everybody's sayin' that
hell's the hippest way to go
well i don't think so
gonna take a look around it though

In describing the arc of her songwriting, Joni Mitchell not so long ago said:

My first four albums covered the usual youth problems—looking for love in all the wrong places—while the next five are basically about being in your 30s. Things start losing their profundity; in middle-late age, you enter a tragedian period, realizing that the human animal isn't changing for the better.

I don't know: maybe there's something wrong with me. Because though I guess I too am moving through middle-late age, I think better of people, places, and things, than I did when I was younger.

When I was younger, I thought that, though the world seemed to be controlled by Hairballs, it—the world, that is—would all become right, in my lifetime. And I, meanwhile, had a tendency, to become distraught, at every signal, that it might not.

Now, I just don't get distraught, any more. Because, I know, that that won't happen—all becoming all right, in my lifetime. But I also know, now, better, what life was like, for those who came before, as compared to what it is like, for those, who are here now. Because I have been afforded, the luxury, of traveling widely, in space and time, through history.

And I see movement. I see an arc. I see that it is long, so very long, but I see that nonetheless it indeed bends that way, towards all becoming all right. Someday.

Not, in my lifetime, of course.

In determining whether people, places, and things are moving more towards the good, the bad, or the ugly, it is first necessary to be pitiless in perceiving the true nature of creation.

Alain Danielou does that, in his book Shiva and Dionysus. In unearthing what he argues is the primordial human religion, which he calls Shivaism.

The Creator is a cruel god who made a world in which nothing can live but by destroying life through the killing of other living beings. Thus, no being can exist except by devouring other forms of life, whether vegetable or animal, and this is one of the fundamental aspects of created nature. Life in the world, both animal and human, is nothing but an interminable slaughter. To exist means to eat and to be eaten. All living beings feed on other beings and themselves become food for other beings in an ecological cycle. This is why the Creator himself defines his nature as devouring and devoured. "I am the food, food, food, and I am the eater, eater, eater . . . from food are born living beings. Those who are on the Earth live only by food and become themselves food in the end." (Taittiriya Upanishad, III, 2 and 10, 6.)

This cycle encompasses all of creation, from "the sun which only shines by destroying its own substance," to the smallest plant, which delights in devouring flesh—any gardener knows that no plant is happier, than a plant, that has just been fed, blood meal.

The basic principle of Shivaism is to accept the world as it is, and not as we should like it to be. It is only when we accept the reality of the world that we can try to understand its nature, thus drawing nearer to the Creator and taking our place in the harmony of creation. Since nothing can exist without feeding on the life of other beings, we ourselves must take responsibility before the gods who have ordained it so. In order to share with the gods the responsibility for the fratricidal acts by which we are forced to devour other living beings so as to survive, we must offer them victims in sacrifice.

It is only when we are fully conscious of the value of our actions, consciously accomplishing the will of the gods who have ordained that life should only exist by death and by slaughter, that we can then limit its effects and play the part which has devolved on us in the harmony of the world. Only then can we avoid stepping out of our role, and avoid the hecatombs which take place when man tries to ignore his own real nature and that of the divine.

One of the more pitiless descriptions of creation in fiction is in Robert Stone's Outerbridge Reach.

A signal that all will not be sunny in this work comes fairly early on, when we learn that the book's title references an odoriferous marsh, receiving a soiled tide; a graveyard of abandoned watercraft, piled atop a ghostly boneyard; the "family estate," of the protagonist.

In a still backwater off the Kill, ringed with light like a prison yard, wooden tugs and ferries were scattered like a child's toy boats. Some lay half submerged and gutted, their stacks and steam engines moldering beside them in the shallows. Others were piled on each other four and five high, in dark masses that towered above the water. Browne knew the place. It was the property of his father-in-law, Jack Campbell. The wooden boats that rotted there, floodlit and girded round with electrified fence and razor wire, had been working craft eighty and ninety years before.

The busy sheer and curve of their shapes and the perfect stillness of the water made them appear held fast in some phantom disaster. Across the Kill, bulbous storage tanks, generators and floodlit power lines stretched to the end of darkness. The place was marked on the charts as Outerbridge Reach.

He remembered scraps of the place’s history. Thousands of immigrants had died there, in shanties, of cholera, in winter far from home. It had been a place of loneliness, violence, and terrible labor. It seemed to Browne that there was something about the channel he recognized but could not call to mind. On the dark shore, the junkyard hound kept barking as though it would go on forever.

Browne is a man of middle-late age, toiling as a luxury-boat broker, who is "tired of living for himself and those who were him by extension. It was impossible, he thought. Empty and impossible. He wanted more."

And so, though but a middling sailor, and with no experience in such things, he decides to enter an around-the-world, single-handed sailing race.

In the course of his folly sailing thing, in an Antarctic storm, Browne discovers that his boat, a work of human creation, is a fraud—sleek and shiny on the outside, at its core a shoddy chimera of cheap plastic.

The gale whistled in his slackening shrouds like incoming fire. He laughed in despair. He could imagine the long-legged crabs of Fiddler's Green rosining up their bows for him. He felt warm, sweet and powerless, a morsel, a portion. Above all, alone. Also the wind, for all its fury, was not the only sound he heard. There was a worse sound below that made him prefer it.

The sound from below was nasty indeed. There was something human in its nastiness, a squeal, a squawk. It sounded like the gutter, like an obscene threat, a New York objection. Plastic. Listening, he clenched his teeth.

Its whine suggested loud vulgar language and cheap macho menace. Bad workmanship and sharp practice. Phoniness and cunning. Fucking plastic, he thought, enraged. It sounded like a liar burning in hell. Plastic unmaking itself.

That was what it was. And of course he should have known. He had been seeing the crazes and having trouble with the locker doors. Like a little tin soldier in a paper boat, he thought, biting his lip, heading for the drain. He was riding a decomposing piece of plastic through an Antarctic storm.

It was hard to force himself down into the cabin where the whine was loudest. It reminded him of the kind of dirty laughter it was sometimes expedient not to hear.

He sat down at the navigation table and started going through the chart drawers in search of the boat's design drawings. He had not seen them for months. The first document he laid hands on was the rough copy of a brochure he had written himself. He stood up and, holding fast to the overhead rail, got to read his own prose.

"Altan Forty! Master-crafted! A seasoned winner in the newest design! All the elements of the precision-designed racer—attainable! Affordable!"

They were his own words. And of course he had approved the boat. More than that: in imagination he had invented a perfect boat for it to be. It had been salesmanship by ontology, purveying a perfect boat for the perfect ocean in an ideal world. The very thing for a cruise to the perfect island, the one that had to exist because it could be imagined. He had been his own first, best customer.

With every gust the fiberglass screamed.

Browne survives the storm. Then, in his crippled craft, he abandons the race—though he continues to submit chart positions, now fraudulent, indicating that he is not only in the race, but winning it.

He anchors off an island, once a whaling station, long-deserted, littered with bleached bones.

Not "the perfect island."

But an island.

An island: The Thing Itself.

Presenting to Browne, after he has ridden through an Antarctic storm aboard a cruel work of human creation, the cruelty of natural creation.

The nearer sand on the ocean shore was black and soft as dust and he sank sometimes to the ankles. Advancing toward the breakers, he at first felt a sense of liberation. When he was nearer, the murderous force of the great waves was plain. They threw themselves against the stones with much brutality, seeming to double their strength after cresting and accelerate on the final roll. You had only to watch their coming in to feel the dizzying, suffocating force they contained. Each breaker cast up a thin cloud of debris, so that going closer to the water, Browne felt not only icy spindrift on his face but pebble shards and dirt that soiled his eyes. It made him remember than he was not one of the Ten Thousand and that the ocean was his prison and not the road home. The sight of it made him sick so he stretched out and retched on the sand.

Lying there, he became aware of the birds. It was the smell of them, he thought, that had made him sick and not the ocean. There were thousands, right at the edge of the soft sand on which he lay. They had black button eyes and yellow crests through which the sun and spray made rainbows. He stood up and walked over the sand toward them.

Penguins surrounded him like wheat. The ground was slippery with kelp and guano and the landscape stank to heaven. The crowd of penguins gave way to make a path for him. Their clucking calls filled his ears, echoing off the rocks until they made a silence. It was a droll scene, he thought, the Protestant formality of the birds on their icy stone island with a black sky overhead.

His attention was distracted by the sight of a young penguin besieged by skuas. The penguin was alone within a circle of disaster ten feet in diameter. No other bird came nearer. It was eyeless although it stretched its neck and strained to face the sky. One leathery flipper was raised in comic rage at things. The other hung bloody and truncated at its side. Overhead, skua gulls were wheeling. Every minute or so, a skua would descend screaming from the wheel to tear flesh from the dying bird. Browne stopped for a while to watch, then turned away and put the back of his arm across his eyes to protect them from the glare. I want a missionary woman now, Browne thought, to make a story out of this. Mother Carey tending her chickens, God’s sparrows falling aslant his gaze. Creatures for sacred inscrutable reasons denied flight are brought piecemeal into the sky as meat.

Browne does not survive the book.

At story's end, his wife, a better sailor than he, is preparing herself to enter an around-the-world, single-handed sailing race.

In his stead.

Such a thing doesn't have to be wise, make much sense; can even be folly.

Because that is the sort of thing that lovers do for one another.

From Eros.

The only force capable of transcending Thanatos.

Which is the force that would, if it could—Thanatos—extinguish all of creation.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5782PQO5is]

In Shiva and Dionysus, Danielou notes how Thanatos expresses itself in the warrior instinct, wherein other living beings are "otherized," and thereby transformed into permissible victims of slaughter.

Since cruelty is one of the basic constituents of the world, it also belongs to the nature of all living beings and is found—more or less disguised—in all men. Apart from vital food requirements, it is found in the form of the defence of vital territory, among both animals and humans. It is also used to ensure the supremacy and “purity” of a species, race, religion, or culture, and is thus one of the causes of genocide.

Each human group instinctively seeks to assert itself at the expense of others, whether "foreigners," or elements who are considered "different" or discriminated against. Any group may be subject to this collective instinct of cruelty. It may be the people of a nearby country, or of a foreign race, a social class or a religious or political conviction. The taste for violence and slaughter is latent in all societies. "Purges" are often considered legitimate by the partisans of whichever regime is in power. As a proverb says, "Give your dog a bad name and hang it."

It is not possible to fight effectively against one of these instinctive forms, while accepting others.

Yeehaw. The Hairball. And all his puke. Across all the Europes. Wrong. Retrovert. Knuckledragging. Over.

Back in the day, back on the Great Pumpkin, a Palestinian man, wounded, as he perceived that it was acceptable, in his homeland, to justify the killing of Palestinian civilians, expressed the opinion that it should therefore be acceptable, there, to justify the killing of Israeli civilians.

And he was then, there, told, by a Palestinian woman that: no: "neither should be acceptable."

Just as, the day before, also on the Great Pumpkin, came a man who decried life as suffering, and therefore desired a quick end to it.

He had reached this place:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjJsUaILYk4]

And, in reply, came a woman, who, in her own life had suffered much, and spoke truth when she said:

No: we must choose life, and hold onto one another, with ever fiber in our being; help one another, through despair, into love.

It is an easy thing, to perceive all of life as suffering. Irredeemably, and unconscionably, so. And, from there, freewheel into despair.

I have been there myself.

But I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now.

Now: I know: to fear not. That all, really, will be all right. That Eros is ascendant over Thanatos. Always has been, is now, always will be. Else life would not continue. Though it has. And does. And will.

Our, little, vitally important, contribution, is to help it along. In whatever way we can.

We do this approaching from the other side of Outerbridge Reach. From what Van Morrison has identified as "Coney Island."

Not "the perfect island"—because no island in this life is perfect. But the island where one may, as Robert Stone's whiskey priest puts it, in A Flag For Sunrise, achieve "half moments. Glintings. A little rising of the heart."

i look at the side of your face
as the sunlight comes streaming through the window
in the autumn sunshine
and all and all the time we’re going to coney island
i'm thinking
wouldn't it be great
if it was like this all the time

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pd4whJtReQA]

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[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvJnlLMJ1Rw]