Weekly Diary


June and I woke with small items of Victorian jewellery – I would have preferred something that looked more modern but I admired the craftsmanship. I got up first like a piece of cling film peeled off a hot hand. June got up soon after, brushing the small trees on the skyline and descending the stairs wrapped in a dress modelled on tangled strands of DNA. We both went out to lunch with cameras hidden in our eyebrows and doggie bags of words (June had eaten all of hers before the meal had even started but I had a few left for when I was alone later in the day). The waitress had a sword which she unceremoniously threw in a lake before we had finished our meal – almost empty plates tied up in conversation within the ungulate shadows of antelope on the less than great plains.



I started the day with a note pinned to my chest like a sheriff’s badge. I resolved never to read it as I pictured in my head a caveman floating in space. June came in the back door with an armadillo instead of the dog just as I threatened to measure the morning with a metal ruler. I noticed she also had a note as she joked that she had met a person with several Christian names but no surname; I would have replied if the man next door hadn’t parked a zebra in our shared drive. Everyone should know that the Earth is shared by all life (with mankind getting more primitive by the minute). Strangely a little while after this June thought she could hear a cat crying and I went upstairs to paint a picture of a choir with clock faces – all but one gave the same time.



I got up as an echo although I still have no idea who made the original shout. June was sailing in her own personal silence which I didn’t feel able to intrude upon and the dog was in the transcendent state that only the other animals can reach. I pulled on the rope and the ancient ship left its moorings, all the strangers on board looking back instead of forward – I would have criticised this but realise I have been doing much the same recently. June went out, following her own slipstream, and I ascended the stairs in the nebulous state necessary to work. A semi-imaginary man who I nicknamed The Man In One Of Saturn’s Moons said he would blow me into smoke rings and I replied using only the spaces between words – several of these he caught and the remainder I had to catch myself.



June went out again, declaring that everyone in the world was actually her as she did so. I pulled a baby universe under my cosmic wing and settled upstairs like a blanket tucked in around a convalescing child. I worked in the past all morning, having put the present in a trinket box along with a guitar in the shape of a scarab beetle and a compass that always points to the south. June came home a short and long time later saying that she had caught a rainbow that had been resting on her forehead. We put it in a jam jar and then watched as a very old tree climbed onto a passing cloud and sailed away thinking of all the acorns it had shed. I went back to work in the torpedo tube of a Los Angeles class submarine mulling over the fact that all my acorns are in my studio.



I polished the Byzantine mosaic in my vaulted imagination just before two further representatives of the butterfly people came to the door – incidentally the door was in the shape of Celtic cross having changed from a loaf of bread in the night. The insect people went out with me coming up behind like a striped abdomen and finally overtaking them with tennis rackets for antennae. We kept to the white squares on the way in to the commercial centre church and then the blue and red on the way out. We later met the sand princess on the third floor from the sun and then came down again as a shower of dust – I could write my own name when I laid on the ground like a dried up river bed; nearer the loom band horizon was a set of animal tracks: a long extinct family going home after a day out.



I left the house early with a race track tongue; I could hear the engines revving as I boarded the walking bus. I got off sometime later with wheels instead of legs and met the king mechanic in the pits. He remarked that he had found another direction a little left of North and I promised to go there sometime soon. After a spell talking to imaginary tribesmen in a lunar crater I met friends (who were dressed as purple and orange pandas) in their coffee cup cottage – the thatch reminded me of a meteor shower as it cuppied down to hear us more clearly. The crazy paving patio frowned with wet cement as I muddled up the future and the past and then went home in the present. June was talking to an unknown Pharaoh went I came in and we greeted each other on the wall of a tomb.



The man standing on the scaffolding surrounding an empty space (the house had moved sometime in the night) waved as June and I walked to town using feet we had borrowed from uncredited pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales – I was planning to give mine back but I think she wants to convert hers into vases after I said flowers were beheaded plants. I didn’t stop in town very long, coming home along the ridges of a crocodile’s back – I extracted the mail from between its teeth before entering the house. I was disappointed to find that the latter had changed into the bridge of a spaceship as I had just pressed my Captain Nemo suit. I went upstairs to work knowing that the Nautilus was safely moored in my head – even when a man with paddle steamer for a head knocked on the front door.


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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