Sage Pontiff ( @CosmicBodhisattva8 ) IG Live, 11/10/2022
We can only assume this is the interior of his van.
And to be fair, as far as signing bonuses go, it’s pretty decked out. We can see behind him that he has a miniature wood stove, a sink, what appears to be some sort of wardrobe. He’s seated in the back of the van, which has been converted to a bed, upon which he sits in a lotus position. Past the build though…it’s a lot. A love letter to his mishmash spiritual gumbo and his love of all things mind-expanding, it looks like nothing so much as the inside of a Berber’s tent if said Berber mostly interior decorated via head shops. And then there’s Sage himself, shirtless, his numerous beads and necklaces and accessories clattering together and he arches his back, stretching, before leaning towards what we can assume is his phone with his hands held together in a greeting of prayer.
“Namaste, everyone in the world.
I thought this would be an easy way to answer some questions, to chat–it’s a wild era, for sure. For the first time, we can reach across the distances of the material plane not only by psychic vibrations but also through cyberspace. I feel truly blessed. So what we’re doing here is just a simple livestream, I’m coming to you from…somewhere. As you can see I’m chilling in the back of the Biocamper…hello, welcome. Looks like we’ve got a good number of viewers up, so I’ll open the floor. Ask me anything, my brothers and sisters in positive vibes! Let’s educate one another by understanding one another.”
His eyes narrow and he leans close, clearly reading a question that has been submitted to his livestream. Us as viewers can see it scroll across the bottom, but he reads it out regardless.
“Double-x Fibionacci double-x wants to know if I was arrested after I attempted to enlighten Ria Lockhart. Great question! I got that a lot in my DMs, and that’s probably one of the chief reasons I wanted to host this. The short answer is that I was not, like at all. The ex-pig head of security yelled at me a lot, but it’s A-C-A-B all day, even if you’re retired. “
Another appears. As Pontiff reads it, he smiles in his serenity.
“Okay, EtherFae97 wants to know if I feel any remorse.
He shrugs like an irreverent scamp who is copping to a harmless prank.
“Remorse is tied into a very western concept of things that are good and things that are bad, right? It’s this hyper-conservative, almost Nationalist desire to create a ‘them’, to other actions and people to see them as undesirable and less worthy of respect and humanity. Zen mindset teaches us that experiences simply are, and that assigning them some kind of…grading system, we’ll say, is simply us trying to categorize what we’re part of. What I did wasn’t good, or bad, or something to feel pride or remorse over. It was an act of mercy. It was me trying to help someone. It just…was. Break free of trying to view things in binary terms, EtherFae97. That’s when true liberation of the mind and spirit can begin, bahut dhanyavaad.”
He looks at the screen, and his words are definitely true in one regard: Sage doesn’t have the face of a man who is feeling an iota of guilt or remorse. He’s his same, frankly infuriatingly consistent, sativa-laden enlightened calm.
“Indicanaut has a great question. They’re asking what, like, my goals are. I’m always super-hesitant to give anyone a real firm expectation of what they’ll get from ascending. It’s like dosing shrooms or taking LSD or Tryptamine: you bring a lot of your experiences and perceptions in with you, right? So I can’t set an expectation. The only thing I can assure anyone is the same thing that I’ve assured Ria time and time again: You will not be the same as before you entered the delirious, passionate transcendence of combat. You’ll be better, you’ll be different. How better, how different–that’s in the hands of the great creator, isn’t it? I’ve seen people become more whole. I’ve seen people reconcile years of trauma. I’ve seen people truly become who they were meant to be. If I had any goal, any sort of point to all of this? It would be that. I want to see Ria Lockhart become who she is meant to be.
And I get why that scares her, I do. She’s expanding into new territory, which means she’s off the edge of her psychic map. But that doesn’t have to mean she’s falling into something uncertain–it just means that she’s about to visit planes that aren’t mapped yet, yknow?”
Ever the Cosmic Nomad, Sage Pontiff finds his home where he finds it.
Right now, he’s found himself in the crook of a small meadow. He’s nestled the Biocamper against a treeline, and we can hear the soft babble of a creek nearby. Truly, it seems idyllic–the small fire going, the back hatch of his home/means of conveyance opened, the unrolled yoga mat on which he reclines. To a certain subset of the hippie subculture, and especially to stoner seventeen year olds, The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experiences is living the life of a king, held in the bosom of nature, no landlords to pay or clocks to punch. He can focus, such as he does, on the greater mysteries of existence.
Right now, that looks like a man in a threadbare, oversized baja hoodie enjoying a gourd of Yerba Mate in the sunset. He sips from the straw, closing his eyes, letting the warmth of the tea wash over him. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes.
I think to the idea of facets.
I’ve often tried to help people to understand that seeing things in pure black and white isn’t just an unintelligent way, but that it actively harms their inner peace. Because you try to fit everything into its category, and when that inevitably fails, it stresses you out. Enrages you. Really, it can like…shorten your life. So I never want to and I don’t want anyone else to either, right? I consider this my spiritual charge in some ways.
It is a blessing from the universal forge that I am facing someone for whom I don’t need to explain that to. Because I’m not facing a single person or even a single thing, but wonderful facets that fit together in a sacred geometric pattern and only barely, barely overlap.
It’s fascinating. This is such a fascinating time. All blessings, multifaceted like Creator Brahma.
Oṃ vedātmanāya vidmahe hiraṇyagarbhāya dhīmahī tan no brahmā pracodayāt
His eyes open.
Ours is not a story of ascendance or elevation. It has already been told and will always be told, right? Because we are not beings who have the need of breaking through to the planes that others sleepwalk through. We’ve done that. We’ve seen the macro views in their breathtaking vastness and the micro in their stupefying delicate detail. I’ve felt the rhythm of the skies very breath and witnessed the patterns of energy that drive us all. And I’ve seen yours–absorbed your vibrations and basked in your aura.
You are not my path.
You are not my charge.
You have no need of enlightenment. You, all of you, are enlightened.
But I am not a God. I am not a holy man. I am a traveler, first and foremost. I am a student of experiences, as anyone should be.
So I will have my flesh and blood, as will you, and they will meet.
And perhaps you will teach me.
Perhaps you can show me a new facet.
“Fuck you, hippie!”
He knew this would happen. It always happens.
Walking down a busy strip of the city, near all the bars where the tourists and college students get blasted on cheap swill. He doesn’t attempt to hide who he is, his long dreads, his penchant for lavender, his jute sandals.
Which means he gets attention from folks with unchecked aggression and too much booze in their bloodstream.
He doesn’t stop, electing to continue walking.
This infuriates the man. It always does.
“What’s the matter snowflake, can’t hear me?”
The man–tall and brawny, no older than Sage himself–uses his bulky arm to fling a beer that’s likely still quite full to the Bodhisattva. It lands clean, a satisfying rapport as beer spills all over his locks. He bends over at the impact, staying bowed over for some time. Long enough for the drunk to share a laugh with his friends, all high fives and cheer at someone else’s misfortune. Sage takes a moment longer than he needs before grasping the hem of his shirt and pulling it off as he stands to attention. He drops it, along with his backpack, onto the concrete.
This doesn;t go unnoticed. He drunk’s friends point it out. By the time he turns, the neck is being popped. The goad is in play. He’s inviting him to the dance with zero words.
The drunk hands his phone off to his friends and turns his hat backwards.
He knew this would happen. It always happens.