Clear For the Bloom

A war happened on the grounds.

While the only evidence when he returns should be a notable drop in the populace, if you look close, you can see the signs of the strife all over.  Broken branches.  Routs in the ground.  Blood on the leaves.  Pink ice.

He eased the biodiesel conversion van to its park spot, the flattened but of land at the top of the kill that leads down to the carved out valleys, the farmlands, The Monolith.  The storms made the paths treacherous at best, and Sage barely made it to his spot, mighty struggling wheel spin and fishtailing skids marking his arrival.  He took time to put spikes on his threadbare boots, wrapping himself in multiple shirts and a thick woolen baja-style hoodie before pulling a blanket around his shoulders as an improvised cloak.

He wasn’t used to the cold on his head.

The walk was slow, which gave him time to observe the world around him.  Frozen in time, as if his absence had made the remnants of green all but disappear.  He noted the tire marks–many hallmarks of vehicles struggling up the hill, and big gouges where the heavy equipment likely helped to push cars up the hill on their way from the embrace of Rancho Mundo.  Occasionally, he would see evidence of a site in expedient retreat: a tarpaulin here, a stake there, someone’s camp stove against a tree, likely thrown from the top of their car in a sudden jerk of traction and abandoned in haste.  A walk that would normally be but a 15 minute affair stretched on to a half hour at nearly the halfway point, Sage having to steady himself and pause at intervals to re-tighten his boot spikes, silently reminding himself to buy a new pair at some point.  By the time he hit three quarters, he could see down into the living area through the bare and ice-weighed treeline, and there is where he stopped.  Though it took six sparks of a lighter, he finally immolated the tip of a raw cone full of sacrament, looking upon his works–and most distinctly, his depleted people.

What was once at its peak some nearly 500 tents had already diminished to 250 or so by the time Sage had issued his directive to Wolf.  Between the de-facto consiglierie’s “cleaning” efforts and the motherfucker of a storm, that number was, to his quick count, maybe down to 70.

Seventy homes, coated in tarps and pine branches, buttressed by shoveled dirt to create wind-breaking berms, tents wrapped around cockeyed smokestacks to keep the interior a livable warmth.  He was struck by, once again, the need for homes.  His being the only permanent structure on the land was eating at him, though this was hardly the time to build.  Still, he had fresh payday in his pocket, and his thoughts turned to building.  He didn't want the failures of his first year in the space to be the whole story, and most of all, he needed to prove to himself that it could have worked like Cliff had said it would.  The Bodhisattva isn't a stupid man, a fool of some sort, and he knows that making it work the Cliff Pike way won’t begin to scratch at the possibility of that relationship ever being saved.  But this was an endeavor he had envisioned for both of them, and there is a tug at his soul.  A tug that says it has to work.  That it can.

In many ways, he’s thankful for the way it panned out.  Not the loss of Cliff’s love or Jake’s guidance, not for the fights he had to get into to keep the peace or the need of Wolf’s efforts to clear out those who were only here to use and abuse both the land and themselves.

But the opportunity to welcome all and then let those who couldn’t meet the vision either drift away or be removed by force has left him with seventy tents.  Seventy homes that follow the vision, at minimum seventy people who can handle the harshest conditions, seventy people who truly and confirmedly believe.

And you can’t advertise for belief, you can’t interview for it.  Belief has to show up when one is presented with stress.

He sees that they have gathered in a shelter that the community erected in the warmer months, under the stamped metal roof and around an intentional hole in the floorboards that is buttressed with stones, a large fire being tended to.  He sees them all, the cast-offs, misfits, and those whose dreams cannot be contained by the confines of capitalist society.  Most of them single people, some in relationships, some in throuples or quads of polyamorous harmony, and even two families with children.  All wrapped tightly against the cold and nursing metal camp mugs of steaming tea or coffee.  Someone is making toast on the rocks, another is frying eggs in a cast iron.  One tending to a pot full of porridge that throws off enough steam to lightly condense the ceiling.  And despite all of it, the strife of the clearing out, the strife of the weather, the bitter environment, they are all smiling.  Even Wolf, normally relaxed to the point of an almost annoying nonreactive state, seems in good spirits.  They all are.  Even if, even at this distance, Sage can spot the bandages some of them sport.  Even if, at this distance, he can see his second in command’s arm in a sling and his hand wrapped in a mitten of gauze.  They went to war.  Real war.  For him or for his vision, he isn’t sure, but he also thinks it’s probably one and the same.  They were an army when he needed an army.

He half expected to feel excited at this prospect.

Instead, it makes him nauseous.

There, standing on a hill in the wind, wrapped like a pilgrim on his journey to the holy land, he makes a resolution.  A prayer.  He doesn’t pray to God or Radhe Govidna, or the Buddha.  Just to nature, to the skies that sit above him like a smoke-colored blanket.

A prayer and a plan.

With another big tug of smoke, he begins his slow trek back to his home, his sanctuary, his people.

—

It took close to three hours for the cabin to return to a livable heat, even with consistent stoking and fueling.

In that time, Sage entertained whoever wanted to come inside.

Wolf came and stayed, sitting on a chair in the corner, slowly puffing from his nearly blackened corn cob pipe, saying little unless spoken to.  Over the time, many came to show off war wounds, to speak of fights they won, to tell stories of triumph, which Sage met with his brilliant smile and embraces and thanks.  Food was brought to him, fry breads and pemmican and dried fruit–in return, he pushed a handful of bills into the palm of Squeak, a mountain of a man with by far the only road legal vehicle in their possession that could make it up and down the icy hill.  With that money were instructions, lists, palaces to visit, lumber yards and hardware stores and the grocers.  In addition to the staples, Sage wanted a feast, and they needed supplies for it.  Maybe one day they would be self-sufficient, but today wasn’t it.

And after hours, orders given, requests made, thanks uttered…warmth and quiet abounded in the cabin.  Sage settled onto the floor in front of the fire, looking at the flames in something that could be construed as deep thought, but what was probably in between that and an overstimulated silence.  Wolf slowly raised from his corner chair, striding over on creaking floorboards to join The Bodhisattva on the floor, but not breaching the silence with words.  A fact that Sage was thankful for.  After five minutes of silence, the lanky warrior finally spoke.

“So, what did the purge do to you?”  Wolf chuckled–once, dryly–and looked down at his slung wing and bandaged hand.  He shrugged.

“Meth zombie from out on that there ridgeline–y’know ‘em, the ones with that short bus they had them sleepin’ bags in–came at me with a knife.  Got me good in th’ hand, but he regretted that.” He gave Sage a soft smile, cocking his head to the injured arm.  “This is just cause I took a spill on th’ ice and popped my damn shoulder outta place.  Jus’ bein’ careful.  Let it heal.”  Sage nods at this, revealing a raw cone from somewhere in his seemingly unlimited extradimensional space where rolled weed is always available.  He lights it up and takes a hit, handing Wolf the joint when he’s done, his eyes not leaving the fire.

“I regret that it had to come to it at all.  I regret that anyone was hurt.  But like you said, it was necessary.”

“Yup.  Weren’t an easy week or so.  But lots of ‘em scurried when they saw what happened to th’ first’ns who tried to fight it out.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it all.  While the ice kept me away, while I walked down the hill and tried not to bust my head open.  I watched you and everyone else at breakfast, and it actually from a distance looked like a community.  For the first time.  Not what we had when there were more people here, the pockets and cliques and groupings that all had a kind of tenuous agreement to work with one another.  No clashes of ideology.  All of you committed to the same principles, the same things, helping out one another because this is home, basically.  That your read on it?”  Wolf considered this, his dark eyes reflecting the flames as he took a monstrous toke and handed the sacrament back.

“Yeah, I’d figure that to be it.”

“You trust them?”

“Ever’ one.  ‘Cept maybe for Juniper’s kid Anson, he’s a lil hellraiser, but then again so was I when I was eight.”  Wolf smiles at this, genuine and warm, and though it comes so rarely, Sage feels the warmth from it wash over him precisely because it’s such a slim occurrence.  The Bodhisattva noodles on this for a long while, not saying anything, content to listen to the noises of crackling wood and the slight whistle of wind finding the various gaps in the walls to travel through.  Finally, he nods, taking a big hit and handing it off.  He waits for some time before exhaling, the smoke encircling his head like a Byzantine iconography halo.

“I think the problem that remains is twofold.  One, we have to be more exclusive.”  A pause.  “Two, I own it all, and I shouldn't."

“Cha mean?”

“I mean that so long as it’s just my name on this deed, ultimately, it will rise and fall with my favor and success.  And that shouldn’t be.  That’s me exerting some level of financial control over everyone here, you included, even if it isn’t overt or explicit.  And that just can't be the way this shit works, not if it’s going to represent my vision.  Our vision.  And I had no idea how to make any of this happen before, because the scale of us got out of hand and the work was just so consistent and constant that I couldn’t…could’nt step back and see it all.  Got too square in my approach, walked too much of a line.  Needed to get lost to find.”  He stands up, pacing in front of the roaring hearth.  “But now I’m down to you all.  How many tents, how many people?”

“‘Bout 64 tents, 81 of us in total.”

“And you all actually believe in the vision.  You aren't just running or escaping.  You heard my pitch and saw the grounds and decided this was home.  When called upon, you defended it from rot.  All of you bled for this and worked for it and you’re still here.  Get me?  You could have run.  And maybe it was common sense to do so, but you didn't.  Didn’t hesitate.  You all believe.  So this can’t belong to just me.  Because that doesn’t make any sense any more, get it?  I don’t want to expect loyalty of people to be the only currency in the continued survival of what’s clearly become our home.  That’s dead now.  In its place, we’re going to have everyone with a stake.  Everyone owns a piece.  Not of the land, not broken up into acreages.  Everyone owns a piece of the whole fucking thing, Wolf.  You, me, and those other 79 souls out there all own a piece of this, as soon as I can find someone–maybe Ron Kuby?  Someone who can make that…legal.  Airtight in the eyes of square society.”  He finally stops, the explosion of words over.  It’s clear this had been formulating in his head, brewing during his walk and his welcome and the war stories.  Not payment, not a thanks, but a welcoming into a covenant.

The covenant of Rancho Mundo, long may it reign.

Wolf nods, no expression except for his normal placidity.

Then he stands to his full height and grabs Sage with his good arm.  Pulls him into a hug–the first one they have ever shared despite their closeness over the last year.  A motion so unexpected that it leaves the taller man blinking through wet eyes.  The shorter of them releases the hug and nods, pristine teeth cutting across the black steel wool of his beard.  The men say nothing to one another, but Sage looks out the small window, gears clearly turning.  Wolf is used to this, and he knows what to do.

He pulls his phone out.

Presses record.

—

Instagram Live from user @Wolf_Om_Ether, posted 6 minutes ago. Nature can find a way to put you inside of a chrysalis.  Even if you aren’t ready for it.  Isn’t life such an interesting thing?  You don’t even realize how you’ve cocooned yourself until you burst free and see the rubble of your envelopment around you in tatters.  Until you breathe in the crisp air and realize that the freeze had to happen.  Had to be there to kill what needed to be killed, to clear the way for the bloom that reaffirms your belief in things.  Once it starts to melt, the birds start to sing.  It’s a thing of beauty out here.  The Bodhisattva is seated by the window, the natural light of the day casting him in stark relief.  His beard, now well to his mid chest in bristly blonde brilliance, is contrasted by his closely shorn head.  With his hair buzzed we can see more clearly the road map of scars that his dome possesses, battles won and lost but most importantly, battles.

I am filled at this moment with hope and joy, and I wonder if you feel the same, Hayes.   I sometimes wonder what any of you feel compared to me.  Because to my observation many of you are…sharks, in your way.  Must move forward, gnash, consume.  You’re machines that are afraid they won't fire up again if they are shut down, belching smoke and leaking diesel along the way, until all your sputtering and rattling starts to resemble a steady hum enough to calm your fears of obsolescence.  See, I look out this window and I finally know.  And I know that it’s not because I’m smarter or better or more enlightened or above you, man.  The farthest from it.  I am holy, but I am still clad in the flesh suit of mankind and as a result, I will make as many mistakes as anyone.  I am not better.  But I know.  Do you?

He idly scratches his beard, grabbing from a pile of warm clothes on the table a hand-knit beanie in brilliant rasta tones of red gold and green.  His breath can be seen, sitting here next to the drafty gaps of the window’s frame.

I am not fighting to change the world.  I am not the man who will do that.  Because expecting one being to do that is foolish, and expecting that one person to be yourself is almost suicidal.  But out there they sit and make a life.  Eighty souls who have placed their faith in a shared vision.  And as soon as you realize that, it’s like a beam of light tearing through darkness, centering on a direction, and the path has never been fuckin’ clearer, man.  Aimlessness, shiftlessness, being aloof to the entire process…it all seems like the stock and trade of a real asshole.  He chuckles at this, looking down, his smile almost intoxicatingly brilliant.

So I’m not traveling to Mexico to change the world.  And I am at peace with that.  But I will make my skin wet with your blood, man.  Not because you deserve punishment or enlightenment, or because I need it to feel something–trust me brother, I am feeling everything right now.  My fists are mighty but you’ll need to drink from the cup of enlightenment in your own time.  I’m going to go to Mexico and beat you without mercy in my strikes for an entirely mundane reason!  But Hayes, I’ve treated those mundane reasons as something that’s beneath me.  And that’s where I was the biggest fool.  I tried to cling so desperately to the notion that I had to do it for grandiose reasons because I was living a life directed by ego.  And that left.  Eighty souls, dude.  Eighty souls.  So I’m going to beat the hell out of you, not because I hate you or myself.  I’m going to do it because you’re across the ring from me and I want to win.  Simple.  Succinct.  Brilliant.  Uncluttered.

He nods slowly, his smile not leaving.

Simple and uncluttered.   And then I’ll return here and build more.  And I’ll be called to fight someone else.  And the cycle of time and existence will grind forward as it should.  But I’ll be doing it because I know.  And at some point, you’ll need to know, too.  Or you’ll flame out.  No mindgame, no tactic.  Just advice, because I’m a shark too, I’m a machine that grinds meat just like you are.  Find out soon, if you can.  Because then the air is sweet and the birds sing again.  Namaste.  

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