'now at least the moon is full (and I walk alone)'

'now at least the moon is full, and I walk alone, which is best by night, if not by day always. your companion must be sympathetic with the present mood. the conversation must be located where the walkers are, and vary exactly with the scene and events and the contour of the ground.' 

'at the foot of the cliff hill I hear the sound of the clock striking nine, as distinctly as within a quarter of a mile usually...' 

h.d. thoreau, a writer's journal,  12th july 1851, walk begun at 8pm. 

damn it. it's the anniversary of thoreau's  birth and  horsemouth didn't know it (drat). 

it is actually the morning of the friday (as horsemouth types this). it is a hot sunny day and horsemouth is hiding indoors. he is slightly bruised by beer after last night's bell-ringing. 

in a few more lonely minutes it will be the afternoon. 

and it's the following morning of the 12th. horsemouth is up and has fed the chickens. he's looking at the cabbage white butterflies (knowing that soon he will be removing their caterpillars from his runner bean plants). the birds seem to have eaten all the easily accessible gooseberries so horsemouth will have to go after the more difficult and dangerous to reach ones. 

hopefully the heat wave will break in a few days and work outside will become more possible. 

last night (or was it in the daytime) a bit of the french tv show that nuits rouges was made out of. in the evening a history lesson on the CCRU. nothing on the tv (that he would want to see). he's reading volume two of anais nin's journals. she has bought  a printing press but she has gifted it to her n'er-do-well friend gonzalo to help him with his political work. only once she gets to new york again (in volume three) will she buy another one and learn to operate it and begin self-publishing her own works.