April 14: Years of His Exile, Holy Week, Pounding Headache

A short passage about what's going on with Arthur and Ford . . .

The pink cubicle had winked out of existence, the monkeys had sunk away to a better dimension.  Ford and Arthur found themselves in the embarkation area of the ship.  It was rather smart.

"I think this ship's brand new," said Ford.

"How can you tell?" asked Arthur.  "Have you got some exotic device for measuring the age of metal?"

"No, I just found this sales brochure lying on the floor.  It's a lot of 'the Universe can be yours' stuff.  Ah!  Look, I was right."

Ford jabbed at one of the pages and showed it to Arthur.

"It says:  'Sensational new breakthrough in Improbability Physics.  As soon as the ship's drive reaches Infinite Improbability it passes through every point in the Universe.  Be the envy of other major governments.'  Wow, this is big league stuff."

Ford hunted excitedly through the technical specs of the ship, occasionally gasping with astonishment at what he had missed during the years of his exile.

Okay, I sort of feel like I've been in exile most of this weekend.  I spent most of yesterday in an organ loft, practicing and writing music for the upcoming Masses of Holy Week.  (If you are not a church musician, you will not understand the stress of the next seven days.  Six church services total for me--including two on Friday and two on Sunday.  I will be doing a lot of deep breathing.)  Last night, I helped my daughter with some scholarship essays for a few hours.  Today, I've been grading, lesson planning, and troubleshooting problems with my laptop and printer.

At the moment, I feel as if the top of my head is about to explode.  I have a pounding headache and piles of grading left to do.  My new job allows me very little free time during the day.  There's lots of people looking over my shoulder, all the time.  Therefore, I must cram a lot of stuff in my "free" time on the weekend--although I don't really even know what "free" time really is.  In my "free" time, I usually sleep.  

Sorry that I don't have something more profound to say today.  If you can't tell, I'm a little overwhelmed.  Not to worry, though.  In a couple weeks, I'll be worrying about other things--like how to pay my bills this summer when my paychecks from the university cease.  That's always a fun June/July/August game to play.

Outside my window, the icicles are melting.  Slowly.

Well, back to the red pen for Saint Marty.  

January 31: Surprise Work, End of a Long Day, Fairy Tale Work

It's going to be a busy weekend.  My daughter's ballet recital is tomorrow night.  That means she has a two hour rehearsal this evening and a two hour rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.  Then the show in the evening.  I am basically going to be a shuttle service Friday and Saturday.  And I still have to do some house cleaning to make some money.

On top of all that, I received an e-mail this morning from the English Department.  I have to write a document for my annual evaluation, and it's due by 5 p.m. on Monday.  I'm going to have to get that done this evening.  It's my only free time in the next few days.  Surprise work.  I have a feeling that, by Sunday afternoon, I'm going to be one tired little saint.

When Charlotte gets to the Fair Grounds with Wilbur, she's tired.  The end is very near for her, and she knows it.  Wilbur has no idea his friend is nearing the final days of her life:

"I'm awfully sorry to hear that you're feeling poorly, Charlotte," he said.  "Perhaps if you spin a web and catch a couple of flies you'll feel better."

"Perhaps," she said, wearily.  "But I feel like the end of a long day."  Clinging upside down to the ceiling, she settled down for a nap, leaving Wilbur very much worried.

Charlotte goes with Wilbur to the Fair because she knows her work is not finished.  Even when she feels like the end of a long day, she still has to save her friend's life.  At the end of my life, I know I'm going to be exactly like Charlotte.  There's still going to be some task I need to complete.  One last thing to do.  Work never goes away.  It just goes undone.

Once upon a time, there lived an old farmhand named Lotta.  Lotta rose every day before the sun, labored all day in the barn and fields, and fell into bed long after the sun was on the other side of the world.  Lotta never took vacations, and the milk from her cows was known to be the best in the kingdom.

One day, Lotta died, and nobody was there to take over her chores.  The cows went unmilked.  The corn rotted on the stalks.  And the pigs died of starvation.

Moral of the story:  Farms are a whole Lotta work.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Who does give a damn?