That night, as the Heart of Gold was busy putting a few light-years between itself and the Horsehead Nebula, Zaphod lounged under the small palm tree on the bridge trying to bang his brain into shape with massive Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters; Ford and Trillian sat in a corner discussing life and matters arising from it; and Arthur took to his bed to flip through Ford's copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Since he was going to have to live in the place, he reasoned, he'd better start finding out something about it.
Arthur doesn't know where he's going. His home planet is no more. Everything that was familiar or brought him comfort is gone. He's lost everything. And now he's sailing through the universe in a stolen spaceship with a couple aliens, a girl who rejected him at a party, and a suicidal robot. That sounds pretty rock bottom to me.
I understand Arthur's predicament, when everything joyful and safe turns alien and dangerous. It's not a pleasant place to be. It's like waking up one morning and realizing that the world as you knew it has ceased to exist. You have to reinvent your whole life.
I don't understand some people's need for change. Like change is always good and heals whatever ails your heart. I'm hear to tell you that change can be a pretty destructive force, as well. It can tear families apart. Create unemployment. Cause addiction. As much as change can be a constructive force, it can be pretty destructive, too.
Now, how you deal with change is a whole other thing. Arthur is choosing to learn and adapt to his new life situation. That's a healthy and positive reaction. He can do nothing to un-destroy the planet Earth. Or bring back his family. He has to accept his plight and make that best of it.
I wish I had a Hitchhiker's Guide to my life. Something that I could refer to for answers. Reality, unfortunately, is not as easy as fiction most of the time. You can't jump on a spaceship headed for the Horsehead Nebula to escape mental illness. And you can't reprogram someone you love to eliminate addiction. If only it were that easy.
Instead, you hold on. Pray. Hope. Wait. Pray some more. Hope some more. Along the way, there might be bright moments on the surface of beautiful, alien worlds. Or dark moments of Vogons torturing you with Vogon poetry.
Yesterday evening, for me, was Vogon poetry. This evening, a warm beach of pink sand and purple seas on some distant world. I feel some hope tonight. Like God is watching out for me. Don't ask me why. I just do.
Saint Marty wants to stay on this pink planet of hope for a little while.
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