My Diary: Stepping Out Of The Window

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.

My Diary: Inventing A Collapsible House And Then Living In It

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.

My Diary: Hanging From Black Clouds

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.

My Diary: Making A Bridge For A Train Of Thought To Cross

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.

My Diary: The Monsters That Hide In Flower Beds

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.

My Diary: How To Be Imperfect In A Perfect World

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.

My Diary: Thinking Of Ways Of Turning The Lost Into The Found

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.