A Much Earlier Weekly Diary

I parachuted quite early out of our bedroom window, writing my memoirs as I floated slowly to the ground. When I had the mandatory trip round the garden riding in a fluffy cat chariot I dreamed I was living in a cake, trying desperately to rise up through the icing. NB. I had to go out twice during the day, carrying a lighted candle each time.

I woke with both a start and a finish; it felt like a village, circa late Eighteen hundreds, was entangled in the wig I put on my head to keep the bed warm. I had to go to the over water Town by dog sled, remembering the death of the old fireman as I did so. I subsequently talked of birthday suits painted blue with lipstick smiling manakins and came home pulled by a team of pygmy hippos.

I only spent a few hours modelling natives for a Rousseau jungle scene before coming into the ice mansion to stir the radiators and stoke the fires. I studied the wink in the single eye set in the ancient walls of the only place I feel safe in. The armorial assemblages clanked and the stuffed jellyfishes in the serried rows of glass cases busied themselves inventing an entirely new language. I saw the plumber and he promised to call eventually.

I flew to the well known mole on the back of a woman laying in the cloud shine. Stopping only to frame the butterfly wings I used for the journey, I immediately acted as an usher at the wake of one of the players in the local Ragnarok football team. I had forgotten my dinner so I flew home by space rocket, holding tightly to the grey tabby cat I had used as an interpreter.

I had time to sun myself at the desert in the middle of an oasis, chatting as I did so about long lengths of pink ribbon. An aeroplane took off in the middle of the conversation and I went and made myself a cup of tea in a cup perched on top of a tortoise. I then felt the need to make some new clothes by sewing together lettuce leaves and partially chewed wooden planks from a full size mock up of a Viking long boat.

I was out on the plain of long dead ancestors early in the day; the sun was a partially eaten sandwich. I worked in the foyer of the Tower of Babylon until lunch time when I went home to whittle wood until the werewolves knocked on the door in the evening. I was then the wolfman and went to the nearest Masonic lodge to learn line dancing.

Out in the land of echoes until the apples parachuted from the tree and the twins had made their promise. I had to scuttle home like a formation of Roman soldiers; bursting through the door of the crusade recruitment office holding a bag of bananas. After my term in office I retired to the road where I live so I could sweep the step.


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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