February 25, 1917
Another good day of painting. I know it’s a good day when I lose myself in the painting, or in the act of painting, that is.
It’s getting warmer outside so it’s not as hard to get going in the morning and make a good day of it. Earlier in the month when we had a good snap of cold weather and it took longer to get going. Now, the water jug is no longer frozen in morning, and when the stove is started the chill is taken out in mere minutes.
I got going early this morning and never bothered to look at my watch until it was half-past three. Nobody bothered me today as it’s Sunday. Sunday outside, not inside here. I haven’t bothered to go to church the last few weeks. Since I didn’t have lunch I made an early supper – boiled potatoes and I had some leftover bacon fat that I made into a gravy. I had tea too and decided to stay away from the whisky for the day. That was hard to do.
Here I am in the evening, surrounded by my sketches and paintings feeling like unfinished man whatever that is supposed to mean. Usually I tidy up when I’m done, but lately I feel like nothing is ever finished, so I haven’t been cleaning up as I should. Tubes and brushes everywhere, sketches scattered on the floor, dirty dishes in the wash basin, my laundry in the corner, and ashes on the floor everywhere. When I wake up in the morning now, I feel further behind than I was yesterday. The painting helps to get rid of the feel, the painting helps me to go forward in the day. But in the evening and in my sleep at night there are headwinds forcing me backward into a place I don’t want to be. I’ll try to shake off the feeling tonight. I’ll try to do it without the whisky. Another unfinished day.