A Much Earlier Weekly Diary


A tree was felled in the living room as I pogosticked down the gilded stairs. I took the jeep out for a walk as the dog drove the general to his next ladies tea party. I only had time to recite a few verses of the clockwork bible before going down the road on battery power. The evening billowed like the wings of a rock group. I stuffed a classical sonata down my jumper.



My wife was out at a Bedouin camp so I had time to lick all the stamps in my stamp collection and then migrate to my studio as the days shortened and the geese stock piled snow shovels. I whistled at my work and then ate an ocean liner for my lunch. I had to pace the bridge in the evening as the dark ships got closer.



Another wet sponge day. I rung out my shoes after racing Poppy to the edge of everyday life and back. I then dusted my room with the cat before curling up to work. I laid out a number of lines of hose before my wife had returned from running messages for the pope. I smiled at all the doors in the hospice.



Most of the wallpaper days are badly torn and I tunnelled into the mature cheddar of my urban existence while dog walkers paraded their machines made from left over car parts. I had whispered to the smiling walls when I had first emerged from the bedroom cocoon so I had nothing left to say when the Toby Jug descended the grand staircase with ribbons instead of fingers.



My wife and I walked the anteater tongue to the pile of medieval books where we like to eat. While we were sat pulling apart the wreckage of downed Second World War aeroplanes a parade of soldiers waltzed by. I sat at the controls of an intergalactic freighter while June pulled the cords of our family parachute.



When I poked my head through the autumn lit kaleidoscopic membrane I saw the day coiled like a moth’s tongue. As it unwound I danced a slow dance in the vault where cold hands are kept in wine bottles. I stayed for extra time and saw the ball kicked into the back of the silent night net while my colleague threw himself from an aeroplane pinned to the ceiling.



There were slightly less obstacles sat on the pancake of my Andover avatar existence than yesterday. I pulled an unknown device out of the mixture and licked life into it. I then sunk into a boat I use as a bed. I saw shooting stars through my periscope. Eileen rang.


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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