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Truth for sale.
May. 5th, 2017 09:04 pmToday marks 13 years since April and I began our lives together. Some days, it feels like I've been with her for several lifetimes and several regenerations. Others, feels like yesterday. Being in New Paltz last week where it all began definitely made it feel like the latter.
She grounds me. When the world is falling to shit around me, she is my support. Especially this week, with all the panic and anger at Republicans in the House, who have basically told everyone who is poor and sick to eat shit and die, that they don't deserve affordable medical insurance.
As someone with a chronic autoimmune disease, this feels somewhat like a death sentence. Even though I know that I have a stable job working for the government of New York State with all the benefits that one gets working for the government, living in a state that is predominately blue with a Governor who is throwing shade at President Distended Rectum every chance he gets, and even though this isn't even law yet (and the Senate shows zero desire to take up the dumpster fire that the House passed), it is sending a very powerful message that says that the ruling party of this country wants me dead. Because all it takes is a future Republican governor with a Republican legislature and a poorly-negotiated labor contract, and I'm gonna be paying $10,000 every 2 months for my meds which keep my guts from bursting forth and garroting me.
And what of April? She too needs access to care, but if being a woman is going to be a pre-existing condition...
When Orange Hitler got elected, I made a promise to myself that if any of my loved ones needed me for help to get through this new, surreal period in our lives, I would answer. I wear the symbol of the Rohirrim around my neck as my reminder of this promise. But even I must confess that if this piece of shit goes all the way through and becomes law, then I'm going to find it hard-pressed to stay in a place where I've been essentially told to curl up and die. I can't live in a place where politicians are using my life as a bargaining chip, and I refuse to be condemned to death over an illness I had no say in acquiring by old white guys who will never have to know poverty or go bankrupt over a medical emergency.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
April and I are away from home for the weekend, holed up in the Berkshires as we celebrate a baker's dozen years together. What we're doing I don't know. Might hit up some used bookstores, good eats, and old cemeteries--Massachusetts, hell, New England is excellent for them-- for the photo series I'm in the middle of, called Requiescat (www.bjfrenchphoto.com).
So we'll see what develops.
She grounds me. When the world is falling to shit around me, she is my support. Especially this week, with all the panic and anger at Republicans in the House, who have basically told everyone who is poor and sick to eat shit and die, that they don't deserve affordable medical insurance.
As someone with a chronic autoimmune disease, this feels somewhat like a death sentence. Even though I know that I have a stable job working for the government of New York State with all the benefits that one gets working for the government, living in a state that is predominately blue with a Governor who is throwing shade at President Distended Rectum every chance he gets, and even though this isn't even law yet (and the Senate shows zero desire to take up the dumpster fire that the House passed), it is sending a very powerful message that says that the ruling party of this country wants me dead. Because all it takes is a future Republican governor with a Republican legislature and a poorly-negotiated labor contract, and I'm gonna be paying $10,000 every 2 months for my meds which keep my guts from bursting forth and garroting me.
And what of April? She too needs access to care, but if being a woman is going to be a pre-existing condition...
When Orange Hitler got elected, I made a promise to myself that if any of my loved ones needed me for help to get through this new, surreal period in our lives, I would answer. I wear the symbol of the Rohirrim around my neck as my reminder of this promise. But even I must confess that if this piece of shit goes all the way through and becomes law, then I'm going to find it hard-pressed to stay in a place where I've been essentially told to curl up and die. I can't live in a place where politicians are using my life as a bargaining chip, and I refuse to be condemned to death over an illness I had no say in acquiring by old white guys who will never have to know poverty or go bankrupt over a medical emergency.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
April and I are away from home for the weekend, holed up in the Berkshires as we celebrate a baker's dozen years together. What we're doing I don't know. Might hit up some used bookstores, good eats, and old cemeteries--Massachusetts, hell, New England is excellent for them-- for the photo series I'm in the middle of, called Requiescat (www.bjfrenchphoto.com).
So we'll see what develops.
