Weekly Diary



It was raining hard when June and I emerged from under a very large bird’s wing: June had had her customary free fall feather sleep and I had just fell. The house was stuck in one strand of a double helix (I still think there is a missing strand somewhere; the person living two doors down says it is the holy ghost) and I had a breakfast of an underground carriage looking for its track and a surge of electricity destined to power nothing. I then walked in one of the concentric paths surrounding a musical note that had accidentally fallen out of a song I was listening to last night. June was wearing the television but was uncertain if she should change channels. In the end neither of us went out as we were happy for the rest of the world to come to us.



I started the day as part of the Cambrian explosion (although I had already had a PreCambrian breakfast) and had evolved and gone extinct several times by midday. After an afternoon of pushing pins into the pin cushion of my mind – with the small sliver countryside visible from the window reminding me of the long blade of a knife – June and I left the still kneeling house to eat dust and traffic fumes by a non-magic roundabout. I thought I could see the dust descend and paint all the people in the restaurant. I designed a house in the shape of an acoustic guitar as I watched the little ones play in the play area – I couldn’t climb on even if I took my shoes off as like a Shakespearean actor I wasn’t wearing socks.



June had somehow got a firm grip on a normal day while I gave it just a light tap (which was leaking). The morning anthropomorphised in front of some of our eyes and went up stairs to try on some of my dresses – studiously ignoring June’s army fatigues – it came down later as Edith Cavell looking for a firing squad (although I had resolved to go back in time and stop it; just after taking Christ off the cross). After a committee of red ants had knocked on the door with the intention of making an ordnance survey map of my head June took a flying carpet ride to the market place while I sat on a flying saucer simultaneous thinking in many different times at once – I have subsequently worked out which one I liked the most but have decided not to tell anyone.



I woke as a fraction with a decimal point lost in my admittedly over large tea cup and the crack in the bedroom ceiling getting bigger. I spoke in reptile tongues as the amphibian part of the day went back into the water with a splash – which I later turned into a digital painting, finishing it quickly before the computer blinked in a coquettish way and the adverts ganged up on me. June went out with one of the very last remnants of wild wood in her hair – I called to her in ice age words and then shook fins with a mermaid who was asleep in a bottle by the step. A man with a jellyfish for a hat later collected the bottle and I collected a slither of the cliff face Theseus had fell from and stuck it in a quasi-metaphysical album like a very rare stamp.



I went out very early; waves were lapping against the side of the road even though we are many miles from the sea. I watched the seagull circle a flying fishing net and reaffirmed by belief in a universal life force. I thought the sky was a laundry bag of underwear – most of which was still white – and then stood by an unreadable sign as the record player stylus cut a groove in the road. I got off before the last track had played and straightened the hyperbolic curve of my clothes. On the journey I had invented an edible tie (the different flavours were in the stripes) but still resolved to only wear one at weddings and funerals. I met the old king in his court; the court room was bigger than the house it was situated in and we both thought it would rain. I came home in the sunshine.



I switched the bulb on in my head even though it was light outside. June was slowly sliding down the landing wall working out what she planned to do all day and I waited for the man who launches ships to ring. After this I left the safety of the harbour to collect patches of colour to make a rainbow alphabet – which I would later teach to myself in various guises (some of which even I didn’t recognise). I worked like white horses crashing onto a shingle shore while June stood on the pier licking “Night Fishing At Antibes” in lieu of an ice cream. We left the house briefly when the tide went out; coming back to find it dressed in evening attire – we entered though a spinning bow tie and I then let an idea escape though the hole the rain had come in during the winter.



In my head two figures who were once cats (and who live simultaneously in at least nine dimensions) were talking to two figures who were once dogs and had entered my head from someone else’s. I tried to listen to their conversation but my imagination had run out of ink. As clouds became cows in the rich pastures of the sky I drew a map in the contained mid air of the house and designated regions of it to create entirely fictitious countries – or so I thought. The morning continued to move at its own pace: June was a window and drew her own curtains and I remained happy to be a door with a missing key. When the man in the off white rabbit suit had climbed down the ladder neither of us was holding we both went out.



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.

2 Responses to Weekly Diary

  1. What a mathematical way to describe your week…….!!!! Great.

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