Possessed of apathetic eyes
Which mirror only childish wants,
He kindles flames of disbelief
When thoughts bereft of rationale
Are thrown amid the unspoiled breeze.
The unrivaled child of woe
Amongst the realm of thinking man
Exerts naught but vehemence
Toward duty and concern.
Ill mannered and unkempt,
An animal regards itself
More frequently, indeed.
Demands spill forth,
Yet aid will never be returned.
The mind, developed, yet constrained
By ropes he will not cast away,
Displays a blatant haughty show
And retreats behind a stagnant pool…
A silent product of neglect.
Lauren Isaacson
November 25, 1984
Nov. 26, 1984… I put the lights and decorations on the Xmas tree. It's nice to have the house look like Christmas. Mom and I went to Dr. M. She had some growths burned off and I had some questions. I feel so stupid. Nothing can he done. My heart races, I have that bump on my leg, swelling, nausea, the runs, heat problems, low lung capacity, emotional weakness, tire easily, appetite fluctuates as does food appeal, thirst, and water retention. All that can be said is that my case is very unique. . . questions really have no answers.
Nov. 30, 1984… I have another dissertation to expound upon. . . to those needing to "find themselves," let me say this: It cannot be done by cheating on your spouse, or hitting the honky-tonk bars; rather, go away in a remote wilderness or park, and all alone, spend time getting to know who you are and what you believe in. There is no turning yourself away when you are alone. . . you must face who you are.
Should you find that you do not like who you see, trust your judgment. Don't go running to a "shrink" to have him tell you "you're OK." Chances are, your own opinion is right; take the traits you dislike and try to improve your disposition. Find the love you buried under trivial matters. Trying to improve is better than hiding behind a mask you loathe and despise.
Dec. 18, 1984… Thoughts on my extensive reading: Strive to attain harmony with your beliefs, for the price of discord is bled from the heart. Attempting to rationalize that which cannot be rationalized is a cruel and purposeless task that shall not be mastered; it is like digging a foundation through unyielding stone with a paper shovel. It cannot be done.
Feb. 25, 1985… I wrote again today; if I can keep a decent momentum, I'll make progress. After supper and a bout with diarrhea, I decided to try to venture washing my hair in the shower. Even a simple task becomes a worry. The shower is in the basement, the toilets are on first and second floor; what if I should encounter another siege?
Feb. 27, 1985… I wrote more today, although it was rough going, words weren't flowing. I wish summer was not coming up again. February flew past, and my story is not half-way. I get so tired, or sick, interrupted or otherwise side-tracked. When I can write, there's no guarantee that I'll be able to get my brain jump-started. I need a new battery; perhaps I have "Writer's Retardation." . . . writer's cramps aren't sufficient!
Feb. 28, 1985… Sharon came around noon. I had one of those really sick days. Later in the afternoon I could sit outside; I wrote a poem
The Present