Lauren Isaacson March 28, 1984

April 1, 1984... April Fool's Day came and went without incident... it was great to feel better! The afternoon was well spent in a lawn chair outdoors. I thought of many things, and it was nice to be alone...

read some old poems and writings and then wrote a new poem about hatred. I really like it...

Fatal Emotion

A mind which houses Naught but hate Kindles eager flame Which lick the doors Of happiness Until the one Who lives within Becomes engulfed And is consumed.

A fire which feasts Upon itself Is not a means...

It is an end.

Lauren Isaacson April 2, 1984

April 4, 1984... It's almost as if Norm never lived here now. I've always been very adaptable to my environment. . . I guess I've had to be. I've seen so much change, and if I didn't roll along, I could never be able to stand everything. I think a lot of Norm when I'm alone, but when I'm busy I can let go of my problems. I wouldn't be writing so much if all was "quiet within." I also realize that some of this "buying binge" which I have been experiencing of late has to do with my sense of loss. I'm trying to restore that which has been taken from me through material finds. I seem to need to keep my mind occupied. . . two things which satisfy me most are my photography and my room. . . aside from my writing and being outside. Hence, my purchases for both of these "pa.s.sions" of mine. I would get the things eventually, however, the need is here now. . . I am fortunate enough to possess the "means" through the use of money I would have used for my college education. . . I have not waited; after considerable thought, I have made these purchases, and have found all to be very much to my enjoyment. Mom said, "It's good. . . there's so little you can do now!" I guess she's right. I'm limited physically...

April 5, 1984... Decided to simply relish the beautiful day! I sat outside in a lawn chair, photographed more flowers and then wrote a poem. I really enjoyed the afternoon! Sherry (Syracuse, N.Y. pen pal) called and we talked for quite a long while. She's a good kid; be coming around July 1st.

Reflections

Though each day comes But once each year Nay, only once forever I cannot block My mind's dispute That this day's twin Has dawned before.

It seems as if The time has lapsed In naught but Backward motion, Encompa.s.sing That long-lost day E'er before the changes pa.s.sed.

Perhaps through these Reflective days, The mirror Of more carefree times, One may rekindle Tender sparks Which in the darkness Burst to flame To guide and warm The dismal heart.

Lauren Isaacson April 5, 1984

April 14, 1984... Started our trip to the Smokies...had a good day.

April 16-19, 1984... Took pictures of forsythia, redbud and rhododendron; the mountains are gorgeous! It has been cold enough for light snowfall in the higher elevation, adding to the beauty of the deciduous trees as well as the pine. Each day I'm having trouble with my bowels... I had to go to a gas station... nearly had a nervous breakdown... it was locked... when I finally got the key, I could hardly get it open in time. I was beside myself with anguish and terror. Shortly before, I had a similar experience with another bathroom. While in a park area, I was afflicted with the dire necessity to "go."... it is difficult to make a nonchalant brisk stride convincing as one hastens to the "john." In Gatlinburg I had yet another siege, but luckily we were at the motel. I drove only two times on the trip. . . sometimes we would have to stop within a very short time... I was so scared! I feel like a Cla.s.s A Slob!

May 27, 1984... I'm off on another rampage concerning feelings and other people's dogs! I get so infuriated by careless dog owners who believe that everybody ought to love dogs too, (as well as the distasteful traits that go along with them). Mom said that it is just natural for a dog to mark it's territory, that it must be an unchangeable characteristic. I said it could be unlearned. . . did you ever see a seeing-eye dog that paused to mark each tree? The poor blind person would not be able to make it down the street! So much for that subject!

Mom and Dad thought it in my best interest to re-furnish the up-stairs room that had been Norm's. I'll make it into a living room.

May 29, 1984... Death is the end of life on earth as the living perceive it to be, however, man will forever derive solace from the hope that death does not also herald the end of awareness.

Sometimes I wonder why an individual chooses to write at all, for I'm quite certain that there is no thought written today which has not been written previously. It is astonishing to read the words of Plato and his a.s.sociates, for one discovers again how alike man's thoughts have been throughout the ages. Taken in this scope, it is truly egotistic of someone to claim his ideas as unique at all. We are born and develop at varying rates, but even the highest of minds have no doubt had their equal at some point in time. Despite similarities, I write for necessity rather than immodesty; I have little doubt that my sanity would be thus intact if it were not for the scratches which I frequently mark on a page.

May 30, 1984... I watched the partial eclipse of the sun through a paper-punched hole! Gary and I left for Wild Cat Den at noon. I drove... since Rt. 22 is "under destruction" I had to go on 61 through Blue Gra.s.s. We hiked on the trail and I snapped a few pictures. Once the moon pa.s.sed away from the sun it was hot again; I became rather overheated as we walked back on the road.

After I got back, I started feeling pretty rank. I over-did and overheated too. It took me the rest of the day to get back to normal.

I always "hammer" myself out in the sun or when I do something. It makes me mad because it's an inconvenience. I guess I'm always testing myself or trying to prove I can still do some things.

May 31, 1984... I struggled with a poem about memories and how they fade (but that's not all bad)!... photographed a yellow iris, spiderwort, a daisey-like weed, and some chickadees. . . I again grappled with the main elements of the poem, finally setting the whole package aside to retain my sanity. (It wasn't really that bad!)

Faded Memories

The mind records pictures And fleeting sensations Of life's precious moments And futile concerns; Images as random As pieces of film, Developed with care, Preserved with love.

Yet, in time One's pungent impressions Of years gone by Are obscured By a fathomless haze; The imprint Of a radiant smile And laughter, Tender as the dew...

The image from a mountain top And autumn's coral moon...

But also dark imaginings And mornings Bleak and gray Are strewn among The misty h.o.a.rd Which time Has struggled to displace And bury 'Neath a tranquil sea.

The unhealed wound Evokes more pain Than does the faded scar...

So should it be With memories...

Fragments scattered On life's path To mingle with nostalgic dust Should not besiege The growing mind With sorrow or despair...

For once dismissed, The inner self Can, with the whole, Be joined as One.

Lauren Isaacson May 31/June 1, 1984

First Impressions

There is a friendly countenance That still my mind holds dear...

A face of striking character, An aura sure and strong...

He seemed to own that innate spice Which tender few possess...

Without trite conversation I knew him as a friend.

Perhaps the pa.s.sage of an hour Would prove my image wrong...

Yet could it be that feelings Speak more truthfully than words?

Lauren Isaacson June 2, 1984

June 4, 1984... Sometimes it seems to me as if those afflicted with long-term or chronic illnesses, whether physical or mental in nature are often able to find and retain meaning in life. It is rather discouraging that many cannot shape their lives without such catastrophic events, for all around there are reasons for contentment and understanding if one is but openly aware, and perhaps, willing to spend time alone, immersed in thought.

June 11, 1984... Mom came up because she knew I was upset. . . we began talking and finally the hatch on my emotions gave way... then I rampaged about how there was the notion that Mom and Dad were to blame for all of our family's strange and various ailments. "It had to be something to do with their combination to make all their kids have such odd disorders." Well, I don't believe it. Some people always have to point a finger of blame for their own misfortunes. Mom and Dad didn't give me Big C. I just will not buy that. And to blame parents for being screwed up in the head is not intelligent either, because it not only is the parent but the way in which the kid deals with what his parent says, that make or break problems. People do the same thing at work... it never has anything to do with their own personality... that people have a hard time being around them... well, I got it out and cried a bit and it really helped. Mom was up here 'til 12:00!

June 12, 1984... Looked at a few slides in the morning... upstairs a better part of the day. . . so tired. . . slept most of the afternoon.