(Introductory Note: This tale is part of an ongoing series of prose poems based on actual dreams first recorded in 1968 when I lived and studied in the Himalayas for six years. The series titled Night Travels to Tibet conjures the surreal and crazy juxtaposition of eastern & western cultures, people and events.
At the village chai shop, the chai-wallah, tea-maker, churns a pot of salty yak butter tea. He serves me where I sit on carpet on the floor. Then he adjusts a knob of some kind.
Suddenly we’re airborne. The carpet cruises out the door and hovers three feet above an ancient caravan trail. The driver struggles to gain altitude then halts at a stop sign.
“Don’t stop. Take it higher,” I urge. “Cut loose! Fly like Aladdin on his magic carpet! He never stopped for signals or hovered in traffic.”
When I look down at the carpet I see the problem. It’s ugly! Instead of a beautiful Oriental Persian carpet I’m sitting on a cheap shag rug. It’s not even square or rectangular, just a frayed coffee-stained remnant of the cheapest polyester wall-to-wall gray shag torn in an odd shape.
Just my luck, I think, stuck on a low-flying funky shag remnant cruising slower than an ox cart. We’re barely skimming the ground. I can walk faster in my sleep.