Weekly Diary


June left the house curled up in a ball (I pictured a dormouse curled up in a muzzle loading cannon – it couldn’t be fired by an act of the Icelandic Parliament – who couldn’t take action themselves by a law of the Sicilian Regional Assembly). June uncurled at her hilltop rendezvous and waited for the arrival of the diagonal rain – as it turned out the diagonal was late but the vertical was early and she came home inside a birch log (a paleolithic hunter gatherer with the commendable ambition of turning the log into a tug boat on the river Tyne was attached at the top). After a hurried breakfast of childhood photographs I went into the cake garden just before King Alfred came along and burnt it. I came in again myself just before the arrival of the horizontal rain.


I stayed in the torus shape of a tokamak face all day (this is a new style of portraiture I am trying to perfect even though it means painting with fast moving atomic particles); my body had disagreed on principle and had cast off it clothes like an unfinished building site waiting for a new consignment of sand. June burrowed in mole rat tunnels while trying out various colour combinations for a three masted yacht (although the man with three names who recently arrived on earth after hitching a life on a passing comet talked all posh and called it schooner). We met for lunch in a bivouac in Death Valley – we are in training for a holiday on Mars (although I would have preferred Minerva but the brochure said it was too expensive).


I turned my ears into surface piercing hydrofoils as a mark of respect and then took the long eared man for his appointment with the gnawing machine; I had to collect him again later after the machine had gnawed through the entire civilisation of the Indus Valley and was moving onto the Mesopotamian. In between I danced in the Bharatanatyam style, counted up to a hundred using numbers I had invented myself and sat crossed legged on a deep sea vent I had mischievously nicknamed Michael. For once June remained tied to the house; fluorescent wires connecting her to a robotic avatar several thousand years in the future when mankind was endangered and Bengal tigers were in power. I shed my skin several times before becoming a four winged imago in my orbiting studio.


June and I both got up early in the child’s tree house morning, climbing between xylem and phloem before looking through the original “green man” window – it had previously been used by a family of little owls and before that for a convention of hamadryads. She went to town while I spoke to the water rat inside the plumbing system of a Vanguard class spaceship. I was annoyed when I found a lot of my paintings inside – some of which were already showing signs of genetic mutation. June was late home, having met friends in the Octopus Cafe (you get served very quickly but you have to hold your breath a long time!). By the time she got home I had moved on to moonlighting as a stylised water lily in a piece of Dresden porcelain.


I had my weekly early start, getting up with the inaugural journey of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway in my head, and looking out at a Shepherd’s Warning sunrise with the remains of summer still stranded on the door step. The step poked out its tongue and then superimposed it on top of a collection of Victorian mourning photographs, and this despite the fact that I was metamorphosing into a South American sun god and the house was built in the time of George the Fifth – although my astral plane neighbour believes it is actually Edwardian and somehow got lost when the multidimensional winds changed. I went out into the calm lands, stopping to say hello to the ancestral river god and climbing the playing cards steps to commune with a darkened nature in the unlit loft.


I got up inside an old fashioned camera and then exposed myself; luckily no one was looking. I had a bath in a cup of tea while June showered in coffee; this part of our relationship has never changed. I carefully smeared myself in brown sauce and laid on a bag of chips moments before June went out hand in hand with a petrol driven lawn mower. I followed later with the tentacles of a red giant starfish still attached to my Richard the Lionheart front. After a meal of a robot’s teeth in a concrete bap we both came home through the teddy bear swamp (by the rocking horse bridge) and I wrapped myself in the blanket of my studio; the movement of my hands forming a smiling face in a time lapse photograph of an electric arc.


June spent the night on the floral patterned carpet while I stayed underneath; we met again while pasted to the wall under a William Morris wallpaper (to be honest I thought it was too intricate and was quite pleased when the council added double yellow lines even though we can no longer stand in front without getting a ticket). I had to rush to town like a Casey Jones shopping trolley and then June and I went to the city we had previously likened to a medieval mouth: two strangers played rhythm and blues on its medieval tongue while I spied on all the figures below through its equally old eye – I was surprised to find that one of the figures was June herself, looking like she had been spread over a cobbled street and then burnished to a soft sheen.


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:

    Those Casey Jones shopping trolleys are a nightmare, a steaming and a rolling all over the place.

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