Disappointing

are the accoutrements of modern life.

For example, I ordered two memory cards for my new camera.  They were due to arrive this Wednesday, but still haven't shown up.  I don't necessarily think that my life until Monday will be so unmemorable/astonishing that photographic evidence will be warranted, but still.  You'd like to think that Amazon's delivery timeframe is something you could hold onto in these hectic days.

Meanwhile, it's been quite a week.  Work is sapping the very life force out of me.  Luckily, massages are subsidized.  And I refuse to say no to anything.  I understand that 2009 might be, wildly, some kind of last chance to change the entire flow of my life.  "FWIW".  And so they tell me.

Tonight we watched the debates at, of all places, the 4040 club.  It was unabashedly tacky, with awkward piled-up layers of cushions everywhere and cramped interstitial spaces.  I guess the only way to bear it would be if it were so packed that discomfort would be a given.

I can't even get excited about a Lyell sample sale any more.  I'm broke. 
I can't go to Buenos Aires on a whim.  Necessarily.
I can't attach any importance to flirtation.
I watch The Hours and I think about artists that I love.  David Foster Wallace.  Meryl Streep and Julianne Moore.  Glenn Gould.  Diane Sawyer.  Scott Schuman.  Elizabeth Peyton.  Raf Simons.

My heart drops in my chest, and my whole body aches at the prospect of exciting times to come.