hot apple juice with a little cinnamon is wonderful for colds. bless whoever taught me that, since i'm not the chicken-soup type. the cold medicines are having the predictable effects: i can breathe again, but thinking is fuzzy and my pupils have shrunken to mere pinpricks. i'm drifting in and out of consciousness but i can't sleep. and people do this stuff on purpose?

the poem is still being processed; even in this strange dream state i run bits and pieces through my head. i'm still searching for the perfect images, the right way to say it. i have to resist the urge to cram in everything i want to say. i want a clean poem, spare. attention to small details, not a blizzard of information. which of course helps me not one bit with the actual writing of the poem.

there's so much information that i gathered at the festival...but i'm not able to synthesize right now, i'm sorry. oh, and still no word from the art magazine. guess it's time to send out still more resumes. hire me, hire me.

apparently it's apple cider day. so have a good one. -beatpoetgrrl

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