Weekly Diary

18/11/2012

June got out of a Sunday morning bed while I tried to stay in the Saturday night one. The supernatural being I keep in a trunk at the bottom of the bed was cleaning her glasses even though immortals shouldn’t need them – I touched her ring as if it was a lock of Jean Harlow’s hair. We watched from between the werewolf vase and the vampire flowers as the little Frankenstein monsters arrived for the afternoon. We all travelled back in time as pink and purple fairies. In the town that both sides went round in the English Civil War a crane headed man mechanically lifted a small fragment of childhood high into the air. June rode a Victorian rocking horse and I sat on an Edwardian trike while a speeding train knocked the top hat off the nursery window.

 

19/11/2012

June had a wet weather appointment and went to drizzle town with her pet combine harvester trundling along behind. I was in clockwork railway engine attendance and rained part of the way and rumbled like a main battle cloud the other. Only half in jest I envisioned the giant key protruding from my back as a can opener – as the stranger approached I would spill the beans! June and I met again under a bridge which had several larger bridges arching over it – two children on the uppermost structure dropped sticks onto the one below – they never moved an inch. June bent over to watch the empty water and I noticed that the cornfield on her head had the footprints of Vincent van Gogh running across it. If I had been wearing boots I would have followed them.

 

20/11/2012

I set the alarm clock that the dog had swallowed and some time later woke up with a bark. As usual June got into the Isis and Osiris bathroom first. While watching the silent gesture of the landing light I remembered the story of a cigarette found in an unopened ancient tomb and held on tight to a shadow even though I had no way of knowing for sure it was mine. We had a toy shop breakfast and then went out for a joined up writing day – we both managed to spell some very long words which my sister subsequently arranged into a surprisingly short sentence. June bought a handbag while I purchased some memories with the intention of scattering them when alone in a house. My sister waved goodbye with June and I huddled together like consecutive diary dates under a rain smudged sky.

 

21/11/2012

June went to back to work holding a small part of the Atlantic ocean in two differently sized boxes. I named the small box after a Viking sailer who suffered from sea sickness and the larger one after the personal valet of King William the first (incidentally King William the second died nor very far from where I am writing this after a wasted day hunting wild boar at Lords Cricket Ground during the 2012 Olympic Games). Poppy and I meditated on adjoining rocky outgrowths from an otherwise pristine lawn. I thought about gnarled fingers emerging from thick mud and the likelihood of an expensively gloved hand reaching down to touch them while she watched intently as a small flock of seagulls circled the municipal rubbish dump.

 

22/11/2012

Conscious there was an imaginary figure going up and down a set of stairs inside my head I very quietly walked the entire length of a giant keyboard to reach the back door; I initially walked only on white but eventually changed key. I returned like a Namib Desert sea fog; the dog was dancing in points although her reflection was barefoot. We walked along a Gizelle stage, changing the story as we did so and said good bye to the indestructible robot heroine at the front door (she was destined to replace Gort in the twenty second remake of the science fiction classic – this one set in the garden of the house I grew up in). I had covered myself in fallen leaves (each leaf a memory) when June entered; the imaginary figures in her head having dug a large hole and then filled it in again.

 

23/11/2012

June and I got up extremely early, she was a bay window and I was a double door. As it turned out the bay window opened first! I caught a multilingual bus from the distant future and asked for my ticket in fourteen separate languages; the bus driver only replied in six but handed me my change in dimes instead of pence. I contrasted this with my collection of Guinness bottle tops and then used these to buy a field of brassicas in case the people who land in the night are celestial rabbits. I spoke for some time with the Lagomorph leader: he told me stories from the past when an entire civilisation would rise and fall in the time it takes to walk from the cockpit to the cargo bay in a Douglas DC3 Dakota. I had to strap a parachute on to come home, landing uncomfortably on a pre-digital television aerial.

 

24/11/2012

I slept very badly in a tennis match night. June tightened the net in case I won the game and wanted to jump over it (she should have known I would always crawl underneath – usually holding onto a model soldier from a reenactment of the Battle of El Alamein). When the cordite and smoke had settled – and I had pulled the plastic alligator with snapping mouth out of the marsupial pouch I had been wearing on my abdomen in lieu of a painting of the Forth Bridge – I walked to rain town like a soldier who had forgotten to stop marching. I had to take June past the man sheltering in the underpass with a bag of dirty washing – not all his own. I told him I never wear clothes only the flags of the fifteen countries still extant in the Twenty Second Century.

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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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