the log lies on the desk where it always lies. you open it to the next blank page. you write the date — small, in the left margin, mono if you write that way; cursive if you do not. then you stop. you do not yet write the first sentence. you wait for it.
the first line is not allowed to be planning. it is not allowed to be a list. it is a single observation, plain as a kettle: the colour of the light at the window, the weather of the cat, the count of birds outside if there are any. one sentence. once it is written, the day has begun to record itself, and the rest of the page will follow on its own.
some keepers add a small mark in the margin after the line is written — a dash, a dot, a private glyph. some sign and date and never look at the page again. one log shows nothing in the margin but a circle that grew over forty years. each circle was a morning. the keeper, asked, did not remember starting.
— field note: a log opened to the wrong page is still opened. write the line where the book wants. it knows which page it is.