1.11.11 is the kind of date that takes you into its promises of symmetry and demands that you notice the way it racks up potentially significant moments all day long: 1:11 a.m., 11:11 a.m., and then you get another shot at the p.m. versions of each of those to do or say something meaningful.

At lunch, I looked at my clock at 1:06, having forgotten to take note at 11:11.  I think it might have been right at 11:11 when I spilled my thermos of hot tea onto my hand.    Look, we still have a chance! I told  my friend Anne-Marie, we have 5 minutes until 1:11,  but then we got into a discussion about what constitutes fun and when we remembered about the importance of 1:11, it was already 1:16.  And what if we’d remembered? What could we have possibly done that would measure up to the sense of occasion of so many Ones all together like that?  She said, after the fact, I think that was right when you were asking about whether maybe there’s no difference between what I call work and fun.  That was a nice try, and we can then go even further into some grand cohesion that we’re all part of without even having to force it, to have been dissolving distinctions at this very one-heavy moment.  But it still feels like there’s something this day is asking for that I’m not giving it.

I’m seriously feeling coerced by the promise of posting this at 11:11, and even as I write this, in the lower right hand corner it says, “Draft saved at 9:11:07 pm” and I impose onto that some fantasy of what it would look like for it to say 11:11:11 and could I hit save at exactly the right moment.

But if I try to get into the mind of 1.11.11, 11:11, I imagine, a moment attended by so many ones probably likes nothing better to just pass seamlessly, in the same way that maybe the highest praise of the editing of a film would be not to notice it at all, but to still somehow know it’s there.