Would, that were it possible, we could

but in my world that is unlikely.

To happen that is. Others have

and will pass by in their successful

pursuit of possibility, quite possibly.

We anticipate it.

In our dreams.

Every other or third

night I dream such izzzy

things varying; degrees of contingency

notwithstanding nor should they

be given so much as half a

chance in that rather

dispirited colosseum, leaning as

it does, sometimes, or not, as in

others, but in all, dilapidated. No

doubt, a dream-symbol of my less-

than-perfect declining corp. But

when it becomes a church its less-

than-perfectly distinguished

architecture still does not diminish

the essential sort of midwestern

mid-century quality of the

neighborhood which can be no

other than my neighborhood.

Being, don’t you know, begun

and ended in my head. Hence

its quality noted above. Would

that it had other prospects of

possibility in its severely

circumscribed , temporally confined

soon-to-be-demolished limited

liminal (if that’s accurate) ex-

is-stance.

But, I wouldn’t know, nor could I say.

Of that, I am sure. But that,

confidence, should

Never be used as a reliable

stepping-stone to the truth.

It is spongy and disintegrating.

In the most general way this

renders it poor for stone

building. Unstable, even

hazardous. But that is the

way of dreams. Not to be,

unstable, as I said three lines up.

Not to be trusted. Unreliable. In-

substantial, as ideas above all.

From a message sent by David Jhave Johnson

today

Light does not die with death.

Bodies are filters,
& the energy fields beyond them are unknown,
& there are some spaces there
where some real swimming occurs,
where some real love occurs,
& where some real home-coming occurs
and I suspect your taste for grace and beauty will guide you there.

Point

The reasoning in initiating this blog has to do with, as the title indicates, my closed future. “What will become of us” is a cliché drawn from melodrama, but one unambiguously applicable to my case. 

One person, my elder daughter has her heart set and her eye fixed on a nursing home, but she will soon have to admit that the place we would not have to pay for because my old-age pension would cover all expenses, where I am currently placed, is in fact beyond our means, pension included.

Rendering the situation with extreme over-dramatization, the government pension may force me into a rat-hole.   

Not unlike real life, the requirements for my living accomodations are contradictory, and seem to necessitate the use of a word I’ve grown to dislike due to its use by and association with the woman known in my companion blogs as LL. It has meant, among other things, “men it will be far more fun to visit with than you!” The word in question is ‘priorities’. It is they who took all the blame for LL’s having no time to visit. So I am ill-disposed toward ‘priorities’, and if I can come up with a better-tailored word that will be the word I use. Perhaps simply ‘firsts’.

Of those, there are three; painting, writing, and sitting with friends. The seconds may be of inestimable value; light, trees and foliage generally, necessary shops conveniently close-by; of such things do seconds consist. But firsts are firsts. Compromise on them and you are no longer trustworthy. A rat-hole in which I can paint, write, and sit with friends would not necessarily make for luxe living, but it would be sufficient.