The Culture that has been here all the time

Yesterday I queried, what the future for isolated elderly people looked like.

BIG DEALS COMING. Some assistants are already here.

AI robots that can do it all: help around the house, help with travel, provide personal care, and offer the comfort of more realistic companions.

The robots are becoming hard to distinguish from living people. Emotional responses to nuances in facial gestures. Artificial skin that feels real, even warm to the touch. The industry catering to sexual bots is not what I am referring to here, though they are advancing extremely rapidly as well.

Messy jobs in care need not evoke a family member to say, "I can't do that." The experience I had with family members.

Lifting, chores, cleaning ... etc., all part of an elder-friendly environment of the future.  Who pays for it?

There are several reasons I didn't like the senior center in town, mostly personal and trivial reasons.

The crowd seemed older than me, though it could be just my mindset.

Many of the conversations proved to be politically offensive to me.

I asked if anyone played chess. The answer I got was "Checkers".

The array of activities? I enjoy music (eclectic), drama, museums, and even simple countryside rides with a close partner, not a host of strangers.

I could go on, but it will only widen the gap with the fabric of the society here and my uniqueness. Perhaps I have been spoiled, or perhaps my flaws get in the way.

Now that I have allowed the artist in me to live once more, I have reawakened so much. The complex mindset, as I love experimenting with different mediums and subjects. Photos are good to the degree they don't move and are consistent and varied (beyond what I have in front of me). But photos lack one important feature: I can't touch and feel the subject.

In my early days, I mostly painted landscapes, seascapes, and abstract ideas. One art teacher explained portrait painting as he did it. He collected photos, made sketches of the actual person in front of him, and explained his thoughts as he planned the final product. His work sold for a price I can only dream of.

Yes, I will experiment, focus on different subjects, try different mediums, but I fear I may never have a companion, a lover, to feel and know intimately again. Now that I am free to paint nudes, ¹ nothing would be better than painting a lover I can embrace and love. Paint her image in different ways and settings. Pixabay images

1 My wife was a sub and sexually free in our bedroom, but chose a religion that frowned on nude paintings. I followed her to church and complied with her attitude, but I knew we both truly didn't see art in a sinful light.

Many of you know I have been anything but happy-go-lucky ^1, and I am afraid it is getting worse. Direct words can mask what's going on inside. I must admit the negative attitude is the most profound I have ever experienced. No mystery, not having nearby friends, family, or a companion; my mind fills with negative words, and, unlike in most of my past life, there is no one here to say things will get better. I only get periodic "cheer up," this will pass if anyone bothers to speak to me at all.

My dog is not too bad, but my cat demands that he help me restring my guitar, though I have told him the strings are not edible. If they could speak to me in English, Polish, Spanish, or even Russian, I would be able to learn about their thoughts. Last week, I learned in my cat language class on YouTube that I have been doing it all wrong. Cats only stare when they are ready to fight. I learned that I am supposed to squint and glance away. I can imagine he thinks I am such a duffas.

Have you ever lost your anchor, drifting on a large body of water, then broken an ore? Then, did you make a sale with a shirt and a windbreaker? I was even rescued by the coast guard twice. What do I do now? Stay on the shore and remain a land lover. This is how my life seems to be now, I must buy an app to make my cell phone a compass and see if that helps me navigate. Pixabay image:

1 Battled clinical depression all my life and was only diagnosed as bipolar about five years ago; eight years as my wife's only full-time caregiver took its toll, too.

What motivates me? Others, especially close friends. Now alone for the first time in almost fifty years, I am not moved to keep my house up to snuff. Never really been sloppy inside my home or yard (attic, garage, or basement maybe), but without a companion and no visits from anyone, I don't care. Another factor, when I bought this house about four years ago, it seemed to fit. Now that I am a widower for the first time, it is unimportant and lacks space for office and hobbies. Like René Magritte, I paint in the dining room. 

Reigniting my music and art is beginning to add clutter with associated stuff. Soon, new paintings will be scattered about.

I care more about my dog and cat now, too. My cat is a fusspot. He seems to ignore the cat fountain I bought for him and keeps to the old water bowl.

Yes, I am reaching out in search of a companion, but so far, there is no reason to be optimistic. (pixabay)

I thought that if I went slowly into the future, one day at a time, things would improve; they have not.

Each morning, I find it harder to feel motivated to get up and navigate a new day. I know it has only been two months since my wife passed away, but in a very real sense, her loss of a coherent mental state in 2017 began the process of the loss of my compass into the future.

Yesterday, I reflected on how she and I were physical-touch communicators, and each day, despite at times feeling withdrawn, I know this more and more.

So today I sat on the edge of my bed, not wanting to get up, but my cat messed with my cell phone, and it started showing failed attempts to activate it. Meows weren't enough; he stepped on it, and it responded with a voice, so I was forced to get up.

Photos, songs, and items can trigger sadness, no, profound sadness. When my second wife ran off with the maintenance man from where she worked as an RN, it took years to get past that. Her best friend, sometime later, explained she didn't want to stay with our me and our son, with a serious heart defect, because at the time, the prognosis was that he would not live past his teens. During this time, a blue sky seemed black. This all happened more than forty years ago. I only recovered slowly because my late wife of 41 years helped me get past that. I do not have forty years now; less than 20 if averages hold.

In my wisest times, I live in the moment. Too bad, the moments are so lonely. (image pixabay)

Most of you know I was my wife's only caregiver for eight years before she passed away, and that I was part of a caregiver group. Th group helped me in many ways, but especially by giving me permission to mourn gradually through the years. Yes, the long goodbye process helps, but it is not perfect: I have very challenging moments of sadness, and I wonder if they will ever fade away.