A Much Earlier Weekly Diary


I was out as early as possible from the hover house overlooking the boat yard – this is where the seventeen children I once was grew fruit and then secretly ate them. I went out in desert clothes and was surprised when I came back with bits of the tropical rain forest attached to my overalls. With these same clothes I went to the factory in search of a chimney to smoke.



I went to see Father Christmas. I rose early with dove wings and visions of snow hopping kangaroos. However, it was mid morning before I managed to undo the chains from the rock I was shackled to. I then took the long journey where old trees fell to the dead house gardens where my wife and I had long past. I dug up as many memories as possible.



June discovered that she had broken her hand. We were both standing in bags of wet cement at the time. I had to pull a fish out of my pocket and make a phone call. It was a quiet day with the flags on the roof bringing up a family of refugees and the cardboard version of me surreptitiously making notes on a piece of paper in his pocket.



I climbed out of the tree house lavatory holding my tummy. It took three trips to town to fully reconcile all the differences between the various clans who purportedly live in sundry items of flat pack furniture in our bedroom. After swimming forty lengths in a cup of tea I went to join the congregation where little Emily kindly gave me a bottle for her portrait.



I woke bereft of visiting Magi but saw instead a Walt Disney silhouette of June as she rubbed two sticks together to turn on the television. After an Italian dinner the family settled down to pulling magic tricks out of pieces of anaconda strewn across the floor. I studied the tracks left by a party of marauding red Indians while the others gleefully buttered a monopoly board.



Another day away from home – we had to trek across the plastic land where plastic people lay with arms outstretched in a perpetual embrace – we then played with the baby and ate miscellaneous parts from a model kit. I dreamed of raising the dead while television screens duelled at a multitude of false dawns. I was worried by the amount of weight Poppy has gained.



I started the day by raising my arm like the dead warrior in Guernica. I then dressed myself in chocolate wrappers and squeezed between chinks in the wall. I tried to get back into my studio (which had been vacationing in the South of France) but the clock didn’t like it. At the end of the day my dinner was delivered by Viking longboat.


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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