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.

Addendum Death Dance

All That Jazz is, of course, an able-bodied film with its own subtext, and Dave Kehr does offer me what a poet once named Wendy would phrase as, "the shock of recognition," in Gideon's Mephistophelean aspects, but what it offers to a disability thesis is a certain Kantian aspect, that, whatever makes you a hot property, be it Scheider's restrained sex appeal on camera, or a potential political power on the rise, or skills that lend themselves to choreography, none of us have it for very long, and need to make the most of it, even as our biological design breaks down, kills us through our own behavior, though Gideon is a type of an anachronism, the basic fun loving self-destructive addict, one that I'd wager no longer exists, even in Fosse's world.

Schneider too declined and died of blood cancer, maybe not a bad way to go.

For a technical quadriplegic, I was once fairly affluent, however I have to square my father in my psyche as he heads toward dementia, and I decline, but I assert this as a basic truth: I face the prospect of dying in squalor in the last superpower standing because I was a confused 23 year old who wanted love with a passion, took risks toward total independence, and failed, and this is unjust. I no longer know, at 50, how much work I can take on in a traditional employee context, and I can bust my ass fifty ways from Sunday on article pitches, and it might not matter. I cannot force publishers to contract me, and can still fail, as I did with my editor last year.

I cannot even leave section 202 housing like a fucking normal human being. If you want me to readjust my attitude, it is simple, give me hope, and leave your community integration rhetoric in the outhouse, where it belongs.