A Much Earlier Weekly Diary (Week Ending 29th November)


I went to the fern frond capital city of Echo Land before the blind was pulled across the night sky. I engaged in a long debate about which towns look best wrapped up in string vests with the old voice from the armchair – searchlights from ancient adventures still streaked in the living room – and I came home with visions of broken teeth reflected in pools beside windmills.



Today was a strange day and I never found out what to call it. I called the evening Emily (it called me Christopher Robin) and diligently sorted out all the sparkles on the surface of the sparkle machine. I pulled a rope home, remembering all the people who were never in when I called. Once inside, I swam in a glass of red wine which had been stirred with a tuning fork. I settled down to sleep in middle C.



It was another scissor dawn as my wife turned into the vapour from a crocodile’s nostril. I laid sellotape across the garden while the sky jellyfish floated over head. Most of the documents were filed in the heart of cabbages as I paved my own path to the bottle bank where hobby horse people pretend to give blood. The evening was contained in a recyclable can of silence.



I was shot into the air by a giant spring at point zero of the flash light morning. I sanded down the scratch marks on the wall and walked the dog to a place where the start is also the finish. After discussing the calls heard in the night with a vociferous Toby jug I came home and tied myself into a knot. There were no scouts around as the lift descended into the pit at the end of the day.



When the telephone rang I woke and found myself spread out on a giant hand. I shook it and watched the news on a wedding ring television. By noon all the ladders had descended from their roosting place in the ceiling. I had already walked the dog to a crater on the moon and back. We were not allowed to feed the ducks.



Poppy and I went for a long walk (this after going up a ladder and coming down a snake) to the younger person lakes – the first time since an older age set in. The dog wore sandals and I was dressed as a Spartan soldier. All cars travelling to Artists Way had big grins attached to their bumpers. I went out alone in the evening.



It was my usual boat trip across the desert in the morning. I embraced joviality in the Giant’s sitting room and unpacked an imaginary bag. The journey home was shot from a bow and I arrived home to see the apple split in two. I ate a slow pie in the non urgent afternoon and went out this time as two people.


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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