horsemouth (and the fucking unicorn)

so here we are it's another morning. (rain at some point allegedly).

two years ago, in the teeth of the pandemic, horsemouth was staying home, even though the government advice had been downgraded to merely staying alert. he had discovered a tv series version of christ stopped at eboli (in italian). having read the book recently he could tell what was going on (which was good because he couldn't understand what as being said). 

and now we have the robert lawson trio live from polyvalente  in malaga (loving the hats gentlemen). it's the second of these (horsemouth thinks). some great loops there with the zither and the drums. even an appearance of a slide whistle in a sonny sharrock style. it was good (and it just keeps on getting better). 

horsemouth finished reading the isle of the dead (robert silverberg) which, like a number of artistic productions (notably val lewton's movie with boris karloff), leans up against a the bocklin painting. the isle of the dead point of resolution and happening is juxtaposed with tokyo bay where the tide brings things in and the tide takes things away. 

will he follow it up by reading the eye of the cat (another similarly structured revenger)? probably not. 

he may start on the robbe-grillet or he may go off and trawl the book boxes from more science fiction. 

it is of course now slightly less than two weeks until the next meeting of the communal endeavour.  horsemouth therefore has to learn to temper his anxiety and adopt the only sane and sensible attitude - which is que sera, sera. hopefully things will flow easily, if they don't then fuck it we will all be taking the long way round. 

yesterday a man arrived about the unicycle sten had been (temporarily) storing in the hallway. (fucking unstable things unicycles, prone to falling over). having made herculean efforts to clear the hallway (and the front room and the back garden) horsemouth was not best pleased by its appearance and had taken to referring to it as the fucking unicorn. the man (who was chatty and friendly) left with the fucking unicorn,  horsemouth hopes that he was pleasant and that none of the coldness he feels for the fucking unicorn bled into the interaction  (but he suspects it did).   

it is, if horsemouth has  correctly entered information in his dairy the one year anniversary of the last stroke of work that horsemouth did. horsemouth (being a lazy sod) plans to stretch out his inactivity for as long as possible.