July 31: The Earth, Jean-Paul Sartre, Happiness Poetry Workshop

Phouchg, a secondary character in the novel, is trying to find out the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything (he already has the answer--42) . . .

"Well, you know, it's just Everything . . . everything . . ." offered Phouchg weakly.

"Exactly!" said Deep Thought.  "So once you do know what the question actually is, you'll know what the answer means."

"Oh, terrific," muttered Phouchg, flinging aside his notebook and wiping away a tiny tear.

"Look, all right, all right," said Loonquawl, "can you just please tell us the question?"

"The Ultimate Question?"

"Yes!" 

"Of Life, the Universe and Everything?"

"Yes!"  

Deep Thought pondered for a moment.,

"Tricky," he said.

"But can you do it?" cried Loonquawl.

Deep Thought pondered this for another long moment.

Finally:  "No," he said firmly.

Both men collapsed onto their chairs in despair.

"But I'll tell you who can," said Deep Thought.

They both looked up sharply.

"Who?  Tell us!"

Suddenly Arthur began to feel his apparently non-existent scalp  begin to crawl as he found himself moving slowly but inexorably forward toward the console, but it was only a dramatic zoom on the part of whoever had made the recording, he assumed.

"I speak of none but the computer that is to come after me," intoned Deep Thought, his voice regaining its accustomed declamatory tones.  "A computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate--and yet I will design it for you.  A computer that can calculate the Question to the Ultimate Answer, a computer of such infinite and subtle complexity that organic life itself shall form part of its operational matrix.  And you yourselves shall take on new forms and go down into the computer to navigate its ten-million-year program!  Yes!  I shall design this computer for you.  And I shall name it also unto you.  And it shall be called . . . the Earth."

Phouchg gaped at Deep Thought.

"What a dull name," he said, and great incisions appeared down the length of his body.  Loonquawl too suddenly sustained horrific gashes from nowhere.  The computer console blotched and cracked, the walls flickered and crumbled and the room crashed upward into its own ceiling . . . 

Slartibartfast was standing in front of Arthur holding the two wires.

"End of the tape," he explained.  

And that, as they say, is the beginning of life on Earth as we know it.  At least in the Hitchhiker's fictional universe.

Of course, questions about the meaning of life have plagued the human race since the beginning of recorded time.  I'm sure that one night, millions of years ago, a neanderthal stood at the mouth of his cave, looked up at the full moon, and thought, "Mmmmmmrph groooowwwwllll oooooowwlll."  (He's a neanderthal.  What did you expect?  Jean-Paul Sartre?)

I, myself, have been wrestling with meaning a lot recently.  When dealing with struggles, particularly personal struggles, it's very easy to see meaninglessness in just about everything, from eating that piece of toast for breakfast to brushing your teeth at night before bed.  This past week, in particular, has been extremely challenging for me.

I find myself at the bottom of a very deep well.  I can see the mouth of the well above me, but there isn't anybody at the top to lower the bucket down.  How about another obscure metaphor?  I am adrift in the middle of the ocean, and my lifeboat is taking on water quickly.  One more for good measure?  I am the only Hillary supporter at a MAGA rally.

As a poet, I try to look for meaning in most of my life experiences.  I don't find a whole lot of meaning in what I'm going through at the moment.  It all seems like a big pile of steaming cow manure.  Of course, the poet Natalie Goldberg will tell you to to stir the compost, and, eventually, something beautiful will blossom.  It's inevitable.  Out of fertilizer comes life in some form.

Tomorrow night, I'm supposed to teach a poetry workshop.  August is National Happiness Happens month.  So I'm supposed to be leading the poets in attendance through writing prompts about happiness.  Let me tell you, this is going to be rough for me.  Happiness and I haven't been on speaking terms for a while. 

Now, before you skip off to another blog because you're tired of my depressing posts, let me tell you that I know happiness is all about attitude.  I can choose to be either joyful or sorrowful, regardless of the circumstances of my life.  I will admit that I have been wallowing quite a bit this evening.  Today, I have had one of the shittiest days of my life.  Ever.  I am not exaggerating.  Now, what do I do with that?

I will tell you what I'm going to do after I publish this post.  First, I'm going to finalize the plans for tomorrow night's happiness poetry workshop.  Then, I'm going to work on a manuscript that a friend asked me to edit for her.  And I'm going to remind myself, somehow, that God really is working in my life.  (God and I haven't been a speaking terms for a while, either.)

If you have any spare miracles, send them Saint Marty's way.  He's running a little short at the moment.  Look for the house with the leg lamp in the window.