A Much Earlier Weekly Diary


The day opened its mouth and I shot out astride a torpedo; my target had a multitude of tiny feet and managed to escape. I chased the invisible sirens with a paintbrush. I then draped myself on ancient masonry before walking among the fallen and sprouting trees in search of an entrance. After the silent prayers I placed a lampshade on my head and illuminated the hallway.



I met my sister as she drifted by among the Portuguese man o’ war. We had a hot lunch among the cold caverns I had already pulled my eyelids across. When I looked up there were sundry faces from the Dark Ages looking down. When I looked down I saw that my napkin had polymerised a host of tiny versions of myself.



It was a bitterly cold day and there was a whole queue of us space refugees walking along the knife blade edge. Smoke emanated from the top hat I was wearing and the fairies wished themselves into existence before annihilating each other with bursts of negative energy. I paced around the cold space as memories of fifteen previous lives sorted themselves according to density.



Today disappeared like a lavatory flush; someone pulled on a cord and all the bells rung. In time to the music I danced in the mud with small sheets of paper stuck to me – my wife meanwhile burrowed into the flesh of a huge sea serpent that sailed by with the whole of the Trojan war enacted on the broad expanse of its kaleidoscopic back.



I woke with a start and found a couple of dozen prehistoric animals laying on the bed. I consequently jumped out with a pair of tights over my head (there was a blue garter above my eyes like a Jimi Hendrix bandana). After a brief discussion about a tin shack in the middle of France I cast myself adrift in a wine bottle and bobbled along in a synchronous water ballet with a number of intoxicated dolphins.



An in and out day like the tale of the person who lives in a matchbox. I pulled a parachute from under my hat and pretended to make a bad landing. I juggled thin air and then went home with a colony of meerkats in my trousers – after going down the pit in a hot air balloon I went out and in again with my propellor spinning fast.


The blue touch paper burnt slowly and it was late in the morning before I unrolled the hose and pushed myself down it. The Christmas zombies walked slowly as I slid past wearing a pseudo snake skin. I managed to dance on a tambourine for the briefest period before having to sellotape my life story to the front of my vest and rolling down the hill to the glass lake of work. I had a message from my doctor.


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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s