daily ruzz

long day

an effin long day.

my back is saying some rather unhappy things to me. my mother would wash it's... discs out with soap.
for true. i knew the taste of every major brand of soap.

yes, i am proud of that.

the grind isn't quite over as i await customer feedback on a teenie-tiny point. those are the ones we always get caught on. but, once thats there, i'm good.

and as part of my plan to diversify the .ruzz platform i completed the code base for my next app. I will of course have to make some small changes, and tweaks, and make it enterprise ready but don't be too shocked if i'm offering pay-by-the-month services for web things real soon.

nothing you folks would want, i don't think. but, hopefully something to shore up the disaster that is my wallet.

anyways, it's late. i'm beat & the prophet's ps2 calls.

i dunno about this

theres something about this time of year.

the days are short. the sun hardly makes a dent in a deep nights sleep. everything is dark and empty. the trees stand guard of our parks and driveways without complaint. but you can see their naked anger. do they miss the chittering birds and acrobatic squirrels? the stones crack and shift. one temperature for day, forgotten in cold mist for night. doesn't matter how much white burns my eyes in the afternoons now, i only remember the black shade.

it never matters what really happens, only what you notice. only what you feel, and maybe remember when you're alone.

i see only arms of branch, empty of leaves, reaching out to me. reaching, reaching. never grasping their aim. they mgiht take every-thing if they could, i'll never know. they look like they might. i almost forget to trust them to stay rooted when i look at them.

since the move i feel like there is a thick layer of late autumn mud covering this. covering us. covering me. i can shake it off for a moment here or there. i walk or ride, or amble. sometimes i think sideways thoughts or dream epic dreams and that distracts me.

I feel as though i cannot even recognize myself. as though the things i understood about myself, the things i used to tell where i began and this world ended, have disappeared. one at a time. subtle-like. i didn't even feel them go.

i am a spider, molting its shell-skin. sometimes if a spider hasn't properly prepared for it's molt, it will run out of reserve energy before the molt is complete and die encased in it's own, now dead, skeleton. miracles of engineering are always disgustingly influenced by the smallest of variations. in order to enact the unthinkably complex with grace and elegance we require precision beyond comprehension.

nothing conscious, of course. they just do what they do and the spider-coin-of-fate decides whether they come out new, with perfect spinnerettes or they eek and meek till they expire in that shell-would-be-body.

i am a spider molting. unrecognizable to myself. lightened of all the loads but a rememberence of childish thoughts. they are the ones by which you live and die, your entire life. people think it's what the outside world wants, or does, or thinks, or pushes down your throats with 2.37 million adverts a year, which determines what way your limbs come bent. and what you must accomplish to unbend them, but they're entirely wrong. it's what your child-mind writes on the inside of your brainpan when you sleep, and dream, and worst of all, imagine.

those images, light by the pilot lite of imagination hold a sheen like $15 a bottle creme rinse. i cannot escape mine. mostly, i just ignore them.

i may be a bit depressed. and stressed, and generally being a retard about things. i realize that, but no more a retard can just start spewing advanced math, than i can alter the flow of energy when in the thick of the fight. try as i might.

i am holding together. in battle mode. in some psuedo-tactical, belive in nothing, hold on to nothing, roll with it and just push through the day till the next arrives sort of way. that's survival for you, it gets you from point a to point b without much fanfare, and when you count the minutes, a second at a time, that's just what the naughty nurse ordered.

of course, nothing is all that bad. of course. and some right minded thinking would correct the lot of it, but there is no right, nor wrong, nor reason for any of this, i think, and that is tough to handle sometimes. maybe i am having some sort of delayed existentialist blowback.

i honestly wish i was stupid enough to believe in god. how much simpler life is with a clear cut path just handed to you. you know what's right, or wrong and you have your compass.

a luxury us thinking folk don't have.

when you sit down for a year or two and count the atoms it takes to make a single tooth, you start to come about to the idea that it's entirely unreasonable to even hope for a glimpse of meaning. i read a line in a book that asked a question, asked a million times, but worded just so as to make me really wonder.

"so many stars, what are they for"

and of course, i see parables. we ask what the meaning of life is, but rarely if ever, what is it for. what i am i for?

i'm decidedly not for bush.

everything in your house, whether you apply it or not, has utility of purpose. your can opener opens cans. your tv numbs your brain to mashed potatoes. your couch cradles your fat ass. your stereo communes you with the ages. whatever. look around your room and try to find something that doesn't have a what-for answer.

they all do, every bit of it.

because utility abounds.

and what utility, or purpose (not the more humanistic--meaning) is there for ruzz.

i decided once i didn't much care. you still die if you don't know what your purpose (or then, meaning) is. you still live and die. you still shit and watch re-runs of the simpsons. makes no matter anyhow, aside from intellectual exercise.

this isn't really about purpose. because i don't believe in purpose. thats subterfuge. that's the pretty girl in the red dress with the pendulous breasts. shes winking at us.

now, how many people were sitting at the bar?

the girl in the red dress doesn't want us to look at right and wrong. in our culture, right and wrong are inexorably bound to purpose and meaning. thank the jews. thank the christians. thank the mormons. those bastard mormons.

because you can slip right by objective thought on the matter of right, and wrong, or fair and just, and into the fantasy riddled abyss of meaning. get your self stuck in there up to your cajones and see how quick you give up the questioning.

and right now, in a fundamental way, my sense of right, wrong, fair, just are being grilled by a very experienced interrogator. me.

and it's making me insane.
beyond insane.
i can barely rest, or think.

everything is hung on the door handle of right. or wrong.

i wish it weren't so for me, but that flashlight once shone, held deep in shallow hands, burnt these images in all the way.

bday announcement

it was important for me to do this here now on my 33rd birthday.

today, i'm announcing my next project.

www.photolush.ca

i'm not exactly sure the goal of it, but it's going to be for photoessays and a place to channel the lushness i see around me everyday.

Ineluctable you say?

It only took me three months to actually write a review for ineluctable. Three months. When Jude and I sat down and talked about doing a site like this I was stoked because i saw it as a chance to get out to some movies, write some reviews and have some fun. Instead i've been bouncing from project to project and barely finding time to do the admin work for ineluctable.

But, there is nothing but time i suppose.

Today, I reviewed the original release of The Manchurian Candidate (1962) to coincide with the release of the 2004 version.

an excerpt for you:

Aug 01, 2004—It was as true in 1962 as it is today. To adapt a great book to film you often require a technically strong, but interpretively simple director. It also helps if you can get a clever but unsophisticated screenwriter, and having the star power of 1962’s Frank Sinatra doesn’t hurt either.

or you can read the full article here