Ya Got Pike, Jagoff

“So what are we…what are we calling this, Sage?”

The question wasn’t without merit.  In the intervening weeks since Cliff had walked off site, Sage hadn’t been back to the world.  He looked it.  Jake looked always like Jake does, somewhere between gang violence motivational speaker and IT professional, the only concession given to the heat a switch from long sleeves to short.  This let his faded gang ink fly, and they told a story of a man who had clearly been killed by the measured sobriety sponsor who had helped to guide the Bodhisattva.  He narrowed his eyes toward the man himself, idly chewing on his Marlboro Red.

Sage was looking more and more like part of the wilderness itself.  The odd leaf or hawk feather in his dreads, the grime of work, the fact that he appeared to be in the best shape of his life: eternally lean, he was now packing on functional muscle to match with a very limited diet, lending him a carved marble definition.  But his eyes were where Jake really noticed the difference, a wildness in his gaze, settling on the older Asian man as if he was determining if he was actual or an illusion.  The way he searched for the words, like he was remembering what it was like to talk to someone who wasn’t one of the intentional communities now numerous adherents.  And that was likely the first thing Jake noticed: the scale of the people.  Most of the land had been graded, the careful process of removing rocks and felling trees for processing and leveling the land having been taken care of.  Jake thought the vision was acreage for sustainable farming, but it appeared only half of this cleared patch of land–one and half acres, to go by the plans– had been plowed and seeded.  The other half was home to sporadic cliques of tents, bell and pup and mountaineer and cabin, from ratty street ones to sophisticated yurts with smokestacks of their own.  They dotted the landscape like sugar sprinkles for as far as he cared to see.

Jake also took note of the condition of the cabin, the doorway of which was being taken up by the near six and a half feet of Pontiff’s tan frame.  It looked to be in far better shape that it was.  The Foundation had been reinforced, gaps in the wood filled with new timber and sealed off, even bearing some hallmarks of who stays there: mandala tapestries fluttered from the window, fairy lights in the overhang, the stylized psychedelic Yggdrasil on the door that he rapped upon.  Food, water, shelter.  Jake smoked the cigarette slowly.  If this was to be a glacial war of inaction and no words, Sage would find his mettle tested by the man who survived having paper on his name from the Satanas boys in SoCal.  The most the older man gave The Bodhisattva was a slight furrow of the brow and the barest curl of his lip.  The tone in the face said it all.

I’m not going anywhere, so get comfortable.  Sage let his lips curl into an easy smirk, popping his eyebrows once.

I’m comfortable, and nothing you say is going to dissuade me.  Not that you’d understand.

Jake pops a long drag.  Exhales out of the nose slowly.  A slow shake of the head.

Try me.  Sage crosses his arms and steps down the cinder block stacks that serve as his temporary staircase.  Walks past Jake, surveying what he has in the early morning Sun, the sky clear and purposeful, pregnant with possibility.  Slowly he turns back to his friend, a smile of genuine happiness on his face.  Eyes sparkling.

“We’re calling this consecration.”

—

Ya got Pike, jagoff.  Leave it. 

“Hey Cliff.  Uh…just haven't heard from you in a while.  I mean I saw the text where you asked for a little bit of time to think, but you also said you didn't know how long that meant, which…well, that makes sense.  Right?  Like how are you supposed to know the schedule of your own feelings?  Stupid.  Stupid thing to ask.

I just…I’ve been thinking.  Y’know, we really had like a lot of improvements here now.  The people who don’t contribute aren’t around anymore.  They uh…they aren't going to be back.  Ever.  But we’ve been really building a lot of infrastructure.  We’ve got lots of good stuff in the ground, squash and beets and radishes.  The cabin is finally inhabitable.  I mean maybe not perfect, but it’s way better than it was.  And I was just wondering…

…I want you out here, Pike.  I miss you.  I feel adrift sometimes but there’s plenty of stuff to do and that keeps me sort of focused and occupied.  You know how I get, if I stagnate too much there’s that part of me that’s just too fucked up and it looks for an easy outlet for chaos and pain.  So I’ve been kinda contending with that.  Maybe that’s why so much has gotten done.  But I’m good on not seeing you, I’m good on space from you.

I totally understand if you aren’t there.  But I just figured it wouldn't hurt to tell you where I’m at.  Maybe you’ll do the same for me?  Maybe?  I hope so.

I love you.”

Bedoop.  —

“That doesn’t seem a little up your own ass, bud?”

They had now begun a slow constitutional walk, Sage pulling on a battered straw hat onto his dreads as they strode the edge of the crop line.  They passed so many small scenes of bucolic granola existence–fires being tended to, oats being cooked, bowls being smoked, nudity being accompanied with no measure of shame.  Jake thought it all seemed sweet.  He also thought that it all seemed like a slum transported to grass instead of concrete.  He kept pace, puffing ponderously, awaiting the response.

“Why not call it for what it is, man?  This is land that is finally being loved.  These are people who finally have somewhere.  This is a paradise.”

“Yeah, I always thought Paradise required a nightly tick check.”

“Small price for harmony, Jake.  Maybe the smallest one I've ever heard of.”  As they reached the crop lines, Sage knelt, gathering up some of the dark soil, rubbing it between his fingers and smelling.  “That’s something I’m falling in love with.  The smell of this place.  It’s not that I haven't ever stayed in a forest, y’know?  Or on a farm.  Or fuck it, both.  But I was never anywhere long enough to really grow an appreciation for the land.  I grew up in the desert.  I miss it sometimes, the dust and the sweat and the Creosote.  Sometimes a strong wind would gust and I swear it was like you were smelling fresh air for the first time.”  Jake did the polite thing, pushing the guts of his smoke out onto the non-farmland ground and pocketing the butt before popping another between his lips.  He grabs his lighter from his pocket, then pauses and pulls the cig from his mouth.

“Haven’t seen you at a meeting in a while.”

“That why you’re here, to make sure I show up to group?”

“No, I’m here to see if my friend is doing okay.  The friend who I met who was committed to the path and who tried not to miss too many meetings because he thought they were on some level spiritually balancing.  The friend who now isn’t doing that, and also isn’t living in his home, and also not spending any time with his partner.”  He finally sparks his cig, exhaling through his nose.  “I’m concerned for you, Pontiff.  And I’m worried you’ve created a bubble for yourself that’s not only not healthy, but actively corrosive.  So sell me on this not being you running.”

“Is it my responsibility to sell you on my own mental health?”

“Yeah, unless you just enjoy me badgering you.”  Sage chuckles at this, returning to standing, his easy smile on display.

“Jake, look at me.  This is good.  This is all good.  This is healing.  Yes, it stings that Cliff and I are in a fight.  Yes, I miss him–but he also asked me for space, man.  I’m not going to disregard his wishes because my bed feels lonely and my heart aches, I’m going to honor what he wants because I respect him.  And yeah, that does suck, and yeah, I have not precisely felt like sharing that struggle at a meeting.  I’m adrift and it stings every day and I’ve got three roads in front of me, right?  I can wallow in despair, I can relapse, or I can do something.  Why are we treating the healthiest of my options as a cause for concern?”

“Because there’s doing the right thing, and then there’s doing anything.”

“And as far as you’re concerned, this isn’t the right thing.”

“In the macro view?  Absolutely it is.  In the ‘What’s best for Sage "Shitty middle name” Pontiff’ world, it’s a fighter ducking a challenge.  And I’ve never once known you to be a coward.”

—

Ya got Pike, jagoff.  Leave it. 

“They keep asking me to lead them.  Which I get, to a degree, because this whole thing is mine, it’s ours, and so I think they see me as a leader.  I’ve been trying to tell them that this is a community, ‘no gods no masters.’  But they aren’t listening so well.  I think they see me as someone to emulate.

I guess maybe I feel like an elder statesman to them?  I mean any subculture that lives outside the law tends to be a youth-oriented thing.  Those of us who don’t die from drugs or violence get straight jobs, ‘grow up’, become totally ungridded eco terrorists, get ground into the dust by the boots of the state.  Not because we’re some big swinging dick, but because the system of capital can’t abide even the smallest sparks.

It gives me echoes, Cliff.  Echoes of someone I don’t want to be anymore.  Hit me back.  I love you.”

Bedoop. —

“Bodhisattva, hate to interrupt.”  The individual who has approached the duo mid-argument is as unassuming as someone of this cultural milieu can be–no face paint, no feathers, just your average long hair hippie burnout in rope sandals and tie dye.  His voice marks him as someone likely from the south, the lower timbre and way his vowels mouth marking him as likely a Texan by birth and rearing.  Jake scrutinizes this man with a narrowed eye.

“Moon, yes.  What can I do for you?”

“We’re gonna be doing a morning meditation before we split off for our chores.  Everyone was wondering if you might lead it?”  Sage smiles at this, eager and fast, holding out a hand that Moon grasps.

“I’d be honored.  Why don;t you get everyone started?  Lead the focus to feelings of insignificance.  Of feeling how small you are, until you are no larger than the gnats and pill bugs.  Until the ego of being a ‘human being’ that feels like he is above the land disappears.  Until you feel like a breathing part of the organism of this soil.”  Giving Moon’s hand a squeeze, he lets go, nodding warmly.  “Go.  I’ll be up in a moment.”  With that, the person walks off, eager to begin the work of the day.  Sage watches him clamber up a small hill to a semicircle of people around the notch of the cabin, a number that’s easily over 100 at this point.  Jake looks in the direction of the gathering.  It’s clear he’s not pleased, and The Bodhisattva senses this, crossing his arms.  “Say it, Jake.”

“This all feels pretty fucked.”

“That’s unvarnished.”

“Didn’t know it was my job to varnish.  But it seems like this is getting bigger than you realize.  That’s a group of people waiting to hear from you.  That burnout didn’t call you by your name, he called you ‘Bodhisattva.’”

“It’s a nickname.”

“It’s a title.  It’s an honorific.  It’s him and whoever else deciding that you have the answers.”

“So?”

“So…” Jake sighs, taking a hit and walking close to his friend.  He lowers his agitated tone, going softer.  “...so soon that’s going to lead to something.  And that’s going to lead you to a place that you escaped from.  And you’re not going to feel it taking hold, you’re going to go to sleep one night and it’ll be there when you wake up.  A whole community, separated from the world, working towards self-sustenance, all eagerly awaiting the direction of a single man.  A spiritual leader.  A guru.  And that’s going to lead to worship.  And that’s going to make you relapse in ways that are going to be hard to come back from.”  He drags on the smoke again.  “That’s my piece, Sage.  That’s what I want to say.  That’s what I’m seeing and feeling.  But I’m only going to lead you to water.  I am unable to force you to drink.”

With that, Jake turns, ready to walk off.  He makes it all of three steps before he turns back around, both hands in the pockets of his slacks, Marlboro between his lips.  He smokes in silence hands free, looking his friend up and down, before retrieving a folded piece of printer paper from his pocket.  He silently chucks it at Sage, who catches it in his hand with ease.  He speaks up.

“What’s this?”

“You’ve been booked.  Figured you might want to know.”  He waves and turns, continuing his walk.  “Good luck, Sage.  With all of it.  Reach out if you need to talk.”

Pontiff watches him go.  Watches him all the way to his arrival at the trail that leads to the gravel lot where people park their cars.  Watches him disappear into the trees, followed by a cloud of tobacco smoke.

—

Ya got Pike, jagoff.  Leave it.

“I’m not sure why I want to fight anymore.

Like there was always this part of me that felt it was me doing a fair amount of risk avoidance.  I know I like the adrenaline and the violence, right?  Those are facts about me, just like the sky is above us and the soil is below.  It’s just who I am and what I do, and it happens to be something I’m good at.

And babe I’m not saying like I lack the motivation.  Putting me across from someone like Crash Jackson is easy mode.  Honestly, when I saw it?  I had an attack of ego, of machismo.  I seriously had a moment where I was insulted.  ‘How dare they put me against someone like that?’  Just the most asshole kind of reaction a person could have.  Not thankful for the payday, not thankful for the chance to scratch my particular itch, not thankful that this match likely means grain and sharpening stones and things that Rancho Mundo needs, not thankful that this match means money for the disadvantaged.

Just fuckin’...rage.  Real rage.

Why the fuck is that my reaction?

And it’s not one I’ve divested myself from.  I want to really fuck him up and I have no idea why.  Not just to win, but to really hurt him, to hold him up like a bloody pagan sacrifice of bone and flesh to the suits.  ‘This is who I am.  I am not a “fun challenge.”  I am Sage Anikulapo Pontiff, I carry death in my pouch, and you better make sure that these sycophants know just who the fuck they’re subjecting themselves to when they see my name across from theirs.’  I want the menace.  I’m craving the menace.  I don’t want to help him.  I don’t want to help anyone.  I just want to take all this that’s inside of me and load it into each of my fists and just beat him until there’s nothing left.  It’s like I have this compulsion where I have to balance out the beauty and the joy of this place with pure primal violence, otherwise I get off balance.  And when I get off balance, bad things start happening.  To me, to you, to everyone.  Like, it’s nothing against the guy.  I don’t really actually know Crash Jackson, he’s never insulted me.  I know that, when I look at it with even a shred of thought.  He’s just the body.  He’s the flesh that represents the world that I have to wreck.  There’s just…shit.

There’s a lot of pain in me, Cliff.

And I’m not asking you to solve that.

I know you can’t.  I can’t rely on others to make me happy or fix what’s wrong with me.  If there even is something wrong with me, right?  Because this thirst feels unavoidable.  I’ve been working so hard at directing that energy that I’m fucking exhausted, honestly.

I’m so tired of fighting to feel tired of fighting.

I’d rather just fight.

For hours, for days.

I feel bad for the guy.  He doesn't deserve it.  This isn’t his problem.  But I’m going to make it his problem.  And I’m gonna come swinging like he does deserve it.  And I want so badly to feel guilt about that.  But I don’t.

I just…don’t.

I’m twisted up.  I’m rambling.

I love you.”

Bedoop.  Buzz.  Call from: Cliff Pike.