Friday, July 30, 1999, 4:30 p.m.

The end of the first week. Under that drawing is a grid of charcoal lines six inches apart, too faint for the camera, and over it the bones of the picture: the horizon, the tree line, the S of the creek. The only paint is a dark strip of trees at the left and a pale wash under the sky. That's me in the middle of the floor. I'm not admiring it. I'm deciding whether the horizon is an inch too high. (It was. I moved it Monday.)

Thursday, August 19, 1999, 3:10 p.m.

Clouds. The sky took most of August, and the top of the canvas is seven feet off the floor, so this is how I spent it: on the top step of the stool with my arm over my head, a fistful of rags in the other hand. You can see the sky is mostly there and the marsh below it is mostly not. It was a hundred degrees in the carriage house that week. The camera doesn't show that, which is the only thing I've liked about it.

No frame saved, and I'm sorry: the tree line finished (August 27), the first square foot of finished grass (September 1), and the day of drop cloth during Floyd, which I'd just as soon forget.

Coming: the creek, then the glazes, then the last frame before the painting comes off the wall. I'll put that one here and unplug the camera.