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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. [[end page]] [[start page]] 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