Some combination of extreme physical exhaustion, two tabs of Valerian, and the extra oxygen provided by one of those nasal strip thingies turned my brain into the Sensaround Surrealist Colorama last night, featuring a long, incredibly detailed dream with far more staying power (after waking up) than normal. In summary . . .

I was at an air show, and one of the events was airplane races, but the planes were racing people on the ground, flying incredibly low, their props and wing tips occasionally dipping into the crowd below them, that parted and surged on along the tree-lined dirt road, like an aviation version of the running of the bulls.

One group of runners managed to get a blanket tossed over a plane, and as the plane flew on, they were pulled behind it, laughing at their ingenuity, until the plane began to go too high, and they realized that when the props cut the blanket, they’d be toast, so they let it go.

Then I was elsewhere, watching a documentary about an assassination from long, long ago, and the widow of the fallen leader was shown tending his tomb, digging around the bottom of it to make sure that the grass and weeds didn’t grow over the inscriptions, but at the same time making sure that the soil was well tended so that the grass would grow green and lush.

Looking through trees, I realized the tomb was to my right, and it was looking a bit over-grown, so I began to dig around its edges as I’d seen the widow do, and after getting about six inches of dirt out in a little trench along the front of the large, square monument, I punched through into a hollow space, and it was filled with worms, one particularly large one slowly plowing through a mass of smaller ones. My reaction wasn’t one of revulsion: I realized that they were weren’t there eating the dead, they were there because the widow had put them there to make sure the soil was well aerated.

Looking right, I suddenly realized there was a window in the side of the tomb, and inside it I could see what appeared to be an iron lung kind of device, with two women inside it, only their heads visible, in some sort of kinky amorous embrace. One spotted me watching them, and they opened the door to the tomb and began to castigate me, with a very heavy militant/lesbian/feminist slant to the tirade: I was male, I was bad. But then they realized that I wasn’t there to voyeur them, it was only an accident that I was watching them, I was being respectful of the tomb.

They softened, and offers were made for the exchange of sexual favors, but then the two women left and were replaced by another, a brunette, who was more forceful in her amorous offers towards me, and then the sex began, and it was very intense, and as we got into it, I realized that I was on the floor of my room at the Naval Academy.

Just as things were reaching a peak, I heard my Naval Academy room-mates say “He’s being really loud, she must be giving him a real work out,” and I realized that I must have been dreaming and making noises in my sleep, and that they could hear them, and they knew what I was dreaming.

I didn’t want to wake before the payoff on the sex, so I was trying to be really quiet–both in the dream, and in my room, so my room-mates wouldn’t hear me. But they weren’t fooled, and one of them grabbed me off the bed and flung me bodily across the room, where I hit the wall and fell to the floor.

I laid there on the floor thinking “Damn, that sucks, getting woken up during the middle of a sex dream . . . ”

And then I REALLY woke up, and realized that I’d been having a dream within a dream . . . a meta-dream, and my first waking thoughts were: “Well . . . if it sucks to get woken up during a sex dream, does that mean it’s a good thing to get woken up from a dream where you’ve just been awakened in the middle of a sex dream?”

Analyze that, Doctor(s) Freud . . .