My Diary: Finding A Constellation Of Minds

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The sun was shining on a knife blade morning as I ventured out with a hat fashioned after the crab nebula and with swampland gloves, immune to any kind of snake venom. I passed the playhouses on stilts, my invisible guest had told me they walk down the road at night, but the workers had gone – I knew they would return; as would he. After my own return, like a flock of radio signals come home to roost, I had no other reason to leave the house. I kept myself warm with music and cool with art. I imagined a static time in an expanding space while an articulated lorry roared down the road and a lone cyclist wended his way up it. I painted a window so a man could accidentally fall out; he got up again, dusted himself off and walked away with the thigh bone of an extinct ape under his extremely hairy arm.

My Diary: The Standing Stones Congregate Outside

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Music comes from the stones beneath my feet as I dreamt myself up and down the road; I imagined sails on my head and ex-sailors as zephyrs of the morning. I wanted to get home before the wagon train full of settlers. I don’t want to be settled – a swift gesture with a violin bow removed the bowler hat of the man picking up his morning paper; “no news is good news” uttered a lamppost voice. I walked though a long gallery of faces: some were smiling, some were crying, some were withholding information; although I pretend not to care! I was finished by dinner anyway: I dined with a horseshoe crab and we reminisced about old times. In the the swings and roundabouts afternoon I donned a Red Indian headdress and chanted for a new world disorder. The buffaloes are now armoured cars.

My Diary: Dedicated To The Man With A Window In His Chest

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I saw the new morning in its petticoat – while it saw me naked and confused (it always sees me naked and confused – some people are naked even when wearing clothes). I studied the scenery, both inside and outside my head; but was interrupted twice: the first time by a voice in the hedge answering the calls made by a fish orchestra flying overhead and the second time by a badge with a man who offered to become a mirror for my mind – I told him my mind had already got seven years bad luck and pointed out a dog walking down the street on stilts (he subsequently pointed out a self portrait on the bottom of his shoe – cue music). I painted inside a gargantuan fireplace of a Tudor mansion until the flower headed performers in the Minstrels’ Gallery stopped playing. I then had to ride a tapir to town and a thylacine home again.

My Diary: I Am A River Moving Away From The Sea

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Today I moved rocks. Lighthouses grew legs and walked inland while clouds dressed in French lingerie and danced provocatively before ice cool robots that harvest fields of already burning coal. I arranged the rocks into a smiling mouth and then climbed to see the grin. Bird song became wallpaper paste on the invisible walls surrounding the almost Spring garden. I walked on a carpet of words, opening the verb door to enter the noun house wearing my favourite scenery instead of clothes; later doing a picturesque striptease in front of the vacuous mirror. An aged centurion stood by trying to get his mobile phone to work. After a pleasant morning I succumbed to the spaceman blues and painted in zero gravity with nothingness becoming something in my head – which the under laundry maid had just accidentally put through a mangle.

My Diary: The Missing Man Has Found Himself

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I sat singing like a sewing machine in a jungle contained within a dream. The dream I had forgotten and then remembered again – just as I reached the high board and made ready to jump even though there wasn’t any water in the pool. I talked with a previous version of myself: with a degree of envy but no real regret; birds flew overhead and the pond was full of missed calls. The telephone was a graveyard of old conversations and I left a message. There were no crossed lines and all demarcations were as peaceful as a flower garden. I could speak with the flower man but sadly not the flower lady. A lone bugler called from a roof top – I never found out which one – and soldiers in uniforms of the Crimean war marched up a road so dusty it eventually enveloped them all.

My Diary: Introducing The Magic Serfer

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I feign defiance before a morning I originally perceived as bright but in reality was dull and sloth grey. An over familiar story, which I wanted to escape from when my chores were over. I trod feather stairs among the tunnel mansions burrowed into the hillside brain by a race of ancient non-mariners. I have been caught in their nets many times and often enjoyed it; carrying my own cross to a place I have never made public; scattering palm leaves before my very own feet. After the morning’s work I walked out into the afternoon garden and stood between storms – working in stockings like a medieval herdsman. After the curtain of old sacking was lowered I took myself out. A procession of African elephants walked in front of me; off to a watering hole with a rainbow and a magic gate: I unlatched it once but didn’t dare go through.

My Diary: An Express Train On A Branch Line

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I went for my usual early morning walk; over the bridge where my thoughts escaped – it was asleep and dreaming of me (although I never knew that at the time). I never told it I blew a French horn in an orchestra of those who regret too much. None of us knew the tune, we began when the monocyclist clapped and stopped when the bearded lady married the clown with a hint of Spring in his far away eyes. I walked to the convenience store with my Winter coat still on, my head like a crashed aeroplane – thankfully all the occupants escaped – meeting the boy who can walk on water and coming home with the future rolled up in my convict pocket. I spent the day making windows I daren’t look out of in case I saw something I didn’t like. Once it was dark I went out the door.

My Diary: The Carnival Is Over Without Me Knowing It Had Actually Started

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I started the day on a desert island with no knowledge of how I got there. I saw a flotilla of small boats on the horizon; the occupants all waved. I wish now I had waved back. I worked in my gyroscopic cockpit while on the imaginary planet’s surface astronauts fought aliens in a room I remembered. I wished I could be copied and pasted back into it instead of facing the crocodiles jaws of a perpetually clicking clock. It took several attempts to make the day  – the clay rotating wildly in my nervous hands. Even the clockwork man who emerges from a hole in the wall to blow a whistle like a Nevada bomb test seemed strangely indisposed. After a see saw progression I saw the the tail lights of the day diminish in an uncertain distance. I stood on a discarded carnival float with an expressionless face hiding a reflective mood. I am a statue, they are statues, I am a plinth.

My Diary: A Student Of Future History

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I dressed in red and then I dressed in green. A man made of ice standing in the pouring rain watching a procession of hooded figures slowly move down the tree lined avenue: I turn over and an island rises from the sea: pristine and coral clad. I found the bottle of milk on the bottom shelf and then walked the morning paper called Fido. I worked as close to the window of history as possible; sometimes pressing so close to the piano keys of past days I became part of the song I was learning to play. Outside one magpie became two as the crane driver picked up a crate containing absolutely nothing and moved it absolutely nowhere. I think that my life is a building site and the building will never be finished. Perhaps I should have settled for a bungalow instead of a multi-storey!

My Diary: Watching For Rainbow Hair Styles

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The morning was as grey as granite when I rain walked my weekday morning trail to the gaping mouth of the Southern Railway (originally London and South Western Railway); as always, grey seal or giraffe necked and pondering a future wrapped up in a past. The orange men moved slower than usual as I paced past their piled high hive. My plans for the day were wrapped up in cellophane and I unwrapped them in my studio before a fly’s eye worth of romantic landscapes. Reaching up into the recesses of the antiquated abbey I pulled down a fresco like a guard pulling the emergency cord before a broken bridge. I called it by a Nordic name that I had found in the Old Testament and painted over the frowning lines with the enthusiasm of a centipede in an ants nest; periodically looking at the sky where the paint was peeling off the rambling clouds.