Gerald's space

And so ends another year. I flowed along another road like another river, spent my time on my own in a crowd and then mud walked home, a searchlight hidden in my hat pointing to the stars – I could hear whispers and I know they talk behind my back. I counted clouds like a shepherd and then there was a knock on the door – the apricot man was floating in mid air, his shadow snuffling through the flowerless border like a hedgehog; I glanced back to notice the door had a clown’s face painted on it. Life is a farce; the audience always knew but the actors never. I gave a fleeting glance in the mirror and saw my mirrored head; I never noticed the tears on my crocodile face. The weather was mild as the a dance troupe slid across the lawn. The water diviner stood in the water – his dowsing rods never moved.

The archer stood on an overhanging rock. I held an arrow to the apple on my head as I drew the curtains before the dawn. Outside the ground had worms, the secret character kept clouds tied to a string and the train guard blew his whistle before the station moved out of the train. It has taken my childhood dreams with it and I am powerless to do anything about it. An empty shell spent the morning in the garden, threatened the carpet with the hoover and then retired upstairs to work. Before my work was finished I went out to walk a muddy track in the fading light. And when the light had completely gone I stood among the naked trees as silent as they were. A centipede of lights straddled the horizon, each light a home, a smell, a voice.

The road was ribbon tied in a sad galaxy’s hair; the cosmos a clock without hands. I walked my familiar grey haired trail, bailing out the sinking ship in the surreal theatre of my mind and retaining my bedroom parachute nestled in a multicoloured zombie coat. The river was drowning as I measured the overcast morning. The room was empty and well lit when I reached it camouflaged with greenery. I built an imaginary wall as the music rebounded: on the wall was a painting of Polyphemus hanging from the underside of a sheep, I glanced at it again as I left the building and reached the lake with Easter Island head earrings and a smoking chimney in my hat. I walked a circuitous route home to ready myself for work. My dreaming room adjoins my working room and the sun was hidden in a ladies handbag.

I saw a foot but no leg. I blamed the crocodile on the window ledge. The morning was silent until I opened the door to go outside. My shadow having been left inside drinking a lemon and ginger tea and the child in me left watching from the parapet as I ran against the rain. I didn’t go out until again until the amazing grace of afternoon began to dim. Working inside in the cosiness of a robot womb, music percolating through the interstices of the unclothed rock. I walked beside the dimming lake and talked with the Pachycephalosaurus man and his wife (she was disguised an an American aircraft carrier from the battle of Midway). I then left the lakes and walked the woods with the darkness an encroaching guest and the stream glittering in the dregs of illumination.

A morning like a pirate’s eyepatch. I climb out of the shattered cockpit with a cobweb helmet. The dog headed captain inspected the sea defences before coming onto the wet land; holding the future in one hand and the past in another. The ship of my imagination is seen to be sinking in the sheltered bay. The early part of the morning was a garbled message and I never gave myself a coherent answer until after the kaleidoscopic lunch. Clapping hands made a dove’s wings; the ocean is traversed by thought alone and then a shadow on the carpet is a sea lion throwing a ball (which is caught by a cloud). I walked beside a flickering stream as the light faded; in the lonely forest a solitary pianist plays, a pigeon flies. A lady signals from a train, heading north; like a child’s imagination, everything is new

The master thrower fell out of bed in the middle of the night. He was hiding behind the hedgerow (near Goodworth Clatford it is rumoured) as heavy footsteps echoed up the narrow lane. Trolls with heads at tree height. An ancient Egyptian oversaw the construction of the fortifications as fireflies went up and down the still breathing street. I got up with a sore head. A dachshund in a silk dress hurtled by as I walked the robot way with a toy car in my holster. Voices flickered like disco lights above ice boys serenading the ice queen on a sliding floor. A mysterious stranger eventually exited the sports car as dinosaurs followed horse riders following cyclists. I walked home in a thick fog, followed by my own foot steps. Finally getting into a cosy handshake of warmth amid sleepwalking lights.

A life manifested in interaction. I woke in the early hours from a dream. The morning was mild and wet. The tired centurion walked the ramparts with butterfly thoughts in a caterpillar brain – I crossed the bridge wearing a hollowed out log for a coat and (radioactive clogs!). The little people were in a well lit cave; all the rocks were presents. The dinosaurs on the carpet were moved by time kings and queens as the peasants in the mirror kingdom bought and sold as they walked a path with no beginning and no end. Magic Man found treasures hidden behind cushions once sat on by fire dragons and ice men. They saluted the sea bear memories tied up with coloured string. Music continued in the background as darkness became light and the card players laughed at the table.

In the mirror I spied a frog god with a pyramid head piece; music emerged from below ground like an awakening animal. An angel blew a trumpet in the far distance. By then I was walking down the road carrying a shopping bag evincing signs of self awareness. A building by the river had one open door and one closed shut; I opened and closed both eyes and followed the stream to a row of thatched cottages where I pulled a sheet of paper from a notepad, drew a cross and then folded it. The Old King Cole trees bordered the path where the werewolf army had climbed; I climbed after, being watched by an insect goddess with a hundred eyes, and hurried along in my chameleon coat to the place where days are like pocket handkerchiefs, used once and then thrown away.

I was sat in a tea mug thinking about how little time it takes for the tea to go cold. I had a chaise longe on my head with Madame Recamier languidly reclining on it. This was before I walked down to get a paper and found there wasn’t any; a group of hippopotami were soaking in the the spot where the morning papers are normally found. I walked up Whynot Lane. I wasted the morning searching for black holes on a dark carpet, going upstairs after I had posted some letters without receiving any myself. A bronze cockerel was balanced on a gold plated robot, itself standing on a mythical continent shaped like the naked figure of a man. I signed my own autograph and tucked the stairs in my pocket like a rule. I would get it out later to measure the space between one sad thought and another.

Vampires were on the roof tap dancing, zombies in the basement were staging a boxing contest and the Frankenstein monster was outside my bedroom window hitting himself over the head to see if he was asleep. I wrote all this after I had got up in a pink darkness, the moon was still high in the sky. I met a man in the bear den and then a woman in the tiger saloon. I shot the cap of a bottle with a six gun while other people only saw themselves in the mirror. The mirror walked away as I got near; a child was holding a candle and attempting to read the inscription. I came home after watching two lights race around the sides of a stone figure. I held an art work in my arms and then held myself as the cold light of day faded. A walk in the dark like a walk in the park (my side occasionally poked by lights).