Weekly Diary



A sun cat curled up on a mill stone cushion as I entered a magically clothed garden (which wasn’t mine) as a replacement tree. I cast some shade and then returned to the serpent tail in mouth reality of my own existence (spitting out some recently shed scales as I did so). June worked in a space created on a whim for Marie Antoinette and I worked out the back with tendrils for hair: they steadfastly refused to attach themselves to the canes I had earlier blinded the ground with. I waved to a lady from farther down the street who had a derelict house in her hair – she was amazed I had known the original occupant. She told me the swine were wearing the pearls that were cast before them and I watched a small caterpillar climb to the top of a young shoot before falling off and starting all over again.



June and I walked to the Mary Magdalene town with Poppy (who was rehearsing for a part in a mystery play). As an experiment I played a mandolin with a violin bow while waiting for a lady with a Spanish castle for a dress to walk her flamenco path towards us; she showed us some new chords and then patted the dog. We came home holding separate shards of glass: behind mine a flying saucer landed and a group of druids walked out; one of whom had been to the same school as me – we hid inside trees when the lessons were lined up like recently executed criminals. June and I stayed inside the Mary of Magdala house the rest of the day. She had laid the chairs so we could sit on the table – giant mouths watched and giant eyes swore.



June and I left the house as shorthand messages; I couldn’t actually read myself until I got home again (June claimed to have worked out some bits of her message while waiting for her coffee cup to arrive – she had to wait a little longer for the actual coffee). I came home early to work like a trouser belt round a fat waist (perhaps I should mention that the nurse said I needed to put on weight even when I was carrying three bags of shopping when I stepped on the scales). June had visited both the dog faced man and the cat faced lady before returning home. I had to remove the William Tell arrows from her shopping bag and then put a small working model of Mount Vesuvius in the freezer. She sat down with a hand that had accidentally come off when she was shaking it.



June and I followed a green gold vein to the duck egg blue town. She and I had matching curtains as we looked in and out of the window respectively. Outside the arena where I battled with the behemoths of my imagination the landscape thought by itself: wondering why it was there and how it came to be and how it will end. A paper cutout version looked at the rain clouds form over the green blue ocean while I answered the door to a man who had a television for a tie; I watched him wrap one image round another and make a neat knot – even though I was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt (we couldn’t come to any agreement and he left with a thunder storm in one shoe and a lightning strike in the other – I was barefoot as usual) .



I got up very early dressed like a super hero who was trying to protect his identity; no one guessed when I boarded the bus – setting down the bull elephant that been sleeping in my haversack and the blue whale swimming in my hip flask. I met the bearded god in a razor shaped room and we compared hats: mine had a poem going round the brim and his had a row of expensive fountain pens – not all of which had been filled with ink. I came home again as a meteor, becoming a meteorite earlier than planned and worked in a chimney of an empty factory the rest of the day, smoking out ideas. The North American buffalo, who I had meant to ring but forgot, came to the door with the remains of William Cody. He licked a stamp for me which a clockwork ballerina then stuck on an envelope.



June and I woke up early in a tunnel under the alps; she climbed up and I climbed down. Poppy was rejected by the animal hospital brass band despite being proficient on the trumpet and tuba and we walked her home via the woods by the railway line. Being a puppet master in other peoples dreams I watched as the small figures in the wood strung flags across the top most branches and the small puddle people attached messages to buoys bobbing on the water like a universal heartbeat. Once home I found a wrought iron reproduction of a sugar cube to work in (getting sweeter as I did so). All the skyscrapers in my head had eagles on top. Downstairs a door was knocked; when opened all that was present was a person’s name.



June went to town, the sails from an old schooner attached to each shoulder, while I followed later, smoke belching from the rusting chimney on the top of my head. We met again at the sprawling recreation ground; she was embracing a bridge laying tank and I was holding a small bag of sand – which I squeezed into the shape of a pipe smoking an old man (the old man, in a previous existence taught me to play solitaire). I came home holding a raven in one hand and a princess tiara in the other; unfortunately I had to put the raven on my head as the tiara was too small to fit. When June had returned, with a monocycle tyre as a necklace I dug a hole in the living room carpet and planted a pebble in it (one of six in my cricket umpire’s pocket). I hope to find a mountain in the morning.



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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