Weekly Diary


I went out into the garden with a tornado in my head. The winds grew still when the mist people recited the first page of a Dark Ages telephone directory and the sun god performed a revival of Afternoon Of A Faun in the overcast morning. I planted less often used letters in my alphabetical border and then came in to sow several pages of text below the staring myopic eye of the Cyclops Polyphemus (although it could have been his brother). I later moved in front of his best friend Homer and looked at closed eyes for several hours before coming down the stairs with a clock tower made from Meccano on my shoulder and a fully articulated model of a scarlet macaw on my head – June was stood in the kitchen holding a stone arm; part of which was covered with ivy.


I got up in an ancestral dawn to take the ethereal princess for a check up by a supposed family of extraterrestrial wood elves. June came along swinging a bag full of lunar soil she wanted to plant pure colours in. She stayed in lunar orbit while I came home with sunlight as clothes. When I got in I was surprised to find two versions of myself, several years apart, sat in a tree. A long time ago I had planted it in a Bronze Age burial mound which had been uncovered in the left ventricle of our still beating hallway. I climbed to the top of the scaffolding around my tree head and recorded the view; eventually seeing June coming up the hill holding our lunch in an aerosol can which she later sprayed on the table like an antiperspirant.


The sun shone behind the silhouette of a stranger I have known all my life as I opened the door to acknowledge the morning; I imagined a time when everyone still believed the stars circled the Earth and then shut the door again. In the invertebrate part of the day June and I boarded a giant beetle through a rather ornate doorway cut into its carapace and travelled back in time with matching cathedral heads – she did say mine looked taller but I think that was something to do with my medieval foundations. I stood for some time watching a river flowing down the middle of a B movie road until a three carriage train hurtled through my head (the tunnel having escaped some time earlier hand in hand with a half sister of Mary Magdalen – they had three shoes between the pair of them).


June went to town both sitting and standing on the top deck of an Etruscan trireme (its eye was covered with a large black patch after an unfortunate accident when shaving). After Poppy and I had made a bridge out of synonyms of the word walk I worked in my science lesson for two years old studio making designs out of spider web filaments (some of which I later got caught in). As I looked out of the dreaming room window I saw a necklace of people strung across the garden next door – some were planting daisies in a lawn and others were making shadows out of sound as a hobgoblin dressed in bathroom tiles revved up his motorcycle in a model of Sherwood Forest (it was composed of discarded mop handles – the heads were lined up along the fence like an audience of puppets).


I got up very early – noticeably so now that I usually get out of bed in daylight (or the Anglo Saxon burial boat I call a bed – incidentally it hasn’t got a sail although I have been told that they would have had them). I caught the bus, which arrived like a man clearing his throat and then got another on the calm side of a wild wood. I got off between marks made by the claws of a giant bird and then met the bird king in his Nautilus bungalow. I ate a sandwich filled with magazine clippings and filled a tea cup with the blank edges of old photographs. After this I came home alone, a crown of spider monkeys on my head and three of my eleven hands holding phials of cosmic dust – intriguing each was a different colour. When I got in I made a sculpture using a small version of the Aurora Borealis.


I found, very early in the day, that I was being followed by a remotely controlled black cloud – I never discovered who was controlling it, even after it rained in my cup of tea. June had already gone out, closely followed by her portrait; dolphins playing in the waves of her oceanic hair – I can’t remember what was in the hair of her portrait although there were fish flying above the clouds. I wrote on an amorphous shape in the corner of my studio “does the shadow make the man or the man make the shadow” and then waited for June to come back, followed at a safe distance by her photograph. I though it was a good likeness and donned my wizard cloak as the man from several doors down came with nothing and left likewise. The sky was an attractive shade of apricot.


I got up as a row of discordant notes; June having got up a moment earlier in perfect harmony. We had planned to jump ship in the Mediterranean of an imaginary person’s eyes but decided to wait as we would be looking in young children’s eyes later in the day. I put up a cross legged shelter beside the syncopated water spouts in the garden I jokingly call the Birth Place Of Man and then stood before the front paws of a stone lion holding the baby antelope of my imagination. In the late afternoon June walked up the crossroads hill, while I followed later taking, as usual, a diagonal line. Young children then looked in our eyes as a deserted sailing ship glided across the living room floor, we boarded as ancestors of man and left sometime later as future memories of an amoeba.


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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