Weekly Diary


June went to the hill top meeting and came back with a glass of water on each eyelid; I reached for my umbrella as she fluttered her eyelashes. After the rain had died down we went out to buy a can of white paint even though there is one already on the kitchen floor with sharks swimming it; I pulled out a swimmer and called her a brush – a cloud entered the open window but left before we could close it again; I tried to mark its flight path on the floor with a pencil line, surprisingly it resembled a figure with wings. June cooked a camp side meal as I painted the flames on the fire (I recollected that I have been waiting my whole life for a person with fires in their eyes, the nearest I have got was meeting a man with smoke from his ears).


June had to go to work to be taught how to talk to dolls; I wasn’t sure if I could feel my hands and walked on water to the shop and back – I spoke to a lady with sailing boat shoes and then crumpled the grey sky into a grey ball. I waited a short while for a leg to kick the ball but only arms emerged from the built-in cupboards. I then worked in my canal boat studio, remembering childhood games as I placed pencil lines into tight formations like advancing soldiers. Most of the soldiers were shaped like landscapes, one of which was covered in snow resembling a celtic cross in a remote churchyard. June came in as the marching band started to play and the cat dancers jumped from ethereal laps – I was surprised when I found out later that the drummer was a girl.


I listened to the wind rattling the picture frame window (I prefer to see a painted landscape when I rise) and then spoke to trees as I entered the kitchen by way of a very long rope; the dog was coiled up on the cat mat and I unknotted her tail ( I think it was a granny knot but it could have been another relation. I only ever knew one grandad: not sure if I will ever meet the other one, perhaps in a battlefield in the sky – however, by then the fighting will have stopped and all territorial disputes would be settled with lawn mowers). June and I had to hang wallpaper as the smoke settled; she stood in a hole while I stood on a ladder – when we reached the door that no one is allowed to open we decided to stop. A sky god knocked on the door and let himself in.


I stepped into a picture book straight from a dream; I ticked the first page illustrating a hedgehog in a gun barrel and a severed hand wrapped in Sellotape and then made myself breakfast on the second. June and I were hanging wallpaper again while the rest of the animal occupants of the house were busy solving lagrangian equations. I spent all afternoon atop a ladder which had earlier expressed an interest in walking on its own, eventually stepping out of the front door to Colditz freedom; as I would have been clinging to its top I was glad when I finally persuaded it not to – recommending instead that it learnt to play the lute (I mentioned the music of John Downland as a good starting point). June and I stood like castles either site of a strait, both watching intently as two mermaids pulled themselves out of the water and started throwing clays pots on a revolving rock.


A return to Indus Valley civilisation normality: June went to work although a bit later than usual, partly because she was carrying the parts of a Crimean War cannon on her back which she promised to reassemble at the foot of the old man’s bed (reputedly he has a moustache which is several yards long and writhes like a snake when bathed in moonlight; I told her to bathe it only in salt water). As is my want I locked myself into my postbox studio to paint letters as they fall like mechanically substituted bison – incidentally, I look forward to an era when all plains are covered in bison again. June came home, not much earlier than usual, riding a water buffalo. I made her a coffee while a man stepped off a flying boat in the back garden.


I got up early, with a semidetached house on my back – I am waiting for planning permission to add a conservatory. June was downstairs nursing a bungalow when I descended with a parachute made from scraps of unused wallpaper (cream and beige stripes). I caught the bus at the Cyclops roundabout (red and white strips) and travelled back in time; each hillside had a smiling face and each modest dwelling had a door like a flying fish (all dreams return as flying fish or swimming birds). The old king and I talked about facial expressions on hillside and I then built a trench in the garden – the Germans are the other side of the fence and we will have a game of football on Christmas Day. I came home inside a beer tankard and immediately pulled a glass of water.


As I got out of bed I imagined painting a set of gleaming white teeth on someone’s buttocks – June was accidentally talking to an American trucker – I imagined him sitting on his smile. Instead of breakfast I painted my face a dark shade of grey and then painted the house doors white. June walked to town with broom stick legs as I settled down to paint the bannister. I was equipped with brushes at the end of my cricket bat arms and a radio chair mimicked my harmonica mouth, I breathed out a tune until June signaled like a recently extinguished light at the end of a tunnel (to communicate properly I had to become a Victorian engineer and build a railway). I saw her again at the railway station alighting from a white horse – our shadows touched even though we were several feet apart.


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, Poetry, 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