No. 82: The Big Apple. Yesterday he set aside his plans for sculptural giganticism and, returning to his painting studio. turned a small still life into a big still life. It gave him more satisfaction than he had imagined it would. He made the big apple white--like a soap bubble, as it it were prickable with a pin--and set it on a rich, golden, egg-yolk ground..

No. 81: Typhoon. It was unbearably hot in his studio, so he decided to buy himself a fan--the biggest one he could find. The giant fan did certainly cool the place down, but now it was like working in a wind tunnel.

No.80. Uproar. He couldn't forget the dancing geysers that started up from nowhere--roaring skyward almost from between his feet--in the Golden Circle hot springs near Reykjavik, Iceland. He equated those upstart geysers with the domestic-sized icebergs that drifted out beyond friend's shoreline in Newfoundland. What he needed was a way to make these phenomena solid and sculptural. He longed to be able to cast a geyser in bronze, or an iceberg in aluminum.

No. 79. A New Lightness of Being. He had grown too serious, almost dour. His habits had become predictable, his hours of work unprofitably monastic, his anxieties exhausting but unproductive. Yesterday he bought himself a couple of bottles of French Rose (one was a sparkling rose), hoping he might thereby force himself into a certain frivolity. He hadn't opened them yet. He wondered if he ever really would.

No.78: Pointed Vision. He felt his vision of things was growing disparate. Too much of what he saw was extraneous. He began training himself to focus better and to see more deeply, more pointedly.