June sat in the chair with her head in the hedgerow. I had to go out in a car wrapped up in old curtains and I walked out the door (which has a slight lisp) with a boomerang for a head - it hasn’t been reported if it ever returned. The remainder of my body went on the long journey, tracing a route around a pearl necklace and then a gold bracelet. My friend and I stopped at the point where the minute hand of his wristwatch pointed due South - although I still insisted on looking West as this was where the bad weather usually came from. I put a mix of conscious and subconscious utterings on a pristine wall, sullying it with my imagination, and then came part of the way home on the needle of an old fashioned record player.
Although expecting a visit from the unicorn lady I went out into the well thumbed paperback garden for most of the morning (June having swam on dry land up to the hill overlooking the diagonal cuts where the valley tried in vain to take its own life). As it turned out the lady of the unicorn never arrived until much later although a little girl with dog whelks for eyes knocked on our door by mistake. I had to place half forgotten days into bags, ready to walk the plank with them over a system of martian canals - they were once thought to have contained water and are now thought to contain blood. At the end of the day I put a fire in a block of ice and surrounded myself with swirling figures: some were entirely imaginary and some were not.
I had to go out early to collect my own piece of unpromised land - I planned to attach four skies and one sea (unfortunately seas were in short supply at the moment). While out I took the opportunity to bundle up a set of unused words and post them to my friend, the subterranean poet, who I thought my use them more often than me - he lives quite close to the subterranean artist who is waiting to reach the surface so she can rediscover impressionism. I had to move like shadows on a sunless day before running, arms aloft, on the stage I call my studio: there isn’t actually an audience just rows and rows of wolf spider eyes. While they watched, my largest paintbrush followed the lines I had already laid out in the privacy of my smallest sleep.
I had to go to town to print out the dance moves I hope to make with the ghost of a chest of drawers - it lived with me in my favourite house until I was eight (when I was eight I had thatch for hair and grass snakes for finger nails; however when I reached nine the snakes had changed to spaceship controls and the thatch to steam engines passing by too quickly). June came with me, holding what was left of the cooker tape deck with which she used to listen to her refrigerator music. She went to the wool shop for cotton and then met me on the bridge of a ship which I pretended was sinking - like most things in life this was an illusion and in reality it was just the water that was getting higher. We both came home as clouds; sadly neither of us rained.
I got up early, pulling June after me like a battleship pulling a cloud. I left the house in a cloud of butterflies and settled on the bus stop as psychedelic dust. I met the grand old man just before he changed into an upright piano and temporarily left, his music still floating about the small room slowly reaching a crescendo. I left myself some time after dressed as a panda; before being a panda I was a high priest at the organic altar steadfastly proclaiming that the supreme being of all knights of old is a mushroom cloud (all of his creation is preprogrammed to sit in an ice cube and then light a fire). I came home on a rocking horse, not understanding why the scenery remains unchanged. When I finally got in I found June as a hazel nut still attached to the tree.
I sat, squashed between a row of gardening books, on a shelf in my library. June got me down instead of a book and began to read; before she had finished (I hate endings) I showered in the garden and then took the dog out, me on a pogo stick and her on a mobile trampoline. We came out from the underpass with sore heads and on my return to the copper kettle house I diligently squeezed myself into a tin can to work. June sat with Poppy on a row of sardines: they collectively dreamed of being architectural columns holding up the widest viaduct in Western Europe. I thought they should be lighthouses shining vertically up into space - as I thought this a raven landed in the very centre of the amphitheatre and made a sunken galleon out of an electric violin and a piece of brain coral.
June wanted to go out, pulling behind her a collection of kites who had grown too old to fly. I stayed in the Nautilus tying string together before leaving the inverted bridge (sometimes called a rainbow reflection) for a short while in the company of Joan of Arc and the goddess Athena (I didn’t find out until later that they were one and the same). I came home a long time before June, talked to a dinosaur who was thinking of taking the vows and then to a nun who wanted to be a warm blooded reptile. Apollo and Artemis brought June home, I removed the skeleton that had been transformed into a drum kit from the boot of their car and then patted the black hole which will eventually swallow the entire solar system as if it was a small dog.