The wall appeared perfectly flat. It would take the finest laser-measuring equipment to detect that as it climbed, apparently to infinity, as it dropped dizzily away, as it planed out to either side, it also curved. It met itself again thirteen light seconds away. In other words the wall formed the inside of a hollow sphere, a sphere over three million miles across and flooded with unimaginable light.
"Welcome," said Slartibartfast as the tiny speck that was the aircar, traveling now at three times the speed of sound, crept imperceptibly forward into the mind-boggling space, "welcome," he said, "to our factory floor."
Arthur stared about him in a kind of wonderful horror. Ranged away before them, at distances he could neither judge nor even guess at, were a series of curious suspensions, delicate traceries of metal and light hung about shadowy spherical shapes that hung in the space.
"This," said Slartibartfast, "is where we make most of our planets, you see."
"You mean," said Arthur, trying to form the words, "you mean you're starting it all up again now?"
"No, no, good heavens, no," exclaimed the old man, "no, the Galaxy isn't nearly rich enough to support us yet. No, we've been awakened to perform just one extraordinary commission for very . . . special clients from another dimension. It may interest you . . . there in the distance in front of us."
Arthur followed the old man's finger till he was able to pick out the floating structure he was pointing out. It was indeed the only one of the many structures that betrayed any sign of activity about it, though this was more a subliminal impression than anything one could put one's finger on.
At that moment, however, a flash of light arced through the structure and revealed in stark relief the patterns that were formed on the dark sphere within. Patterns that Arthur knew, rough blobby shapes that were as familiar to him as the shapes of words, part of the furniture of his mind. For a few seconds he sat in stunned silence as the images rushed around his mind and tried to find somewhere to settle down and make sense.
Part of his brain told him that he knew perfectly well what he was looking at and what the shapes represented while another quite sensibly refused to countenance the idea and abdicated responsibility for any further thinking in that direction.
The flash came again, and this time there could be no doubt.
"The Earth . . ." whispered Arthur.
I love this description of the factory floor of the Magratheans. Obviously, if your business is building custom-designed planets, you're going to need something a little larger than a pole barn in your backyard. This hyperspace work room fascinates me, with its lights and curved walls and suggestion of infinity.
You know, my work space as a poet is fairly fluid. I write almost anywhere, at any time. I never leave home without a writing utensil (usually a really good fountain pen) and a Moleskine journal (black, soft-covered, 5" X 8.25"). That is my portable factory. At the moment, I'm writing at the local McDonald's. Surrounded by people talking about Donald Trump and the weather and fireworks and the good old days. It's like a scene described in a Bruce Springsteen song. Yesterday, I was at a friend's place for a couple hours. Tomorrow, who knows?
I've been doing this for so many years that I can usually slip into my creative space without any trouble. The arguing old men, lines of sunlight across the faux-wood floor, sweating cup of Diet Coke just sort of fade away, and I find myself in that hyperspace place that Douglas Adams describes, where planets and stars as familiar as words float about me. That's on a good day.
On bad days, I focus more on the mosquito bite on my calf or my new Bigfoot hat that my sister bought for me in Washington state. I get distracted by details. When that happens, I get very little accomplished. No new poems or essays. My blog posts are usually short and uninspired. And I'm very aware of the passage of time because I check my phone every few minutes.
As I said, I've been writing like this for many years. I can't imagine a life that would allow me to have long stretches of time each day to focus on my writing. I have friends who have jobs like that. They are mostly full-time professors at universities. Yes, they have committees on which to serve, classes to teach, and papers to grade, but their days are much less . . . regimented than mine. One good friend is only scheduled to teach afternoon and evening classes because he writes in the morning for several hours. To have that kind of factory space would be amazing.
But I'm not complaining. I get to write, usually every day. Every once in a while I write something good. For example, on the evening of July 4th, the fireworks I was planning on attending were cancelled because of thunderstorms. I went home, sat down with my pen and Moleskine, and finished a writing project that I'd been laboring over for several months. And it was good. I sent it off that night and there was an e-mail response waiting for me in the morning from the person who asked me to write it. He was thrilled. That put me in a pretty good head space for most of the day.
So, as I sit here on the factory floor, reviewing what I've just created, I think this little planet of a blog post is looking pretty good. The work flow was fluid and fun. The product has a few surprises in it. Fjords and inlets and peninsulas. If you've gotten this far into reading this post, you obviously weren't bored silly. That's a plus, as well.
Some person close to me once remarked, "When I write blog posts, it seems selfish. It's all about me, mE, ME. I can't get past that."
My response to her, which I've been thinking about for a while, is that writing can be a selfish act. It requires you to be alone. Disappear into another dimension, in a way. There are dishes to wash. Beds to make. Lawns to mow. Children (or aging parents or family members) to take care of. Writing is a solitary act.
However, when I'm writing, wherever I am, I think I'm doing something important, as well. I'm reaching out. Seeking sanity. Letting go of anger or hurt. Trying to make sense of senseless situations. Maybe creating something beautiful. A new world where love and peace and compassion are the guiding forces.
Saint Marty thinks that is pretty cool.
Writing is both selfish and as necessary as breathing for some of us. So maybe it is above all else, life sustaining...?
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