Weekly Diary


June and I had a lay in on the back of a basking shark; it was so large we were able to proclaim country status each side of the white road markings – moving up the hierarchical tree I wished wars would not occur across double lines. June spent part of the day inside a revolving drum, her Tiffany lamp glasses clunking against the sides, while I went out into the garden as a French Legionnaire trying to invent a past I could subsequently try to forget. The insects had become as large as coffee tables and I hid a number of tea mug stains on the back of a worker red ant as I knew June would complain. Halfway through the day a lady rang from the top deck of a brigantine; June was left holding the conversation as I had become a sacred stone on the island of Lindisfarne.



I only had time to pull a handful of reeds from a lump of clay which had landed on the bath mat during the night before going to the leprechaun health centre. I had a noose put round my arm and was hung up like a string puppet while the lady behind the desk moved from one chair to another – I thought they looked identical until I noticed one had a small dog, which had purportedly belonged to Mary Queen Of Scots, cowering underneath (I gave it a biscuit and the mobile telephone number of the Greek goddess Athena – she and I are very close after I designed her motorcycle leathers complete with colour coded message on the back). My blood pressure was considered acceptable to invite to select dinner parties and I went to town with two parcels before coming back with one.



I noticed that the giant mouth I had to walk through to emerge from the aluminum stranded cocoon June considers our bedroom (and I consider a mini-submarine) had household electrical items for teeth; I was tempted to turn on the incisor television but in the end listened to a molar radio. I heard the end of the news before it sank like an ancient Greek ship in the Mediterranean – some time later (I am told by the bright white shadows) scientists will ponder over its cleverly integrated cogs and levers and use it to calculate the number of aztecs it would take to make a hummingbird headdress. After dark a small man with a large hat knocked the door; I introduced myself as a piece of cognizant scaffolding and the house as a forgotten palace of Semele.



Our neighbour christened the drudgingly grey day a good morning as I rode up the garden path on an urban water buffalo. I found a microphone near the top, close to where a giant’s footprint had made a pond, and addressed the crowd who had assembled to watch a werewolf being pulled from a thicket while he eulogized about Dr Martin Luther King. I startled everyone in attendance by reciting my thirteen times table backwards and he made his escape together with the souls of lovers who had died together – I imagined them swirling around in a casserole dish before being tasted by the chef. June come home early with two bacon and egg sandwiches in her holsters; being a vegetarian I had to put my arms up and kept them there until the man who existed only as a reflection saw himself.



June and I, for an Alice In Wonderland reason, found ourselves in adjoining aerosol cans on the bathroom cabinet (factual aside: this took me all day to put up as the screw holes kept getting bigger!). She emerged as the elusive smell of roses and I kept hair in place – I tested this by running on the spot while talking to a man with a cloud for a head: I asked if he had a silver lining and he rained on the dog. While walking upstairs to my silver haired studio I thought about plucking my barb wired eyebrows but changed my mind when I remembered all the bodies that had been brought down by machine gun fire in the building site mud across the road. I drew a scream on the condensed water window and then silently steamed up my spectacles.



I folded myself into a kite shape and hung above the dark bodies scurrying to work (part of me wanted to call them shadows and another part ink stains on a celestial page). I followed a deep vein to the family heart; which was still beating strongly despite several giddy attacks in the unshaven family history book. We talked in a language that only internal organs can understand and I then came home by public peristalsis. Before I could start work I had to attach a telephone to the cat and an old fashioned analogue dial to the dog – she ran around in ever decreasing circles while I finally managed to detach my third hand. When the pointer had reached the top of the dial we went out; looking back from near the top of the hill I saw the elephant engine sheds.



June and I went to town; I was rolled up inside a cheese omelette and she was inside a plain one – she gave me her salad. She wanted to buy a mobile home in the strip of Liverpool Football Club and we examined the plot: curiously it only had a single goal mouth although I thought this would make a fairer game – we parted company before a goal was scored. I came home to sit in a tank of aquatic reptiles some time before the time of the dinosaurs and then collected her again just after the rainman had found the key but thankfully some time before he had found the door. The man by a fallen tree asked for his reality instead of his gift – thankfully his reality is different to mine. Meanwhile a young girl on the opposite side of the road unzipped the top of her head and let out a small bird.


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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