Weekly Diary


June was walking round aimlessly cradling an empty flower vase and wearing a cloud as her new hairdo when I entered the room.  I had gone out early to put a coloured ring on the leg of a pterodactyl and was pulling long rat whiskers out of my Cranbourne Chase moustache in readiness for my hunt for breakfast – not know that breakfast was preparing to hunt for me and I would soon be pinned to the ground by a set of antique hat pins (I knew in my mind’s ear that the hat was a burial mound of an ancient king and the local farmers shouldn’t be allowed to graze their sheep on it).


June disappeared through a looking glass that had got stuck down a rabbit hole before I had emerged from the gun port of a warship of the Nelson era.  I made myself a cup of tea on the church spire and then looked to see from which direction the wind was blowing; as it turned out it was descending from above and I watched a formation of flying heads on their annual migration route.  I got trapped in a blue whale bubble from mid morning and spent a long time transferring strange expression onto a blank screen – only pausing when a troupe of building site dancers entered the room.


June couldn’t sleep so I dressed as a wild boar and travelled to a famous secret grove to find a herb called moly.  I was later pictured in books on alternative mythologies as having bare legs sticking out of my hat and the scaffolding from the side of Saint Paul’s Cathedral over my ankles.  When I left the house, almost an epoch later, everyone had turned to wood and were leaving chippings as they rushed to the station on their firewood commute.  The dog, meanwhile, had painted herself grey and was planning to participate in Navy Davy – the rabbit was wearing a bathing suit.


I looked in eight mirrors simultaneously to see if my patented flushing toilet earrings looked OK (the first movement of William Walton’s First Symphony was playing squash with itself inside my head).  After a group of farm tractors had danced on the head of a pin I went out to find a field to cover with postage stamps.  The lady behind the counter gave me a leg that had just danced into her shop looking for its owner – I thought the cat could use it to scratch its nose and brought it home not realising that it would demand python skin stockings and a diet of frozen bloodworms.


I suspected a band of ancient mariners were trying to repair their boat in the sheltered harbour of our garden; I tied a clump of hedging material to my back and investigated, finding a plane that looked like shoe and a shoe that hid a small dancer that rose up when the music stopped.  June walked a piece of wood to work, stopping to examine a flower emerging from the crumpled remains of Lawrence of Arabia’s motorcycle.  A message on the gate proclaimed that immortality was made from prime numbers and I balanced the scapula of a mastodon on my slide rule.


I left the house by the rabbit god portal but managed to hide my long ears under my hat as I materialised among a congregation of prehistoric cave painters.  I did get a few strange looks as I went down the hill in a walking canoe – probably because it was a cold morning and the canoe had bare legs.  After a short journey jumping on alarm clocks I met the old man under a duvet of cheese on toast; I then admired a nettle patch as it crept up a garden and adjoining hillside like a bad case of varicose veins.  I came home via a cabbage tree artery, stopping off to pat a lamp post instead of a dog.


June went to town among a horde of ethereal beings while I decided to stand in an empty wardrobe and wait for it to be converted into the cargo hold of an interstellar spaceship.  While there (and after pondering how big the crack in the bedroom ceiling will get before the ceiling actually collapses) I reminisced about walking into a seaside restaurant and seeing a room full of marine worms sat down to tea – a sea urchin with a Spanish surrealist on her head took my order and then watched a small helicopter take off from the platform on my own head and proceed to circle the room.


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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