VIVATTAGAMINI-KUSALA
Where we are is always a matter of interpretation, but at least we know he’s not in the arena.
The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience is situated on a verdantly, electrically green grass field, the soft breezes of the dusk causing the tall blades to dance hypnotically. We hear the song fade in, though we see no source. And as the camera inches closer to Sage Pontiff, we can see that he is in rare form: seated in a lotus position, eyes closed. His face bears spackles of dyes, as if he has partaken in Holi, his dreads and lips and lids bearing a cross section of vibrant coloration. He is draped in what appears to be a silken robe that spills onto the ground beneath him–and around him in a circle that fans out at least ten feet are what appear to be offerings. Small statues, bundles of flowers, baskets bearing bread and fruit alike. When he speaks, it is not with the anxiety that we heard from him last. Nor is it in his eternally stoned fry. This is a low, soft voice, of a man speaking to you with the knowledge that his words will carry a weight that bears being listened to, no matter the volume.
Sage Pontiff: Namaste, PRIME.
He has not opened his eyes, and perhaps does not plan to, seated as he is in a meditative calm like Siddhartha. We can hear the wind through the steady drums and psychedelic guitar tones.
Sage Pontiff: I have spent time in isolation seeking a journey of both the internal world and external. There comes a time when all philosophy and belief can become…stale. Dogmatic. Turning from an idea to a faith is dangerous, right? Because that faith kind of automatically has structure associated with it. And once a structure is up, it can be almost impossible to shift. And that’s how I’ve been, cosmic adventurers.
A smirk, soft.
Sage Pontiff: It’s like…surprising. That’s a frightening truth to come towards.
Deep, circular breath. In, hold. Out, hold. Repeat.
Sage Pontiff: But what we do requires self reflection as much as it requires questions of a greater cosmic significance. The praxis of elevating the consciousness of the masses isn’t something that can just be done. It’s not like sending a message on Instagram. It’s not immediate. But we’ve become so used to the gratification of the now that we’ve forgotten how to take a long journey.
The camera cuts to look over the offerings more closely. Some appear to be prayers and pleadings for something, written on paper and bound with red string. Amongst the items are jewelry, mostly beadwork. Crystals. Tie dyes clothing of various sorts. Tapestries, yoga mats, incense, even bags of sacrament and folds of money.
Sage Pontiff: Even me.
Back to the Bodhisattva, whose body has not moved an inch.
Sage Pontiff: I got so..wound up. Thinking small, thinking minute, thinking so literal. You ever do that? It stops being about the picture. You’re all trees, no forest. But then where does that leave you once the tiny parts of the task are done? I felt so..adrift. So lost. So hurt. So…pointless. I’m sure you have as well, right? We all have. Because I’m not talking about something that is unique to being the Bodhisattva, I’m talking about something that is endemic to the human condition. We all walk our paths and encounter resistance. And many of you, most of you, give up. Give in. I wanted to.
It’s subtle, but he raises his head a bit, exposing his multicolored face to better exposure from the setting sun. His forehead appears to almost be fully healed, though we can notice the ghost of a split lip under a smear of teal blue.
Sage Pontiff: But I am fated for something greater. The chi of time and space and lead me to this moment, to this place, right now. Try to…envision the enormity, fellow travelers. Try to absorb the scale.
Now his mouth actually cracks into a smile. Not a wide grin of laughter, but the soft, infuriating happiness of Buddha’s calm. His voice also gets a little more animated, but he’s keeping himself in check–the words are just coming at a more excited pace.
Sage Pontiff: I have lost more than I’ve won. And I’ve been holding myself above that with the knowledge that statistical models are a weapon of Capitalism. But those losses did teach me something, in my doubt. I’ve been thinking too small. Thinking like my work is done already, like I’ve gone as far as I can, reached the summit of the highest mountain. What ego, right? But that’s the poison of chauvinism and privilege. No, no. Once it became clear once…I broke through? I realized the truths for what they were. I saw the geometry of all the interactions, all the words, all the teachings, the road, the places, the lovers, the students, the opponents. Ria, Paxton, they were my trees…and they were preventing me from focusing on what should have been my forest.
Finally, his eyes open, the brilliance of his heterochromia and his almost permanent saucer like dilation drawing us in. The camera inches closer, and he is looking directly at you. At me. At all of us.
Sage Pontiff: And that’s you, PRIME.
He pauses here for a long moment, letting the natural magnetism of his face and the trance of the music hold attention before speaking again.
Sage Pontiff: You’re my forest.
His smile breaks out across his face, all brilliant white teeth against the saturation of the powder coating his skin.
Sage Pontiff: You are what I must elevate. You are the consciousness I seek to unshackle from the chains of modern consumerism. You are what I must awaken.
He finally stops executing his Karana Mudra, and that’s when we see it. His knuckles arent scabbed over–they’re freshly scraped. We notice what appear to be defensive scratches on his wrists. He regards them for a moment, his focus drawn away from us, his smile lowering back to the calmness of enlightenment. Finally, his gaze returns.
Sage Pontiff: Even if I have to bleed every one of you to do it.
He stands, unfolding his legs, throwing off his garment and leaving it behind him. His body is similarly coated in colorful dye powder–and in sports, we can see the telltale droplets and spray of brick-toned crimson. Bare feet tread on the gifts that he has been given, but it is not a walk of destruction. He practically floats atop the prayers, the jewelry, and the lotus flowers until he is no longer visible. Leaving us with his wake. Then a black screen.