I guess that if I had to choose either Carl Jung or Carl Marx, I would chosen Marx. But in, say the 1950s, I'm not so sure.
But like, I don't really want to run away. I want to be, uh, very wealthy. And then I would by this and this and this. And then I'd make a nature reserve and uh, I don't know what would happen with the rest of it.
It's spring. I feel isolated and want to run away. Spending even more time than usual researching new kinds of facial lotion. I'm ingesting more news remembering old news and lines from old poems I've been editing. Again. For example:
strippers in every state. flew away from red lake on crows wings, shooks thief stripping wild life management areas, stripping staples at the bal club where everyone everywhere is exposed to nuclear fallout. regardless of stripping, the blue earth blue with frost at Ie centre of what? of saints, of liberal men with shaved heads, of slightly more funding for the arts. le lac qui parle talks application talk, embarrassing babbit on the vermilion iron range, over boundary waters, upsala sedan, silica zim, wigs on landlocked beaches. did the water evaporate? are there many sewage ponds? was nimrod good or evil?
The Sierra Club sent me animal postcards. This makes me want to weep. A lot of good I'm doing around here working and paying of my debt. Blech.
The manager of our building complex predicts it will be a warm summer. It better be. It's been colder here than in DC.