The only reason I’m writing at this moment is because I need something to do while I listen to “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones.  You should know that I’m not actually a huge Rolling Stones fan.  I like a few of their songs.  But especially this one.  Wild Horses.  I’m not actually sure if the boyfriend or the song came first.

I am reminded of one of my early boyfriends.  We’ll call him Dave.  It is the veriest coincidence that his name is actually Dave.

I’m wondering if he’s dead.  I think not.  He was an imperious Capricorn who at the tender age of (whatever his age was) already knew that he didn’t appreciate his girlfriends applying fresh lipstick right before he picks them up at Bart station if they’re going to use that as an excuse not to kiss him.  People that commanding don’t just die.  They’re the ones that outlive the rest of us reprobates.

I can never read a horoscope that suggests Capricorns shouldn’t date each other for the sheer boredom without thinking about Dave, the only Capricorn I ever dated.

This song brings Dave to mind.  I can no longer remember whether it was a song on my own walkman or whether he played it on his record player.  (Remember those?)

When I listen to this song I remember feeling completely heart broken by how good it was.  I remember wishing Dave would shut up so I could melt away into the song with my lipstick and my paper and pen in peace.  I remember him being annoyed because I was more interested in listening to the song than to him.

I would have been annoyed with me too.

I don’t know what poems I wrote to this song.  I know that if I was truly masochistic I could spend an exhausting number of hours scouring through my old notebooks to find them.  It would only depress me to see what crap they were, so I’ll float along on memory and pretend they were really important and are lost to the great abyss of the moving van.

There was Amaretto.

I think I apologized to Mick Jagger for writing him off as a no-good slag rock singer.

I knew I would break up with Dave the minute he ordered me to kiss him in the parking lot at the Bart station.

Tonight I release these memories so that this song can be something new for me.

So strange to be thinking so much of old boyfriends this week.

I don’t mean Rufus Sewell, Jon Stewart, or Mathew Macfadyen.

I have no feeling of loss or poignant nostalgia about old boyfriends.  I have no idea why I seem to be congering them up this week.

We had snow last night.  It was beautiful!  It nearly all melted by 2pm today.  I watched unsticking flurries and it filled me with happiness.

I also returned to Kung Fu tonight.  I have to be very very careful of my calf but it was a mellow class where we practiced joint destruction and stick fighting.

It’s almost midnight and I just remembered I have to do a load of Max’s laundry.  So I was thinking while I loaded the machine up how I don’t believe that any of my ex-boyfriends remember me.  I have this idea that the minute I exited their lives I ceased to exist.  If you think about ceasing to exist for someone- it feels like being erased.

Of course I’m wrong because one of my ex-boyfriends tried to friend me on facebook.

I didn’t let him.  It felt like ghosts roiling up from the bottom of the ocean.

Not unsimilar to giant squids.

I’m listening to “Miss You” now.  Maybe I like The Stones more than I let on.

I have returned to my fantasy of leaving the country.

I think “tongue tickler” sounds dirty.

That’s something a food writer said to describe some appetizers.  Every part of me is itching to discuss this with the writer.  I am strong because I am Kung Fu.

I keep doing the Kung Fu.  Against the odds.

I AM the odds.

I’m going to take up the invitation to shoot an AK.  I am attracted to the fierce contrast to my nature that an AK represents.

Gun tease.

I think it must be good to be Mick Jagger.  I’m really happy I’m not having his baby.

I’ve heard a lot of people say “I’m not a political person” and I find I can’t respect a person who isn’t political because being alive on this planet requires any thinking caring conscious human being to be political.  I say this but I know that I will, tomorrow, realize that this is my ignorance pushing through.

Isn’t it?

Like when people tell me I can’t be a responsible American if I don’t read the news.  An accusation I have railed against.  Pushing at the machine.

I just don’t understand how a person can be alive and  not be political.

I also don’t understand how a person can be alive and not indulge in philosophy.  It’s not that I don’t understand how people can not share MY philosophy.  I understand being the opposition, but I don’t understand not taking one.

An attempt to dissolve unions, pushing GMO foods onto consumers with no requirement to label, corporate interests ruling all, corruption, laws, the crumbling of civil liberties… How can anyone not care about these things?

I respect my opposition for having a position even though I think they’re full of shit, obviously.  I have a really hard time respecting those with no position.

I need to plant a garden this spring.  Even if I don’t get to stay in this house.  It’s important.  If you have room to grow food you need to grow food.  Even if your life is transient.  Open pollinated varieties.  The earth is sickening and we must give it hope and vitality with our own hands.

I might have to move in a few months but I’ll be damned if I sit back and let good ground be wasted on lawn and weeds.  Growing your own food at this point in history is one of the most subversive and powerful things you can do if you insist on open pollinated varieties and don’t douse your precious ground with poisons.

The Rolling Stones have landed me exactly where I started.

I wish I could remember what color lipstick I put on when I got off of Bart.  It was almost certainly some dubious tube of Wet-n-Wild from Woolworth’s on Powell.

Whatever color it was, it kicked ass.