When you ride an atomic bomb in your sleep you often wake up tired. I got up like Saint Elmo’s Fire and mopped my brow with a Viking Blood Eagle floral display handkerchief – I remembered that on seeing an embroidered reproduction of a black hole eating a solar system all the weredogs in the wardrobe took up embroidery; I myself started examining the inside of alarm clocks to try to distinguish the planets from the proto-suns. I worked in spirals and concentric circles before entering a geometrically precise tribal space. As June wondered what to cook on the Anglo Saxon camp fire I contemplated the concept of collective memory and tried in vain to remember the various postal addresses of the Christian Catacombs.
I had to get up early to dance with an Egyptian mummy to the music of Stravinsky in a firebird morning. I returned from micro-potholing in the garden just as a tube train raced through our dining room (knocking down a diamond encrusted vole skull and a photograph of June in rapt conversation with a plastic boomerang as it did so). Inexplicably the dog was trying on a pair of long johns purportedly last worn by a forty-niner panning for gold teeth in a yellowed photograph. I contemplated a painting of a thousand smiles as I found the long lost entrance to my studio in an ancestral drum. I beat the drum for the rest of the day, stopping occasionally to hear echoes returning from the rusting hulks of sunken ships.
I walked out into the garden like an extra in a spaghetti western, my hat already having two white feathers and an arrow stuck in it. Strange female headed birds were circling overhead searching for their make up bags as I turned my mirror head away from the dusky dawn sunlight. In the flower theatre, which I had constructed to perform the plays of Shakespeare with a floral cast (mainly amateur it has to be said), the performers had assembled with hail stones in their white hair – I noticed the aquilegias had eagle heads and rings on their roots. I hid my Plasticine sacred stones in the thespian greenery (I didn’t realise that a small figure resembling a cross between a Worcester ware figurine and a tiger beetle had watched me do it).
I had to make an unplanned trip to the fungal growth town to get a tube of lipstick for a many mouthed monster who had pushed its face through our living room wall – knocking off a number of photographs of me as a child with a scale model of the Graf Spee emerging from my navel in the process. June then went to town herself dressed as an Eighteenth Century mail coach with at least one of me disguised as a dalmatian dog running along behind. I came home to carry a collection of false teeth that had fallen out of the giant’s mouth down to our front porch – apparently the giant was going to be covered with a layer of artificial turf and then trammeled by the bare feet of Saint Ursula and eleven thousand virgins.
I got up very early and traveled to the 78 record country side with a large handle in my abdomen; I was pleased when sat on the Carmelite brotherhood bus that the members of a women’s basketball team that boarded half way resisted the temptation to turn it. I met the Roman god in his bungalow (which had been laid out to resemble a street during the battle of San Marino) and we talked of a river of logs which neither of us could cross even though I had a whittled a tiny figure with a key hole when I was young; typically I never whittled the key. In an imaginary world outside miners walked about with white faces while the flour mill workers had theirs blackened by coal dust. I visited friends before I came home inside a mobile cello.
June and I woke attached to a spider web; the spider was a cuddly toy and the cave was lined with flower petals – each numbered for an after dinner bingo game (I prefer the slow metamorphosis into a baobab tree myself). I walked Poppy along a strip of Sellotape which I had unconsciously pulled off a mysterious package that arrived yesterday (or was it the day before that? – I have too many yesterdays); the box was empty save for some wood chippings and a bus ticket purportedly used by Mary Magdalene on her way to Calgary. I then walked round the bald eagle tattoo on a giant arm that had replaced the front garden – I had reached my thirteenth circumnavigation when an ostrich ran up next door’s drive and delivered a package.
I had to count the number of rabbit ears I had grown during night before leaving the space warren with the interstellar dog. We walked round the edge of the known universe while shaking the hands that emerged from passing multicoloured clouds – I assumed the clouds were worn as hats by a race of beings much more advanced than us. After a dinner of tickets to a bootlegged concert by the BBC Symphony Orchestra I watered the runner beans that were growing on my head in lieu of hair – it took me some time to get a satisfactory legume parting but the final effect was well worth the effort, especially when a Hollywood film company decided to shoot their next all action thriller there – apparently the heroine is rescued by a man from a Martian penal colony.