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June 20 - 1924.

Back slid as to getting up.  A grey morning with-out and a bit grey within - an achy stomach can unstart a day.  Cluttered dreams can leave a hang over.  Later - paint removed on side of boat - a concrete job eraces quite much.  I chop some wood, Arthur chops more wood against more rain.  We have a drink and a little rest.  I look at Arthur and think Cezanne could have painted him - all but his eyes.  Arthur is terrifically 3 dimensional in space - so was Cezanne's painting.  Arthur's eyes are terrifically 4th dimensional - Cezanne's eyes were not.  Well who's painting is seen 4th dimensionally? Arthur Dove's.  How can that difference be explained?  Not at all - by me.  I started to change "so "was" Cezanne's painting" to so "is" Cezanne's painting, then thought the so "was" is now so for me.  

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It did mean more to me than it does now - that does not mean I like it less - admirationally - but need it less.  Furthur back it was the same with Ibsen.  Some where - all the way down - we are always the same person - but we grow from and plus the experiences nourishing to our spirits.  We grow terribly slowly - what seems sudden never is.  Perhaps - of course there is no "never" - That's just an idea I've had made aware of through my life the last 3 years and painting the last year.  Also I now like the word "patience" which I never could bear before.  The other day I decided to put my self down in charcoal and paint, the next day I buy this book at the 10c store and try words.  Well I do - thats all.  Everyone picks "Know Thy Self" out of the