Weekly Diary


June and I got up using the emergency chute from the crashed aircraft we had been hiding in. We both ate breakfast like flickering candles and she then combed the hair of the carpet and I put on the leaning tower of Pisa as a hat. We had been invited to sit on someone else’s dinner table and got ready in the hold of a freighter in the North Atlantic. Half way through the imaginary sea journey a man came to the door with flashing lights attached to his evolutionary primitive exoskeleton – I showed him the bulbs on my internal parts but took care not to mention that they wouldn’t shine. We held both hands at once and then collectively looked forward to a robotic saviour as we left the house together; me with the slight hesitancy of a window cleaner finding the windows didn’t have any glass in them.


June left the multistorey frying pan before the fried eggs blinked. Just before this I had a put a small part of the cosmos in a porridge bowl and poured on the milk as if it had real spiritual significance. As the door changed into a diaphanous being who had more than one memory in its head (I had already checked and none of them were mine) I spoke to the little man hiding in the cupboard under the sink and then tied up my shoelaces with a pair of trainers June had bought for me in a shop selling lawn mowers. As June drew near perfect circles in the urbanised Giotto landscape I locked myself away in the gaol below the toupee roof and pretended to throw away the key. As I did this I had to shut my eyes as I knew the real key had been thrown away a very long time ago.


I left the house with a long cloak floating over my head and my nose several metres long. My companion (who eschewed the metric system) had ears many yards long and a coat made from the impression of a Devonian seed fern on soft shale. We went over and under the bridge and met the lake size mouth near the river. He stayed in a basket borrowed from Moses while I returned home via the bypass of the bypass. When I finally got in June was getting ready to go out; she put on a garden fence instead of a coat and we stayed together for the length of a smile. I then took my legs and arms upstairs to work again. As the anthropomorphic door sighed I painted a single flower in a large field and then dedicated it to a long forgotten memory.


I woke up in a diving bell with June fast asleep in a scallop shell. She then dressed in a racing car and went slowly to town. I waved goodbye using the gantry from a Gemini rocket launcher and then burrowed upstairs to write my name on what seemed like a continuous strand of white card that was rapidly moving in front of my multiple eyes. June came home as a steam train in the age of diesels and we examined the contents of her bag as if trying to ascertain the cause of death – I suspected foul play but she assured me it was natural causes. After a short spell of throwing bits of our lunch between us I returned to my upstairs writing and she to her downstairs thoughts – these were interrupted briefly however when the dog got up and changed the television channel.


I pushed the darkness aside to clamber out to a place where only the bedroom windows were lit. I sneaked up on the bus, not realising that another was sneaking up on me. Most of us travelled west (the ones going in the opposite direction were still clutching their door keys which they had foolishly attempted to light like cheroots), although I stopped off half way to purchase packets that really shouldn’t be filled and then carried on my journey weighed down by a cathedral spire of dead fish – I was secretly hoping a stranger would come along and reduce it to two (and five loaves) but sadly there aren’t any strangers left. I met the mountain god in the valley (although I knew the surrounding hills well) and we talked like grown up writing even though mine never really joined up properly.


June stood stood like a sculpture who had just missed its plinth and in consequence couldn’t quite see over the recently erected wall – I am sure it was deliberately placed to ensure we couldn’t see more than one path at once (given the choice I would always choose the oldest anyway). She finally left the already flying launch pad and I climbed inside an acoustic guitar to save myself from having to play it; that said I was still knocked over by the music cascading down from an unknown point – marked on all maps of the mind by an undecipherable word. Before June came back (with wet weather clothing to wear when the sun came out) I had shoveled away all the sound and had walked a long way down a path of silence, even though inside I really wanted to shout.


June went out trailing a long piece of string; I wasn’t sure if I had to tie the end to something in the house or just let it go. She went so that the very young could meet the very old – as I am in between I let myself float to the surface where I grabbed hold of several different ancient Greek myths at the same time (both Ariadne and Andromeda held my hand). I fastened the sound of birds in Spring to a stick close to where the narrowness of my thoughts touched the vastness of the horizon. I believe in standing before the largest horizon possible even if it sometimes slips its mooring like a doomed ocean liner. As the singing birds receded I pushed all the unfinished meals in our street into all the unworn clothes and made a sculpture of a smiling face. I wondered if it would still smile if it knew the truth.


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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