I should be happy

I've been looking at that previous post for the best part of a week now, and I've come to the conclusion that my claim to having "thrown out" my girlfriend was a little harsh; to be fair, we reached the mutual conclusion that her continued presence in our home was untenable.

Since last Tuesday's melt-down I've been in this weird, numb, no-fly zone just waiting for something to happen. I worked three 12-14 hour days in the last four. I went out on Friday night and got drunk. I've spent the entire weekend sleeping, and when not sleeping all I seem to be able to do is read Phillip Roth, download Norwegian black-metal and wander around the house, looking at all the dirty dishes and wondering who left them since it surely wasn't me.

Last night I dreamt that I started a nuclear war by launching a missile attack on Russia, who obligingly retaliated and bombed Lower Hutt (despite its strategic value surely being less than zero). Through an open window from my office 20km away in Wellington I watched the detonation - obediently shielding my eyes from the glare - and the mushroom cloud bloom. I waited as the blast wave roared towards me and as it enveloped me, I watched my body breaking up into streams of pixels, as if photographed using really bad grainy film. I felt at one with the universe, as if I had suddenly, through a series of reductive transformations, found my place in the proton-stream emanating from the centre, the birth of the universe and the Big Bang.

I've just finished watching I Love Your Work, a neat little art-film which appears to be some sort of a discourse on the nature of self and fame and obsession and the entertainment industry. It's one of actor Adam Goldberg's first directorial efforts and it's quite a stylish little piece, very poetic and meditative; nice, unusual, clever but classy use of cuts and shots, very innovative application and integration with the beautiful soundtrack (Goldberg again, with Steven Drozd of the Flaming Lips); thoughtful. It even pulls some neat multi-layered tricks crossing the fourth dimension - the barriers between subject and actor and audience and so on - and ends with a bizarro Rodgers and Hammerstein flourish. It certainly doesn't hurt that the film features the very watchable Giovanni Ribisi, Franka Potente, Christina Ricci, and, weirdly, Elvis Costello. Unfortunately I didn't enjoy it because I just can't concentrate on anything at the moment. This makes watching films very difficult and leaves me in no doubt that I am going to be an utter flake for this year's film-festival.

I should be happy; I've got the reviews I've been waiting for for several months. Aquarius records has, in their New Arrivals #217 list (possibly here, in a week or so) reviewed my recent Application antarctica download form and Communion longplayer CDs. And given them bloody good write-ups. And streaming samples, for anyone who wants to listen. As much worth as a review ever is, these ones are probably worth quite a lot, just because of the clout that is apparently afforded to these guys' opinions.