The Weekend Eudemon
Wowsy and woosy. The stomach flu tore through my family, starting Thursday night, in the following order: Jack (10), Michael (7), Meg (4), Marie (can't mention age or she'll throttle me), Me (same concerns), Abbie (11). Alex (12) and Tess (8 months) have so far escaped. We're not sure about Max (2). He got sick Wednesday night, but we're not sure it's flu related, and he ain't talkin'.
The trials and joys of a large family. It actually wasn't too bad. In the morning (after I took care of the previous night's "leavings" and some laundry), Abbie was able to help hold down the domestic front, while Alex and I dealt with ten inches of snow. I then helped Abbie the rest of the day, until we both went down, at which point Marie was feeling well enough to be a Mom again.
I'm semi-vertical now. Tired and some stomach pains, but I'll make it, at least until my 8:00 a.m. nap.
Things are going well at TDE. My monthly blog column at National Catholic Register is apparently driving traffic to the site. My stat counter keeps breaking down, so I don't know how many visitors I'm getting, but on days when it's working, I'm pleased with the stats.
That's all for now. Too much to do and too little energy to do it.
Malcolm's Messages (What's this?)
Chapter 6: Malcolm and the Juggler (cont.)
Malcolm looked to the Consuming Place, hoping to see Mr. Rufus returning with the white balls. Then he remembered that the white balls are hard to find, much less acquire, and worried that Mr. Rufus, made slow by a lifetime of wives, might never return with the white balls.
He said to the juggler: "I offer them a way to think and to live."
And the juggler said, "These are confusing times, Malcolm. People need more than a way. They need to be told how to think and how to live. The black balls do that."
Malcolm responded, "So the black balls take away the people's freedom."
"No," the juggler said, "the black balls give them freedom to do anything they want."
"But you just said they tell the people how to think and live."
"I did," the juggler said, "but once they accept that way of thinking and living, they can choose to do anything they want. They have no limits."
"Can they choose to ignore the black balls?"
The juggler's temper flared, "Damn it, Malcolm. Don't confuse them with your ridiculous philosophizing. You can waste your time on such things, if you want, but don't tell the people that they can't enjoy the black balls."
"I would not tell them such a thing; you are the one who tells the people they must love the black balls or else have nothing. I offer them a true choice: Disdain the black balls and the shallow fun they dangle in front of your eyes like a carrot in front of the horse. Or choose goodness and the true joy it gives. They can then enjoy the real goodness in the center of the black balls that make them so alluring."
The juggler said, "The real goodness? Malcolm, you make no sense. You criticize the black balls, but you say they have real goodness. Anyway, you loved the black balls once, didn't you. And now you want to deny them to others."
Yes," Malcolm said, steady but sad, "I once loved the black balls. In the Ante-Basement Era. I have never denied it, and I have never stopped regretting it. But that doesn't mean the black balls are good. I frequently lost my temper as a child, once shoplifted a candy bar, twice fought schoolmates on the playground. But they were foolish things, things a child does. The mere fact that a child once did such things does not make them right."
The juggler said, menacingly, "More words. And words and words. Malcolm, you are a clown."
Those words struck Malcolm. The juggler was calling him a clown, but does not a clown juggle? Malcolm suddenly realized that the juggler did not even realize he was a juggler. And Malcolm pitied him, though he also knew he had to battle the black balls. He looked at his arms, searching for words, but he saw only the following simple words, “Some things cannot be argued against. Rather, you stomp them out with your heel.” Malcolm did not quite understand the words and he stood there, perplexed, his listeners waiting for him to battle the juggler and wondering why he stood mute.
