In an ambiguiously vain attempt at healing the land I trace my dreams onto the surface of wood and stone as I roll across the land, never knowing where I am or where I'm going as I learn to let go of the bank and float down the great river. Above me, a presence sits atop an eight spoked wagon wheel and I, presumptious as a child or an uninvited guest, seek to explain the unkown to the teachers I meet along the Way. As quiet as a foreigner.
-Update Aug, 2011 -
Don't paint, talk, or try to even think about mandalas in China, it can be seen as religious and their prisons aren't good places to be.
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