Does this stream of subconsciousness count? From Sajha Archives drinking tongba and chyyang is more pithy Well then let's hear the tales of the dingy taverns and smoky ceilings, slurry voices, split millet spewing sweet juice, like the rosy cheeks of the sahuni, wanting to bite 'em. she smiles showing her gold tooth, a quick flash of that pink tongue, and all the cavities yonder. You don't care as she throws out a maggot from the fermenting bag, refills the tumba, its dirty you want to think. But now its the highlands and the air is thin, and with every breath you take you smell her perfume an eclectic mix of churpi and yak hair. Every nanofiber of you is concentrated into this moment. But there's just the millet, the tumbler, comically customized for you, this must be some cosmic joke you think -- so ridiculously inadequate. All it needs is the muster shepard back yourself dissipating in the musk of this highland sally, into the texture like the chew of that tender churpi, into the forests of black hair with dazzling flecks of dandruff. Conduit to himalayan ecstasy running through the folds of that dirty baakhu, so beautiful the way its draped, and those patches of dirt, damn lucky dirt so close to her...and hell no I am drunk. The Place: This was indeed a hole in the wall, set in in a non descript building's northern facade, no sunshine ever, and easily escaped eyes. And in winter, a half a mile hike to this place was, an absentminded walk through the Lang Tang Valley of your minds. Such chill in the wind. So budget, those rectangle walls, exposed bricks, no paint, and a dirt colored screen door. if it meant transporting back from Lang Tang of mental scape and so bare in this chill, you'd rather choose a hole in the ground. You dive in through the door. A cloying smell, of oil, of garlic, of skukuti blackening in the line, of tongba, of chyaang, of tharra, and the noise, overwhelming buzz a stove, guzzling kerosene, rounding the smell. Today its the husband that's your maitre d'. Puffed up face, probably a liver condition aggravated by the pool of tongba that he lives in, sucking on incessantly...A beelzeboob, barely coherent, here because the gold toothed sahuni, knows when to peck his head, at those awful, hurtful, schizophrenic moment of dissociations. She does not stop yakks on and on and then he slaps her, regrets, because she is so warm under the covers, they make up, and in feeling of a warm cheek and ringing ear, she thinks how much he really loves him. She feels neglected if she doesn't get the whack. Such is the realization. he dresses up to greet the guests down stairs. Would you really see so much in those puffy watery eyes with bits of chipra stuck in the cornbers. So dirty, nauseating because he probably picks on that and goes into fry your chilly. but forget it. sit down as he brings over a thermos, and awaits instructions for buff chilly, the back half of his mind is already gone, in the bouyant, saline solution, cash is only what keeps him here. Regardless he is the conductor, and tonight too he will deliver. The millets are splitting and the chalky strings of juice bubble out. You take a sip, and peer at the innards of the kitchen two doors away, a flash of bakkhu and you recognize it, but its so early and its two doors away. In between sits the sahu counting his wad of business, with every flip of the paper, his head enlarges, "pop" image of Johnny walker, "pop" the seiko from hongkong market, "pop" sahuni pouting lips, heavy lipstick, escapes boundary, goosebumps. He curses under breath, miscounted. But he wouldn't mind and go counting forever Where does this happen really? All this narrative? All this while you have been talking with this friend who is sitting in front of you. "I am building a ship, a rickety ship. With some luck, I think it will float. I am gone baby." Its bobbing and floating, something moved, as sahuni walked out of the kitchen, her ample breasts, in a stern voice she talks with the sahu. You freak out, "I am barely afloat. Will this raft float her too?"