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. Dad sold Norm's motor for the canoe. . . we sure had fun with that… once a year was enough, but boy, what a riot. I always think of our late fall ride when we had KFC along and we bought some Grolsch beer because I needed a bottle of it to draw for art class. It was so brisk, we needed to wear our "Pepto-Bismol Suits" (snowmobile suits). It was also great in the summer to lean over the bow and let it bounce over the waves. I have so much time to sit and think, yet less control over my emotions… weakness causes me to be upset concerning things which I would otherwise forget about. Now, all I can do is talk it out or write it out!
June 14, 1984… I look into the star-filled sky and feel that there must be a Creator; the galaxies continue beyond the farthest reaches of man's telescopes, and so they must continue forever, for if there should be an end… a wall … then surely something must lie on the other side; and thus, I am overwhelmed.
If only people would not be blind unto themselves! If only they would hear and understand. . . but then there would be no need to talk.
Life Song
A cool breeze filters
Through summer's last green,
The raiment grown weary of bygone heat,
Weaving with the insects' drone
An eerie, melancholic spell;
Forever crickets seem to chant
Amid their restless, aging cloak,
Singing through both day and night
As if their ever present trill
Will mask their own mortality.
So vigilant these singers are
Yet they are not aware
That those who never cease to sing
Their daily melody
Simply mirror common thoughts
(And mirrors but reflect the song
That Life is wont to sing.)
Beware the cricket and his song
Lest you, as he, be singing still
When autumn shadows yawn,
For never can one live again
the hours of singsong mindlessness
When one sought not that higher note
Which would embrace eternity;
The change which robs each creature's breath
Is deaf unto Life's steady chant
For what is Life
But numbered days
That march from countless decades passed
Unto the land beyond?
Lauren Isaacson
June 15, 1984
Sensory Dreams