This disguise of the self-martyred artist is too thin. Because the social affinities are more important, and so are living up to the pressures, schedules, decisions, roles - and getting approval - money, whatever. All of this often makes us act like we've forgotten what we really wanted to do... Forget it. Everyone may work hard, but few of us get mountains of money for all the slaving we do... Would anyone ever have guessed, 100 years ago, that fame alone would be sufficient cause for some people to earn so much money?

As a fledging - the one thing that didn't make any good sense was seeing the cruelty of adults: I saw it happening, but didn't want to act like that myself... I felt the adults were betraying something pure in themselves, and consequently, I got the sensation that everyone deliberately let the world down. The cruelty of society happens like a reaction, a spasm of learned hunger. But sexuality is different, it's closer, and more personal - the most natural intimacy in its dimensions than social role-playing. In the domain of sex, each of us really is an oddball. We admit normal and weird desires, and none of us explain why. I'm attracted by pain and pleasure mixed: I like to bite and be bitten! It's a paradox of being human! When children are cruel to each other, such action may appear neither more nor less natural than charm. Because they acquire it from within and outside, both. We act as we are and as we see. Animal behavior within human beings is like something apprehended from below: we are driven down into the lower fields of emotion as we grow up, ironically enough, perhaps by observing and being forced to react in what is now universally accepted as, "self-interest." Children become adults but we adults can't stop being children because our parents moulded us when we were still only children, too. A circle of lingering immaturity circumscribes the human social organism, usually in the guise of hypocritical concepts of responsibility. Of course, many astute observers will argue that self-preservation is natural, since human beings are supposedly only a small step above animals, right? That's what they think. But I prefer to disagree and hold that the situation determines the depth of good and bad character more than any so-called innate qualities. Old arguments don't get newer. Put it this way: to grab and take is the immediate reaction, while to share and confer requires a much higher form of mind, as well as courage, trust and patience...

The talented do win in the end. Why shouldn't it be that way? I say, create because you are made to... Create what you want to make - not because you must make money. My artistic obsession may distract others from doing good work... Because I can't win in the usual way, others may be discouraged by my example: some will immediately condemn me with an inaccurate label, for example, calling my work negative, etc, that I am a nay-sayer, when in fact, they don't know my work and have never met me in person... I am always buoyant talk easily with strangers; good-looking women tend to make me affable... Basically, most people will condemn me for despising the commercial shit that gets sold in such massive quantities... Oh, I don't want to seem too heavy-handed, since I listen to all kinds of music and enjoy it. Basically, I am just jealous of musicians who play for a few days or weeks and then make oodles of money from a CD. Scribbles all over. I know I look despicable, prey as I am to a personal way of making art: the point remains - my idea needn't be yours at all... Think for yourself is best. That I suffer frustration has nothing to do with the success of other people. I'm stuck in me. Just like you in you. All human frustration has much more to do with feeling silenced - almost as if the time in which we now live cannot tolerate free thought; everything must be narrowly confined within the domains of a marketable genre, appropriately channelled through the correct process of professional development, and according to certain career roles many need to play - so to earn their keep from public visibility. I can't help but feel robbed of my right and freedom to create! But obviously, I'm deluded, and so end up laughing at myself. I hope you can do the same thing for me, darling. This apparent dilemma is shared by many, many people. Many others really suffer silence, put in jails for speaking their minds. That is the epitome of modern horror. I'm too lucky. But nowadays, in the middle of the lonely desert, everyone clamors for worship - not talent! You don't need to know how to write - you need to sell the suckers a nice image - a good name. Vanity is more important than your poetry. After all, what is god compared to being able to bed the perfect groupie slut who sneaks all her conceit, submitting to anything you bid her do?

I don't care if I'm loved or hated - because making art is pleasurable. Replace your demons with a better knowledge of the human predicament. You need never accuse yourself of failing your own mind and heart if creativity is a reason for living. Ah, but you are too cynical and maybe you imagine people aren't capable of living such idealism anymore, and everyone must submit their self-respect to the paradigms of economy? So what is a good policy for a writer? Get banned to be popular later on. Miller and Joyce did it on purpose - yes they did! You'd be a stupid to think otherwise. Many other highly imaginative unknowns have already lived and died. Only a few get to be "called" truly great. Some of our best destinies probably got run over by busses, or had to sell out - ha, ha, ha, ha - before even trying to write their first great novel... Hell, they're proud to give seminars on how-to-fuck a potboiler. I'm sure you can only write a great novel because you want to - and only if you set deliberately out to do it... Nowadays nobody but nobody sets out to write a great novel: instead, almost everyone deliberately tries to write something that they hope will sell easily! Ah! Such wisdom! Anyway, original literature, written purely and imaginatively, and with no formal strings or demands prescribed, cannot win that elite audience of inspired intellectuals anymore: we no longer have so much natural interest in the play of language, that special kind of sophisticated society, thought and imagination that first inspired the finest authors to write exactly as they pleased... Literacy is too hard for most of us. So the potato-heads win big; it's easier to be a sack of cliches, or full of torpid cynical presumption. It's no coincidence that small-minded minimalists and dull, middle-of-the-road pop-authors, writing in their pseudo-postmodern styles (but actually very stuck in archaic forms and various hybrid genres of unoriginal mannerism) have figured out how to suck the government/corporate tits more successfully than everybody. Do it quickly - and keep it as simple as possible - otherwise nobody will bother reading it!

...Amazing. Morning in Chushar is warm summer sun and waking up very rested in comfortable feather beds. Feather beds! I meet yesterday's truck driver on the street and he makes me cough up the forty yuan I still owe for the ride. I'm only compassionate whenever I see a trying human dilemma: Miguel can't eat without me and spends his last pennies on the bus to Zhigatse. But at the same time, after only one week in his company, I only want to be alone again. My compassion is pretty thin, too. Yet I am getting older and slower now, and impatience is something I've tried to forget. Right away, Miguel and I nab the first bus for Zhigatse, a powerful vintage Isuzu rattler from Japan. It zips across the wide valley of Lhartse, which is fertile with ripening barley and rapeseed. Tibetans have lived in this central area for two thousand years: the land is broad and relatively abundant. Zhigatse is two hours away. The driver lets on a passenger or two. But this is an express and he doesn't stop for an aging couple of country folk waving by the road. We find the next valley is more narrow, but just as green. Here comes several mini-busses: they carry grey and grinning Western folks: I suppose this forbidden land is equivalent to the quest for lost innocence...

Zhigatse appears as a prolific bunch of trees. Big on the left, up pop the golden roof-tops of ancient Tashilhunpo Monastery. This monastery is considered one of the most brilliantly preserved and prettiest monuments to faith in all Tibet. If the sun should shine, it can't be missed in Zhigatse. The bus conductor drops us at the "Orchid Hotel," right across from the monastery. The place is busy with foreign travellers. But not only Western tourists come here, so do the Chinese, many of them students on summer holidays. The Chinese man lodged in the four-bed room with us is a bit older than the usual student types; he's watchful and asks one too many questions about our situation. As Miguel and I stroll out to eat lunch, I suggest that he's probably a secret policeman, since China crawls with them.

...Doing laundry is a good occupation for a warm day, so I do it. Then I catch up on my road journal. I decide to walk uptown and look for bicycle wheels. It's a busy place, with many Chinese and Tibetan residents. I once read a piece of fantastic travel writing by Eric Newby, or maybe it was Bruce Chatwin: the scene involves a bustling public market. That writing stands up vividly in my memory, not so much the exact words, but the evocative mood. He drew the reader deeply into the scene around him and made me feel like I was standing in the middle of that village market. He was a much more interesting writer than I. ...A truly excellent and evocative travel writer makes you forget everything but what he sees around him in the real world... You get that actual feeling of being in that far-off country, even though you would never go there yourself. That is the credo of travel writing: recreate the scene and place the reader in it. In the case of the writer I'm remembering - his mood was inspired by each perception. After reading that perfect piece I cannot forget a certain love-hateful sensation all writers experience upon finding some excellent work beyond one's own powers. We all wish to write something as fine, since, after all, we can easily see how the writer puts descriptions and conversations together with ideas - so why not just do the same thing ourselves? But we simply haven't that talent for magic - nor enough mnemonic power to transmute the literature we have already read along with the life we have already lived; and so, we can only faintly reproduce a vague image of the insight that experience gives us. Clear thoughts and deep themes are always beyond the plans we draw for articulating them... We are so pitiably blocked by ourselves and we see nothing and write only a scratchy, fleet memory. Even worse, the minimum standards of genre-publishing impinge on creativity unless you already write better than that - and most of us simply aren't even capable of mimicking market expectations well enough to "open the eyes" of the greedy publishers... Everything today conspires to make us miss all finer chances for evocation - as our talent and motives are divided by some mystery-meat asshole publisher who puts a motto like this on the web: "we look for talented but profitable work." What a weird and unnecessary contradiction are the many inhibitions that get placed upon imagination passing for fine culture right now... All writers become really very tired with this augur boring a hole in the boot heel of profit. Publishers and critics are no better than a gang of policemen I don't want to know. Oh, and the authorities keep in such close touch with each other! Such lucky people they all are: they have friends, colleagues and easy-to-publish-in-journals - all around the world!)

...Let's get back... Unlike boring me, a great travel writer can forget entirely about his own predicament and give you a precise feeling for how the world really is... Some of our greatest stylists make the most of what they see by filtering it through an original impression, for example: "The fruit sellers of China are often thin and serious-looking," which lets you add more: "The fruit sellers of China often appear thin and bottled up; whether old or young, they always seem to conceal an impatient wish to do something else - except they can't..."

The neighborhood around the Orchid Hotel in Zhigatse is sparsely populated. I head east, past some inaccessible yards full of lovely green trees. The new street is quiet and empty. Finally, I reach the phone office on a busy intersection. The ominous gloom inside suggests that they seldom let anybody actually use the phones. Luckily for me, the wicketeer thinks I'm cute enough, so she assigns me a booth. I want to call a tourist hotel in Lhasa. The fellow in Lhasa promises a room. Satisfied, I leave the phone office. The remnant of a potted plant, oppressively dead and ugly, sits outside the door. Nobody has bothered to remove it yet...

Continuing, the street becomes older, more pleasant. Suddenly, big trees proffer shade and the buildings resemble the ones found in the middling quarters of old Chinese cities. Instead of ugly new white enamel tiles, these buildings glow a soft ochre yellow, made of a plaster that blends in with the boughs and delicate leaves of the older trees. Many small shops open onto the ground floors. The street vendors blink attentively, wishing to sell: they stand as still and eager as sentinels behind their heaped-up carts. There are a lot more Chinese people in this town than I expected. Oh, but that's inevitable, fifty years after; at least people abide peacefully together in Tibet. The fruit is good-looking, tasty and not too expensive, although it must be driven in from very distant reaches of the empire and India, too. The vendors always want to sell you much more than you can buy, and show disappointment, humility or contempt if you only buy one, instead of fifteen peaches at a time. They are men and would rather be in my pockets.

The antique shop that doubles as a department store on the corner has no new bicycle wheels. Across the street on the next block sits a beautiful shopping complex. It's so pristine and clean, I don't bother trying to go in. Turning left, the architectural style instantly changes from old urban China to old urban Tibet: heavy buildings, three storeys tall, with thick walls coated in white plaster. The lintels are painted black and always, the frames taper gently up to the top lintel. Within these pediments quaint little panes of glass are set in wood. This old street is crowded with stores selling canned goods and bottled drinks. Two gloriously lush touristic damsels wander there - ahead of me. So young - their golden hair is braided into tight, long pigtails. They look so young and clean. They feel my eyes fall on their tight blue denim short shorts. Eurobabes so fine, twenty-two or three years old: two dart quickly inside the entrance of a tea-shop, hoping I'll follow or fail to notice their presence. ...If it weren't for my broken wheels.

Then my magnet finds a bicycle shop near the market. The shop has wheels just my size. But they won't sell me anything but a whole bike, and it isn't worth it. I give up and go to the street market. A young woman sells fried potatoes fried in tumeric oil; she sprinkles on spicy chili and curry powder. It's too tasty. A different aroma engulfs me. Some older woman sells lengthy sticks of incense and cedar-like fronds. The white smoke is dizzying, has an alluring, soporific balm that subdues anguish and makes you forget... But the smoke cloys and then I'm choking, moving on.

Tiny stalls are heaped with new clothing. I need a new riding hat. The choice ranges from the Chicago Bulls in red to the Chicago Bulls in blue, green or gold. After much searching, I finally uncover a rare Charlotte Hornets cap. The young woman lets me have it for nine yuan. Plenty of sellers, but not many buyers. These stalls are big on children's clothing and have a lot of socks and running shoes. At least, people have access to the things they need to make life comfortable. But I don't think many folks can actually afford very much of anything. Only one little piece at a time. I put on my new cap and some smiley guys in an adjacent stall start tossing orange peels at me for fun. I grin and duck and shake my head. Then I'm at a stall loaded with folk music recorded on cassette tapes. All these tapes feature local Tibetan singers. Their singing is accompanied by a twangy four-stringed instrument like a ukulele crossed with a mandolin. The rhythms are always the same, but the cadence varies a lot. The voices sound warm, sincere. You find this real Tibetan folk music on home-made tapes in the markets; meanwhile, the government produces fancy CDs; but all the official and professionally produced music is strictly Chinese language, informed by Tibetan "folk subjects." It's strange, and a prime example of how squarely stiff-necked official communist culture is. Maybe they will relax eventually. I don't know. A few years ago, the Chinese put a young Tibetan man in jail. His crime: making a tour around Tibet to record the folk music of his people. He's still in jail. A sad, backwards predicament, and a glaring example of how unfairly cruel Chinese authority can be.

The street corner is hung with hand-loomed rainbows. The Tibetans know how to weave their dragons. You can still find several examples of traditional Tibetan floral motifs bounded by zigzags. The marketplace ends. Not far north of the market, the ancient Zhigatse Dzong (fortress) is carved into the grey slate looming over the town. Locals walk to and fro, carrying loads of clothing and firewood. I'm not so sure if their big smiles are meant for me, but they look happy to see me run off the beaten path.

Beyond the market square, the back street is no more paved and cobbles give way to gooey ruts of muck. A group of townfolk surrounds a lady selling homemade treats: a rice flour paste made into a mushy bun is filled with red beans and topped with some sweet chili sauce. At the hotel I learn Miguel cannot cash his Eurocheques: so, he's wired for extra cash. I lend him another hundred yuan. His visa runs out in a week; the local police have refused to extend it. They say the upcoming festival in Lhasa prohibits his going there. No logic in this denial, except maybe the police think the city will be too crowded. But Miguel is clever: he tells the police that his bank will only wire money to the main branch in Lhasa, which is true, so he needs an extension to go get the money, after which time he promises to book an exit tour to Everest and Nepal.

Then, washing up in the bathroom, I encounter a mild gent from France, a high school teacher. He's got a bike and loves Tibet, too. He grumbles about the police state and warns about the high level of control on roads south of Lhasa near Tsetang. He's surprised to see my detailed maps from the Tibet Map Institute: he knows the man who produced the maps personally. It feels good to feel the small world and share a lifestyle with this unassuming fellow. The Frenchman mutters one last time about the unassailable technocratic morass blinding humanity... Yes, we all know what's wrong, but nobody knows what to do about it...

Two whole days in Zhigatse. We have a look at Tashilhunpo Monastery. The "Zhoton Festival" in Lhasa is rumored to be a big draw for tourists, so we need to arrive the day before to get a room. Zhoton is the "Yogurt Festival," a Buddhist feast of plenty and it happens each August. We go for dinner at a hotel beside the market. A group of eight people sit and speak musical, Parisian French. What I wouldn't do to exchange a few words with a pretty accent like that. She's such a throaty purr. Any freaky fucking eye-tai - or a creamy kooky frenchy swiss cheep-cheep, all will do. So, I lean back and say, "Excusez-moi, avez-vous une cigarette?" The comely blonde obliges most politely. Then I turn round to Miguel. I could use a hotcross blonde like that. Impatient and hungry, I grumble, "Where's the fucking waitress?"