I Dreamt Of The Sword

Cliff was right. 

This was a thought that The Bodhisattva had in his head on a cold morning.  From the cabin there’s an easy view down into the valley to the treeline, a road–more a walking path–running from his door to the gathering circle to the crop field to The Monolith to the treeline.  On mornings like this you can spy the fog surrounding the ancient stone, see the mists of the Earth dancing with the smoke from fires gone to smolder joined by fresh smoke from new fires being started.  The winter had been especially unseasonable, the natural biosphere of the property subject to the same ebbs and flows of temperature but without the heat of consistent sunlight or warmth from civilization to buttress it.

To his count, they’ve probably lost about half of the residents of this communal tent city.  Not to death, he considers that a blessing.  Some of these were weekend warriors not cut out for roughing it.  Others had opportunities in places where they would at least be indoors and have a fireplace, and they embarked to those opportunities, many tears shed, many promises made that they would return once things turned more hospitable to continue The Work.  Plans have been drawn up.  To-do lists established.  The last year has led to massive transformations of the land with an eye for respecting it as much as possible, but the thing they need more than anything are structures, places where people can congregate away from the elements.  They have none.  So those who have stayed are of a more rugged, determined air.  The types who rough it for real in harsher places than forests near the Great Lakes.

And those who have nowhere else to be.

Sage has noticed them since the first weeks.  He’s fought a few of them, too.  He’s taken his licks from drifters, burnouts, dirtbags, addicts.  They’re using, not just drugs, but the land, the food, his good nature.  Somewhere in his mind, he had the thought, the notion, one that seems so childish and dumb now.  He thought that keeping them amongst those who seemed to have a higher calling in life would heal them of their sickness, as if osmosis could break the shackles of addiction and use.  “All sunshine and fuckin’ kumbaya ain’t gonna fix these people”, he can hear his voice so clearly in his head on this morning.  The quietest part of the day.  The time for reflection, meditation, for healing the spiritual conditions within all of us, and Sage can’t even force himself to walk to The Monolith.  Can’t force himself to walk amongst these people unsure if he will next see someone dedicated to communal living or someone with active warrants dozing off with a hose still around his bicep.

Was this always the outcome?

Was this what it was like during the Summer of Love?

Everything good and pure corrupted and turned sour until all that’s left is a sticky black residue that blots out all the good you can accomplish.  His goals felt beautiful, altruistic, pure.  Not even lofty, to him: find the land, tend the land, promote harmony amongst one another and nature.  Did he lose sight, was that the issue?  Or was his stubborn refusal to deny any traveler and means test their existence within his sanctuary the real culprit?  Or was it always to be this way?  The world too primordial and dark and corrupt, the baser animal natures of fight/kill/use/repeat just so inescapable to the human condition that the Rancho was doomed from the moment he bestowed a name on it?  Look at him, look at his profession, look at the one thing he can state beyond all others that he actually has skill in.  Is he any different than these degenerate souls?  Is he any more noble?

The Bodhisattva sighs deeply.  Runs his fingers along his shorn head, finding pleasant stimulation in the buzzed roots tickling his flesh.  His beard has grown to an unruly place, but he feels no desire to trim nor shave.

He feels no desire for blood, either.

Has he become so diminished?  There was a time when he would run these people off with great furious bloodletting, the drum of battle in his chest driving him to an ecstatic high that he could never replicate with herbs nor chemicals.  There was a time when the pulse of his Shaivism coursed from his heart to his knuckles and he would scrape and shred his skin off and stringent, angry slashes, til he was bloody, a mess, the sticky drying bringing him into a state of pure Zen.  Pure flow.  Paxton had reminded him that a horse sometimes just has to be a horse, that the fight holds value in and of itself.  That some people just need to get their clock cleaned.  The Bodhisattva liked that.  It made him feel like even when he was beating someone half to death, he may be doing good.  For the world, sure.  But also to who he was fighting, maybe they discovered new strength, maybe the beating made them reconsider their sins, maybe the experience afforded them a better perspective.  And now they could be free to fly, be free to live a better life, and be free to contribute to existence as a whole in a more productive light.  And yet as much as he missed Pax–as much as he’s positive he wouldn't be in this mess with the ‘gator still around–he doesn’t hold much space to reminisce about this time in his life.  Travelling to Europe.  Finding the World Tree with a head full of extremely potent blotter acid.

These are things that were, things that had been.

A master of zen holds not the attachment to the past, he focuses on the here and now.  The ring of Jesus Fire.

The transition came after a period of sobriety.  Destruction of what was in front of him ceased to be his elixir.  Taking the punishment, letting others transform themselves through his flesh…that felt like a ticket.  A ticket to somewhere.  Between this, the commune taking shape, the discovery of The Monolith, the protuberance of ancient stone that seemed to draw everyone to it, Sage included.  By his count, in this new receptive phase of The Lesson, he has lost two teeth.  His face, always brilliantly handsome in a way that felt unnerving, has been scarred a few times over.  Two piercings have been torn from his ears.  His dreadlocks became too patchy after enough of them were torn from his scalp, and they became a way his ego and vanity chained him.  So they got lopped off.  He’s fairly certain he got two ribs cracked in late October.  He knows he broke his pinkie finger, which now sits at a slightly cockeyed angle.  How much blood has he spilled?  How much of his own blood has drooled and spurt and splashed and dribbled into the earth of his home?  A home which now sits half-deserted and defiled by people who have no desire nor stomach for improvement of themselves, the land, or the spiritual condition of this planet?

The sun begins to peek itself over the edges of the treeline.

When you look out at this time of day, Rancho Mundo can feel like an island, cut off from all civilization and others.  A planet of its own floating in a brilliant blue sky.

He gathers himself.

Puts on a strong face.

Begins the long walk to the bell-style tent of Wolf, who at this point, counts as something of a second in command here.

Work to be done, he thinks to himself.  And repairs to be made.

—

“Do you think this can survive?”

The question seemed to throw Wolf for a loop.  A studious man by nature, Wolf was mostly the mouthpiece of Sage to the world, his Instagram account broadcasting his sermons and thoughts to his now more considerable followers via live stream.  A stout, muscular man compared to Sage’s purely cut lank, both men share the same haircut.  But Wolf’s beard is a black, bristly thing compared to the fine, conditioned blonde of Sage’s.  He looks like nothing so much as a pirate, and his propensity for wearing kerchief bandanas and his large gold hoop earrings show that he knows how to lean into something.  He’s brown, indeterminitely so.  He could be anywhere from 25 to 50 years old.  His eyes move slowly across everything as he takes in data and processes it.

But when he speaks, it’s pure twang.  Pure country.  Reedy, like a saxophone.

“S’pose that’ll depend on what y’mean by ‘survive.’  Gonna still be Rancho Mundo?  Prob’ly.  Gonna be what you want Rancho Mundo t’be?”  At that, he spits to the side.  “That’s tougher.”  Clad in overalls that are strapped over a patched up, threadbare woolen sweater, Wolf pulls from his pocket an immaculate blunt, a refilled black and mild, plastic tip intact.  He pops it between his teeth and fires it up, pulling in two sizable lungfuls before handing it off the Pontiff.  Sage takes the moment of his companion’s inhale as a prompt to speak.

“What would help it to still become, or remain, or live up to the goal of its inception?”  The Bodhisattva favors a long, slow, chest-widening inhale, pulling in for ten seconds and then holding the blunt back to it’s origin.  Wolf takes it, then takes a long while.  His exhale comes before Sage’s, but his words don’t start until a few seconds after the warrior blows the smoke free from his lungs.

“Gonna have t’clean up.”

“...that worry you?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”  At this question, Wolf pauses.  Places the chewable tip of the blunt between his teeth and crouches down, warming his hands by the small fire going in a circle of stones in front of his tent.  For a long moment, they say nothing.  Sage has become used to this and appreciates it–his own mind can be a manic, technicolor swirl of ideas, philosophy, memory, imagination.  Wolf, and Wolf’s own proprietary strain that he doles out like free medicine, force him to take a moment.  To pause.  To wait and see what the man has to say.  Finally, he takes his two puffs and hands the smoke off to the man, exhaling with a small cough.

“Y’look at all recorded history, right, an’ everythin’ in nature.  From th’ bugs in this here dirt all th’ way up to the tippy top of them redwood trees.  Always rot.  Rot’s as much part of this as anythin’.  Natural part of th’ cycle of existence, replayed a thousand times over, an’ when you an’ me croak, we’ll be part of it too, y’know?  Rot feeds.  Rot sustains.  Rot fertilizes for new growth.”  He scratches his beard, his eyes meeting Sage’s.  “An’ sometimes the ecosystem gotta reject somethin’ that aint healthy.  An’ once it does that, fresh flowers bloom.”  This gives The Bodhisattva pause, and he kneels down himself, grateful for the warmth.  Maybe even more grateful for the sound advice.

“You have any problem clearing them out while I’m away?”

“...you’ve never lived on a commune, have ya?”

“No, not really.  I grew up in something of an intentional community, but it was more…more close to just a group of houses who were in a mutual aid group, I guess.  We didn't live that far from civilization, still shopped at the co-op, all that.”  Wolf cracks a smile–languid, but a smile nonetheless.

“This happens almost e’ry time.  Y’show up with a head plumb fulla good ideas and notions.  Then them that’d take advantage of that show up.  Drive out a buncha folk trying to do it right.  Y’never wanna do anything about it, either.  Not ‘til it’s kinda…unignorable.  ‘Til the problem is staring you right in yer eyes.”  Pontiff scoffs.

“And you never thought to warn me?”

“Don’t see th’ last couple folk who did that around here no more.”  the words are not calculated, and there’s no edge to them, no poison.  They still hit Sage like a great hammer strike to the sternum, Wolf’s matter-of-fact, country twang presentation of them somehow making his statement all the more harrowing.  Because Jake?  Jake got ran off.  Cliff?  Cliff got ran off.  All because they tried to warn him of this exact situation.  His eyes go glassy.  He chokes it down.

“Listen, I have to go.  I’ve got a fight, and we’re going to need supplies to build soon.  We need structures.  We need structure.  We need so damn much, Wolf, that I’m not even sure where to start.  But I think I have a good idea of where, and I think you do, too.  Gather some people you trust up.  Clean house.  I want the rot all cleared off so new vegetation can blossom.”  He stands to his full, lanky height.  Wolf stands to his considerably smaller height.  They lock eyes.

“How persuasive y’need me to be?”

“Hook or crook, Wolf.  But they can’t be here when I get back.  Not if we want our vision to survive.”

The shorter man nods.  Looks to the tents of the disaffected.  Sets his jaw.

—

Ya got Pike, jagoff.  Leave it. 

“Hey.  You’ve probably got a few like…two second voicemails with nothing but dead air from me.  That’s just because I didn’t know what to say.  But I thought it over for a minute, and I think I’m good now. I’m just outside of Indianapolis, think the sign said ‘Baker’s Corner.’  I’m heading to the airport to catch a flight down to Boriquen, the Isla de Encanta.  I’d always thought that’d be a fun place for us to go, one day.  But I ruined that, I think.  But that’s not why I’m calling.  They’ve got me against a man who maybe is having trouble reconciling who he has been and who he is meant to be.  I can relate, honestly.  I truly believe that I have something to offer this world, that The Lesson is something that can lead to real change.  To real healing.  But I go about it like I go about anything else.  Too much too fast.  Get excited like a puppy and I just have to do it, y’know?  And there was a time when you were a tempering force, when you were what could pull the reins a little bit and make me breathe and take stock of everything.  And I lost that.  And I have to wonder if he lost that, too.  Oddly enough it's like…like I don’t feel a need to fight him, right?  Time was I could at least find an edge within someone’s history, find a way to tap into something about them, relate to them in a way that made violence, that sort of sacred act of bloodletting and combat, be the best thing for us.  The only solution.  The act that would heal both of us even as it destroyed us.  But right now I’m just sad.  Because I know how fucking lonely it is when you’re stuck between your past and your future.  I know how it feels to be adrift.  I know how it feels to not belong, to eternally be a square peg in a world full of round holes.  If there’s any anger in me, it’s that I thought I found my square hole, but it’s overrun with users now, which is why I really wanted to talk.  Because you were right.  So was Jake, for that matter, and he’s my next call after this.  And this is not me trying to get into your good graces.  I don't even expect a call back, much as I’d like one.  But I have to say it.  I have to say that I’m sorry and that you were right.  I have to say it.  I’m sorry, Cliff.  You were right.  And maybe once I’ve concluded this message and I tell Jake the same thing, maybe I’ll feel lighter.  Maybe my passion will return and I’ll find new inspiration in making Blaze Claymore bleed all over the canvas, or in letting him make me bleed all over the canvas.  Maybe he’ll break this molar off that someone loosened a couple of weeks ago. But more likely is I’m going to have to take this sadness and frustration somewhere.  I hate that.  It feels low.  It’s a low thing to make my problems into fuel for a fight against a man I’ve got no quarrel with, but I’m realizing that sometimes…sometimes it can’t be all sunshine and rainbows and positive vibes.  Sometimes there are realities, and realities are harsh things.  The reality is that I’m full of emotion and it’s nothing specific.  I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m lonely, I’m hopeful, I’m worried, I’m anticipating–I’m just full of it, the primordial stuff of fucking feelings, like a black ooze that’s taken over the blood in my veins.  The reality is all of that needs to go somewhere.  Reality is that it’s all going to go into the flesh and frame of a man I’ve never even said ‘hello’ to.  That’s the reality of my job and my life.  Real.  ‘Real eats raw meat’.  I remember those words.  So this will be that, real.  And the lofty dreams and philosophical meanings will have to be put on a shelf for a little bit.  Because you were right about Rancho Mundo.  Because reality is cold and has elected this week to kiss me with a ballbat.  So it’ll just be me.  In the ring.  Hurting someone.  Because above all other things, Cliff?  I’m so fucking good at that.  You know better than anyone.  I’m sorry.  I love you.”

Bedoop.