Weekly Diary

This is late again I am afraid – blame Christmas!


Still clinging to sleep I watched myself walk through my childhood village completely covered with still growing plants. I called up to a window box (although I knew our relationship was already doomed). After dressing in fresh soil June and I treaded the old market path to town, stopping to eat in a tartan skirt and drink in a woolly top and we then came home via stepping stones made from smiling faces. As June linked arms with an easy chair I had to go to London to hear sounds emanate from a hole in the four dimensional ground and watch pictures circle like old school friends. I came home in a darkness pricked by far away lights, my head slowly merging with the railway carriage glass. The stepping stone faces were by then looking tired.


I got up too early and waved to a recumbent June from a hill on the opposite side of the valley. I almost immediately split into three parts (one of which was considerably smaller but older than the others – I christened it Denis Ovan) and we touched fingers even if we couldn’t touch hands. The three of us then picked up two bags of shopping from the single limb of a car park attendant mannequin and took the rope bridge mental route home; seaweed still attached to our heads after an evolutionary short period in the ocean interbreeding with dolphins. When I got in June was rapidly dividing like a protozoan Buddha and spoke to me in Pali and to the postman (who delivered a herd of Indian elephants) in an obscure language she had found at the bottom of a box of pre-breakfast cereal.


June went out before breakfast to sit in a washing machine while I went out to dry in the gasping for breath air. The dog and I walked the entire length of a piece of rope: I found out later it was a lasso said to have been last used by either Hoppalong Cassidy or more likely his horse. We both waved to a figure slowly sinking into a cloud and then talked (for some time) to a woman composed entirely of rain; we eventually entered the house with working windmills on our backs – Poppy’s milled flour while mine ground down ideas into submission. I attached jet engines to my forehead at dinner time and visited June on top of the tallest building in town; I left the burning engines with her and flew down using my six arms as wings.


June and I spent the night inside a giant wooden horse outside the gates of Troy (although we both got up a couple of times to use the facilities in the city). I had a breakfast of express train carriages and then took Poppy the dog to investigate the skeleton of childhood memories which I had hidden down the bottom of the road so long ago I had forgotten where. After this I met the ratman at the bewhiskered door and we walked and talked beside a silent stream (with the crisp packet ghost of Rachel Carson in close attendance). I came back just in time to go out with June; we travelled in each other’s pockets and started one end of a Vienna Secession Frieze and then went studiously to the other – stopping off half way (under the bespangled buttocks of a goldfish chimera) to eat lunch.


I got up wearing a hat kindly given to me by an aide to napoleon on the eve of the battle of Waterloo (or was it Victoria). The rest of my clothes dated from the multi-dimensional wars of the Thirty Fifth Century. June followed me downstairs with the names of several saints written on her dressing gown. I touched the middle of Saint Catherine before exiting the flying house to fall like acid rain on a small copse I caught instead of the bus. I travelled into the spiral pattern countryside where I talked with a large wood (in his younger days a forest) about green leaves turning brown in autumn. I said there would always be new shoots in Spring as the world itself didn’t exist only our interaction with it. After this we parted like the tributaries of a once mighty river.


June and I woke up on a foreign beach in a corner of our bedroom. I had become naked during the night and had begun to evolve gills. June meanwhile dressed in her old clothes but promised to find out a pair of wings for our visit to a pimple of greenery on the nude back of town. Thinking of stretch marks on a Greek goddess I rolled to town inside a clock that had last told the right time before the breakup of Pangaea – I remembered the moment exactly. June had to stand two dining chairs on top of each other so she could cook on the ceiling. She spend almost the whole day looking down on food; I had said I would look up to her but had forgotten to bring my glasses; wearing instead a map of the dark side of the moon (which I read with a torch).


June got up early, trailing stands of darkness behind her like candy floss. I licked my lips but decided to turn on the light. I saw her again on the jetty waiting for her ship to come in: covered as it was with the remains of an overnight party by pre Homo sapiens hominids – I was surprised to find that some cave men were vegetarians and in celebration me and the soul of the first computer sung songs around meteor craters in the music score of ancient history (I knew the composer but he didn’t know me). My sister and I met as separate layers of paint on a railway station outbuilding; we eventually merged to form a new colour and this colour went to to town for a meal. We assembled around a large tree in the middle of the room and talked like over ripe fruit.


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).
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