June left for work as I rose through the various floors of the house like a family heirloom through consecutive generations; I wondered what it would be like to be the filter of a king size cigarette and then spread my clothes on the floor like the ground plan of an Aztec temple. After throwing a horseshoe at a spike hammered into an artificial heart (the neighbours are worried about robot vampires) I walked the dog up a rope slung from a passing cloud; we both came down again with horns on our heads. I counted the number of bullet holes in a dead glove before resurrecting it as a present for June – who I had to let in after she accidentally swallowed her house keys.
Today was a semi-transcendental day which I celebrated on a scale model of Hadrian’s Wall pulling Roman soldiers from between the paving slabs. A man dressed like a penny postman walked by holding a sickle; we swapped road signs and I came inside. The house had already changed its clothes several times that morning and was trying on a pair of support tights while various chimney shaped hats paraded on its roof. I touched fingers with a friend trapped between the inner walls since Edwardian times and then went out into the garden again. Our neighbours were living in an overturned Greek urn and I had to pat their fish which they kept on a lead. When June came back from work I noticed the man with the sickle was heading home.
June and I found ourselves in the cockpit of a B25 Mitchell which must have crashed in the jungle; I called myself Doolittle and talked to the dog (she still has a few problems and wears the imaginary building site scaffolding with good grace). I spent most of the day in the garden, even though June had disappeared like twin engined smoke for all of the morning. We met again on the doorstep in the early afternoon and she gave me a table (she had vacuum flasks replacing the six guns in her holsters so I had to pretend to put my hands up – holding sugar lumps painted rainbow colours in my left hand and a child’s tea set in my right). As the weather men predicted it rained like a WW2 medium bomber strafing run in the evening.
June went to town to examine a packet of flying saucers which had landed sometime this week – she had an orangutan in her hair. I had a little earlier stuck a car exhaust in my ear (remembering I have got six to match my guitar string sensibilities) and walked to an underpass accompanied by a man with a road sign for a head. I noticed that one of his kin was practising Persian writing in the railway station car park when I passed by with a nude portrait painted on a soup ladle. Incidentally the person who served the soup had disappeared years ago but scientists have managed to sequence his genome and a bronze reproduction of his favourite cravat is on display in the V&A. I met June in town and accidentally discovered that she had a tributary of the Thames in her shopping bag.
June and I left the house during the first flicker of a so called transcendental morning; a kind hearted sea sprite had folded up the garden and placed a street urchin cap on our second hand roof. We parted like Horatius and the bridge and I travelled alone in a council subsidised bright red blur until making a complimentary connection with the green hilled countryside. The hill god was painting slices of bread yellow when I pushed the rainbow door bell (I called it Iris: goddess of the sea and sky but knew that the lady next door talked of old age as a black hole). The old god recounted a story about the archeologist’s father (apparently he died at a first aid course) while I searched under the carpet for holy relics – I cut the hedge like a giraffe.
Dressed only in the flag of a country that hasn’t come into existence yet I walked out into the Minotaur street – all the other protagonists in the drama could move in any direction but I had to follow an L shaped pattern. The dog wanted to wear fiery loops for earrings which I had to unceremoniously put out before we could have our morning walk in the pouring rain; I felt like a frost giant passing the time of day with a fire eating leprechaun. We came home as elements in a pantomime brontosaurus and then had to enter the house through the letterbox. As a side note: it was only after June had come back from the spectral aviary that I found out that the woman at the top of our garden is Ariadne waiting for the arrival of Dionysus.
I got up just as June slid under the front door on her way to work. I had to first visit a service station at Timbuktu to get green vegetables for the rabbit (he didn’t eat them but in a flash of inspired creativity arranged them into an art work entitled “The Meaning Of Life To A Long Dead Person”. I didn’t really like the work but admired how the colour of the carrots complimented the carpet markings. The dog had to be walked through the eye of a needle and then I retired to my studio to connect the dots. A strange silence prevailed: the studio cat would only communicate through a ventriloquists dummy and I had to dance like a Cossack when June came back from work with baby impalas for hands.