I got up early as I had to go to town inside a small paper bag: the markings on the outside, when viewed from a distance looked like a Carmelite nun embracing the nose cone of a Saturn Five rocket just before take off on the ill fated Apollo Thirteen mission. June dressed as a school teacher playing truant and walked up a path of spat out chewing gum, a sunrise shining on one side of her spectacles and a sunset the other (I had already walked the dog the entire length of a king size cigarette). While in town I stopped in at the free book shop and read myself before putting me back on the shelf and coming home inside a bag of cat biscuits. I had time to camouflage the house with Scotch thistle leaves before June came home holding her own hand.
June surprised me by getting out of bed as a ring of fire with an immortal valkyrie inside (I departed from the original story here as I know it to be false) and I had to follow with a mast from Noah’s ark obscuring my vision. I was actually not able to start work until it set sail - I duly waited in my studio for the raven to return (I know what doves get up to!). As it turned out it was June who came in holding a recipe for iced cakes. As the intelligent part of the day faded I sung a song without opening my mouth and scattered seed for a flock of regrets who were preparing to roost (I secretly wished I was preparing to migrate but instead signed my name on a walrus tusk and put a model of Stonehenge, as it was in the late neolithic, in a cake tin (after, of course, a liberal sprinkling of icing sugar).
I raced June to the starting line before the morning was fully clothed; she curled up on the boa constrictor settee and I caught the monitor lizard bus - between me and my destination was a long series of windows, some of which I looked out of and I some I did not. The ash king and I met as shadows on a bright day; he noticed the clouds before me and we both eventually disappeared like a hung up cold caller (I steadfastly refuse to say what make of washing machine we own). On the way home I found myself in an unfamiliar town: very old people coming one way and very young children the other; I positioned myself exactly in between and waited for an arrow called Robin Hood to hit the target in the story a young child was reading to me.
June got up songbird early to hang the washing on the line - in the distance another lady was doing likewise with what looked like centurions from a Marian legion of the Late Republic. I looked up to write an invisible poem which started with an angel in sunlight and ended with an eagle of the heart escaping - I vowed to never leave cage door open again and then resurrected my alternative self: he/I danced an aboriginal ceremonial dance to the passing of a friend. That evening I stood outside a deserted house and pretended I could see conversation uttered decades before rise like smoke. On the walk home I lit up a pen and circled sad thoughts floating above a row of laughing heads that I had strung like beads around a multistorey neck - June got the clothes off the line (they were dry).
I put a small part of the day under one of three shells and rearranged them - try as I might I couldn’t find this part of the day again and was extremely late getting into the room at the end of one thousand steps; I sat down on the cat as I couldn’t find the chair. June. as is her want, went wing walking to the local shopping centre on the upper wing of a de Havilland Tiger Moth - she planned to come home on the lower wing but I decided to meet her half way and we had tea in the open cockpit. We got back to the dragon’s tail house so I could return to spreading margarine on whole wheat canvas and I quickly retired to the forward gun turret of HMS Nelson and played the digital piano up the central sixteen inch gun barrel. I composed a musical painting entitled “The Broadside”.
I had to swim in dry soil during the opening page of the morning; June, as usual, skipped the boring bits, had a quick bath and went out. By the time I had found reliably wet land another hour had escaped my version of the morning (carefully constructed on the bonnet of a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost) along a fault line of my own making. June had constructed her world on a Model T Ford (which had been crossed soon after the i had been dotted) and was busy embracing the overtaking lights of a fairy tale dual carriageway. She rang me to talk in bright lights while shielding her eyes from the noise; I returned the call, speaking the truth in boolean algebra and lies in the mythic scenery of Mount Parnassus just before a continually false dawn.
I woke and found myself hanging from a thread like fruit on a tree (if I was asleep I would have called the tree knowledge, as I was awake I called it the exoskeleton of an amoeboid protozoan); June, who was busy turning random lengths of wood into a rudimentary supercomputer, cut the thread: all recollection was lost until I accidentally drew a circle like Giotto. I was just going to paint a fresco celebrating the life of St Francis of Assisi when the door was knocked from both sides at once and two little people tiptoe waltzed in. I continued their dance on the ceiling before falling out with the plastic chandelier and crashing to the sherry trifle of a floor as royalties to an anonymous author. The four of us went out onto the flight deck of a nuclear powered aircraft carrier and stood quite still.