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SUMMARY: Based on Radthorne's Art at http://www.kevinradthorne.com/Art%20General%2048%20Green%20Dragon.html

Shina no yoru
Shina no yoru yo
Yanagi no mado ni
Lantan yurete Akai torikago Shina musume
Aa yarusenai
Ai no uta
Shina no yoru
Yume no yoru

Is it only in memory that the night came in shades of gray, water, clouds, stars, rock, shrubs, all substantial but secondary to the riveting flame of the woman? Dragons, Imperial jade-dragons, nine jade dragons for nine dragon sons – yi long jiu ze, ge zi bie – rampant on her dress, the dress its own brilliant take on Burmese jade. Jade and the woman, the woman and jade, the phoenix displaying her affinity for the dragon, yin and yang, classic chip'ao with un-classic undershirt, the yaodai blazing the color of life, ancient and modern, contradiction and continuity. All that beneath the Mona Lisa smile, n estled behind the modest placement of her hands.
Is it only in memory her songs re-play, sad love songs, loving sad songs, everything in opposition, lyric, melody, rhythm?
Is it only in memory her voice comes from the deepest alto ranges, an Asian Karen Carpenter? Or that her eyes and lips join forces to question my motives, to summarize our encounter as "I played my part; will you now undertake yours?"
My part. My role. My quest.
There are no questers in this day and age. In our times we send platoons, battalions, armies, always more than what is required, always erring on the side of prudence. Yet, I went alone to Mt. Emei, ascended the paths alone to the monastery above the sea of clouds, en route to meeting with The Reformer, hoping against hope for the interview that could make my career. Every trace I discovered pointed to this monastery. Still, if I could find the traces so could others. This idea sent my bank account to uncharted depths when my newspaper refused to fund the venture. I was on my own, alone.
I name myself Pebble making this journey up the Yangtze to Chengdu mere recapitulation for the journey I made 35 years ago with John Hersey as my guide. There are more engines on the river now but the gorges remain as formidable as then, the risk much the same, the river people as he claimed them to be. Multiple quests, then, to discover the meaning of The Reformer or my own meaning, both waiting on Mt Emei in as neat a package as the universe deigns to provide.
Unraveling neat packages is what I seem to do best. The journey up tested my conditioning. As far as I could tell, my contribution to the confluence of the Minjiang, Dadu and Qingyi rivers equaled any competing source's claim and exceeded most. The sweat erupted with such constancy that the consumption of at least two gallons of water barely compensated for what I lost. Believe that I stripped down to shorts and sandals within the first half-hour and carried my knapsack by its straps not caring for the rasp of the pack on my bared back.
The monastery above the sea of clouds accepted no tourists, denied the existence of any reformers among its residents, sent me back down the mountain in the same condition I had ascended, alone, on foot. Thinking to stop at the first human habitat I encountered in a desperate attempt to regain some lead to The Reformer I plodded down the path.