Chapter FORTY-ONE: Continuum (1)

Feb. 13, 1984... I have often thought, "If only I could make time stand still.".. when I am involved in an enjoyable day. I know that wish could not possibly occur, but if it could, it would most certainly be a selfish desire. In that same instant, perhaps another individual is struggling with overwhelming sorrow, and an extension of that sorrow would cause the individual many times more difficulty. No, it is much better that time continues. The inconsistency of life necessitates the seconds, minutes and hours which make up a day. Life is, at times, difficult to bear, and time passes, allowing one to rest and derive solace from the bits of serenity found here and there along the way. I would not elect to make a change (even if I could) in the system of time unless I was able to better that particular moment for all concerned.

After Dr. Freeman stilled my paranoia and filled my cavity, I'm conscious that my own worth (in silver) has escalated! I sat outside on the "stoop" (what a name). . . suddenly I was inspired to compose a poem. . . I rushed inside for a piece of paper upon which I could unleash my inspiration. It was a beautiful day, complete with sunshine and snowy clouds sailing rapidly by overhead.

The Truest Friend

The air is fresh With the promise of Spring... Sap flows to the treetops, The chickadees sing The insects respond To the warmth of the sun And the grass will stand tall E'er the day is done. Myriad clouds reign A flawless blue sky... Short-lived is their kingdom Through which they fly For springtime delivers Their wealth to the earth To nurture the land With the newness of birth. The time so quickly Hastens by. . . Soon spring is gone And summer, nigh (As after dawn, The pearly morn) Upon warm wings The summer is borne. Time goes on Like an endless maze, Melding seconds to hours And hours to days. The seasons reel onward, Ever the same, While humanity strains Against winds of change. It is well that time Is beyond man's control For to meddle therewith Would but injure the soul. Time, alone, is willing to share Grief too great for one to bear, For time will come One misty dawn When the mind has grown And sorrow is gone. Perhaps time Is one's truest friend... One's sole companion 'Til the very end.

Lauren Isaacson February 13, 1984

Feb. 20, 1984... I had a brief cry in my room while holding my green parakeet. It seems to know Norm is gone. I can just hear Norm saying, "Even bird misses me!"... he used to get a rise out of me by saying how good he was... "Even bird LOVES me!"... or looking in the mirror at his reflection he'd say "Damn! I'm handsome!" he would never get his hair styled so he'd ask me if I liked his hair and when I'd just smile he'd say, "Dummy!"... it was a standing joke... I made Dad's birthday cake, then sat outside for a time and wrote another poem about emptiness.

The Cure

It was not food I hungered for Nor did I seek material gains... I thirsted not for toxic drinks Or pills to mask life's heartfelt pains... I did not look for merry crowds To fill my days with mirth; I only sought totality And peacefulness on earth. Into this world, I came alone And so, I must depart; My life-long cure for emptiness Was loving from the heart.

February 20, 1984 Lauren Isaacson

Mar. 19, 1984... I realize some people who keep diaries do not include those things which would detract from their personalty. However, I feel that a journal cannot be complete without those embarrassments, for they are a part of me and help me to improve myself. I speak of negligence and selfishness tonight. . . I came across 3 toggle buttons in my sewing things which Norm had purchased months and months ago. They were intended for his big sweater, and I'd volunteered to to sew them on; I never did, and eventually. . . until now. . . forgot about the job completely. Now I regret my laziness with regard to follow-through on projects. It just seems so stupid of me, and I wonder why I put it off. It was not a big hassle... I just never got to it.

Another thing of which I am ashamed is that since I can't eat everything, I tend to be rather protective or hoggish over those certain foods which seldom make me sick. One such food is cake. At the steak supper the other night, they were selling baked goods. We bought some things, among them 6 creme-filled cupcakes. They were delicious, similar to Ding Dongs. Anyway, I ate 3 of the 6, and then tonight, Dad was going to have another. . . the last. . . and I was silently upset. Later Dad said I could have it, that he didn't really want it. I felt bad even though I hadn't mentioned anything aloud to him about my wanting it. . . perhaps we foster a bit of selfishness whether we will admit it or not. I am disgusted with my own selfish quirks which occasionally spill out, but at the same time I feel fortunate that I am able to be aware of them. Awareness leads to overcoming faults. Later I took pictures of a hibiscus and of birds near the feeder using my 2 x extender. I again embarked upon my quilt project, sewing together more squares. It seems that I have sad spells whenever I sit down and reflect upon Norm, recalling our times together. Whenever I'm alone, I tend to break down. I'm glad I can release my emotions. It seems incredible to me that Norm and I won't be sharing Canada together. I have no desire to go with any other person, for it wouldn't be the same at all. I hope it will work out with Mom and Dad. (I will have to remember my ear plugs, for both snore!) I'm sure I can enjoy the trip...I'll take books and my journal to tide me over in the car.

Mar. 23, 1984... It seems, as yet, an impossibility that Norm and I will no more share the lovely transformation of winter to spring, and all those seasons to follow. Perhaps my time is now best spent alone, for in this way I shall be able to be with him in my mind and feel within myself those qualities which we shared.

Perpetuation

Skeletal remnants of autumns bygone Habitate the woodland floor As if, in silence, to assure That through each death New life will come.

And so it is that spring explodes, A vibrant mass of color, Flaunting the essence of life itself; Thinking not of life long past But only life forthcoming.

In the wake of smold'ring heat Emerald cloaks a naked branch And guards the fruit Which bear the hope That blossoms will not cease to bloom.

When golden overtakes the green And shadows yawn 'fore noonday sun, A message, though unspoken, blows 'cross weary field and aged grove To beckon, as to timeless friends, A sojourn shared 'neath winter snow.

And thus, a pod from which all life has flown Must bid its earthly stance farewell And harken to a chillwinds' call To rest unto eternity.

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 "passions" 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, Encompassing That long-lost day E'er before the changes passed. 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 Class 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 associates, 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 Grass. We hiked on the trail and I snapped a few pictures. Once the moon passed 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 hoard 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 passage 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. 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

My eyes yearn to see those things Which I have never seen... To scale the highest mountain peaks That rule the evergreen... My legs desire to trace the way 'Cross meadows, fields, and streams And to traverse that narrow path Where few footsteps have been. I would love to feel the wind Upon my flowing hair... To hear the birds and smell the flow'res And breathe the unspoiled air. If stars were made for wishing, And dreams made to come true I'd conquer all my frailties So these dreams I might pursue.

Lauren Isaacson June 16, 1984

Captive (Milkweed Pod/Man)

Borne through the air on silken shafts, The product of a waning life Is hastened on its windward course; Imprisoned in its silver craft, It journeys toward that fateful end Where it shall rival life and death.

Man thrives upon the tender thought That he is master of his life, Remembering not the autumn seed Whose dormancy is blessed with life Through nature's will and circumstance; Yet is not man as surely bound Unto his birthright's soul and mind, Entrapped upon the winds of time And captive of the senses?

Lauren Isaacson June 17, 1984

Beyond

How I long For a place beyond Where land and sky are one Where the beam That will shine Upon fruit and vine Is a true, benevolent sun...

Where age and time Are not maligned Like sun obscured by cloud And battle fields To peace shall yield; Old scars it will enshroud...

The unseen frights Of moonless nights Nowhere shall be found And love will fall On each and all As rain upon the ground...

Here joy shall wind Throughout the mind As streams toward a pond And I, to One, As all, to One, Eternally shall bond.

Lauren Isaacson June 10, 1984 (1st and 2nd) June 21, 1984 (finished)

Time spent immersed in thought is time best spent. One can cleanse his mind and clarify his beliefs, as well as open himself to the objective definition of new ideas. Some thoughts: Marriage can be self-inflicted punishment. The habitual liar will bury himself alive.

Mom finished typing all of my poems dated from my time at Augie to the present... they look nice.

July 1, 1984... I think my spending spree is quite similar to Norm's after Tracy took off. It's like you are trying to fill a void by masking the same old place. It keeps the mind occupied, too. . . but no matter how occupied the mind becomes, trivial concerns never quite do the job. After all the money is gone, the emptiness still persists. At least I can enjoy the mutuality of our relationship, and look forward to great things in the future. . . long after I am released from this "earthly bondage."... it must be worth any trials one need endure previous to the journey into "the beyond." I believe I shall see Norm again, as I do now in my dreams.

July 3, 1984... I woke up and speedily dressed. Hyman's was going to deliver the furniture. Les and Dad took my antiques upstairs before they arrived. Everything fits and I think it looks great. It was rather amusing... one of the topics we hit upon while the movers were upstairs was the raft of old bottles (whiskey) I have displayed on the console... (from the Thrift Shop). One of the fellows said, "Women shouldn't drink when they're pregnant." I wasn't completely sure, but I thought he was referring to me. When I went down to get the check for him, he said, "So when is it due?" I said, "Don't feel bad, but I'm not pregnant. I have a liver problem... my liver's enlarged." I felt sorry for him; how could he know? He was just trying to be friendly... maybe he had a family of his own. I guess the episode did make me realize that I don't exactly look like a "stick" anymore. . . but it was rather funny.

July 7, 1984... haven't done much today... didn't feel too great... did take Steve to The Dock for a late birthday celebration. He likes that place the best. I could just eat the salad, bread and Won-Tons. We saw a guy with a hole the size of Texas in the seat of his pants; he was taking a woman to eat at The Dock! I wonder how he'll feel when he finally discovers why everyone is smiling at him?!!

We sat at the Moline Riverside Parkway for awhile, 'til the bugs drove us out. . .there were millions of those "cheap bugs". . . what a waste! They're built so cheap... all they can do is incubate, breed, shed their skins all over people's cars, and then die!

July 10, 1984... This is the first day in, well, I'll bet a year or so, that I didn't apply a speck of make-up on my eyes or elsewhere! It was another HOT day. Mom and I worked on the rag rugs. She cut the warp thread to size and I strung three strands through a needle and proceeded to tie the fringe on the rug. Yesterday she unpacked all my china from the storage boxes in the cubby holes; we put it in my antique buffet. It looks great! It's fun to see it all again.

The Day

I watched from my bench On the sun-dappled lawn As the cool glow of morning Aged to radiant noon. From youth to prime In naught but hours With n'er so much As a backward glance, Disdainful of its hapless plight. Scarcely had the Day begun When shadows bent from earthly things, Yet steadfast to its mission bound, It envied not the youthful light That shall tomorrow take its place, But with unselfish wisdom Shed its golden beam upon the earth; And when the distant western sky Let go the aged, fiery disk, Whence, for hours, it reigned complete, Precious little time remained To cast upon the glistening haze A brief reflection of the Day Whose life had touched eternity.

Lauren Isaacson August 23, 1984

"Of Butterflies"

In a shaft of yellow light A monarch captures on her wings An ambered, opalescent glow While sailing on the Breeze of Life. A seeming drunken path she weaves, As if berefit of aim or goal, For fields of flowers compose her world And nectar sweet sustains her breath. So high she flies Yet sees no more Than that which self-indulgence brings; How glad am I That through these eyes I see more than the butterfly.

Lauren Isaacson August 24, 1984

Aug 27, 1984... I had a tension headache tonight. It finally went away after talking with Mom. Sometimes I wonder if I'll die the same way Norm did... I have a bump on my thigh... who knows what it is! Then I was thinking how every time someone sleeps in the other room or near me on trips, I wonder if they're "gonna die on me." What a drag it was to find Norm. Strange how I always kept an ear peeled for Norm; sometimes I wonder if we have a 6th sense that tells us things apart from the conscious world.

Sept. 1, 1984... I'm such a turd sometimes; I hate myself. I always balk when someone starts to sing, no matter who it is; Mom loves to sing, and with her it's also an emotional outlet. Whenever she sings though, I cringe and she stops. Today she was going to sing a song (that told a story). I uttered a small protest. She stopped, apparently quite hurt. After I did that, I felt like nothing, but there was no way to recall my "ugh" once breathed into the air. She said, "I have feelings too," in answer to my, "I'm sorry, Mom!" and went downstairs. When I'm writing I'm an intolerable creep to be around. I don't know why I didn't think first and be considerate. She always listens to my writings, no matter how trivial; why can't I abide a few notes of song? I wish I knew why song grates so heavily upon my ears... it always has. I most certainly have a terrible voice and use it only on the rare "happy birthdays" and so forth. I'm kind to society in that regard, at least. For now, I wish I could find a .45.

Mom came up and we talked. I feel better now. She felt sorry for being too sensitive and what she called "uppity," and I expressed my regrets too. After a cry, we both felt better. I guess we both felt rather stupid!

Sept 6, 1984... Mayo Clinic sends out a form letter for its Statistic Unit. I wrote... "It has been nearly 3 years since my re-diagnosis of cancer and I'm still alive to tell about it. As the afflicted area is my liver, I experience the symptoms generally associated with liver diseases (so I am told), such as over-heating and water retention. My liver has expanded to such a degree that casual onlookers sometimes mistake my appearance for that of a pregnant woman. I was once asked when I was "due"! Perhaps I should've said, "I don't know... so far I'm 36 months along."

So much for my reply to Mayo Clinic... I sometimes find it hard to believe I've lasted so long; liver cancer is seldom smiled upon as a long-time acquaintance. If it weren't for Big C, I'd be real healthy! I also stated that should some breakthrough be discovered for the curing of leiomyosarcoma I'd appreciate notification. . . until then, it is best to create one's happiness each day. I worked more on my story... it's fun to do actually.

The Miracle Of Chance

The spider spins her silver threads Into a silken sheen Deftly pouring forth her self Unto the net which is her life. Though possessed of marked skill This artisan shall reap no wealth Begotton of her grand design, And yet the misty hand of dawn Transforms her modest web of silk Into a diamond-scattered orb, Sparkling as a precious crown Before the rising sun; Thus wrapped in lace She mans her snare, Entrusting nature with her life. The spider dangles weightless From her wispy spinnerette, As does all existence hang suspended In the grasp of chance. For each successive heartbeat Froms the web which heralds every breath And leases yet another moment From the miracle called Life.

Lauren Isaacson September 19, 1984

QUALITY:

All things considered, I feel that I have had a beautiful life. I have loved, and been loved in return by a warm family, and developed a once-in-a-lifetime closeness with one of my brothers. I have been blessed with a certain degree of intelligence, common sense, and awareness. My countenance is agreeable and unobtrusive, and I have a pleasant, though realistic outlook on life. I am adaptable to change and strive for growth, not stagnancy of character. I have walked in the mountains, and seen the beauty surrounding me. I have heard the babble of a stream and the eerie hoot of an owl.

Though I am no longer able to actively pursue many of those diversions which have so colored my memories, I yet possess their image in my mind. I once felt the pleasure of vitality and physical endurance marked by an unblemished body, and though my body is no longer beautiful to behold, nor functions as it once had, yet it sustains me.

I am fortunate to live in a comfortable style among furnishings and sentimentalities I love, and have the option to be alone should that be my need and desire.

I am thankful for my many blessings, for I have a good life. Quality cannot be marked by time, but rather, by the smiles along the way.

10/1984

Oct. 5, 1984... When I dropped the film off yesterday, I was mentioning that I wish I knew some practical use for the film canisters. The clerk said, "Now that you're pregnant, maybe you can use them as rattles if you fill them." It always is a cold blow and it strikes me speechless. I wonder what people think; I wear no rings... oh well, I know I'm straight! That's what counts. I'm enjoying the sheepskin rug I bought in Estes Park. It's gorgeous!

Traces Of Autumn

Autumn plays no timid song And wears no modest vestment, Flourishing its last hurrah Before a restful interlude. Dying leaves fall to the ground, Whispering in the gentle breeze To haunt the heels of passers-by And gossip to the cold north winds. The sweetly reminiscent smell Born of leaves now laid to rest Permeates the autumn air And bids the traveler raise his head To breathe the singular perfume Before the icy gales of winter Rob all traces of this heady scent, Left to linger only in the mind With autumns passed and indistinct.

Lauren Isaacson October 14, 1984

Oct. 19, 1984... I took a drive but was fearful of stopping to take pictures while alone... what a chicken. My Beauty Book order came. Everything is nice; items will make perfect gifts.

Destiny

Though autumn weaves its image With an all-pervasive air, Encompassing one's senses in its splash of brilliant color and the rustling of the leaves... in the scent of drying foliage blowing freely through the trees... and the taste of ruby apples and the crispness of the wind, The barren months which lie ahead Touch upon one's very soul; The slanting sun sets trees aglow, Their leaves a restless fire Kept alive by northern winds until, As embers blackened by the flames of yesterday, They tumble to the ground... Carpeting the well-clipped lawns And waiting for the icy hand That shall transform their shape to dust. Like the child who aged beyond A once-beloved bear, Leaves--uniform as paper dolls Cut by fingers deft and sure-- Casually are flung aside As if their purpose has expired. Quietly a funeral dirge Mourns balefully amid the breeze, Heard by all and yet ignored As if death denied may not unfold. So silently the coldness seeps Into the autumn breeze And birds fall mute before its touch So one might think the very chill Had robbed their throaty cries. No more leaves cling to the trees, Making idle chatter, For winter siezed their quiet voice And hid it deep, 'neath frosty snow. Silence reigns ov'r one and all While clouds converge in murky skies; Death obscures ones vision To a darkly shade of gray, And yet in time, the clouds recede, Rendering warm the gloom-filled heart And purging sorrow from the mind.

Lauren Isaacson October 21, 1984

Oct. 22, 1984... It was a great day, until after lunch. I got sick...it was extra discouraging when I realized the beautiful day was passing me by. I finally settled my stomach and Mom and I drove on some rural roads. Later, while in the safety of my home, I had the runs. ... Sometimes when I feel so sick, so lousy, I cry... but this time I feel too sick to make the effort... so I just sit.

Oct. 24, 1984... Mom and I took a drive to Loud Thunder. I took some pictures... it was beautiful out. There was a stick bug on me... they're strange little creatures. Later we drove to Petersen Park. Mom suggested I write a poem about the man who was using one of those metal detectors. He was the inspiration; I did so, once home...I like the poem.

Copper Pennies, Golden Leaves

An old man strolled through autumn leaves Waving slowly 'fore his path A wand to guide his watchful steps. Were it not for earphones Clapped upon his graying head And a tiny garden spade Warming in his gnarled hand, I'd have thought the man was blind; Yet blind this man might well have been For all that he refused to see; With eyes feasted on the ground, He looked for copper, bronze, and gold. A rusted bauble on a chain, And perhaps, some pocket change Lying 'neath the colored leaves Was an afternoon's hoard... And a splendid reward... For several hours spent With his back bent to the sun. 'Twas a shame he could not see The wealth amid the shining trees... The leaves turned golden by the sun Falling near his outstretched wand Yet of no value in his eyes. After all his sightless quests Are only shreds of memory, This man shall have no hoard of wealth... Only pennies in his hand. The golden fragments in my mind Are wealth beyond an earthly price; For ten million copper pennies I'd not trade a single thought.

Lauren Isaacson October 24, 1984

Oct. 25, 1984... I made Mom and Dad's bed, but neither seemed to take note. That's OK, each probably thought the other did it!

Oct. 31, 1984... I love Halloween... I carved two pumpkins after Dad cleaned out the internals for me. Sick, sick, sick after supper; I get so depressed. I decided to write a poem; I wanted to cry, but it would've taken too much effort. Time is better spent writing.

Yesterday's Dreams

My heart is filled with salty tears My eyes shall never shed And my mind reflects the many roads These feet will never tread... Forgotten and exhausted dreams And those that cannot come to life Are buried like the husband Of a newly widowed wife; So while the dreams of yesterday Shall never be exhumed Perhaps those of tomorrow Shall defeat the moldering tomb.

Lauren Isaacson October 31, 1984

I've been thinking about Halloween as I knew it. I loved it so, even though I didn't care much for the candy. It wasn't such a worry then. Now everyone's scared; afraid some weirdo will put a pin or poison in the candy. They even X-ray the treats. Dear Abby feels "trick or treat" is a threat! Most kids wouldn't know how to trick someone. . . when Dad was a kid they put entire hay wagons on top of barns or tipped over the out-house. . . soaped windows and often were dunked by the inhabitants of the house as they stood under an upstairs window pulling their rat-a-tat-tats! They deserved the cold soaking.

Nov. 1, 1984... My stand on immigration, abortion, and criminal justice would probably classify me as nothing short of an inhumane and prejudiced killer. I have my reasons, however. I believe there must be quality in life or life is simply existence. Population growth hinders peace within humanity, and chaos results, not happiness. Abortion saves children from neglect, inherited negative patterns of behavior such as moral outlook and personality traits that would be given from the mother and the erstwhile father. Finally, one who violates or murders another person does not deserve life, for he gave his subject no choice; in innocence the victim lost his life.

Nov. 5, 1984... Mom and I enjoyed an amusing situation today while running some errands. Moline's 23rd Ave. is under construction, and a truck hauling tar pulled in front of us. A red light stopped us behind the truck, it's exhaust chokingly black. A workman was standing along the curb, engaged in conversation; when the truck started up again, it blew black smoke directly into his face. He noted our sympathetic amazement concerning his predicament and immediately stuck out his tongue in the direction of the truck, thus portraying his disgust of the entire affair! Some of those little shared moments can "make the day"!

Nov. 13, 1984... Sometimes I wonder if at least a good third of my life has been spent sick. . . whether from Big C or other junk!

The Wings Of Time

Bourne upon the wings of time Memories cloud my eyes today, Masking o'er the tempting sights Which seek dominion of my mind... Childhood years that mocked The very passing of the days, Wishing time would hurry on Quickly, as the setting sun. I smile upon those early years, Fueled by futuristic dreams, For long I did not have to wait 'Ere time clipped short the youthful flame. One need not beckon unto time, Master of the endless hours Both passed and yet to come... When life is gone, time remains, Ancient, yet forever young. Passed moments and tomorrows I live only in my dreams. Today is all I truly have, Bourne upon the wings of time.

Lauren Isaacson November 24, 1984

I've thought so much about the "givers" and "takers" in a society. It is amazing to me that there are actually those who feel no obligation whatsoever to help or to give to others. Unbelievable! Most people at least feel a twinge of guilt about being so selfish. If everyone was a taker, the world would be nothing but "existers." Nothing would be accomplished or invented. Why is it that a taker must always be asked to perform a duty? Perhaps selfishness breeds laziness... let George do it!

A child cannot give except with the knowledge that he will at a later time be amply rewarded. Maybe this trait cannot he overcome if the awareness factor is not there to aid in "overcoming."

When one gives freely and without expectation, it is beneficial to both self and others. Givers do not hinder.

Why do takers think they are so special that they don't have to offer conversation, aid, or show gratitude? What contributes to their lack of obligation? A lack of conscience, or is it a lack of conscience awareness???

The lazy and the selfish will not put themselves under any strain... neither will the inherently low-esteemed. Perhaps a low self-image combined with an inability to face that image leads to ingratitude... gratitude would compliment the other, thereby raising his (the"others") status. . . and lowering one's own. No matter how old this kind of person grows, he will never mature. It inspired another poem...

Aged Child

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

Do not forsake the present Holding fast to yesterday; Do not search for treasures Buried deep and long decayed... A moment lost cannot be won For memories fade as the setting sun And n'er will be regained. 'Tis best to think of what you are And one day shall become.

Lauren Isaacson February 28, 1985

Feb. 28, 1985... I got sick at night. I hate it, but I just have to sit it out.

Mar. 2, 1985... Afternoon sunshine brought me outdoors. I was in a sad and reflective mood; the poem follows...

Life's Dusty Road

On life's dusty road I tread Alone, save for that inner peace Which bears me 'long when spirits fall From that which is and cannot be; For sorrow is a grain of sand Which festers in the open heart And preys upon the tender mind Which seeks the sun Beneath the clouds. I cannot claim a smoother trail; Though faltering steps impede my way, I travel on through misty glade Past crossroads of a different hue And onward, though deep shadows loom. Footsteps mingle with my own Yet on my path, I walk alone; The dust I bear upon my feet Attests that my road is unique.

Lauren Isaacson March 2, 1985

Mar. 4, 1985... Mom gave me a permanent today. I feel like Goldilocks! It's fuzzy and appears to have been braided... but it's an improvement over my limp hair. The liver must have taken it's toll on my "extremities."... hair, nails; I hope my teeth don't go! It seems to be better for me to eat throughout the day whenever I feel hungry. It is truly March; the wind's a regular terror!

Mar. 7, 1985... Tomorrow Norm would have been 34. It seems rather strange. I wrote a profound thought yesterday; "Does not the sunrise from out of the Darkness?"

I finished re-reading the 2nd of the Tolkien trilogies and began the 3rd. I love those books.

My room and "living room" are so neat. I just love having my "apt." ...it wouldn't be this way if it weren't for my Big C. I'd be making money somewhere and probably still live here, but as far as furniture goes. . . well, who knows? Maybe I'd have done this. I know I'd also have wanted to save and scrimp for a down payment on a house. Strange how a person's life can be so altered from that which one had desired. Health means so much, yet few are thankful for it. I remember how great it was to climb in the mountains. . . now that is all I have... memories of health long passed. I suppose I didn't truly have health since late grade school years. Cancer had been with me for a long time to have grown so large in my stomach. But of course, cancer isn't my foremost pain. . . that comes only from the death of Norm. I used to laugh far more often, for we were always joking around. It was such fun. I'm lucky to have had such a relationship at all, for few do in a lifetime.

Mar. 12, 1985... Needed to sort through my clothes. So many I can no longer wear.

Mar. 13, 1985... I wrote a letter to Jon. One of the patients who journeyed to Greece called. Max (another patient) died yesterday. I tried to calligraph a card for his mother, but couldn't seem to control the pen well today. Whenever another of the group who went to Greece dies, I wonder when I'll go,too. Almost all of the ones I knew are now dead. Some cure! It had, at the time, seemed rather promising. Some have said they didn't see why we went; if they had a loved one, they'd probably be on the first plane!

Mar. 27, 1985... It was just 65 degrees; I sat outside in shorts and a light top. A balmy spring breeze is filtering through the still-barren branches of the oak trees, and despite a slight chill in the air, the sun obliterates any shiver which might otherwise have broken upon my skin.

Mom persists in weeding, nurturing her plants, not heeding the complaints of her aching back, while Dad rakes and resets the ground- mole trap. . . "What could be more disturbing than a mole-infested lawn?" And I sit... and observe... and listen. Across the hill, a child chants a rhyme unperfected, to the hap-hazard beat of a jump rope. The adjacent hill delivers the sound of a tree-trimming crew ripping the remnants of a tree to shreds. The birds surround me with a joyful chorus, assured that soon spring shall arrive, while a fly attempts to sun itself on my knee and is foiled in its attempt. A new and unfamiliar bird joins in the chorus, while a rake scrapes the lawn in a rhythmic pattern. An incoming plane drones toward the distant airport and is gone seconds later, only a minor disruption to the day's overall serenity.

A can drops and hits the cement; the wind chimes attest to the steady flow of the soft breeze. A child hollers a rhyme. I wish she would shut up. Ah, she has! Or so the moment portends.

April 1, 1985... (April Fool's Day) I "got" Mom by telling her that I flubbed on one of the posters I was making for the Salad Luncheon publicity. I finally finished reading "The Rosary" a candy-sweet idealistic-love romance.

Mom has begun to clean my upstairs; it's so good of her to do it. I get so tired; I guess I have to give in, sometimes.

April 2, 1985... A good day! Wow! I wrote a lot!

April 3, 1985... Mom is doing all the typing for me; I'm so weak, I really don't feel like doing much.

April 7, 1985... I am having a good day! What a change of pace. I'm re-reading Jon's old letters. They bring back memories. Mom and Dad had a good day with the rest of the clan. She brought back a lovely lacey and beribboned egg to be used for a centerpiece. Sharon sent a tiny basket with pink flowers and a miniature rabbit for me. She is always lavishing me with demonstrations of love and affection. Scott and Brad appeared to enjoy the books.

April 11, 1985... Problems again, but not so I couldn't enjoy the day. It was in the 60's. I wrote a poem about spring.

Spring

All that which I cannot be Is part of its Vitality... The hov'ring bee, The blossom fair... The youthful bird Upon the air... A burning sun That buries snow In shallow graves From whence life grows; Embracing both new seed And breath And shielding each From thought of death.

Lauren Isaacson April 11, 1985

April 21, 1985... I've been reading Sherry's old letters when I tire of writing. It's difficult to write about my first cancer experience; reliving it is not easy.

April 22, 1985... I reminisced high school days; I remember a period when I went through a swearing stage. Crazy. It doesn't exactly build one's character, but for the time, it got one's point across. This was only between close friends, of course. I never cared for public vulgarity in any fashion. It's crazy, too, how one word is considered "vulgar" and another, meaning the same thing, is not. Who decides these things, I wonder? The one that really cracked me up was that the proper British had to come up with a past tense of the word "shit."... in their speech, it is "shat."

May 6, 1985... I tried to write outside, but it was impossible. Gnats kept insisting on flying into my eyes. Mosquitoes were buzzing around my legs, although none seemed inclined to feast; perhaps they were still too young to know what to do with a human. When I used to be able to do things outside, it was no problem; indoors bugs don't bite, nothing seems an annoyance. Once inside and in the comfort of air-conditioning, I wrote a poem.

Seasons Of Life

One mirrors many seasons within his very life; The lush bouquet of springtime, hoarding life, vitality. From the verdant, yielding mind sparks, like tree sap, Bubble through one's firm, yet supple limbs. Unleashing youthful hopes and dreams for growth unhindered, Unrestrained by roiling clouds and murky skies.

As the spring to summer fades, so also, does the life mature, Observing as the inky clouds derived of haughty restlessness Recede into one's memory, to live subdued and quiet lives 'Til time denies their former flame. The waxing moon of summer skies illuminates high-flying clouds; The vessels of one's dreams attained, and hopes of liquid silver.