For some reason, the last month or so has been filled with unpleasant interruptions in the flow of my relations to the object world. Again and again, things that were functioning normally have broken down without warning. The cars, the computers, the washing machine: I shudder to think what's going to "disfunction" next. And it's not just technology. Glasses have been breaking with unusual frequency. Today I found the cashmere sweater I got Skylar last winter rendered useless by huge holes, most likely torn by a certain cat's teeth. And yet, for all of that, I don't feel particularly fatalistic. Maybe enough of my inner life was already out of joint that I find comfort in its being mirrored back to me from the external world. Maybe I just don't have the energy to get worked up anymore. Or perhaps there's some other factor at work. I keep remembering what it was like after the Bay Area's big earthquake back in 1989. In the immediate aftermath I felt totally intoxicated with adrenaline. Even after several weeks, I still got a rush every time I saw some broken structure or rode on BART at 4am. I don't want to sound too Steven King-like here, but it could be that there's some paranormal force that manifests in times of rupture like this.