The Black River

I went walking beside the river today. The river is a neighbor of mine, just out my back door and across a road. I visit it often, and what I’ve noticed is that it has its moods. Today the water was black and roiling. It was one of those cold, gray New England days, the day after the solstice, when it still feels as though light has drained from the world, even though you know, intellectually, that it’s coming back.

This is what the water looked like:

Black River 1

Looking down into that black water from the bridge above, I started thinking about our desire for the apocalyptic, our secret wish that the world would in fact end. We’ve seen this recently, haven’t we? I think we see it every few years. It seems to be a recurring aspect of human civilization: someone announces the apocalypse, and there is much rejoicing. Of course, the apocalypse never arrives. What we get instead is life going on, with its series of small apocalypses, intermittent acts of violence that seem to have no meaning. Instead of the end of the world, we get a shooting here or there. I suppose one attraction of the apocalypse is that it would provide us with meaning, with closure. That would be it, instead of this going on and on, this continuation of ordinary life.

I think at some level, I can understand why someone might be driven to acts of destruction. We call those acts senseless, but I’m not sure they are, and I suspect that part of my duty, as a writer, is to make sense of them. It’s not a pleasant duty: but I am a writer, and nothing human should be beyond me. Unfortunately, violence is all too human. To understand it, I have to understand what creates violent or destructive impulses in myself. Thinking about this, I immediately remembered Freud’s idea of the death drive, the desire for something that is not life, for a return to the inorganic. There are all sorts of ways in which I disagree with Freud, but I agree with him that we have that impulse, because I can feel it in myself. I am not afraid of heights. No, what I’m afraid of is jumping. It’s the part of myself that asks, what if I did? (I suspect many of us ask that question, and this is a case in which having a vivid imagination is a liability.) I can understand the desire for violence as a rupture of the ordinary, of daily continuity. I can understand how in certain circumstances, someone might want something, anything, to happen. A war, a bomb, a shooting. And I believe it’s important to understand, because only by understanding something can we present an alternative.

I believe that the opposite of violence is not peace, but art.

Art is a way to commit the extraordinary, to rupture ordinary life. To move us to a different plane of significance. It is the way to express most completely all that we are, including our will to life, our desire for death. A great work of art is an apocalypse, a bomb in the mind. It is at once an act of creation and destruction. I can’t walk through a room of Van Goghs without feeling that I am being remade, that parts of me are falling away, that I must change in response. When I write, it is as though I can jump into the dark water without actually jumping. Metaphor saves us . . .

Alice Walker wrote, “Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence.” That makes sense to me.

This is what the river looked like, when I pointed my camera not down into the water but across it. The buildings of the city glowed in the light of sunset. Day by day, this time of year reminds us, the light returns . . .

Black River 2

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5 Responses to The Black River

  1. clawfish says:

    You speak a lot of truth here and art is our most powerful tool to express ourselves

  2. Tammy Vitale says:

    Amazing thought process here. Am sharing and when I do that I always take a snippet as a tease in my comment….I can’t decide which of the beautifully thought out and phrased pieces of this I want. I guess I could put the whole thing in my comments! Thank you for taking the time to think this through. And I agree: art does save, many times by being so much larger than what even the artist is aware she is creating.

  3. “Art is a way to commit the extraordinary, to rupture ordinary life. To move us to a different plane of significance.” I love this thought, and its something I try to do in my own work.

    I have a hypothesis: For the day-to-day modern western person, There’s no magic in life anymore. People get obsessed and celebritize anything that breaks from the monotonous drone of work, dealing with people/family, paying bills and buying things. Anyone who dares to completely break away from this monotony we turn into a hero – even if it is a sick and perverted kind.

    Artists and writers need to be that person who dares to break away and then show others, that there is more than work, paying bills and buying things.

  4. I see the mayhem in Connecticut as a Greek tragedy. Innocence and madness. So
    sad and we must live in this world.

    In San Francisco, on the day after ‘The End Of The World!”: we had a terrific rain
    storm around 3 PM followed by a double rainbow in the eastern sky. People of all
    kinds looked up. To a man walking swiftly in the other direction, I called out, “A
    rainbow.” He turned looked, smiled at the rainbow and me, and then laughed. It was a fine reaction, I thought. Pure joy.

  5. Love this post. Going to link. I think it’s all about that thing, “What wants to live, wants to die. We are both creative and destructive.” Art keeps me sane, otherwise I would be a very depressed person. Smiling. Happy Holidays!

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