A Much Earlier Weekly Diary


I walked the walls of a medieval city wearing a hat that came down to my knees. As the day progressed I spoke to statues while my wife struggled through tunnels of cloth. We came back riding bareback on metal maggots – hers was called Achilles and mine was called Hector.



I came out of the sad mists of time to take the jester’s road to town. An assemblage of total strangers cut the day into manageable slices as “Pixie-head” (my name not hers) hovered at least six inches above the ground. I was just about to proclaim the apotheosis of time when a coconut fell on my own head.



I emerged from the bowels of the bedroom later than planned (some time in the 25th Century). During the main part of the day I had to struggle with alligators while rain clouds dressed as morris men danced overhead. In the middle of the last act a previously unknown character entered holding a wrist watch.



A long day which was stretched like sellotape across brown paper – the chorus line had to tear the tape from their mouths before they could sing their well known songs. I pulled a thought bubble from the top of my head and kneaded it into a rough map of the Isle of Wight.



I fluttered my wings early while hanging in a clear plastic bag from the bedroom ceiling. I then returned to writing secret messages on the back of postage stamps – which came as some relief. Later, I walked at least half a mile with an old fashioned galvanised bath hanging like the Sword of Damocles over the top of my head. It was only when I touched the door handle that it inverted.



When I looked in the mirror to comb my hair I was mildly surprised to see three of me, one of which being only four feet high. I thought it was a shame there wasn’t two of my small self as they would have made a nice cruet set. I shook the mechanical spiders off the top of my head and the mirror transformed into the image of a hero of D-Day.



I opened the curtains at ten to eight, just in time to see Diomedes throw his spear at Ares, I closed them again and waited for the petals to fall. I worked in my rabbit cage all day, clothed as it was in coloured silks and buzzing with the remembered voices of my past. I professed my love as the day sailed away.


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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s