Weekly Diary


I had a lay in on the bed of a circular saw (three thousand, seven hundred revolutions a minute), frantically trying to recall the shreds of the dreams I had just had. June had risen sometime earlier to watch a trestle table climb the stairs unaided; the cat, who had been asleep on the computer keyboard pressed the escape key and all the skeletons in the cupboard turned to dust. I put the table up with small electric fans forming satyr horns on my chest of drawers forehead. We had to go out, so June laid out the cutlery for an invisible meal while I picked up all the clothes which had performed as extras in the action film shot outside. I met all the other cast members up the road and we pretended to be vampire werewolves again. I was also a merman bear dog.



The secret agent in me was uncovering a plot as I walked the dog along a row of front doors, one of which was open even though all the back doors were closed. After watching Europa escape carrying the bull I went back to the house to make classical columns out of gothic liquorice. I worked in the black ruins as much of the day as I could; the children outside happily making a moon out of the contents of a skip and me making an eclipse out of a significant stream of coincidences. As the light began to dim I heard the children again in a tree, not as high as me when I was young but still able to reach out and unzip an old wall to reveal a new wall inside. A tortoiseshell cat walked the entire length of the new wall for a fuss even though all the man with a walking stick could offer was an empty glove.



I had to go out for a family meal; June who had inadvertently got herself trapped in a hypodermic syringe – along with several billion influenza bugs – came along later. My sister and I recalled the days of horse driven mail coaches at the railway station and then met my father inside a motorised banana skin; we had to peel the banana to get him out. I drunk the contents of a horn last blown by Roland and then dipped my fingers in a tar pit to tickle a sabre toothed tiger under the chin – it later escaped like most memories usually do. After the meal we walked around the farmers market picking at pieces of corn and making words on the floor; my father rode away in a vehicle made entirely of consonants while we followed the trail of vowels back home.



Apart from a short trip to find cabbage leaves to stitch together to make a dress I stayed indoors. The outside was turning itself inside out like a starfish eating and the furniture from the house next door was lined up on the grass; I felt sure if someone issued the command they would all start to dance. Before climbing the jaw like stairs I searched my pockets for numbers; apparently I can only make modest calculations and any algebra will have to wait until the weekend. My studio was full of lights; apart from an unlucky few fly trapped between the window pane and net curtain they were hovering in a cluster several feet from where the cat had recently clawed the ground. I worked out a route and then carefully followed it, touching the picture surface quite early in the day.



I raced out of the front door with mountain bike earrings. I picked up a plain brown envelope of flying saucers for the dog’s forbidden planet and crash landed in my studio after orbiting the town centre playing a Moog synthesizer like a million monkeys accidentally typing the entire works of Shakespeare. I soon found my feet and shortly afterwards found my hands as well. I incised a hundred different nome de plumes on the trunk of a baobab tree before June came in wrestling with a new poodle hair style; I took the dog out for a walk while she went to find a hat. She left the house again with me following some way behind holding the edge of a large cardboard box like the train of a wedding dress for of an invertebrate bride.



I had to get up early; June was gliding over the kitchen floor atop mechanical chickens which serve as shoes when inside the house – the house resembles a Saint Bernards dog head and I viewed the world through its left nostril; as far as I could see there were handcuffed harpists staring at the horizon. I caught the bus and travelled into this horizon myself, changing at a toy fort (where purportedly a battalion of millipedes learnt to march, personally I feel centipedes is more likely). The large man was sat in the dark with light radiating from his breakfast on a smiling face plate. I assigned the face to the middle to late Sixties. We talked of all the funerals we had missed and the self evident superiority of the one in four hill.



Unusually for a weekend June had to work, I heard her bang a recalcitrant door while watching the clock cuckoo put on his dungarees. I pulled a small piece of landscape off the view from the bedroom window and carried it out into the garden. Other flag bearers had already gathered and I imagined a large room filled with plinths and recumbent figures, each stretching further back in time – cue music and a skeletal arm plucks its own sinews. Coming back from town I glanced in a mirror and saw a leopard’s head (I’m not sure if it suited me but I need to improve my biceps), I glanced again and saw Gold Beach during the Normandy landings – in the background was a garlanded figure, I searched in vain for a violet flower.


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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5 Responses to Weekly Diary

  1. yourothermotherhere says:

    “…my father rode away in a vehicle made entirely of consonants while we followed the trail of vowels back home.” Great stuff Gerald!

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