Weekly Diary


The lady made from recycled organic matter smiled as I walked by holding a tightrope above my head (to my amazement it didn’t fall off once). She had mushroom eyes and I warned the dog who was patrolling the outskirts of the garden camouflaged like a commando. I first wondered if she had mycelium for a brain and then wondered if fungi think at all; I finally decided they did and drew out a plan for a model railway that can fit on a thumbnail. The black and white animals were talking to themselves as I entered the house though the tea mug door – I would have liked to have said that June was looking out of a coffee cup window but the curtains for some reason were still drawn. We later opened the curtains and shut the door, holding ears but keeping our hands apart.



It was raining hard as I donned the uniform of an unknown infantryman from just after one famous battle and just before another. I had just pulled myself out of the coffin shaped bedside cabinet which I had designed myself in a dream and was contemplating life as a chrysalis and death as a butterfly. I had accidentally touched the arm that was hanging from the ceiling but managed to avoid the leg. June, meanwhile, was trying on a frozen pair of shoes and gave a me a handful of ice cubes which I put on the fire. She went out for lunch with a friend in the pail that Jack fetched and got ready in a spine tailed swift’s nest while I walked the dog along a mile of electricity cabling; coming back with question marks in my hair which I later brushed out with an exclamation mark comb.



I dreamt of being trapped with my legs pointing up like an anti aircraft missile and then woke up feeling sick. I breathed in the sea air from many miles inland and then did my morning jobs far more slowly than usual. June remained in the ancestral long hut until the telephone spoke like a recently canonised saint. After a non-breakfast June went out and I took a sepulchral oath in my studio. She followed a serpentine route along the boa constrictor walkway with the cloud timpani keeping time in the orchestral sky. Before she left I remarked that the giant in all of us would fit in a matchbox and then carefully placed an engine nacelle of a B52 bomber in her jam jar handbag. I keep the sticklebacks in the open waters of my imagination.



I had to go to town to, wrought iron feathers tucked in my hair, while June hollowed out a neon log in the Amazonian kitchen we had loaned from a granddaughter of Titania (as fairy queens never die she has to face the prospect of her children growing older than her – which I thought was like artists watching their art works age quicker than they do). June went out herself some time after my return home; complete with her Theseus face and cliff top clothes – I commented on the sea view before floating above a page like a blocked writer’s pen. She rang up moments later to say she had found the pot of gold but couldn’t find the rainbow. I replied by saying that I had found the needle but couldn’t find the haystack (which would make a good title for a painting).



I slid out of bed like a bookmark removed from the wrong page and then waited for June to start a new chapter. She tried on a pair of hedgehog earrings while I donned my motorised shoes and went in search of a walking bus – I caught it by an image of a steam engine which was sat in a chair smoking a pipe. I carried a clod of earth to the countryside, talked to the mountain giant about glacial valleys and then came home with two small people perched on my shoulders; they argued like cockatoos while I followed the sky line with either the index finger of one hand or the middle finger of the other. June was sat inside a glass cabinet when I entered the house using my imagination rather than a key. I talked to each ornament in turn.



My beard, which grows younger as the sunlight fades, answered the phone as I couldn’t get there in time. The man who shovels gold spoke and I answered while pretending to shave – June also pretended to shave as she pulled a large collection of small figures from an antediluvian flower pot and spread them out on the table like a Pieter Bruegel the Elder painting. She pointed out the naughty children while really searching for the naughty adults and I put a model of the Great Sphinx at Gisa in our spare fridge – we never switch it on as it gets too hot. I walked the dog inside a mathematical equation that only the cat could solve and then worked indoors until the lady next door walked to town with a small housing estate on her nose. I doubted if any of the houses were social.



June went downstairs as a miniature version of the Aurora Borealis while I shaded my eyes from the boxed in light from the window. I spoke in pauses to a curled up comma of a cat and then descended the stairs holding a photograph of a fish I wouldn’t catch although it could potentially catch me. As I thought this several items of clothing, reputedly last worn by Mary Magdalene on a holiday trip to the South of France, drifted through the almost open window. I collected them up and put them in our new laundry bin shaped like the washed hands of Pontius Pilate. June was standing downstairs like a tree and offered me an apple when I descended with an ocean liner as a head – I later found out it was the flagship of the White Star line.


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.

One Response to Weekly Diary

  1. Elan Mudrow says:

    Nice!! Check out:

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