that The Bodhisattva knew how to do took him away from this new anchor.  Which only compounded the malaise.

And there came the melancholy poetry of it all.  Even when he was with his friend, the malaise was there.  The ache.  Maybe that’s what made him spiral so far.  Maybe that felt “rockstar.”  Whatever it was, Sage had no further desire to cultivate that sadness in him.  The time with Jake had felt like a breakthrough, and rather than focus on the distance between them, he had found himself dreaming of a future–not an amorphous timeframe, but a future that could be…permanent.  Could be something more solid.

The very thought is uncomfortable.  Woolen, twisted, clinging.  But it starts to feel somewhere close to comfortable, like sliding into a set of sweats with a thousand washes on them.

The notion of solidity just needed to be broken in.

The leather was too stiff.  Had to be conditioned.

He met Cliff in the heart of the midwest, Chicago.  The city there thumbs with it’s own rhythm, but it’s not the feral heartbeat of New York or the dreamlike crawl of LA.  The beat in Chicago was steady, workmanlike, John Henry driving stakes past the steam giant.  There are pockets of it that felt idyllic, and Cliff’s apartment was among them.  Bucktown.  There was something to the fact that The Bodhisattva never felt stifled by it, and he knows most of that is due to Cliff Pike, who could make a cramped crumbling two bedroom feel like it’s own world.

But there was a part of him that yearned for the environment where he felt safe.  Like a vampire, he felt weak without returning to his native soil: the earth, the deserts, the beaches, the forests.  Where th stars shine brightly, temperatures fluctuate, and you learn to live your life by the temperament of the fury of nature.  You learn to respect things that are larger than yourself, ancient things, not like the tall buildings of cities, monuments to the tendency of man to try and match the grandeur of the natural world in their own false image.  Concrete and steel husks made his skin crawl.  He dreamed of a day.  A vision of a farm.  Land enough to live from it, to invite like-minded people to share.  Communal life, like he remembers from his childhood, from their geodesic dome on land that they shared with their intentional community.

Unfortunately, though Sage Pontiff is a master of certain things–violence, marijuana consumption, finding a friendly place to stay with little more than a smile and a kind word–he’s not a great money manager.  So acreage in the hundred was out, as was a nice place to call their own.

But a few acres and trading the crumbling apartment for a crumbling cabin?  That’s within budget.

By no means does Sage want to ever suggest that Cliff–or him, really–give up the city.  Cliff’s work with the community action network is too important, his scuffles with fascists too great, the hardcore shows too numerous.  But a place to escape, lick wounds, strategize, return to something simple and pure?  Absolutely, he is suggesting that.  Of course, the only issue with that is that he’s failed to actually make the suggestion to his partner.

In his mind, it would be a wonderful surprise.

And after all, it’s not like it’s Cliff’s money that’s going to it.  This is all on the dome of Pontiff, the man who has bled and bruised and broken himself at an international scale and who has only recently started to enjoy the process again.  And the woods outside of New Buffalo Michigan aren’t exactly the type of land he envisions, but propriety mean that he’ll not taste the dry, arid air of the desert.  But it was cheap enough, and the guy who sold him the land would be open to selling adjacent property in the future.  And though it’s ramshackle, there is a home there.  A solid place.  Roots.  Something that he hasn’t had since he was seventeen, something he didnt want–not that he viewed it with derision or hatred, but that he just never…conceived of such a thing.

He would have been a friendly phantom.

Marauding from one scene to the next.

Or maybe a hermit, alone in his cave.

Handing out riddles to people who’s youth reminds him of an earlier version of himself.

Or maybe he would be a prisoner.

Incarcerated but proud, head held high, a man who shares his spirit with the birds and flies above the concerns of his flesh.

Love wrecked those notions which now feel so adolescent.  Why force a future that you think is becoming of an outdated model of Sage Pontiff?  Why reject the waves of existence when they have carried you to this shore, this place, this time, this man?

Love, man.

What a trip.

—

“So, lemme get this, if I can.”

Clifford Azad Pike looks as out of place as anyone could.  Clifford Azad Pike is a true creature of the city.  Clifford Azad Pike doesn’t look like he even knows the first thing about rural living.  Sage doesn't either, to be frank, but he looks like he stands a greater chance, especially with his long beard he keeps nowadays.  And in Cliff’s defense, the place they are looking at…needs work is a bit too kind.  There are gaps in the boards, the door is off it’s hinges, the windows have long been broken by hooligans or forest debris, take your pick.  He stalks around the front of the property, considerable fists stuffed into the pockets of a beaten Dickies jacket, taking everything in.  When he decides to speak again, it is with as measured as his wallop of a voice can be.

“You buy this property, right?  Don’t tell me about it, nothin’.  And it’s a done deal.  This ain’t us looking at a potential buy, this is executed, signed for, you got the uh…”  Cliff looks to the broken door, then back to Sage.  “...keys.  Without telling me a shred of it.  And you’re confused, ‘cause I got a pretty odd reaction going here.”

“That’s the shape of it, yeah.”

“Pontiff, I’m not willing to uproot my life.”

“And I’d never ask that of you.”  Sage strides closer to his partner on a raft of leaves and twigs, softly crunching in moccasin boots with a cone joint in between his fingers.  His eyes are earnest as he meets Cliff’s.  “I’m not saying this has to be home.  I know that’s always gonna be where the need is the greatest, and I understand that there’s too much at stake in this current moment for you to go away.  I’m not asking that of you and I never would–you’re a warrior for the people, Cliff.  I will not diminish that.  I’m just saying this could be a home.  A place to escape to.  A place to build and cultivate.”

“A place to organize.”

“Eventually?  Absolutely.  I’ve only got three acres right now, but there’s another 46 that surround this parcel.  I can’t afford them all, but maybe one day I could afford more, y’know?”  He reaches out into Cliff’s jacket pocket, his scarred sinewy mitt clasping the larger man’s porterhouse.  “Maybe one day this could be a place away from the rise.  A place of refuge, of building, of escape, of training, of resistance.  A place where we aren’t reliant on the infrastructure of the state to survive.”  This frankly impassioned dream causes a lull in the conversation.  For a long while, both men stand there, holding hands in silence.  One the picture of lanky, timeless boho hippie chic, his dreads halfway down his back and his beard past his clavicle, idly taking big champion hits of his preferred sacrament.  The other a left outside linebacker of a street fighter, Dan Severn and Henry Rollins doing a fusion dance to become the scariest member of the Black Bloc that ever walked.  The latter half clears his throat, scratching at his land rover jaw for a moment.

“Y’know you got a real way with words, right?”

“I just had a vision and I took a leap.  You know I never would have done this before you?”

“Oh, yeah, I unlocked your impulsive streak.”

“Not like that.  I mean before we met the idea of settling, of placing roots in anything was so alien to me.  You made me have a home, and once you have somewhere to return to…shit, I guess you start future-tripping.  The thought of that used to feel like swallowing poison to me.  But now when I think of the future, I actually feel hopeful, which is the craziest thing to say with the way the world is going.  I just look at this and I can see something on the horizon.  And at the end of it all there’s you and me and whatever we decide to make of this, which can be whatever we envision, whatever we dream.”  He turns to Cliff with his patented beautiful smile alight, the same smile that has gotten him almost anything he wants in life.  “This can be whatever we dream.”

“Man.”  Cliff withdraws his hand, turning to Sage.  “I’m not gonna sit here and snow ya and tell you that I’m not at least a little pissed at you for doing this shit.  You see a future and me in it, that means you better consult my ass on big time moves.”  He sighs, walking toward the broken down homestead.  Clearly it was built in an era before or right when the depression hit.  But as cliff grabs onto the door jamb and shakes with all his weight, the building doesnt rattle or sway, nothing falls, nothing rips off in his hands.  No rot.  Just disuse.  He peers inside, and doesnt appear to be that offended.  “This is a mess.”  He then turns to Sage and smiles.  “It’s actually kind of perfect, though.  I see why you did what you did, babe.  I’m just trying to wrap my head around it all, y’know?  Sage Pontiff, the ultimate granola hobo, trying t’build for the future.  What’s the world gonna think of a mature gladiator like that, yah?”

Sage walks over to his man, pulls him close.  The embrace is soft, sincere, hungry.  The noises of the forest, the birds and the branches and the sway of the wind, are all the soundtrack they’ll ever need.  Breaking the kiss, Sage grins.

“The world can think what it wants.  I’m creating–we’re creating our own world.  Right here, right now.”  Cliff chuckles and breaks the hold, looking around.

“So whadda we call it?”  Sage takes another monstrous hit of the sweet leaf, nodding to himself.

“How about ‘Rancho Mundo’?”

“Dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.  I love it.”

—

Why do we do this?  I mean you and me.  I don’t know you.  You don’t even represent something I stand in solidarity against.  You aren’t distasteful, you aren’t reverent.  You aren’t hot, you aren’t cold.  You’re just…this lukewarm outline of what a person should be.  So why do we go in there and destroy one another’s bodies?  I should re-frame it.  I know why I’m there.  Do you? Maybe you’re there because you dream of the bright lights.  You want to be this name.  What does that actually do for you, though?  Maybe I don’t mean you specifically, but the people who chase that in general.  Your class of people.  You don’t want to see the world better than when you entered it, or fix problems that affect the powerless.  You just have this superficial definition of success.  A superficial vision of what your life could be.  It’s all dressing, all an illusion.  Do you know that your entire lifestyle makes you worthy of derision, of mocking?  But I can’t bring myself to do it.  Make no mistake, I want to.  There’s a part of me that I’m not proud of who wants you to feel so much shame for being so…unexamined.  Maybe I’m tired or I’m just older, but I don’t see you as something to make fun of.  I don’t like what you represent, but all I feel is a sadness.  An impotence.  Because you and I will be in that ring, across from one another, and we will do the closest thing that two humans can do to achieve something close to godhood, the one thing that strips all pretension away from both of us until we’re raw nerves intertwined, sweating and gasping and bleeding.  Our ears ringing.  We will see the jungle in one another and we will embrace it.  And you’ll be no better for it.  You’ll have learned nothing. Know what else makes me sad?  Is I’m forcing myself to care.  Is that I feel no need to usher you or shepherd you to a better place.  I want to, but do I want to because it’s a sincere desire, or because that’s what I expect of myself?  I just don’t know, Asher.  I don’t know the why of how two people like you and I end up across from one another.  But I tell you what I do know.  I know what you bring to the table.  You’re a real powerful cat, you know that?  I spent so much time worrying about the spiritual, I forgot the most fun part, which is that I get to shed blood and my ability to hang gets tested.  Because that always gets lost in all of my more high-minded meditations, being honest.  I’m stepping in the ring to fight someone, and it doesn’t matter that your insides just have a ghostly outline where a soul used to reside.  What matter is this.  Real.  Flesh and will, dude.  And what flesh you have, what will you show, what power you have in those limbs.  I look at you and I know I see a gladiator, a man who would fight no matter the era he was born into.  And I know, I know.  I know what you see, but I’m begging you, try to think critically.  I’m not gonna be doing recumbent yoga and aligning my chakras before I approach you.  I practice dharma yudda, the path of righteous warfare.  I’m not here to put flowers in the barrel of your rifle.  I’m here to bring a reckoning to you within the confines of that ring and wherever else the dance leads us.  Not because it will save you.  Not because it’s the right thing to do.  Just because.  Because I can, and I’m good at it, and my war is for something beautiful that I see on the horizon weeping and watery like a heat illusion.  Something real.  We’re in a similar boat by one measure, though: neither of us are really this good at anything else we could devote ourselves to.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  I’m sure you have as well.  But no matter whose hand gets raised, Asher, I want you to really consider finding something to believe in that isn’t just belief in Asher Creed.  Because that navel gazing is gonna eat you alive.  Sure, I’ll beat you until you can’t see straight, shelve you for weeks, until the bones of my knuckles taste air.  But everything I do, you’ll come back from.  Time’s coming soon that you won’t be able to climb out of the hole you’ve dug inside of yourself. Consider it.  Or don’t.  But don’t you dare come into this match and not fight like your life depends on it.  Namaste.