It felt like a premature Spring as I chased shadows round the sunless garden. June wrestled with clothes that had been miraculously resurrected during the night (it was rumoured by a Chaucerian pilgrim although I favour the Wife of Bath); they had tried to escape until tackled by the dog who was trying out a new style of Maori war paint at the time. I stayed in the question and answer garden most of the day; my longer sentences grammatically corrected by tea breaks and the visit of a family of vampire bats who flew in wanting batteries for their clockwork toys – we collectively flew out to the shops like leaves liberated by the sudden opening of a long shut door. As if to celebrate the continuum of existence June slowly cleaned the glass separating us from our remotest ancestors.
I didn’t sleep very well and got out of my seashell bed with a fish tail covering my eyes; I tried to swish it away but ended up doing several lengths of the pool instead – even though I can’t swim. I noticed, as I looked up, that June was standing on the springboard with the raising of the Mary Rose depicted on her swimsuit – I would have preferred the Bayeaux tapestry myself. She plunged into her coffee cup as I ironed my underpants with the traction engine that had appeared in one dream and then slowly trundled into another, pulling a ploughed field as it did so. After June had diminished in the distance I painted like hanging washing, only stopping when I run out of pegs and a stranger pressed his face against the glass; turning a smile into a barren piece of ground.
Neither June or I slept very well again; I looked out the bedroom window on my way to the space station and noticed that the mutant insects on the lawn had got even bigger – a few more days and a group of ancient Greeks could climb inside. While the king and queen of my imagination kissed Cassandra drew a sign in the sandpit and I scaled it up to a short play about a man who had been accidentally locked in a vault for several hundred years – I thought about playing the part myself even though I had the keys to the door in my pocket. His finger nails were several feet long and the grasshopper scientists were consequently able to date the end of the last ice age to a couple of days. This said I was still surprised when I found items of female underwear shoved in the fridge.
When I let the dog out I noticed she had a small plastic toy stuck in the blonde wig she was wearing, I pondered its provenance while pulling on a welcome mat cardigan. The musician who has been stuck in our chimney for ages finally managed to play a tune as a flock of small paper arrows flew overhead – he would have had limited vision of the event and I thought of him as a good paradigm for two dimensional awareness in a three dimensional world. I had only a short walk because I was expecting a call; I circled a pile of fallen masonry while the dog went round a child’s drawing of a tree house pinned to the wall. The door bell rang and I looked up the chimney before painting a face on a drum skin and then punching it in three four time.
I woke up twice, the first time into a house where it was impossible to find the front door and the second time as June slammed it on her way to work. I rose like the test run of the prototype hovercraft (I have always thought I have Christopher Cockerell blood cells) and then walked the dog along the veins of a gigantic cabbage leaf. I later climbed the Brassica ladder to my studio where I worked on an effigy of Jane Austin made from a large slice of Cheddar cheese. A number of Tuaregs emerged from a rerun of Beau Geste and crossed the concrete lily pad beneath my window – for sometime now this has been a meeting point for extraterrestrial amphibians – with some effort I managed to push my bare legs through a giant coffee bean and walked the fort ramparts devising a new type of poetry.
An early start to the day; although when I pulled on my suit, based on the front facade of Reims Cathedral, June was already up. She plucked her eyebrows on the front porch as a luxury cruise liner had berthed in the bathroom and the night dancer was trying on her pitch black tutu in the hourglass silence of our bedroom. I watched gold pocket watches amble along the horizon as I sat in the front seat of a moving goldfish bowl with my head hired out to the local dramatic society for a brand new performance of “A Midsummer’s Night Dream”. I met the friendly giant in his great hall, commented on the tartan apples emerging from the rainbow walls and then practiced a sword dance in a earthenware flowerpot before coming home in the handbag of a Venusian cat woman.
I woke hearing the rain kneading the bread dough pavement; billowing curtains looked like scolding arms. I raised a flag on the unconscious verandah like space that surrounds each individual house in what I sarcastically call the brain city while in the simultaneity of a tired mind two figures raised the sail on their small boat and slowly disappeared into the spider like writing of an internal sky. I worked all day in the network of caves we rent from the bird song dwarf, moving furniture in a similar way to a tin can moving sardines. After a hurried dinner I split into two with one half watching people from his past peeling themselves off the too dull walls and the other watching a woman pull her ostrich head from the too bright sand.