On the issue of surrender

I am really not feeling well, and remain convinced, if I cart myself off to a regional hospital, yielding up all my bodily secrets, because I do not like the internal medicine department training students on my poverty, that I will not be returning to this building, and that I am therefore done, so what do I do, or Blogger, or twitter, or my cached history online, what do I do with it?

I've damaged, or taken aim at reputations of people who failed me. I'm anti-homosexual because I've had to wrestle with lesbian hits more than once, and became too intimate with a number of homosexuals in turn. I am not calling 911 now. I don't think so, and I'm still running the digital hustle, importing some of my published material to Ev's platform, trying to learn how to edit on it, and I'm clawing with my fingernails, stressed to the toxic. If I give up, yes, I'm punishing myself, on one level, but I'm truly worn out and have no where to go to catch a break or recharge and I no longer have friends; I'm talking to strangers, and it could be a bad adaptation to the liquid nicotine, my coffee too acrid. At some point it is time, and mine is evidently tangible atrophy at fifty three. I've been lousy before we all have, but this is different, maybe colon cancer for all I know, and I won't fight that.

All That Jazz doesn't shrink from this greatest fear. Fosse makes the ontological anxiety of nullification as theatrical as one can, and Christ knows I'd like going out on a jazz number with a conveyor belt. The much more rigorous Austrian film with the flamboyant Sheila Florance, A Woman's Tale,  delivers the same message, more process involved, much more compliance until the son's final shift to his mother's spirit.

I'd rather Schneider's metaphor, wondering if he thought of this movie on his death bed. If the strenuous nature of the production left him dismayed. Do we even have empathy to spare for the billions we've buried before us?

But I'm bawling, eh, invisible tail winds in flame? I wish I had the money to hire a hit man, had something to offer someone for my list.

Rage, Of Angels, Out of the Dark

When? Probably sometime in 2011, I posted that I would incorporate what was relevant, and let my speculative, perhaps non-existent, followers, put the pieces together as they would, and I also wrote, in an equally speculative manner, about my first viewing of Paul Cox's 1991 A Woman's Tale, which ran the other day. I was forced to miss it, but will add here that it belongs firmly in any development of disability and fine arts, and I agree with everything the aging Ebert writes. or nearly everything, but I need to study Cox and Florence again before I diverge. I will also go as far as to quote him:

She is a woman of power and confidence, a woman who insists on her dignity when the world wants her to give up and admit she is sick and go off somewhere convenient to die.

This is who I am in a nutshell, brazen, uncouth, short-tempered, violating all known table manners. Now, do I condone the murder this petition protests? No, not quite, but as a victim of lesbian harassment, I do not think gay panic should be eliminated as a mitigating factor in sentencing those who kill in homophobic rage, because I understand the need to strike back when victimized, and I cannot defend myself against women who abuse their position, either as my client, my personal assistant, or my straight disabled supervisor who systemically humiliated me for somewhat over a year of my life in playing me against her homosexual colleagues and my former friends.

If gay activists find me hateful, well, those of you I've known have trampled my boundaries uncaring of the emotional pain you've caused, and despite my atheism, the religious conservatives are right, for the wrong reasons, not that the actions of Chris Cooper's character in American Beauty were justified, as that was repression that sprung a leak.