Weekly Diary


I had to pull an old bedstead and part of an automobile out of my mouth before I could escape my helium balloon bed. I ate a breakfast of orthopedic pillows and mixed aeroplane contrails (I like a high flying breakfast even if I slowly descend during the rest of the day). I then inspected the young australopithecines holding medieval pikes beside the garden path. I frequently lead myself up and down this path especially if I see the shadows of ancient warriors on the house wall. June and I had to go out to buy a box of secrets, leaving our dog Poppy at the controls of the bathysphere; she was gliding along the deepest part of the Marianas Trench when we returned – both June and I got our hair wet (although mine dried out quicker!).


June fell out of a hole in the wall a few minutes before me; I landed with a bump (although the bump slunk off almost immediately) and pulled a wrought iron cobweb out of my industrial grade hair. I then settled down to paint my version of Michelangelo’s Last Judgement on the underside of a sheet of arsenic green striped wallpaper – I was going to call it The First Judgement but the dog, who was decorating one of her collection of antique shuttlecocks with artificial spider legs, told me not to. June came home earlier than usual to measure the width of the stripes – one was fractionally too big and we had to call in next door’s combine harvester. I folded up a now faded photograph of many people climbing a hill and put it with the image of them coming down again.


I got up wearing a yacht and wrote on my own sails using a lipstick I borrowed from the only marsupial woman I have ever met. The buoys in the street were looking for trouble as I placed a pair of sunglasses on one of the street lamps lined up like soccer linesmen. June and I caught the train (reputedly in a net made from an old pair of tights – as the only occupant of our house who regularly wears hosiery is the budgerigar we are only able to catch local trains). We decided to walk like white egrets in the water meadows; a statue of Jesus Christ was standing in the distance pointing to some birds – unfortunately they were flying too high to be able to make out the word they were spelling.


I woke up late and found myself astride an American bison on the not great plains. I took time off from my usual routine to paint a landscape on my spectacles and then walk into a brick wall – the wall adjusted its tie into a hyperbolic curve, swallowed its military insignia and marched off. June was in a meeting all morning and hosted a crop circle convention on the top of her head in the afternoon; I secretly thought that all ufos looked like stetsons and pulled a ventriloquist’s dummy out of the smallest pocket of my jeans and struck up a conversation with it; we then interrogated a young girl who was walking down the street with an electric guitar in her handbag.


I had to go to town, carefully hiding my reindeer antlers that had grown in the night under a sun hat. The sun went in as I returned home with umbrella earrings. The house skeletons across the road were being fleshed out by seemingly myriads of faceless people; I pretended that they kept their faces in a brick shed by the site entrance, which was all that remained from the previous building. June chatted to the caryatid’s holding the now waterless aqueduct aloft when she returned from work – she told me had kept her thumb in a hole in a dam all day, I pointed to the overflowing river and we collectively prepared last week’s newspapers for a meal of monosyllabic words.


I got up early while the morning was still crystallised and the veins were prominent on the forearms of the bird headed man standing by his gate – I initially thought he had an eagle head but on reflection it was probably some kind of vulture (I made a note to look through his dustbins with the word archeologist emblazoned on my t-shirt – which incidentally is two sizes too big). After a short flight using goldfinch feathers I found the old man living in a flower pot, I climbed into another and we grew memories and called god a gardener. I came home as a subterranean bird slowly flying through the silt – I lost a feather when I accidentally hit an old pottery shard; it (probably looked older than it actually was).


I pulled myself out of the tea cup I had been sleeping in (using the cord which is attached for this purpose) and stumbled downstairs leaving damp patches on the stair carpet – I examined these later and visualised key battles from the Trojan War; the wounding of Ares was particularly poignant but then I have always kept a picture of Athena on a motorcycle in one of my heads (if you have a lot of heads you have to be careful you don’t wear more than one at a time). As June was away I found a tree to climb, gibbon hanging from the highest branch like an abacus bead – I was slid along several times before the calculation was complete (of course there are some among us who say the calculation is never complete!)


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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