The next day finds Ms. Y and I climbing the Potala... The broad stairway is empty and quiet. Before the twentieth century, and the skyscrapers of Chicago and New York, the Potala Palace was the world's tallest building. Majestic isn't the word. The place is mighty. It's a massive fortress - a heap of huge rocks. It was built to last forever. The Dalai Lamas wanted to be the greatest and the eternal rulers of Tibet.

To the apparently modern mind, Tibetan theocracy inspires mixed feelings of skepticism and deep curiosity. We have difficulty imagining such a national entity. Theocracy and God-kings, all of that sounds very like ancient history, like Egypt in the time of Ptolemy and Cleopatra, when the imagination of emperors and empresses built whole nations upon fabulistic faith in personal divinity...

The Tibetan ecclesiastical theocracy created by the Dalai Lamas was the culmination of turbulent rivalries lasting hundreds of years. The line of Dalai Lamas, who all belong to the Gelupka sect, were intended to represent a harmony of wisdom with power. Feudalism peaked and theocracy stepped in, not so much because it wanted control, but as much because the people of Tibet really were religious and devout. Let's say it seemed natural that a ecclesiastical state should evolve, one in which monks shared rank alongside feudal chiefs. While still a child, the Dalai Lama is taught all about his religion. He does not need to become selfish or possessive: he's a monk and brought up to revere pure faith and knowledge. Learning how to meditate and achieve insight into the absolutes of Buddhist metaphysics are always more important than the power he possesses as a national ruler. The Dalai Lama is not supposed to need to exercise power at all... He's supposed to lead by virtue of the reverence shown him by the people and the evidence of his divinity. The theocracy, in benevolent form, shows peaceful advantages over the more chaotic and violent types of primitivist, not yet ascendant society... (White trials. Black seas. Poor sports can hit front to back as well as you. The sun rolls on and the leaf grows over you after you die. Become a tree. But what about all the buts! A fresh face is hard to find...) People still respect this God-king. In the past, the Dalai Lama was revered. Today in Tibet, he's absent. The people of Tibet long for his return, as if he alone may answer their lost dreams. To avoid the calumny of seeming dull-witted, some few Tibetans might joke - but only because some may feel naive and others, frustrated beyond anger. Some Tibetans are exhausted, baffled and hapless - maddened by trial. Some are exultant because they are conscious. Others are plain helpless and have no money. What about the profits? Money pours in but doesn't come back out. Except maybe some of the cash sucked away by those with power... My scholarship is atrocious, granted that. At least I'm not hung up on a mad theory or a specific prediction! The fact remains that you could subdivide the money earned by most Tibetans by the modern colonial standard: take a string and tie it to a pencil; then tack it to some cardstock - and then draw the pencil completely round until you get a nice big grey zero... Some flat land to build some big buildings on and a lot of Chinese people running about worried about the infrastructure and how to control! It's weirder than you can picture. So, the psyche of Tibetans is complex and individual. The committee doesn't know much about that. Neither do you. (You have to meet many others to know anything. People share ideas, wishes - and everyone is ordinarily moving along the same paths to love. Nobody likes to suffer. If you are sick, there is nothing you can do but get well. If you are unhappy? It doesn't matter. Someone can make you laugh. Never be afraid. There is nothing hiding behind you. Slow or fast doesn't matter, and neither cool nor hot stands up to slippery and smooth... ...I give up! My hands are firmly extended over my head. There's nothing in my right hand but the limp dick of history! I get up to girls easy, queer or not! What do you want!?) For most Tibetans, the Dalai Lama is a memory. Today, China divides the faith of Tibetans with development projects and enforced education. But the presence of China has cooled the local people off. A vociferous spirit cannot be silenced forever. Tibetans who hope for something besides colonialism must travel far - and break Chinese law - to visit India's community of Tibetan exiles.

Today, the Potala is white-washed and kept very prim and proper. On the way in, Ms. Y tries a little diplomacy on me, pointing out that the huge, ancient mural inside the entrance portico of the palace residence depicts the journey of Chinese princess Weng-cheng to Tibet over one thousand years ago. Tibet was obliged to forge an uneasy alliance with more powerful China, and previously evicted her army and chiefs. That was a much different Tibet. The Potala now represents the effects of a sinofied, controlled Tibet. The palace is empty, except for tourists and their guides. This fact seems odd to me. As Ms. Y and I overtake a group of German tourists, I can't help but open my mouth to cast an aspersion on our presence in this holy palace: "To think that Tibetans used to live here - before the Chinese drove them away..." It's the wrong thing, because Chinese Ms. Y is being so nice to me, having paid my way inside. But she simply acts like she doesn't hear what I said.

Not so long ago the Potala palace was the seat of the Tibetan government. In fact, below the apartments of the Dalai Lama, the minister's of his government had offices in the buildings all around. All of that is silent and shut up now. One open door leads up heavy stairs to the palace apartments and mausoleums.

The roof-top abode of the last Dalai Lama emits modest grandeur, preserving its original state. The apartment is finely appointed in brocades and carpets, but modestly cozy and not very big. It has windows facing east and south, plenty of light and a wonderful audience chamber with exquisite paintings of deer and deities. The study room of the God-king is particularly golden and warm. It must have been a quiet, sunny-windy and pleasant place to grow up. Opposite the former apartment of the current Dalai Lama is the apartment and audience chamber of the previous Dalai Lama, number XIII. Its walls are lined with shelves and cubby holes filled with precious religious manuscripts. Several gleaming statues, venerated for their singularity depict the god-king in full lotus. Everything seems very well-preserved. More deeply embedded within the Red Palace wing of the Potala are various funerary stupas. Here, beneath massive metal domes adorned in glowing gold leaf are interred the mortal remains of most Dalai Lamas.

At one point we discover a plaque remembering the visit of China's present leader, Jiang Zu-min. The plaque commemorates a United Nations decree naming the Potala Palace a "World Heritage Site." I'm a bit confused by this plaque... It's always funny to imagine that heritage sites feel as if they indicate the past history of civilization. A lot of what we call "heritage" back home is supposed to be considered contemporary currency. Living culture doesn't have to grasp at the leaf tips of memory... It makes the most of its predicament and leads you to prosper - as who you were born, given a tongue and an idea... Nobody needs to change you into someone else. Your own ideas are more interesting, because they come from what you learn, and that should lead you to thoughtful consideration... Perhaps a little sad to realize that such an official commemoration serves to underscore the sensation that the Potala, and everything it represents, have been relegated to the past - officially, by an official United Nation's body! I suppose you could say I'm stupid and that the declaration promotes the Potala's life... Well. But I mean it has to come back to live, because it is empty now. The proclamation seems odd. How many people actually die for freedom anywhere in this world? We are told that people die for freedom. Most people caught in wars die for someone else's persuasion, madness, drive, choice. In life you make love most naturally first with the one you know. That's a good thing. I wonder. How could this be? The Potala and all it represents is now a poignant memory - a monolith, and nothing more or less; obviously, the Chinese government welcomed this U.N. declaration - because it appears to shed a good light on their administration, at least the Chinese felt that the light was warm: what else could "international recognition" be except something good? But it could be seen by those outside official China as a more subtle thing - an enduring recognition of patience, a waiting dream: one day Tibet may reassert her heritage and forgive the political education, the enforced development, the mean domination and suppression which have so changed the country... From gentle to mean. I believe if the meanness can fade away, the gentleness will return. Maybe the Chinese, finally, will get to know their minorities as brothers... To behave as brothers first - now that's a big challenge! Ha, ha, what else is new? Is it God for you - or do you prefer women? Guys? You tell me... I'm slipping by.

Gazing at the plaque proclaiming the wonderful heritage of the Potala, I feel something like it was as if the whole world is completely agreeable to the disappointment of Tibetans in order to satisfy the developmental destiny chosen for them by the Chinese! Fine, things are going to grow, but it's going to get a bit weird. The young lady and I hurry out from the palace, leaving heaps of ancient manuscripts, the innumerable bronze icons and effigies, the darkened yellow paintings on the walls, the hidden dark corners, the crowds of wandering tourists, the absence of monks, and the lurid sense of desolation and emptiness of a place once bustling with thousands of individuals, as if memories alone are free to settle here. The Potala is a ghost-palace, silent and lonesome in his empty home... I'm sad and want to go. I don't understand how this could be? I hope you enjoy going over everything in detail. Life, mortality, family, how your lover's made love... Silenced hearts chill me and I go. I want the warmth of love, the thrill... I want talkative girls around me.

By the time Ms. Y and I return to the entrance at 11:00 A.M., the tourist hawkers have set up shop by the way. Ms. Y wants trinkets for her girlfriends back in Chengdu. The vendors squawk their loud pigeon at us, "You look. See. Me cheap deal." Me too, and I want to flea. But Ms. Y doesn't. So, I swallow their eager and watchful eyes like some strange medicine. Assiduously, I shop for turquoise bracelets as if I'm doing a good deed. In the back of the taxi, I give Ms. Y one of the bracelets and she's happy. I say goodbye then and there since she has a plane to catch right away.

At the hotel again I meet the German cycling couple: male engineer and female elementary school teacher. They are impatient to leave. They have already come from Golmud, along the northern frontier of Tibet, and must reach Nepal by the beginning of September. Luckily, the young couple introduces me to two very pleasant fellows, computer programmers, from Germany and also riding bicycles around Tibet. These two guys have all the gadgets you could ever want for a long bike trip. Tools are us. In less than an hour we replace two broken spokes and tune out the wobble from my wheel. I thank them profusely. I've got to get one of those cranks and stop feeling absolutely an inept fool.

I've time to book a plane ticket for Chengdu, departure in two weeks. Time to watch too much tv? Not anymore. Tomorrow, I set out for Samye monastery, not far south of Lhasa, in the Yarlung River valley.

Actually, there are too many good-byes. The Nepali crew from Hore to Saga showed up here in Lhasa a few days ago. I promised their amiable boss to join them for a beer at ten o'clock. The Nepalis are going to guide a group of Americans around the lake country north of Lhasa. Tsering explains that the local police moved them to the hotel because they were forbidden to stay at their employer's house. My last evening is spent eating a wonderful stew of vegetables, mutton and noodles.

In the morning I say goodbye to Hutch over breakfast, again. He's suave and ever the smiling gentleman. Actually, I've met few men so pleasant and well-finished, a living contradiction. Hutch has had a varied experience. Success and failure both. He has gleaned ideas sufficient to add and to subtract from his stock of prejudices. Here's a man, almost set free from his culture's mindset and that's rare anywhere. Does anybody ever get to know him-herself well enough to be free..?

I go at 10:00, and aim to reach the river valley south of Lhasa, home to the Yarlung dynasty, the heartland of ancient Tibet. The mighty Tsangpo River flows south into India, becoming the Brahmaputra, "son of the creator." I pause to send an email to my pals, and tell my girlfriend about the souvenirs that I plan to buy on my way out: a couple of hand-woven carpets and some turquoise jewelry... Riding out, I spot Miguel walking. I pause to shake his hand and say so long. He's visibly moved and I sense that the man will be alone again. He doesn't relish that prospect at all. It isn't often that he makes a new friend.

It's strange how solitude creeps upon us, sometimes we get used to being alone. It's more interesting with people. The old jews were right about that. But it isn't easy with women; they expect everything and more than you can give. You can't be alone. It isn't easy, making your supposed enemy fall in love with you. That's the hard part for stupid people like us. After she's left you, how long till another slips into you and your bed, girl? Meet a friend and take time to know each other. What happens? Solitude gets lost and we hate its memory. Thrust back into solitude, we suddenly feel as souls bereaved... We don't want to be alone again, especially if we revile ourselves for having grown "used to it" before. Like ghosts we are indifferent to the cancellation of sensitivities... Until someone else wakes you again. But there's no choice, alone, far from home, travelling amid nobody we know...

The solitude of homelessness makes a good man grow meek. I think it drives everyone else crazy. Odd, isn't it, how lonely men always appear to be very good or very bad men - monks and marauders. Because, those who are alone sit silently, unnoticed, protecting themselves from everything outside that refuses to understand... Nobody can know them. If nobody can know - then there must certainly be something especially good being kept secret - or something very bad that has to be hidden...

Now that I think on it, I've seen that look before - that furtive need to hurry, yet unwillingness to depart; the moment that leaves you behind in your companion's mind. In Hutch's eyes, for example, I could see a bright light. He's what's called a "good American" - a man made of hope, the pure and original impetus of the more wonderful and healthy side of American culture. Guys like Hutch built their nation from nothing but sheer optimism, strength and the astonishing inspiration of virgin soil. America watched itself grow up during the same epoch that saw Europe experience a self-conscious process of aging and frustrated rebellions against unassailable identity. So, while Europeans cultivated the progress of hypocrisy, Americans had no way to experience, retain or even need to evacuate any accumulation of guilt. While the French and Germans basically went crazy, the Americans never had much concern about differentiating right from wrong. America just learned to eat shit - and like it. Such is the destiny of a power too great for its own good...

When I see Hutch for the last time at breakfast, he says goodbye from within the silent depths of his gentle soul. His goodbye is an acceptance of the natural human estate. Miguel is a young man and an unhappier one, because he can't get by the inhibition upon sensitivity that hampers intimacy. He's the man caught in a trap purely by parentage and place, as if awake and yet severed in half at the same time.

I'm past my need to choose class and labels. I see people and hope to find individuals beneath the assumptions, masks, roles. Miguel has dropped all defenses and self-loathing in knowing me. But I'm not about to forgive him for being a poor man to himself. We're all made so cruel and blind today. Why not be gentle and humble, simple and kind? I cannot be as I wish... Miguel is gone and I'm going soon, too.

If your children are going to be happy and whole, they must believe you love them: only a conscious tenderness can enfold them away from the inevitable alienation that you suffer from yourself. We try to protect them against the common bewilderment of love between wife and husband: to transfer affections from the young lover in your spouse to the new "you" in your offspring - that's the same thing as robbing the child of its mother or father. The lover is no longer a lover! We all end up alone, again. But we don't see that paradox of affections until it's too late. To love your child more than your husband or wife is really a symptom of selfishness, caused by the unconscious, inalienable identity we must suffer, being alone within each of ourselves. Notice that your child feels closer to being one with yourself than your spouse can possibly seem. The child is a source of creativity that inspires us with the awe we need to feel if we are to love life. How strange to realize that happiness depends on chance and nothing more. ...If our parents were able to show us tenderness and affection during early infancy. Some children seem ruined by want for love, and their misery is unquenchable. Others grow up to run away from their parents' frustrated love, because that same love ultimately refuses to understand the object of affection isn't the same person as the mother and father imagines he/she ought to be... This blindness to reflection upon containment within separate identities perhaps accounts for the exceptional variety of human character. We love, but we know no one.

The city people smile at my pathetic figure, riding a bike, slowly leaving. Only the pretty Chinese girls who work the edge of town appear a little sad today, regretting their chance for a taste of white meat. Then, I am gone.

One or two neat little farms appear by the roadway, for a moment, like some quaint European country. I ride southwest, along the Kyi-chu River, which flows through Lhasa south until it joins the Brahmaputra River and the broad valley leading into the heart of Tibet...

The most astonishing thing that I see are two naked and wet Tibetan girls giggling at me, toes in the air, tummies on the hot pavement. They were swimming in the irrigation channel beside the highway. The next surprise I see is the rising level of the water in the Kyi-chu River. At its juncture with the Brahmaputra, the water is a torrent only half a metre below the road... Everyone says it's unseasonably rainy.

I reach the bridge across the confluence of the two rivers by mid-afternoon. After lunch, I press on. The scenic villages and undulant fields of barley are lined with young trees. The local people smile.