Weekly Diary


I retreated to the garden as bricks were being thrown into an accidental mock up of Hadrian’s Wall by a very high tide. June stayed indoors and ate a plastic cuttlefish for breakfast and then dusted the living room with an Eighteenth Century mob cap. I was outside much of the day, inspired by the impromptu performance of an above ground miner racing the front wheels of an early model of Rolls Royce against the back wheels of a Mini Cooper. I applauded at the end and then came inside where June was trying to thread a piece of thick rope through a very fine needle – I later found out it was actually a halyard from HMS Victory (which I last visited as a young child) and we are both now being stalked by a French sniper from the early part of the Nineteenth century.


June and I ate our breakfasts inside adjoining recyclable bags; I ate crumpled paper and she ate the news. She wanted to go out and arranged herself like an embroidered handkerchief in the breast pocket of her favourite jacket. I painted my jeans before I painted the canvas and then settled down to listen to voices emerge from the river washed stones I collected last week. I arranged the sounds into sets depending on vocal ability; stopping off half way to undress and have a bath with one of a pair of Wellington boots over my head – I thought this would make a good photograph but had left the camera in my school satchel – along with a red and blue flashing Dalek. June came home with the pale coloured finger nails of a faith healer.


I changed my name during the opening credits of the day but kept it secret from myself. June and I left the house as white marks on a white sheet and I photographed the water trickling beside the river before we had a hot drink and a cold meal – as usual I ate too much and floated out as an iceberg in search of ships. She wanted to decorate herself in autumn flowers and stopped off at the electric puppeteer’s place to admire his figures dressed like cross country pylons. I had to pull a splinter I had christened Richard the Third from my always bare foot before turning myself into a bridge which small plastic figures could cross on their way to a small plastic Valhalla. Much later I drew a squiggle face with fifteen eyes and gave it to the goddess Freya.


I had an appointment with a family of vampires and dressed in my best werewolf suit and howled at the lunar street lights as I passed underneath (although by then they had been switched off!). June had a later appointment but went in the same time as me and we both sat on what looked like outstretched hands; the reflection in the opposite mirror reminding me of an ocean floor rock formation holding a sunken ship. Both ships subsequently sailed up the road together, I climbed into my racing car studio and she into her race track living room where she broke in a wild stallion chair in front of the tsunami television. I offered to decorate the room with rope sculptures attached to the ceiling and then rushed out to pull a full size replica of the Kon-Tiki up our front garden beach.


I rose though the lid of an old fashioned milk churn while June was still dreaming of black and white cows. My to do list formed a high altitude contrail which to my great satisfaction was crossed by an even longer one as a London bound commuter snaked by, his head replaced by a noughts and crosses game – I then entered the bus through its gaping bullfrog mouth. I got out via its readily unhinged tongue and walked the short distance to see Bombadil Tom; who was lying on a slice of bread and conjuring up pictures of rivers which talked to each other in a distinct Wiltshire dialect. I went out into the garden to walk straight and curved lines and met up again with a longer beard than mine at the bus stop – two ladies were balancing the souls of non-humans on their outstretched fingers.


I viewed my early morning world through the synthetic baleen of a Twenty Fifth Century church. During this time everyone worshiped porpoises and dressed their robots in the uniform of the Prussian Army in the time of Frederick the Great. I spent the rest of the morning in a giant eye, stopping to write down my thoughts every time it blinked and then passed the afternoon in an equally large ear – I drew pictures even though I couldn’t hear. June went to the very nucleus of the atomic town once the rain letter had been opened and its contents perused. I never bothered looking myself as we only ever seem to get bills. I amused myself, as the evening slowly wrapped itself up in bandages, with the thought of Howard Carter finding a working television in Tutankhamun’s tomb.


I woke like an arrow missing the target and hitting the tree behind. After making a multiple universe out of scrap paper, spray painted to look like fallen leaves, I walked a map of the world to town. June was already there examining a graph showing temperature variations in an anthropomorphic block of ice. We both pretended to be ice people and melted when we touched. I came home inside an electric kettle while she ambled behind cleverly encased in a top of the range cooker. Once home I changed places with the cat who then spent the rest of the day writing. That evening we both caught June and the dog talking to an Eleventh Century scholar about the diagonal beams of light entering a Twelfth Century church – apparently they neatly cut the congregation into two.


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.

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