And now Ford Prefect must somehow break the news to Arthur Dent that he's a hitchhiker on a flying saucer and going "home" (back to Earth) isn't really an option . . .
"Yes," he agreed with Arthur, "no light." He helped Arthur to some peanuts. "How do you feel?" he asked him.
"Like a military academy," said Arthur, "bits of me keep on passing out."
Ford stared at him blankly in the darkness.
"If I asked you where the hell we were," said Arthur weakly, "would I regret it?"
Ford stood up. "We're safe," he said.
"Oh good," said Arthur.
"We're in a small galley cabin," said Ford, "in one of the spaceships of the Vogon Constructor Fleet."
"Ah," said Arthur, "this is obviously some strange usage of the word safe that I wasn't previously aware of."
Ford struck another match to help him search for a light switch. Monstrous shadows leaped and loomed again. Arthur struggled to his feet and hugged himself apprehensively. Hideous alien shapes seemed to throng him, the air was thick with musty smells which sidled into his lungs without identifying themselves, and a low irritating hum kept his brain from focusing.
"How did we get here?" he asked, shivering slightly.
"We hitched a lift," said Ford.
"Excuse me?" said Arthur. "Are you trying to tell me that we just stuck out our thumbs and some green bug-eyed monster stuck his head out and said, 'Hi fellas, hop right in, I can take you as far as the Basingstoke roundabout?'"
"Well," said Ford, "the Thumb's an electronic subetha signaling device, the roundabout's at Barnard's Star six light-years away, but otherwise, that's more or less right."
"And the bug-eyed monster?"
"Is green, yes."
"Fine," said Arthur, "when can I go home?"
"You can't," said Ford Prefect, and found the light switch.
"Shade your eyes . . ." he said, and turned it on.
Even Ford was surprised.
"Good grief," said Arthur, "is this really the interior of a flying saucer?"
Another long day of packing and pitching at the medical office where I work (for the time being). Packing up medical charts. Pitching Christmas trees, holiday decorations, and old manuals. With the help of a good friend/coworker, I managed to eliminate much that would have filled up my garage and sat unused in boxes for years. It was both depressing and liberating, in a way. Depressing because 20 years of my life went into trash bins. Liberating because I allowed myself to let go of items that were sad reminders of my sister.
Let me explain something about my sister: she was kind of a hoarder. She never threw anything away. (My dad was the same way, but he had an excuse: he grew up during the Great Depression.) Therefore, I'm not sure that my sister would have been on my side today as I dumped and ditched and discarded. When I found something that reminded me of my sister, I held it for a few moments, said a prayer of thanks for the good memories it evoked, and then placed it in the trash bag and let it go. (My friend/coworker taught me to do this, and it helped a great deal.)
Slowly, but surely, I am seeing the life that I've led in this place disappear. I can do nothing to stop this process. It will happen with or without me. Therefore, I must find moments of joy in my day, whether it's discovering some artifact that reminds me of my sister, which happened a lot this morning, or attending my son's dance open house, which I did this afternoon.
Yes, I was once again at the dance studio, this time for my son's jazz class. I watched him stretch and kick and leap. In between, he'd look over at me, wave and smile. It made the difficult parts of my day recede, like waves after a rainstorm. It was a perfect conclusion to a not-so-perfect Thursday. Watching my son do something that he really loves filled the empty cup of my heart.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for good friends and jazz leaps.
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