Weekly Diary


I am not feeling well and stayed inside my nautilus shell hideout for most of the day as a cowboy Robin Hood giving land back to the Red Indians. There was music playing in the idea orchard my imagination rolls out like a red carpet. Some music I use as a blanket as now I have gotten older I have begun to feel the cold and some I still keep wrapped as silver bullet fortune cookies in the revolving chambers of my six and a bit guns. June went out, reversing the appearance of the weather house from yesterday, and came back with a herd of animals whose lineage stretched right back to the years immediately after the demise of the dinosaurs. She stayed in the pastoral part of the house while I tilled the arable carpets; planting thoughts and probably unrealistically waiting for trees.



I was wide awake before the morning was and playing music based on the aurora borealis in my head as the net curtains sighed and a fairy tale dwarf pulled on a trumpet and blew it in his clothes. I only play string instruments and counted the remaining leaves on the tree opposite the window before mathematics is finished until the spring – June put on a harmonica instead of a scarf and joined the ethereal quiet of the still life party. On looking into the mirror and seeing what I thought was an Easter Island head (it was probably just a rock formation with ex-presidents of the United States carved in it) I decided to stay inside all day although June went out wearing a Chinese junk for a hat and almost matching umbrellas as paddles.



I pictured a group of recently dead people dancing in a morgue while waiting for the microwave to complete its cycle. June was mixing red and blue liquid before sitting in a mauve breakfast bowl in lieu of a bath. After discovering a large hole in the garden where an ocean used to be I had to jump around with wands of water while Chronos and Ananke argued next door. I couldn’t tell what about as the panda who until recently had been fast asleep in the bamboo was reciting Chinese poetry. June went out holding a long series of numbers to her chest; I said there still weren’t enough and invented a new one to fit between two and three – I will wait for the turtle sat in the car park opposite with the Earth balanced on top of its elephant like shell to name it.



Someone pulled the dream bath plug and I woke in a vortex of ideas, all of which had plunged down the plug hole before I had dressed. The cat was wearing a turban as I climbed a rope to the bathroom, signing autographs for manta rays in the process. The dog had become a field with black and white Friesian cows in it during the night and it took longer than usual for us all to get ready. June said she had met a frost giant in a dream; I would have combed my hair in response but the comb was half way up the Empire State Building with a flock of seagulls flying round it, but turned the heating up as we both left the house. June went to town to get vegetables for a stew I wont be eating and I examined the last footprints of Mary Queen of Scots reflected in the hub cap of a stolen car.



Although still feeling ill I left the forward torpedo tubes extremely early in the morning – I caught the merchant ship I should have sunk and clambered upstairs; sitting in a casserole dish instead of a chair. I met a girl dressed all in white and we both jumped on wild horses which strangely didn’t have legs: they floated three or four feet off the ground which still meant falling was hazardous, especially when stretching my arms out wide to emulate a mountain lion horizon. The circus ringmaster was tying up rainbows when I went in. I sat on a sea sponge which was busy reading the first act of the Tempest and then ate my breakfast like Caliban. I left early after lining up a series of lifelike stone soldiers into a formation that Wellington would have used at Waterloo if the battle had been fought on a lawn.



I woke up feeling tired and immediately recollected a dream where I was tied to a post as the sea came in (the timber had been upright since medieval times but I knocked it over on my escape – in all my dreams I have superhuman powers). I took Poppy out before fireworks are set off in the Christian catacombs and then came home to become a small figure in the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – my hands and feet looking like mountains emerging from a thick forest. June showed me the launch pad of a new generation of space vehicles which had been built into the base of her shopping bag and I drew a quick sketch for a reentry capsule of my interstellar imagination. I then went to bed early as the horizon coughed and the middle distance shuffled nervously.



I woke feeling extremely unwell and June went to town on her own while I placed clouds between the pages of a book and waited for them to rain words. I worked indoors, which I had converted into an impenetrable forest, and only went out with the dog (who had a palace of bright white sheets on her back) when June had returned. She had a plastic swordfish and a small portion of Welsh hillside in her handbag and I gave her a small palm I had originally found in an Italian loggia and a church bell with cracks on its surface which looked liked Martian canals: on closer inspection they proved to be an optical illusion and the prospect of finding intelligent life on church bells now seems remote. I informed the spider choirmaster of my discovery and he promised to to tell the flying insect choir.


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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