Regarding King Midas.

Lamont has just given me his copy of Emily Dickinson's poetry, despite my protestations and affirmations that I had a copy at home. He smelled strongly of cigar tobacco, and if it weren't cold outside today I would have had the window open as soon as he disappeared from sight. Instead I retreat to the quiet safety of my office in the back of the building, and let the pungent odor diffuse itself into oblivion.

This morning a woman [a broken woman] came into OCS to talk about her options, of which there were few, and none seemed to be satisfactory. "There is a piece missing here," I think to myself as she talks about what she's been up against lately. This is an effort on my part to dissuade the feeling of responsibility that lodges itself in my throat as her eyes glass over and the tears begin to stream down. "And what difference would it make, the knowing? She would still be sitting in the chair across from you, afraid of the future, weight of the world upon her shoulders." So I do what I can, and listen, though it feels ridiculously far from being enough. I feel so incredibly prostrate. I send her off with a few ideas and a few bus passes, ask her to come back and see me on Friday, and offer a wordless promise that I will have thought of more options by then. I hope she comes back. What does the world look like to her, of this I will never be certain. It amazes me the amount of pain and suffering that human beings are equipped to deal with.

My first thought about Ayn Rand's Anthem: she bastardizes the philosophy against which she rails in order to make her argument all the more fervent and persuasive. A sophomoric and fatal mistake when addressing human logic [well, for the most part, though there certainly are those who are won over by whichever shiny is glinting the most brightly under the sun.] I'm tired today, and can't wait for Anne and Pat to get back.