...being the observations and navigational extracts
from the ongoing expeditions of San Francisco Piano Pop trio
True Margrit

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Flu Margrit

As the sun creeps toward the horizon a certain virus is singling me out...it says: "Don't call me the common cold--I am so uncommon. Really." I try to take a nap, but ant-tribes brandishing banners are amassing in the foyer. "To Gilroy!" they cry.
But the Garlic Fest is over...now only chocolate eclairs hold sway....eeek. I wake up from this disturbing quasi-dream. Hmmmm... without sleep where do the afflicted congregate? In airport terminals with red watery eyes. In the cineplex with fever-bright fingers picking the popcorn kernels one-by-one. I have a recording session in twenty minutes--oh dang! This cold or flu or whatever it is came on so swift like an anvil or a thunderbolt from the sky. BANG-- like a piano being lowered from an apartment building. LIke the dusk that doth indeed approach now with its wisps of cloud stewed in pink and streetlights popping on across the earth.

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