Weekly Diary


I hid all of my faces as the morning sky lit up without a visible sun; the dog was curled up reading an onion skin and I pulled the pillow case I had found Father Christmas in over a bright blue head that had flown in through the open window – I waved to its bright blue body which was waiting at the top of the garden. The little man flew away today; I didn’t see him go but felt his presence like crepe paper landing on a little face drawn in chalk. I walked beside the chalk lines and touched the places the small prophets had proclaimed the most permanent. “Even invisible people need their own territory” – I read this at the bottom of a lake, prehistoric footprints were still visible (surprisingly there was two suns in the sky).


I rose like a graveyard mist, pulled a twig off an ancient yew tree for an emissary of the duck billed platypus people (newly evolved and living in Brighton) and then polished the mahogany chest of drawers on my forehead in readiness for a trip to the dentist – as it turned out he commented on the gorgon headed drawer knobs but never examined their contents. I came home to sit in my tennis match studio, my head moving in time to the passing traffic. After game, set and match I wandered around our Golden Bough garden, noticing several hamadryads go buy pushing supermarket trolleys – June went out later to do her own shopping, I christened it Eurydice and then sought to rescue it without once looking back.


It was a tropical island morning (or so the seabird said while carrying a replica of Michelangelo’s Madonna and Child inside a Gemini space capsule overhead). I reached up and pulled a fossilised trilobite off an overhanging branch – I added this to my collection of holiday mementoes: placing it next to a carton of radioactive ice cream and a Mr Punch puppet which danced to the first movement of Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony when one flicked a switch on its tummy. I left the beach, still wearing a theatre curtain t-shirt, and walked to town to gets some reds for the rabbit and a strange puce colour for the automaton by the gate who shouts at strangers and collects empty beer bottles from members of the Women’s Institute.


I got up in an army uniform; the cat in my studio had been in the ATS during the war and had single handedly shot down an enemy bomber using a barrage balloon. Changing to an astronaut’s play suit I took giant steps up the garden before retiring to my studio to paint shadows cast by primeval trees; one shadow almost reached a tiny figure standing in the corner of the room – he later disappeared to converse with a girl from our joint childhood – unfulfilled dreams were thrown over the castle wall by a stand in for Don Quixote. In the Italian evening June and I went out for dinner at the bottom of an upturned boat. June listened to operatic cutlery while I stuck flames in my mouth and came home with my head in a milk float.


After my bath in a disabled battle tank I went barefoot into the stiletto heel garden to feed the fish – a man with a rhinoceros mask floated overhead. After slowly walking the dog I quickly walked to town to get several sheets of paper to rub together like a caveman poet – I would call the poem fire and then watch it change to a bouquet of flowers left on the door step of an empty house (no one would have guessed that the door would later open and the flowers be lovingly taken inside). I worked in my split personality studio for the rest of the day. Outside a group of people had mysteriously assembled; all were looking into holes in the ground – some had their own holes and some had to share.


I rose extremely early, found that the dawn was false (it had lied about its age and its participation in the film “The Magnificent Eight”) and went back to bed – although not before I had looked at the new curtains June had just put up; on one was a picture of heaven and on the other was a picture of hell – I pulled them open: the garden was barely visible. I dreamt about the Statue of Liberty wearing sunglasses and then woke up late to run for my bus (which was already running for me). I reached the cartoon house in time for a fire alarm breakfast. After checking the cartoon garden the Gentle Giant and I talked about little things before I came home by passenger dove. I had several items wrapped up in my heart shaped haversack.


I got up with a very dry throat and decided to walk Poppy along the bottom of a chasm that had appeared in open country behind the headless statues waiting for a delivery from Easter Island. I calculated we were about a mile down and then calculated the number of Harley Davidson motorcycles that would be needed to fill the gap under the bathroom door. I waited for water with two glasses hanging from my ear lobes but only received an arrow in my heel from a group of Amazonian snails rampaging through the ancient Greek countryside – I wouldn’t have noticed this if I hadn’t bent down to collect the mail from the rock python postman. June came in and then went out again almost immediately.


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).
This entry was posted in Diary, prose and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s