Weekly Diary


June got up early to prepare herself for her fortnightly hill sitting, I followed some time later with a sheltered valley on my brow. She went out with cups and saucers on her lap (the table was in the boot being taught how to open its heart chakra by a set of plastic garden chairs). I went back in to find the dog powdering her nose with rain forest pollen and a three toed sloth reading the newspaper: very slowly at first but it quickened up as it neared the sports pages. I retired to my dungeon in the sky where I shackled myself with what are purported to be gnomic phrases; a passing flying dolphin stopped by for a chat and then showed me how to propel a coloured ball out of the water like a ballistic missile – apparently it is heading for Moscow and World War Three will quickly ensue.


While June slept in a bed of soft hands I woke in the middle of the night to find myself clinging to the side of the Raft of the Medusa mattress, childhood memories of Marine Boy and Saturday dinner times (mashed potato with cheese and beans) reflected in the vampire mirror. Using the inside of my head as a page I wrote myself onto the back of a giant bird, which then took off with a small car in its talons – it goes without saying that I rescued the occupant: a small faun with a large splinter in his foot who apparently had a bit part in a film about the iceberg that hit the Titanic. I subsequently wrote myself onto the dorsal fin of a hammerhead shark just moments before June came home with a question mark on her face and her reading spectacles on her handbag – the handbag later read her mail.


I rose like a paper boy, rolled myself up and travelled to the cardboard countryside thinking all the while that I was in someone else’s head – they thought themselves that there were in an alien cave system with an ominous scratching sound getting closer. I met the man of rock and we talked in green cubicles: initially of violet and purple things and then as the morning moved forward at a leopard slug pace we replaced colours with numbers and I came home as a mathematical equation – the lady opposite tried to solve me not knowing that I have never yet managed to solve myself. June was using a small market town as her life history and came home with a dress several sizes too small and her very last school report. I painted leaves in the garden as she came out partly turned to stone.


June used the horizontal ladder we found in the thinking man’s shed and crawl climbed to work; I wrote my initials on the nose cone of a V2 rocket just before myriads of small white mushrooms emerged from its piebald casing – I thought if I was tiny enough I would be compelled to climb them (even though clouds of fungal spores hung in the air: making silent faces before a smiling sky). I then made a fairy face of my own and walked a baleen whale with a small comb as my mouth – I couldn’t engage the lady on the corner with meaningful conversation so pulled out my handkerchief as if it was a sentence (this meant, of course, that I subsequently had to blow my nose with a little known Elizabethan sonnet and then clean my glasses with the last words of Sir Walter Raleigh).


I got up moments before June (who was encased in an ivy clad tree trunk) and carefully laid out the dream figures who had entertained me during the night on the daylight tongue – this dutifully curled up. June slithered to town in her slow worm suit while I jumped into the garden as if it was a pair of camouflage patterned leisure pants (she returned some time later wearing two pairs of shoes at the same time, I promptly pulled a wedding veil over my face and steadfastly refused to believe that time had moved on from Nineteen Fifty Five. I had spent much of the day attempting to find geometrical order in the push button chaos of life before June and I flicked a switch and went out for a meal in a wild west saloon. Wild Bill Hikok showed me his back but I forgot to pull the pistol trigger.


It had rained during the night (water tricked down our dinner plate roof). I looked at my reflection in a razor blade and then painted on my summertime beard. June went to work, cellophane wrapped like a cheap greetings card. I noticed that my card had been signed by a gap year hippopotamus and then wallowed in its words like mud. In the other room the cat was playing a piano in a syncopated style; I used the musical notes as hair and tried to make a pony tail of sound before walking the dog in a sequence of puddles. We came home with a Moog synthesizer over our heads raining sounds, although I went into my studio in sepulchral silence. I worked like a blanket on bare ground until June came in wearing steam powered clothes and we left the railway station house as a two carriage train.


June made a tunnel out of newspaper and then read herself to work. I had to wear my time machine hat and go back to the place where tall trees were just young boys. I talked to a thin sapling and then to myself, ate a handful of kaleidoscopic biscuits and came home with the telephone in my back pocket waiting to ring. As the doughnut in the sky began to ooze jam I retired to the sanctity of the cat cave and made poetry from paw prints instead of words (although I was stuck when it came to punctuation). A bugler sat on the roof holding a harp, I climbed up about midday and replaced it with a frying pan; he came down sometime later with fried eggs as eyes – I thought to myself that he would have a strange story to tell; but then so has everyone else who cries on our roof.


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, Uncategorized, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Weekly Diary

  1. Brian Hughes says:

    I thought that said a burglar was folding a harp on your roof for a moment. Then I realised that would have been daft and reread it.

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