what is the point of horsemouth’s blogging?

horsemouth is up. he's nearly finished the coffee. he started with rush and ended up with emmylou. 

horsemouth has removed from the cloud forest (back to the salt marshes) and types this sitting up in bed. bbc weather predicts grey all day until evening but thereafter it returns to the kind of weather horsemouth likes (sun sun sun  and very pleasant temperatures) 

from four years ago: 

'what is the point of horsemouth’s blogging? he does it partly as advertising and partly as confessional (though not of anything genuinely shameful as that would be too embarrassing for all concerned). he boasts to you that he’s read such-and- such but he hardly ever stops to tell you enough about it so that he (or you) could derive much benefit from his labours. 

he’s reading milan kundera’s the art of the novel  at the moment - kafka, musil, hasek, and the one horsemouth hasn’t read broch.' 

well he's got some broch now (fast forward four years) so he will soon be in a position to read it (when he has killed off several other things he has to read - not the least a history of reading, the master and margarita etc). 

alberto manguel (in a history of reading) claims to remember the first word he read. it was boy underneath a picture of a boy, the b the severed arm and body, the o the severed head, the y the legs. a similar thing happens to berlioz at patriarch ponds in the master and margarita - he has the honour to be chopped up by a tram, his head severed (and later stolen). he is the sacrifice that drives the book forward.  

he's done some reading of guy julier's 20th century design and designers in the world of art series. julier in his foreward notes daniel miller's anthropological study of north london kitchens - horsemouth has seen daniel miller lecture, it was a fun ride. 

horsemouth's (physical) diary for the year is falling apart under the pressure of horsemouth's impressions (or perhaps just the sheer repetitive strain of being put in the bag, taken out the bag, opened, written in, closed, the pen re-attached). the covers are off. pages are detaching (like the b-o-y of alberto manguel or the berlioz of bulgakov). .

the local black and white tom has just been spraying in the front garden (oi! fuck off! horsemouth yelled at it - to little effect granted).

this evening. birthday beers maybe.  in the day horsemouth has a sneaky plan to render the front garden more to his liking and to make an effort to collect in the gas and electricity money.  

this winter horsemouth suspects that a rigorous campaign of non-use will need to be implemented within the house.  a friend was noting that if people want to build a campaign of non-payment (similar to the campaign that felled the poll tax) they had better work out how to defend the poorest. it would probably be the time for those with memories of the anti-poll tax campaign to revive them. like the poll-tax the ruling class's eyes are off the ball, the people are falling into a debt and cost of living crisis of epic proportions and this is (probably) the final straw.