Weekly Diary



June and I couldn’t go out as we were expecting the snowflake children to flutter to the ground; I was planning to capture one and show it to the ice princess – unfortunately she had decided to go out with the sun prince (and we all know what happened then). When I opened the back door an invisible pianist played a late Beethoven piano sonata on my front teeth; I had gone up the garden before the inaudible applause had started but on my return I clapped with cold hands from within a large clump of Chinese bamboo. I couldn’t face another concert and spent the rest of day indoors, painting with steam and sculpting hot air. I saw the monocled all weather god and was surprised when he bent a piece of thin wire into the shape of a clothed Lady Godiva on a naked horse.






It was Easter Monday and the crocodiles had the day off. I performed the dance of the seven veils in a pretend underworld and then turned myself into a naked page onto which words could pin themselves. June had already taken her scribbled page to work (the big black birds spiralled upwards and the raven on the desk had changed her dress). After writing in underwater verse I underwater coloured on the unblinking screen; the waterfall in my head kept the small men in barrels in mid air as long as the flying monkeys wanted. Towards the end of the day I asked if the monkeys wanted anything else; I was holding the complete works of Shakespeare but they only needed a drink. I had already found a fashion model in a bottle of French wine and now there was a dog on the cat walk.






Back to unnormal normality where after a breakfast of moving pictures I walked the dog along the top of a throat lozenge (on the horizon sharks were being menaced by boats) and then came home with my hat forming the braking parachute of a Lockheed SR71A. I didn’t want to walk on hot coals in my studio so I sat on cinders in my study. I waved a wand at an open desert eye but it closed in the jungle; I expected there to be thousands of creatures unknown to science but all I found was a tea bag with a Union Jack on it – I flew it at half mast and stood motionless as pictures from my childhood marched by; I wondered if I held out my hand they would take me with them, instead an express train sped by tugging at my T-Shirt sleeves. I waved to myself.






I had to go to town and chose the route beside a field of nuclear powered submarines – I felt it was too cold for them to be left out without coats. After climbing to the thirteenth storey to post a letter using the propellor on my dunces hat I came home with nothing in my shopping bag; the lady I passed with her black and white dog said it was invisible food for the invisible man – I gave an invisible thank you. Once back on the bridge of my space dredger I set to like a pit viper with consciousness and made dark energy marks on a dark matter screen. June came in later on a space tug; the liner was apparently moored in another dimension as all the passengers had dysentery. I am hoping that somewhere out there is a single man and I am just his thoughts – I am not sure whose thoughts everyone else is.






June had a day off work and stood like a silent paperback in a choir of singing hardbacks – I meanwhile was contemplating what might come after M-theory (a little voice in my head said N). I didn’t have time for a proper dinner before walking June to the bird headed people place where she planned to sit in a hedge emulating an ancient apple tree. She returned home much later with a hunting party of long tailed tits fluttering about her top branches. I had unwittingly sat in a growing chair so long I had disappeared through the ceiling; I was just about to examine the markings on the great bell in the loft when a young gypsy girl with a goat helped me down again. June never mentioned the girl but wanted to know what I was doing with the goat.





I rushed out of the school satchel door holding a bag of sweets (these were to give to the teacher who was planning to go to town on the back of a cockerel). I caught a bus on the Indian subcontinent and retraced the route of Alexander the Great before he turned into a dog and threw himself out of a first floor window after the postman – he wasn’t hurt, I wish I could say the same for the man. I met the talking clock in his Olympus bungalow and we talked of German bombs following a neighbour home during the last war – he had time to change into a red kite before they went off. On my own way home I saw a field of bright pink stars and thought of my childhood while a white dove suddenly changed into a building site – I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford the house.






I felt ill all night. I had been washed up on a tropical island and was surrounded by bespectacled manatees searching through their family records in the hope of finding a king – I said there was more chance of finding a god, at which point all the palm trees grew legs and walked off. Outside a number of people walked down the street whispering at the top of their voices; the sound reverberated round my Saint Paul’s Cathedral headpiece. The ancient mammal duvet fell down as the dog skulked off to sit like a candle in an ice cave. June turned over before she got up. I heard the front door yawn as my De Falla body connected with the Sibelius floor. I bathed in iced tea and then took a transcontinental train journey to my study – I remembered the name of the singer just after the song had ended.



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, Writing 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