Weekly Diary

Not a good start to the day, June was walking round the house with an exercise bike on her head crying like the interference from an old valve radio.  I was hoping to change the channel but the aerial turned into a mechanical knitting machine and ran out of the room reciting the latest football scores.  I kicked the ball into my own net and went out for a walk (balancing several coins on the tip of my nose as I did so).  Later a sea lion entered the house holding my wallet minus the credit cards.

As I climbed the stairs that suddenly appeared where the door step touched the earth (aside: this is where my past is buried) I found it somewhat disconcerting that the ground also rose, gradually picking up speed so it easily overtook my ship in a desert efforts and I gradually sank beneath it.  I grabbed what toys I could remember from my childhood  and watched as I sunk below one epoch after another – for several minutes I was even in the world of the porpoise people.

I woke in a space capsule that had crash landed on the Isle of Wight (I pulled myself out of bed like a sardine on a motorcycle); June had meanwhile flew to Honolulu carrying a standard lamp that I had dressed in the clothes of Marilyn Monroe last night.  I was sat in the brown study all morning looking at a table with my memories cast on it and held down with a pocket calculator.  I managed to ran to the other side of the mantelpiece in the afternoon, sitting opposite a porcelain dog.

After crumbling into hundreds of jigsaw pieces and having my wife put me together again, we went out.  We had a found a gigantic igloo circling a red giant star and walked round it trying to find perfectly harmonised baby clothes (me with a voice in my head answering the telephone).  June put her bag down and I took a white handkerchief from my pocket before the train rolled into the station and a hundred yetis walked out.  We went home – me with my hair several inches longer.

I was out at the pin point stage of the morning, my bare feet feeling the pavement and my bare head feeling the cold.  I managed to catch a bus to a warm cave and showed the big man a house inside a small box (while a capsule orbits the Earth like a moth) and then came home to my own small box – people barely five inches tall have moved in under the floorboards and are busy building a fifth runway; I hear the jets roar at night (normally just before I hide a dim light inside a bright one).

I ignored the dog headed girl sitting on the alarm clock and flew downstairs as the wolfman with wings.  I surveyed the week from my vantage point on the Empire State Building which I planted in the garden last spring; everything looked rather bleak except for the blackberry bush that took refuge in the tangle called Brer Rabbit.  While June worked in the diamond mine I walked the watchtower waiting for the arrival of some paper.  The postman came out of a hole in the ground.

I got up late, not feeling well; the orange on the sideboard had bright red lipstick and whistled when I entered the room – I hid among the apples, most of which had maps of the world on them.  I then took a trip to another country for a change of air; a man in a suit came and interviewed the rabbit but it didn’t talk, the budgie on the other hand sang.  We all went out, dressed like covered lorries (we never told anyone about our cargo) and searched high and low for something to bring home.


About Gerald Shepherd

Gerald Shepherd is a painter, graphic artist, sculptor, digital/multimedia artist, photographer, writer, curator and arts administrator. He has also been involved with science art, performance art, conceptual art, installations and environments (as well as peripheral creative pursuits such as garden design).
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