2/ The screen on my watch showing the calendar went blank so I don't know the date. Sarasota, Florida. Listening to Britton String Quartet. February 18, 1999. A feeling of entering another phase, another chapter. The coincidence of dates, perhaps. But these numbers have an actual force of their own, which goes very deep into human consciousness. Everywhere you look, numbers are gigantically increasing, a general expansion.

I've never felt so satisfied in my life. Gradually, this is changing my perspective on everything. You can never overestimate how much more direct it is possible to be.

You can never be dressed very far previous to the next act. You can see it coming, but you still don't know what it will feel like. To know what things feel like is to actually go through the experience and know what it is. But very far previous to the experience you can obviously anticipate it (this plane requires a great deal of time).

Instinctively we long to move inside of things. We are natural cave-dwellers or spelunkers like Clark Coolidge. Especially readers- as time goes by, many want to experience going more "inside." The solution to all this is very possibly connected with being direct. Probably the setting should be very direct. These perceptions have to be right on the nose. It's important to get there- there's something I need to know. But how about when you know you don't know, but you know there is something specific you'd better find out about. So you start to read. Soon you find out that resources of information are important here. This boils down to specific people who know how to do it. This particular kind of knowingness borders on technique, sometimes even technology. This distinction is not unlimited either. There is a feeling your way there for what clicks.

Feathers in the files. In my dream last night I came across some feathers and I said: "These are the feathers in the files," as I was overjoyed that I had actually found these things. Then just before I wrote this, I opened (my book) "Theoretical Objects" at random and I opened it to the poem with this line, "Feathers in the files." In the same poem I came across another connection. Frank Sinatra. The night before I noticed Pete Hamill's book on Sinatra, no doubt Bill Simon's, since we're staying here at his place. These connections spread out laterally across time zones which interconnect. (February 18, 1999)