Weekly Diary


June went out to lay tables in the middle of a field for the last time this year. I was left alone to make a replica of an Iron Age roundhouse in the back garden using the remains of V1 and V2 rockets; I particularly liked the combination of black and white squares with rough thatch. I asked a bird headed man, who claimed to be from the time, a number of questions which I could have asked myself if I was older and then showed the cat headed girl a hole in the ground. June returned as I was laying an indoor table with my collection of empty jam jars; I noticed she was holding a handful of plastic sticklebacks. We spoke of getting several inches of snow in the middle of summer before I went out into the garden to bask in the hot sun in the middle of autumn.



I woke in a serpent eating its own tail morning; June, who doesn’t like snakes, stayed in bed with a beach hut on the bedclothes – we both heard a rustling sound but only a swimming costume came out. She went to town even though it was pouring with rain and the postman was wearing a white petticoat which was licking up mud as if it was chocolate sauce. I pretended to look at a toy yacht which I wished I had got while on holiday and then had my breakfast in another dimension: having a mid morning snack in yet another (this one was desert dry but all the trees had praying hands and mankind was reduced to stubble on the chin of a giant ape – it never evolved but just kept getting bigger). I lit a candle and placed it out in the pouring rain while waiting for June to return wet in even wetter clothes.



I woke again on the daily revolving stage, which when I was a comic book would have changed into a flying saucer and taken off with loud music as passengers – these days I fear the record has got stuck and I spend my time designing swimming pools for people who cannot swim. Sadly I am one of their number after jumping into the pool as a child and being immediately swallowed by a toy boat. After discussing the shape of galaxies with a philosopher frog I had met at a fire salamander dance I went upstairs to work (the stairs being an extra long tongue which I would later give to a chameleon). June meanwhile had gone off on a trip with her friend Xenophon, dressed only in counterfeit money and holding a shopping bag with a black hole in the bottom.



I got up before the religious community of sparrows had moved out of the bamboo. The bamboo hides an old shed, which itself hides all the things I wanted to do but never got round to. As June stood like the last piece of toast in a toast rack I stayed inside a ruined abbey in a semi-corporeal state. I had placed a life size model of an ocean going tug in a duffle bag I had borrowed from a bronze age school boy and was holding a bust of Janus in a third hand I had made from ice lolly sticks – unfortunately he is damaged and can only look one way at once (I have promised to look the other way for him but sometimes forget). June went out with her sunglasses on the back of her head and kicking a football instead of speaking words: she scored several goals before I was able to reply.



I got out of the sheep in wolf’s clothing bed even earlier than yesterday and stretched my paper airplane arms before a shadow of a Saunders Roe Princess flying boat went by. I shielded my aviator eyes and had left the house before June had managed to disentangle herself from her parachute. I was sat on the upper deck of a dragon bus when the sun stabbed the underbelly of another innocent victim the other side of the valley (although as an active member of the vampire party I know that the night always wins). After a partially lit journey I met the king of day and night and we talked of clouds with the faces of American presidents on them while we both sat in a giant mug of tea. He left sometime before I had put on my hilltop hat and a nymph from Ancient Greece had cast aside her hair net.



On the spur of the moment I decided to accompany June on her trip to the Library of Alexandra to return a book. I had King Kong as a baby in my haversack and we talked of the final trip of the R101 (which in the audio only version of the story is still flying and has visited India countless times) and looked unsuccessfully for rainbows in puddles – all of which I managed to jump over. June stayed in town as a being of pure light while I came home early as pure sound, waking the sleeping house as I entered and then altering my biogenetic harmonics so that art works would create themselves and artists would stand like bookends in an entirely digital world. When June returned as the letter A I met her as the number 17.



I woke suddenly from a dream where I was an item of cutlery waiting to be washed up – the house was owned by an acolyte of Anubis and I could hear puppy dog noises coming from the living and dead rooms. I dressed on the draining board and then took Poppy for a simultaneously long and short walk along a beam of pure time. I thought about light going backwards and then met a man from the late Eighteenth Century near what is now a derelict house; I asked him what it was like to be alive at the same time as Jane Austen and he said he had never met her. I said I had never met Jimi Hendrix and then went to an old market town with June: travelling in three different times at once and dreaming of discovering an alternative to space.


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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