Weekly Diary


June and I sneaked out of the bagpipes house with snail shells on our backs (mine had a clockwise spiral and hers the reverse – I joked she would get younger as she walked up the road). We crossed a bridge modelled on the spinal curvature of an early Christian martyr and entered another house through its over ornate Victorian plumbing system. We met the rough and tumble cartoon characters in the middle of a story and I hid in the werewolf cave with a plastic tea set covering my face (my tea cup eyes were empty save for tea leaves which I later used to tell the fortune of someone who had already died). When the comic people had been read and archived, June and I came home, our faces hidden in carrier bags and our expressions wrapped in tin foil.


I got up balancing a scimitar on the index finger of my left hand and a glove thrown down by a noblewoman during the French revolution on my hat – as it turned out the hat wasn’t on my head but walking some distance behind (supposedly thinking about the futility of internecine conflict). June came downstairs a little later with a small grey cloud floating over her head – unfortunately it wasn’t accurately aligned and proceeded to rain quite heavily down her front. We both went out briefly, touching fingers and touching toes. The stranger who said he wasn’t, first told me about an underground rainbow and then how his memories are kept in a giant torpedo which regularly makes an interstellar return journey for the price of a single.


I had to leave the house early (it was wearing a tea cosy which I thought looked like the thigh bone of a sauropod dinosaur and June thought a telephone being answered by Mary Queen of Scots – apparently it was a wrong number). I went down the wet flannel street, my ears growing longer each step, holding a box with absolutely nothing in it; coming back with angels the size of fruit bats flying around in my Soho loft apartment head. June and I then had to tread grapes in a Venetian canal (which unbeknown to us had been transported to a small planet closer to the sun than Mercury). A lady dressed as a lacewing told me I was a sunflower and June was a wood violet – outside a brown bear wearing plus fours refused to give the taxi driver a tip.


I woke dressed as a dog with Poppy dressed as me in the Nineteen Thirties – I only know what it was like from catching thought bubbles (thoughts never disappear although like smiles they grow fainter). After I had drawn flowers across the parade ground I became an after shock soldier and ran the length of one outstretched hand and then jumped to another, eventually coming home to find the house hiding in bushes with flamingo headed people searching all around. I was dressed as an European lynx after attending a conference about my possible reintroduction. June wanted to go out with her limbs replaced with automobile wheels and I set my bicycle eyes aside to let the newspaper read me – I told it you cannot always believe what you read.


An early start to the day with me waking in a train several carriages nearer the engine than June. I left the house cleverly disguised in the dark masked street and caught a vehicle which I thought was a flying turtle even though it never left the ground. I twisted and turned inside the vehicle as it twisted and turned inside the sheath of occasional lights it was travelling along. I met the king figure in his rural court: the courtiers flew and crawled under clouds that looked like gravestones casting off glow worms of light before becoming tutus for everyone I have ever known to wear. I tried one (not that I am admitting to knowing myself) but it didn’t fit. I came home holding on tightly to words, arriving home as the sentence was finished – I couldn’t find the full stop so I assumed there wasn’t one.


During the night I had dreamt of being a wild goose trying to swim on a frozen lake; June said she was an eagle in cage but I think she was joking. I took Poppy on a short balloon flight before crash landing in the back garden after an old man hanging from a parachute stopped me for a light (I gave him a bulb after he mentioned something in passing about salvation and the National Grid). We got home a little while before the green light appeared brighter than the red one – the mystery person in the little square room had a storm rapidly moving across his face. June took down the curtains while I simultaneously bridged the divide between two sets of clothes with a spare body. I called it Terence even though it wanted to be called Teresa.


June and I jumped out of an aeroplane instead of a bed. I stayed in a fruit bowl for a short while when a triangle slowly floated overhead, closely followed by a much smaller square. After I had walked the dog along the length of a cheap biro and back June and I went to town for a meal inside a pebble cast down by David beside a stream. Continuing the Biblical theme, June said the stream reminded her of a picture of the beheading of Saint John the Baptist – after this we ate in silence. Behind me a small dragon was trying on a dress and behind June a man miraculously walked through a brick wall with his full English breakfast still intact. I came home with the shopping coiled up in my bag, leaving June to don armour and search for a bridge to defend.


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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