Something.

The Bodhisattva has turned it over in his mind what feels like a billion times, and after time one billion-and-one, he figures he has it pinned down.

The process of recovery, of fighting addiction, can be a bit scattershot at first–and that’s if you know exactly what your vice is.  If you’re being haunted by what has plagued him?  Forget it.  Long path.  Might have to take a few laps.  Maybe a billion.

The first thought was the violence itself, but that was easy to move past.  Fighting is what he’s good at, it’s the one thing he’s best at, even more impressive than his ability to consume drugs.  Combat, in its purest form, an art that had been practiced since he assumed human beings first found themselves bored.  Then he gravitated toward loneliness as the portal by which his addiction took hold, time alone on the road and with his own thoughts making him spiral out of control.  And why not?  Surely when he was alone he was self harming.  When he was alone he was finding bars full of people that his very look was designed to piss off, just to feel something.  But then it still called to him, still hounded him even after he found companionship.  That’s where Cliff found him that one night, covered in his own blood in a trashed rental, full disassociation.  Full cuckoo.

So maybe then he had to direct his energies towards a cause, towards something of significance.  First, it was mutual aid, helping the community, fighting landlords with the law, fighting neofascists in the street.  That work begat Rancho Mundo.  Rancho Mundo begat the rot and the re-dedication to pain as a measure of enlightenment.  And then it was a fugue, again.  It was a blur, again.  His life stopped being days and started being counted by hurt and recovery, hurt and recovery, over and over again.  Just like before.  Over and over.  Why does he keep ending up here, why does he keep having to learn the same fucking lesson?  Look at his hands.  He’s practically got ziggurats of scar tissue on his knuckles, each new layer of rough tissue a new time that he went too far and spiraled.  And on that sobering morning, he told Wolf to clear the rot, and his long cold walk to his van was one of questions, of introspection.

But this last time the clarity hit him.  Time one billion-and-one.

He has to disappear from his works.

Not in the most literal sense, not in the “you all will never see me” sense.  Not in the sense that worries those who love him that he might do something, which are both newer things his clarity has afforded him: that many love him and that many think him capable of suicide.

No, this disappearance is one of spiritual, legal, and financial slipping into the shadows.

The letters surprised every one of them, all 80 of them.  Envelopes pinned to their tent flaps, nestled comfortably in Ziploc bags as rain was in the forecast.  Inside of them a handwritten note thanking them by name for what they did, for the fact that these people who were strangers to him all of a year ago placed their health and safety directly in danger to wage war with addicts and people who felt they had nothing left to lose.  Letters that said just how much it meant to not only The Bodhisattva personally, but to the greater good, to the greater mission of Rancho Mundo. To the idea that they all believed in, of a sufficient intentional community that may someday survive the rapid erosion of the world around it.  A sanctuary, built on principles as simple as being kind to one another and holding yourself as accountable as you do your fellow inhabitants, your family.

What was behind the letter was the shocking part, though.

Papers.  Legally binding.  Entitling them each to a share in their home, each a member of the Land Trust.  Sage had entertained segmenting it and structuring it in such a way as he would maintain the majority, but he quickly realized that was the thinking of his colonial forebearers, the thinking of a man concerned with commerce.  And rather than see that as a symptom of a deeper rot within himself, he simply shrugged and moved forward–another first.  His goal was to disappear, so in the end, he only retained ten percent of the ownership for himself.  Wolf, his de facto second, got five percent himself.  The rest held an equal share, and while there was certain to be selling of portions to one another and consolidation of resources at some point, those worries did not plague him.  He did not let them sway his hand.  He simply left that to be the concern of the true stewards of this place, the people who had toiled and tilled and built while he thought deep thoughts and smoked deep smokes.

He had ruled over them, but felt like he wasn’t, because he was able to say his intentions were noble.

No more. 

The letters sent a ripple through the camp in the morning, when the fires are being stoked, when the sun begins its languid crawl across their fields and the half-completed platforms of simple cabins that have begun to peck the landscape.  Eventually, homes.  Places for people to live their days, eat their meals, play their music, start families.

Sitting on the wet ground in front of The Monolith, he is not struck by a sense of impending doom or some connection to a deeper primordial truth.  He is not an atavist, not right now.

He’s just smiling.

—

“Five percent, eh?”

Sage did not look away from the monolith, used to many aspects of Wolf’s presence–the drawl, his relaxed walk, the smell of pipe tobacco and extremely potent marijuana combined.  He shrugged his shoulders as if an afterthought.

“I’d give you more, but I wanted everyone to have some.  Still, you have more than most.  Not because I think you’re better than anyone, but because you held us together when I couldn’t.”  Wolf doesn’t move forward, possibly not wanting to invade whatever peace Sage is feeling.  Hands on his hips, he chews his lip before starting to turn.

“Leave you t’yer meditation, then.”

“Wolf, join me.”  At this, the dark man stiffens.

“Ah y’know me, Sage.  I never took to th’ spiritualism like the rest of y’all.  I believe what I believe an’ that’s business that’s between me an’ what I believe.”  Looking over his shoulder, The Bodhisattva smiles, absently rubbing his freshly clippered head.

“Wolf, this isn’t that.  I’m just enjoying how still the morning is.”  He pats the ground next to him.  “C’mon, have a seat.”  After a long moment's deliberation, Wolf walks forward, easing himself down to a cross-legged seating with a grunt.  For a long time, neither of them say anything, but the murmurs and excitement from the camp keep drifting down along the morning air, alien dispatches from a whole different planet, energetically.  Their trip is one of elation, lots of people who never expected to own anything now officially owners of something, and something that truly can be beautiful.  Meanwhile, the duo at The Monolith are in a moment of reflection.  Neither man wants to break the silence.

And in the war of not saying anything, quiet reflective Wolf will defeat the sermonizing godhead every time.  Sage cracks.  But he speaks barely above a whisper all the same.

“Where do you come from, Wolf?”

“West Texas.  Type a’ place ain’t get th’ memo about  times changing.”

“What made you leave?”

“Never fit.  Figured I’d find where I did rathern’ try to make ‘em fit me.”  Wolf has a tendency to drop a statement that holds a lot of truth in little words, a real economy of statement that Sage finds fascinating.  He communicates in a way that The Bodhisattva simply cannot–the expression of deep meaning in small packages is almost alien to his own methods of cosmic slop.  After a while, he decides to turn to his companion, taking his eyes from the ancient, cold stone.

“...do you think you did?  Find where you fit?”

“Better’n anywhere else yet.  Can’t say I like th’ cold that much, but it ain’t keeping me.  Trust me, man.  This is home.”  Idly, he scratches his beard.  “But gonna take a lot for this to be th’ type of home we all need, y’know?”

“Way ahead of you.”  From the pocket of his drug rug, Pontiff pulls a sheet of paper, folded over twice.  He hands it over to Wolf: a printout, showing that he’s booked.  The bearded man of few words scratches his tumbleweeded mess, considering the page with furrowed brow.

“I never got this stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like I understand you make money offa fightin’, but this ain’t no different.  Just for a title belt.  Whatsat really mean fer us, fer this?”  Sage balances his body on his psalm, lifting his lotus position from the ground and turning to face the man.  His smile is easy, serene.

“A title belt means more money, more paydays.  And while I’m hesitant to rely too much on the luchre of the very society I despise, it’s the society I’m–we’re all– stuck with.  What we need here is so vast, y’know?  More machine rental to grade out flat places, more lumber and concrete for foundations and walls and roofs.  Seeds for the spring, livestock, and more of the adjoining land so we can keep the consuming fucking machine of it all at bay.  Because if there’s a place of verdant serenity, rest assured some soulless fuck in a fleece sweater or a quarter-zip will want to turn it into a combined use shopping, entertainment, and luxury lofts cancer.”  He shakes his head, looking to the ground.  “I can’t abide that and I’m not rich, Wolf.  And now the stakes are even higher, really.  Those deeds, everyone’s membership in this…covenant, for lack of a better word.  They’re not a definitive thing yet.  It’s still just…how to put it…”

“Promise of something ain’t there yet.”

“...yeah.  That exactly, dude.  I’ve given everyone a stake in a home that hasn’t been built yet.  And if I give everyone that stake and then I don’t do anything else, then all you really have are slips of paper that remind you of something that failed.”  He pulls from his hoodie a cone joint, sparking it with a Bic.  He takes one Method Man-certified lungful, then hands it to Wolf.  On the exhale, he speaks again.  “So that’s why that booking actually means something.  It means that I could maybe win the strap, and if I do…then that means a lot for this.  And even if I don’t, if I show up and do well enough, they’ll probably have me matched up again.  It’s momentum, man.  I am an object in motion, and I have to stay in motion, because this flesh, right?  It’ll break down at some point.  And if it breaks down before I’ve completed my promise here, I’ll never forgive myself for as long as I live.”  Sighing in relief, his shoulders sag.  He nods, accepting the joint back from Wolf, as silence takes them over again.  Finally, the darker man speaks up.

“Look like you feel better fer sayin’ that.”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Stress’ll kill ya every time.”  He stands up with another grunt, wiping the grass and dirt from his now damp overalls.  With an extended hand, he aids Sage to standing as well.  “Can’t say I ever heard of this Dawkins feller, but he look like the type’a feller needs his bell rung.  Not t’asperse him, I guess.  C’mon up an’ get some breakfast, I’m sure a buncha folks want to thank you.”

“Nah.”  Pontiff shakes his head, lip set.  “I didn't do this for thanks.”

“Yeah, but ya did do it, and they wanna thank you all th’ same.  Best let ‘em get it outta their systems now ‘fore you leave for another week an’ they start making you gifts.”  To this, Sage can’t help but chuckle and shake his head.  He claps Wolf on the shoulder.

“You’re right.  And after, I want to discuss placement for a big meeting hall…”

—

Instagram Live from user @Wolf_Om_Ether, posted 12 minutes ago The Bodhisattva stands at the edge of a crop field, its furrows and peaks still flecked with stubborn snowfall that has melted into the ice, which has melted and frozen again.  The sun creeps along the land.  It’s still morning, the birds are waking up.

The wind is, too.  We like to assign higher purpose to what it is we do, in any regard.  The pig thinks he is protecting his world, the CEO believes he is providing opportunity, the drug dealer medicine for a weary world.  We all crave that, to some degree.  We crave deeper meaning because it can feel like all of this is for nothing, yeah?  You’re born, you trudge, you die.  Nothing more to it.  So we do all of this for something.  Work for something.  Fight for something.  But some of us are actually fighting for something real, and some of us are justifying our otherwise abhorrent existence.  Which are you? 

As if on cue, the wind picks up tremendously, blowing his substantial beard to the left and causing his loose clothing to cut against the wrought iron of his body.  Pure Hollywood.

I don’t mean that as accusatory as it sounds.  And before you think I’m being too kind to myself, let me be very, very clear: I was a hundred and fifty percent the latter, right?  I was cascading blood and teeth on canvas, concrete, mud, grass, desert, wherever I could…all for a big elaborate and hard-to-define something.  It made me feel big.  Important.  And it kept doubt at bay, y’know?  Kept me feeling like maybe I wasn’t just the sum of my existence on paper.  That I wasn’t just a kid blessed with a lot of reach and a real taste for violence who settled into a business that rewarded the fact that I preferred to hurt people and live as a transient.  I look back and realize how insufferable I’ve been.  I figure that’s a natural part of aging, being ashamed of who you were.  For me, at least.  Maybe you’re different, man.  Maybe you never doubt how the who that you were could become the who that you are.  I hope so, oddly enough.  I hope you’ve never had to examine your life that way.  Purpose can give you so much.  That ‘something’ can be potent fuel.  Ironically tying that cause to something material and physical makes me feel more free than I have in years.  That’s kind of wild, right?  You would have thought the lofty, spiritual, “I can float wherever and fuck whoever and fight whatever” mindset would have let me feel free, but that’s what not giving a fuck does to you, man.  It’s a prison and the biggest crime you can commit is caring.  It’s spiritually corrosive.  It’s the excuse of a boy who found out how quickly manipulation can get him whatever his heart desires.  And yeah, half a decade ago, three years ago, all my heart desired were drugs and flesh. A guy like me with my kind of smile and my kind of attitude can get a lot of that.  And then it wasn’t enough.  It never is, that’s the funny part.  And then you blink and you lost everyone except some core people who either saw past your bullshit to the truth of your heart or who just hoped one day you’d snap out of it. Looking down, Sage chuckles to himself.  Possibly at his newfound realizations, possibly in memory of who he was, of the person he cut from his scalp.  His brilliant heterochromatic eyes meet the viewer once again.   I’m snapped out, Bryan.  I’m focused.  And I’m free–finally, beautifully free–to tell you what this fight means to me.  Not to your soul, not to the greater psychic needs of the world.  What it means to me.

He motions behind his body, to the platforms and lean-tos and bell tents that make up the community.

And when I look out there, man?  Rancho Mundo.  It means the world to me.  Get it?  The World.   Namaste.   Video over. Play Again?