It started as a wintertime visit to relatives in Minnesota. The relatives featured in the dream are in actuality dead, but in the dream they were alive. There was some intermittent but not particularly perilous walking on a frozen lake, and looking through the ice at the bubbles trapped underneath.
But then the dream shifted to this documentary about this old Minnesotan guy who sort of looked like Santa Claus except without the dentures and without the clothes. He had a pug nose on a rosy pug face and lots of broken veins and cellulite. I knew it was a documentary because we were restricted to the point of view of a single camera, and the colors were the sort you get with Technicolor after about thirty years of time has screwed with the emulsions, and there was narration furnished by a plummy-voiced announcer typical of nature documentaries in the Fifties. This was clearly a novelty documentary of the Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not school.
This old dude was so full of deep wrinkles that a colony of bees had taken up residence in a fold in his upper left thigh. There were shots of the man's rosy-red face and toothless smile, and the bees flying in and out of their fleshy hive. And then a fox, trying to steal honey, dived head-first into the colony of bees, going so deep that only his tail and hindquarters were visible.
But the joke was on the fox! He drowned in the honey! We got close-up shots of the old man's thigh pulsating as the fox went through its death throes, with the old guy grinning the whole time, as if this sort of thing happened every day.
That's when I woke up, totally creeped. When had a pleasant visit to some dead relatives turned into this fucked-up shit? I had to shift from my first sleeping place to my second sleeping place and go back to sleep in a different position, just by way of telling my subconscious that I did not want to return to this dream. (As to why I have two sleeping places, check the Five Weird Things essay I wrote some time back.)
Herr Doktor Freud, eat your freakin' heart out.