Animal contact can alter what Castaneda calls "assemblage points." Like mother-love. It's benn slobbered over by Hollywood. Andy Hardy gous down on his knees by his mother's bed. What's wrong with that? A decent American kid praying for his mother. What's wrong with that?
"I'll tell you what's wrong with it, B.J. It's shit. It's dead mawkish muck and it destroys the truth under it."
Here is a mother hooded seal on an ice floe with her cub. Thirty-mile-an-hour winds, thirty degrees below zero. Look into her eyes, slitted, yellow, fierce, crazed, sad and hopeless. End line of a doomed planet. She can't lie to herself, she can't pull any pathetic rags of verbal self-glorification about her. There she is, on this ice floe with her cub. She shifts her five-hundred-pound bulk to make a dug available. There's a cub with its shoulder ripped open by one of the adult males. Probably won't make it. They all have to swim to Denmark, fifteen hundred miles away. Why? The seals don't know why. They have to get to Denmark. They all have to get to Denmark.
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