A Much Earlier Weekly Diary



I had fun in the morning rearranging all the strands that were entwined round the maypole protruding from a hole in the living room carpet. I danced a jig with two hammers in my hands. Pink clouds hung in the air of my studio – I sat like a red Indian with smoke issuing from my hat – while a grey squirrel won the local ploughing competition.


Back to the Coliseum today to walk to and fro like an angry gorilla. I spoke to the girls made from rose petals and listened to old people carried around in shopping bags. I said a prayer for all the animals that ate Christians. I escaped the volcano in the evening by carrying my wife across a sea of ice.


I spent most of today in the garden, where giant bearded lizards made sinuous paths through the gravel. I excavated an ancient burial mound and found bright red bones. It took a little while to find a small patch of bright green grass to rest them on. A robin chased a blackbird.


A new day, with me a school boy caught wearing a wreath of spring flowers. I had a joke with the trainee undertaker before shaking her hand. She was dressed all in black with bright pink underwear. When the doll’s clothes were cast on the floor they spelt another word. I did arithmetic with spilt milk bottle tops.


I was still alive all day with the undertaker, she, still in black and hiding a tomato sauce bottle in her top pocket. We talked of the shadows of giant birds wings and the snippet of a song which was heard on the breeze as old animals walked slowly into the diminishing distance. I came home to find my home transformed into a windmill.


The last day for a little while as an initialled handkerchief (a red Indian handkerchief joked the upright piano I never learnt to play). I exchanged long words with short people before drawing big red lips on a white t-shirt. Messages hung from the ceiling like moth cocoons but I refused to notice them until it was time to go home.


A casual, hole in the ground, kind of day. I walked around with a slipper on my head while pretending to be a cricket umpire. I didn’t have to go out at all although I did draw a number of knobs on the front door just in case. The bell wouldn’t ring when I pushed it but instead elected to die by hemlock rather than suffering the humiliation of banishment. In the evening I wrote letters to myself again!



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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