Place Your Message Into The Cosmic Ether

Place your message into the cosmic ether.  I will return to you.  Beep. 

“Yah.  Hey.  Saw I missed yer call…uh, hit me back.

Nah y’know what, that’s shitty, like I’m hitting you up on Facebook about a fuckin’ credenza or some shit.

I dunno, Sage.  I dunno if it’s just that we’re miles apart on this one thing or if we’re miles apart on a lot of fuckin’ shit.  I love you.  I want this to work.  I think you do too.  Can we like…shit, I dunno, get coffee or somethin’?  I wanna talk this over.  I can't stand shit just bein’ left to fester.

Later.”

—

Jake hasn’t shown up.

Which The Bodhisattva understood to be the way of it.  Jake is not a man taken to subterfuge, not now–his brand of sobriety leaves little room for it.  Still, Sage half expected to see the diminutive ex-gangster darkening the path to the central grove of Rancho Mundo, heralded by a cloud of Marlboro smoke.  But even if he isn’t here, the fingerprints of Jake are all over: mostly, in that these adherents to the path of communal living actually have places to live.

By pluck, application, and not a small amount of money and favors, Sage Anikulapo Pontiff and his friends have bent this patch of nature to their will.  Not with destruction, though plenty of trees were felled and unrooted in the process of making this land inhabitable.  But with as much consideration as can be had, the form is starting to take shape.  Fences are erected.  Fields plowed.  Workshops and areas set up for the things that they will need to make it through winter months: areas for clothing to be repaired, areas for food to be prepared, areas for provisions to be socked away.  Classes, too, where smithing and forestry and trapping are discussed by expert to neophyte.  Pods of community have formed here, too, groupings from the same states centralizing in pockets across the landscape.

And those pockets have gotten larger, he has noticed.  Word of mouth spreads.  Other communities come apart at the seams, arguments about process and praxis ripping them apart.  That’s where Jake is mistaken, The Bodhisattva has decided: yes, the will of one man is a dangerous thing.  But the will of a committee is something that can destroy through inaction or through bickering.  Sage is still in his youth, but he has lived a long life all the same, and he’s seen it time and again in his travels.  Petty fighting for pet projects.  Worrying about the implications and micro-affect of every action and every word.  Isn’t having someone at the helm of a project like this, a single being with the vision, not the better option?  Not a tyrant.  Not a guru, even.

Just a visionary.

The Bodhisattva has enjoyed that word as of late, as he sees the world around him begin to match what he has seen in his mind's eye.  There’s a foundation to the western half of the clearing, concrete on a level surface that’s ready and primed to have the walls put up on the bare pine frame that the crew from Oregon erected.  To the east, far from the living areas nestled into the edge of the trees, is a shelter made of branches and fronds that some of the naturalists built up, an area to process the deer they hunt and to tan the flesh into leather.  Compost to the north.  Water tanks being filled from the fall that can be heard in the dead of night.  They’ve begun to smooth out an area of land to the left of the field, digging up the grass in a large circle and beating the sod down to create a makeshift Akhara, a place to strengthen the body and the spirit through the practice of combat.

That last one is the jewel of what he envisions.  Not just a place away from the grind of capitalism and White Nationalism, but a place for the purification of the spirit.  And the surest way to the purification, he surmises, is to meditate the mind and harden the body.  He spends every morning in the pit, stretching himself before dawn, dragging his dreads on the ground be it dry or dewy.  He swings Gata, he gleams, his veins sing to the heavens–The Bodhisattva has never been in shape like this.  Sometimes, when others join him, he will adopt a horse stance with both arms outstretched, urging the others to take turns striking him in the midsection, controlling his breath.  Eventually, others do the same.  Eventually, it becomes tradition.  “Akhara before breakfast.”  It feeds the animal that he knows he has inside of him.  But he has begun to come to the opinion that the animal is not a part of himself that can be bound.

He knows what others would say.  Jake would tell him he’s on a path that will lead to relapse.  Cliff would tell him that he lacks the organizational acumen to manage what he has wrought.

Sage doesn’t know how many are here now.

He’s not sure he wants to.

Solid numbers might lead him to questions, and those questions might lead him to admitting that Cliff had a fine point: you can’t just let everyone in.  Not as a matter of means testing, but there is a simple equation of resources and space and how many people both of those can serve.  Math is a cold thing, but it has to be.

Math is a problem for tomorrow, he decides.

Today is for strength.

His bare feet tread on the dusty circle and he feels the Earth’s power surge through his toes.

—

Place your message into the cosmic ether.  I will return to you.  Beep. 

“Hey Sage.

I saw uh one of them guys who was out at the property–Moon, I think, or Wolf or Twig or someshit.  He had uploaded some videos of the place to Instagram and I…it was nice.  It’s nice, what you’ve built there, and I’d say you because…I mean, I bugged out, right?  Kinda feels like I did the cowardly thing.  But then I look past the fields and the buildings and I see all them people and I just…it’s a lot, love.

It’s a lot.

Missing you is a lot, too.

Jake stopped by and he said you looked really good but that he was worried.  I heard him out, but some of the smoke he was blowin’ felt just like that.  I get that he’s like freaked because he only knows stories of how you tell him you were.  And I love you to death, but your tales run as tall as anything.  I know how you were.  I saw how you were.  And I know how serious you are about never going back.

So I dunno.  I told him to chill.  Maybe he’ll listen.

Maybe you will too, and call me.

I love you.”

—

With the disparate collection Sage has under his sky, something is bound to happen, right?

Sage isn’t a fool, nor is he delusional.  He can come off as the latter, and the people who assume the former can be shocked at the sudden sunbursts of his wisdom.  So he’s been bracing for this, but maybe not preparing like he should.

No being is perfect.

The source of the disagreement appears to be between some of the more ‘rugged individualist’ grade of person and the pod from Planet Awakening.  The former group are hard folks, brawny in their bearing, farm workers by way of old-school mountain hippies.  They’re kind enough.  They contribute a lot.  They’re some of the more well-versed of the gathered at the whole concept of ‘roughing it’--many of the others are weekend warriors, the type who believe being able to enjoy themselves at Coachella or Burning Man makes them outdoorsmen.  Sage notes that they can be defined by their outfit, almost like The Warriors: every one of these types has at least two pairs of beige canvas Carhartt overalls.  They try not to piss people off, but they have a certain degree of bombast.  The Teddy Roosevelt of it all.

They also hunt and trap–and consume what they hunt and trap.

And Planet Awakening doesn't cotton to that.  Don’t mistake them for weak, recumbent-yoga peaceniks, though–PA are almost the farm team for the ELF, and count among them people who would put the most decorated sapuer to shame.  Sage doesn’t use the word ‘Eco-terrorist’, but these lean vegans fit the bill.  They may lack some of the pure physicality of those rugged folks, but they also have unwavering belief, and faith can make a person remarkably frightening.  That faith has led them here, to an argument with near 20 a side, a cacophony that disturbs the bucolic pulse of the place.  He’s been informed by someone who’s name he can’t remember of the details on his way here, and he strides between the crowds without raising his hands or saying a word.

Like a golden arrow, he separates the sides.

The arguments die down.

The eyes land on him with expectation.

He scans them silently.  A lifetime of seeking battles has left him with a remarkable eye for which froggy wants to jump the most, and he’s already found them.  On one side, a woman of indeterminate age with her hair chopped off in a cut that was clearly a skin clipper shave 3 months ago.  Her sleeveless flannel shirt, overalls, and muddy boots would mark her as a rural in any environment, but Sage notes a few things–the stick and poke of a labrys on her forearm, the wolf’s paw on her shoulder–that mark her as of his outcast cloth.  The other is a bear of a man, broad of shoulder and long of beard, standing in canvas boots and field camo pants, not bothering to wear anything else in the midday sun.  They’re oppositional.  That’s good, The Bodhisattva thinks.  Opposite magnetic forces can enact change.

“So.  Why are we disturbing the peace of the Rancho today?”  As if anticipating the return of the outbursts, Sage raises his hand, holding onto the silence and waiting before pointing at the overalled woman.

“We was just cleanin’ off our knives, man–in our fuckin’ camp, I’ll remind you–when these fuckin' treehuggers decided to come over an’ get heavy.”  She sneers at the big man, who doesn't say anything, waiting for his cue from The Bodhisattva.

Sage provides it.

“All we wanted, murderer, was for you to clean the blood off of your instruments of death literally anywhere else.  That’s a reasonable thing to want!  You know my partner Zip got nausea from the smell of it?!”

“Oh like I give a fuck about Zip getting a tummy–”

“No.  I’m not having that again, either of you.  Look.  This is a place for all.  It is a free home for what the square community would be kind in calling ‘alternative expression’.  That does mean that you have to share this land with people who do not see the world as you do and who do not adhere to your way of interacting with it.  Now it seems like there’s an amenable solution to this.  You lot, clean your things off over where we put the tannery and smoker.  And you.”  He affixes the large man with eyes that are somewhere between gauging him and appreciating his scale.  “You exist on the fringe.  We all know your rep.  Don’t take that to mean you’re allowed to be a dick.”

Most of the crowds on both sides agree.  There are even handshakes of apology.

But the woman in overalls and the brute of an activist aren't among the happy congregation.  They’re still staring absolute daggers at one another–which causes a chuckle to rise up from Pontiff.  He walks to the edge of the campsites and looks towards the earthen ring.

“You see the circle?  I call it my own Akhara.  It translates to Core of Learning, roughly.  How about you both step in there?  Work your distances out, and begin to understand something of what unity actually means?  This bad blood will only continue to be poison until it’s removed, guys.  And once that’s over with…we can exist in harmony, yes?”  The two bulls delock their horns and turn to The Bodhisattva.  The first to speak is the smaller woman, who cracks her neck with her eyes blazing.

“Say when.”  The eco bear, however, snorts, and affixes Sage with a look of challenge.  Pontiff notes the stiffening of the large man’s spine.  The energy shift is palpable to a degree that he doesn't need to look over the man to determine what’s happening.  The vibe precedes him, announces his intent like a bugle’s blast before he even exhales his words.

“What if that’s not good enough?  You should have never invited these fuckin’ carnists here in the first place.  What if we don’t think you’re honoring this land correctly, huh?”  Sage doesn’t shift his gaze from the circle, but he does nod slightly.  One gets the impression he’s thinking deep.  Finally, he speaks, his voice bright and cheery.

“How about I step in there with you?  If she wins, you leave and I step away.  If you win, she leaves and I step away.  And if I win…we find peace and understand how we will coexist.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He just starts walking, trusting that they’ll follow–and they do.

—

Place your message into the cosmic ether.  I will return to you.  Beep.  “Pontiff what the actual fuck?!  I just saw a video from that fuckin' hippy, Wolf or Twig or Moon Unit or whatever the fuck–did you…did you invite that?!  Did you cause that?!  Are you fuckin’ coming up with excuses to fight again?!

I’m out the door.  I don’t fuckin’ like what I’m seeing.”

—

Instagram Live from user @Wolf_Om_Ether, posted 45 minutes ago. 

The video is shaky and the light is too dim.  We can see the treeline black as sack cloth against the encroaching gray that heralds dusk–the sun dipped down below the canopy not too long ago.

There is the excitable breathing of the operator.  The crunch of their Tevas on the ground, through grass and over twigs.  Finally, it stops with a start as we can see something else etched out against the horizon, a section where the property dips and the treeline goes with it.  The form of a man, lean and muscled, his head a mess of snakelike dreadlocks.

With another great Blair Witch shake, the flashlight on the phone comes on.

The person holding it gasps.

Standing before them bathed in the harsh light of a cellular phone is Sage Pontiff.  He is naked to the waist and sporting a fair number of scratches and developing bruises.  He has a nasty gash over his left eye, a place he bleeds from so readily that it could be said that he merely opened up the same wound he’s been nursing since he was 14.  He clutches his skull momentarily, drawing attention to the fact that it appears he’s had a few of the 'locs over his left ear torn out by the root, leaving lumpy, bloody scalp behind.  His mouth is coated in blood from nose to almost a quarter of the way down his long beard.  He winces–grins?--and we see that he’s had two of his teeth knocked out. But he doesn't appear to be in pain.

The dilation of his eyes, the sway of his body…for someone that is almost permanently encircled in a wreath of marijuana smoke, he actually looks good and properly stoned.  Sounds it, too, as he begins to speak in a croaky lilt, singing through his vocal fry.

“‘I resort to Mahakali, who has ten arms and ten legs and holds in her terrible hands the sword, disc, mace, arrows, bow, club, spear, missile, conch and the head of the enemy.  She who is three-eyed, adorned with ornaments on every limb, luminous like a blue jewel.  She who Brahma extolled to destroy Madhu and Kaitabha, who sewed chaos as Vishnu was in torpor.’”

He stumbles towards the camera, and now there’s no doubt: he’s smiling.  He holds aloft his hands, and we can see that his knuckles are down to the raw meat.

“I am but a vessel for her fury.  And her lessons are not just for me to learn.  Get it?  The lessons are for everyone.  We will all realize the temporary place that this…”  To emphasize, Sage beats on his chest.  “...is a temporary detainment.  Get it?  This flesh is a pitstop to the real reward, it’s a flat tire on the way to the fireworks factory–Wolf!  Friend!  I’ve been so uptight in my thinking, so rigid in my being.  This is what happens.  This is what happens when a spiritual being denies its true nature and purpose.”

He leans forward, seemingly grasping the person holding the phone by their shoulders, given how much space he takes up in the frame.

“Do you get it, Chandler?  Do you understand exactly what I am?”

He steps back, taking a long, circling walk.  He holds both his arms out to the side and faces the sky.

“I am not a man!  I am the sword!  I am the mace!  I am the mace, club, bow, arrow, spear, conch, hourglass, axe, fist, teeth, claws–I am the destroying purifying fury of the ten heads!  Thirty eyes gaze on you, and man…they need you to understand.  Desperately.  I do too.  I need you to know, man.  I need you to know.  Get it?!”

Suddenly, he rushes the camera, snatching it from its wielder in a bit of nausea-inducing shakycam.  When it settles on his battered face, he isn’t smiling.  He isn’t wide eyed.  His eyes are closed, his features as slack and docile as a monk attaining enlightenment.

“I’m not a wrestler.  I am not in a tournament.  I am at war.”

He throws the phone back to its wielder.  Another screen spin.

In the distance, thunder rumbles.

In the distance, headlights can be seen in the gaps of the forest.

Video over.  Play Again?