14.07.14 (Day 204)
Intolerance is something I suffer a lot: my own intolerance. Most of all, I can’t abide discrimination (on any grounds) but I have to tolerate persecution from those who judge that which they don’t know through ignorance on their part. Those people have been conditioned by The System. Collectively I refer to them as The Systemites, a term I heard whilst listening to a Radio 4 documentary on religious discrimination. The Systemites are out there though and the misunderstood but understanding, non-judgemental ones are in here, in their place of safety. We’re the non-conformists, the rebels with varying degrees of direction, led by a rebel with a cause. We’re the Pink Hearts.
The movement continues to expand – including out There with The Hells Angels among others – and when the bough finally breaks on the Pink Heart Family tree, we’ll carry on. We’ll have places to meet, at the very least mobile via social media. This is being held back though for as long as the physical family home still stands. The Family always will.
Someone (a friend actually, albeit a Systemite) made a point in a comment sent to me for approval on an article in this blog. I didn’t approve it. I’m anti-censorship and enjoy intelligent debate but the comment contained personal things, which are between them and me. The main point though was that The Pink Heart kids aren’t my own: no shit Sherlock! They have other families: some traditional, some foster and others adoptive. We’re the other one and all have roles to play. Of course the kids are all teens and as such, some can be a little selfish. Most though are decent, kind and generous young people (and so are their other families) who don’t judge. Systemites will never get it. My hope is that the core members of the gang will go on to produce a legacy of little Pink Hearts.
After a breakfast of jam doughnuts and strong, black, sweet coffee, The Dog and me spent a couple of hours sorting out the gaff. He did the Dog’s share of the work (most of it) and we’ve now reclaimed the living room, condemned the kitchen and restored my room to some degree of respectability. I did manage to hobble around and play my part, to my credit. It was a joint effort, as most things are with us two.
The Dog is a mixture of breeds: Sheep dog (rounds people up); Terrier (tenacious and doesn’t let go); Labrador (faithful); St. Bernard (big, soft and often to the rescue); Rottweiler (dangerous, in the wrong hands); Staffie (will protect its owner); Retriever (fetches things); guide dog, bulldog; faithful, loyal and man’s best friend: he’s mine. We have our differences, often. That happens when two personalities such as ours live together and sometimes conflict. I don’t own him. He’s more The Dog than my dog. He does his own thing, as do I. He’s my best mate and brother.
Right now The Dog is off being walked by (or walking) my little sister: The Dog’s Bitch (an affectionate term) and my sister in this dysfunctional family who helps me a lot just by being her. I miss them both but we all need time away from the family and will be back together soon.
Until those two or other family arrive, I have the place to myself. Time for some more Radio 4, another doughnut and a coffee: black, because this place has no fridge and is therefore dairy intolerant.
The Systemites should try living as we do here: maybe they’d learn