My Diary: The Last Days Of 2013

29/12/2013

Neither June or I went out. With the weather transformed into a line of just washed petticoats it was too wet to hold hands with the tree people even when the sacred grove opened out as if a mouth about to speak – I was quite pleased when it didn’t as I hadn’t bothered to learn my lines. I looked through the raindrops algorithmically changed to dragonfly eyes and watched the fortune cookie ladies and mop bucket gentlemen enter and exit the stage. As I stared into the almost infinity, June surrounded herself with a necklace of wild west wagons and spoke to a voice that had entered the room like a cartoon cloud – She said it was the past wrapped in the present and I said it was an angel trapped in a tar pit and subsequently threw myself down a well to retrieve the feather covered spindle.

30/12/2013

I got up holding the hand that had emerged from my forehead during the night: fully grown and armed. I let it go when the dog frightened the cats cradle and an imaginary spiral staircase walked down our stairs from the first floor (I call our bedroom the belfry). As June was part of an artfully arranged still life I left the house alone and walked across the bog person ground using open hands as stepping stones – I got across before they came together to clap. I returned in the arms of a diurnal bat, with wine glass epaulettes and car exhaust hat. June was clinging to the scaffolding surrounding the Statue of Liberty when it started to move – at first measuring its footsteps in both metric and imperial and then walking off into the gunpowder confetti of the pretend revolutionary distance.

31/12/2013

I had to climb out of the picture earlier than planned; leaving June still inside and resting on a log (until it dramatically changed into Saint Anthony and the surrounding vegetation into young women with reptile scales). Looking at a circle above his head I wondered if everything eventually returns to where it started out. I later mentioned this to June when we stood like unhammered in nails as the carpenter’s plane removed the last slither of wood from the plank – I am not sure if even he knew what he was making. June and I stayed in the same shell all day even though outside the others had exchanged seas. I sat in an art chair painting tables and she laid on a rock listening to the song of the sirens as an empty ship sailed by with absolutely no one tied to the mast.

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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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