March 15: Smoking Remains of Earth, Wide Awake, Two Solid Hours

Arthur and Ford are still trying to avoid being thrown into outer space . . .

"My God," complained Arthur, "you're talking about a positive mental attitude and you haven't even had your planet demolished today.  I woke up this morning and thought I'd have a nice relaxed day, do a bit of reading, brush the dog. . . . It's now just after four in the afternoon and I'm already being thrown out of an alien spaceship six light-years from the smoking remains of the Earth!"  He spluttered and gurgled as the Vogon tightened his grip.

"All right," said Ford, "just stop panicking!"

"Who said anything about panicking?" snapped Arthur.  "This is still just the culture shock.  You wait till I've settled down into the situation and found my bearings.  Then I'll start panicking!"

I get Arthur.  Always have.  The first time I read Hitchhiker's Guide, I remember how, at the beginning, I felt sorry for Arthur and his incredible loss.  Of course, Douglas Adams wasn't shooting for tragedy with the novel.  I mean, Arthur is currently clamped under the rubbery armpit of a Vogon.  That's kinda funny.

I'm glad the work week is coming to an end.  It has been another stressful five days.  No new job yet.  Grading.  Plus, I haven't been sleeping all that great recently.  I think I've slept an average of four-and-a-half hours a night.  As I sit typing this post, I find my eyes getting heavy as concrete.

I need to get to bed, but I know what's going to happen when I do.  My head will settle into the cool pillowcase, and I will suddenly be wide awake, thinking about everything that is happening tomorrow and the next day and the next.  Pretty soon, it will be one o'clock in the morning, then two, maybe three.

I haven't reached the state of panic yet.  That will happen in about a week, when I still haven't secured a new job and I'm sleeping about three hours a night.  Tonight, in the early morning hours, I will be fretting about a benefit poetry reading that I organized for tomorrow night.  I'll be fretting about readers and performers and raffle items and programs. 

Saint Marty might get about two solid hours of slumber tonight.