One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy

I am observing a scene, as if watching a television news broadcast. Two notorious leaders of a Norwegian para-military group have traveled to Indonesia for a negotiation. The situation is tense. In the news interview, one of the leaders promises there won't be any conflict or violence as long as no governments get involved. But also in view is the other leader, the quiet menacing-looking one. The verbal placation contrasted with the silent threat seems ominous.

The news cuts to some B-roll of a dirt field behind a modest hotel. The journalist narrates the recent events: "The para-military group has been peaceful so far as they move in and take residence in their hotel. At least one neighbor, however, has been angered..."

The camera zooms in on a bull out on that dirt field. He has a light brown coat with spots. He has very long and thick horns. He toes the ground, looking ready to charge.

And now, I am in the scene in first-person. Along with me is my mother. We are also checking in to this hotel, perhaps unaware of the strife surrounding us. I see the bull. Now his coat is very dark brown. He snorts and toes at the ground again.

"Be careful Mom. Let's hurry."

The bull starts to charge in our direction. "Mom! Move out of the way!" I move quickly forward but she continues at a walking pace. "Mom!?"

The bull veers off and stops his charge. Phew. Maybe he wasn't targeting us. Maybe the animal just does that to release its emotion.

Now, a beat too late, my mother hears me and starts to panic. "I -- I don't move very fast!" She winces and wraps her arms around her, as if to brace for impact. As she does this with her upper body, her legs shuffle her forward a bit faster but awkwardly.

This sudden movement catches the attention of the bull, who is now re-enraged. He tilts at my mother and charges again. I only watch as the bull gores her with his horns and rams her into a nearby wall. The bull pulls back and wanders off. It's missing a horn now.

I run to my mother. Her left arm is completely severed just below the shoulder, drenched in dark red blood. The bull's horn is still stuck in her and I can also see her exposed bone. I'm horrified. She wails in pain and fear. "I don't think I'm going to make it!"

I wake, but linger in the hypnopompic state for a while. Hypnopompia is like a little lucid epilogue to every dream. I am awake and aware, but my mind is still working with absurd dream logic. It is here where I get some of my best thinking done.

I notice my emotions and let them fade.

Thank you, Anger. Thank you, Guilt. You played your parts to perfection. You can go now.

And is that you, Condescension? And Hypocrisy? You mischievous little scamps, I keep telling you to stay off my lawn. Run along now, and go apologize to your mother.

Thank you, recurring theme of hestitating-to-act-leading-to-tragic-irony. I saw your work in Hamlet, that was brilliant. You can go too.

A bull, huh? Bulls remind me of Spain. Spain... Spain... I think of Ernest Hemingway and then I think of A Farewell to Arms. That makes me laugh and so now I am fully awake. (Turns out Farewell doesn't take place in Spain. I was confusing it with For Whom The Bell Tolls.)