We rode our machines east to the moutains, over high passes.
Tweaking carburettors to burn thin air, our passions are gasoline and nicotine and alcohol. We pressed on, pushing the bikes over landslides and charging rivers. Precarious ledges were our lives.

East to the valley, then south as the snow peaks surrounded us throwing light into our dark faces, peeling our skin, cracking our lips. We rode on, wearing out rubber and tearing up souls, muscles screaming, engines burning --this was the plateau.

The mountains changed color from white to grey to brown to red we entered a new valley -- land of purple rocks and brown dust -- eye lashes full of crud, chains clogged, needles blocked we maintained the flow -- high altitude.

Lungs failing, lucid dreaming we met the people of the upper strata, the monks, the hermits, the Tibetan people. Cricket teams and gnocce -- we cruized the hard core, fresh, hot tarmac burning our tires. We rocked over the rocks to the gompas.

Key.

Spinning in ancient spaces -- children in robes of red poured our tea, children in rags poured our chang. The prayer wheeel transmitters of these labrynthine ruins shook our
foundations. An old man with thick black glasses crouched-sitting to pull a rope. Spin the wheel.

A giant prayer emitter with moving paintings -- strings of spiraling molecules being eaten by demons became the buddha's crown. Frescos.

Juleh.

Five hours walking, fast, dry wind, no clouds or atmosphere to shield our skin. This was not. This is our lives.

Cracked lips and more chang chai. Watery warm milk with sugar. Austrian titans washed down freezing rivers. Two girls dancing crouched down to bounce on calves and knees-spinning-singing-headscarves and snot.

Monastries crammed into nullas of ice. Stacked up like irregular, Peruvian wedding cakes.

Seemingly unmaintained -- new houses grew up from the mud. So we walked, rode, drank, burned back to he Dalai Lama's birthday party with woven shawls and strange chant singing.

Tarmac and rubble.
A monastry dormitory dumplings and soup.

We didn't know why we had gone or where we were going, why we were moving or if we were seeking. A group mission into a land unknown.

We found a place.

Walked into a room of paintings 1000 years old. Walked back to a millenia ago. to a mature tradition sustaining,. We watched these masters in pigment from a future unfathomed. A door went off to the left.

Like an adult mystery house two statues stood guard. Blue teeth gnashing-- weapons pointing.

Afraid.
Puhing forward, we let go.

Into the inner chamber, a dimesional field of enlightened gods.

gTsug Lha-khang.

A row of statues. White chinese women with hands poised in mantra of mudra emitting
compassion, a promise of ecstasy -- eternal reality. Rows of gods, grids of Buddhas.

The altar.

A Buddha in the center of a complex, carved mandala. Cut in relief and decorated in ornate, peace of being. You walk around.

To enter a new space beyond.

The altar piece changes into a four-faced protector, the dimension stretches and past the end is another.

The inner Buddha.

Serenity beyond imagination expression. A darkened place of shade from physicality. I felt myself crying, energy rising through the base chakras in emotion unblocking. Welling up.

To a state of tingling clarity. The layer under my skin vibrating -- pure consciousness breaking through.

To emit.
Spin the wheel of transmission to....

This is a soul vibration.

I cried to my spirit guides.
I drew myself out like a splinter.

Momos, chai and tarmac -- a lake unswum.

We rode on.