Trillian couldn't sleep. She sat on a couch and stared at a small cage which contained her last and only links with Earth--two white mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring. She had expected never to see the planet again, but she was disturbed by her negative reaction to the news of the planet's destruction. It seemed remote and unreal and she could find no thoughts to think about it. She watched the mice scurrying round the cage and running furiously in their little plastic treadwheels till they occupied her whole attention. Suddenly she shook herself and went back on the bridge to watch over the tiny flashing lights and figures that charted the ship's progress through the void. She wished she knew what it was she was trying not to think about.
Zaphod couldn't sleep. He also wished he knew what it was that he wouldn't let himself think about. For as long as he could remember he'd suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there. Most of the time he was able to put this thought aside and not worry about it, but it had been reawakened by the sudden, inexplicable arrival of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent. Somehow it seemed to conform to a pattern that he couldn't see.
Ford could't sleep. He also too excited about being back on the road again. Fifteen years of virtual imprisonment were over, just as he was finally beginning to give up hope. Knocking about with Zaphod for a bit promised to be a lot of fun, though there seemed to be something faintly odd about his semicousin that he couldn't put his finger on. The fact that he had become President of the Galaxy was frankly astonishing, as was the manner of leaving the post. Was there a reason behind it? There would be no point in asking Zaphod, he never appeared to have a reason for anything he did at all: he had turned unfathomability into an art form. He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which.
Arthur slept: he was terribly tired.
This afternoon, I'm the Arthur Dent in this passage. I just woke up from a nap. It has been quite an eventful weekend, with my daughter attending the prom last night. I spent yesterday washing my car, running to the store for glitter hair and body spray (for my daughter, not myself), taking pictures, playing the pipe organ for Mass, attending the prom grand march, cleaning my house, and then waiting for my daughter to return from the prom.
Mother's Day today. Went to church this morning. Took my wife out to brunch with our kids. My wife has to work this afternoon, so, tonight, we're planning on having a Mother's Day bonfire in our backyard. (I bought a portable fire pit for my daughter to have friends over after the prom last night. I've been wanting one of these for quite some time. My daughter simply provided a reason for me to finally purchase one.) We'll cook some s'mores and have some time together this evening before the start of another work week.
I am trying to gather my thoughts today. Find some focus. I'm not being very successful. I have a writing project that I need to finish tonight. Yet, I can barely string two sentences together for this post. As a poet, I find this situation quite frustrating. I keep stopping and starting. Deleting and backspacing. It's like I'm thinking in syllables instead of sentences or paragraphs.
I haven't been sleeping well recently. I find myself worrying about a lot of things that are out of my control. My daughter's future. My son's transition to middle school next fall. My wife's mental health. My ability to pay bills this summer without teaching money coming in. I could go on, but you get the idea. Focused and unfocused anxiety.
I'm sitting at my mother's dining room table right now, listening to my mother speak to herself. She has recently developed the habit of providing a running commentary of what's going through her mind. Sometimes, it's about my father. Other times, she becomes obsessed with going home, as in "When am I going to go home? When is your father coming to get me?" Yesterday, she spent two hours folding and unfolding a blanket in her lap, talking her way through the process: "Fold this end over like this. This corner to that corner. Yes, that's right . . ." It's as if her brain never rests, pinballs from one thought to another without ever coming to a rest. I can almost hear the bells and pings going off in her head.
Today especially, I miss my mother. I once heard Alzheimer's called "the long goodbye." I've been saying goodbye to my mother for close to five or six years now. My mother doesn't know it's Mother's Day. Doesn't know why my kids gave her roses and a card. Doesn't understand why we had cake after dinner, took pictures with her.
Saint Marty hopes that she knows that she's loved and honored today, tonight, tomorrow. Always.
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