83 lines
5.2 KiB
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83 lines
5.2 KiB
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<item>
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<title>Star City</title>
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<link>
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http://liftoff.msfc.nasa.gov/news/2003/news-starcity.asp
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</link>
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<description>
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<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><head><meta name="generator" content="HTML Tidy for HTML5 for Linux version 5.7.45"/><title/></head><body><header><h1>A Walk Along The Side</h1></header><p>This year has been tumultuous so far. Combine equal parts cabin
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fever, poor mental health, and escapism, and you get a person who
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has difficulties putting words into a creative composition. Instead
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of posting a success story later about how I have overcome my
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obstacles in life, I felt it was equally important to document my
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lower moments as well. This post would be a feeble attempt to keep
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this website alive.</p><h2>Proxmox VE 7.0</h2><p>Kudos to Proxmox and their team for the latest release of
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Proxmox VE. The upgrade process was smooth and well documented. The
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inclusion of the upgrade checks was amazing to say the least.</p><h2>New Work, New Schedule</h2><p>No longer a support engineer, I now have a regular work and
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sleep routine. This routine frees me from the debilitating schedule
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that once held me prisoner from social activities or engaging in
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self-improvement. Ironically, this has only enabled my escapism
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habits.</p><p>I spent several months grinding away Witcher 3 and its DLCs.
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It's an amazing RPG for a game of its time. Between killing
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monsters for coin and saving Ciri, there were plenty of side quests
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to keep the player going. The only downside was how the devs
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decided to handle the post-game content. What a shame. I also
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dropped a few weeks into Rimworld and its expansive world of war
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crimes and extensive modding. I ultimately stopped playing because
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of the soul-crushing loss of a moderately successful colony. It was
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fun making money by harvesting organs from prisoners and skinning
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their bodies for leather. Mood debuffs begone.</p><p>During these days of gaming, I lost track of my work on myself.
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The game sessions were fun, but not nourishing. Like tending liquor
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to a wounded soul, this escapism does not heal, it only numbs it
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for another day. I find nothing but more guilt at the bottom of the
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metaphorical bottle.</p><h2>Lockdowns</h2><p>As the Covid situation worsens in Malaysia, hope is bleak and no
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end is in sight. Cases in our nation rise to record highs but its
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people are furious. Furious to be held prisoner in their own homes
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but not furious enough to discipline themselves for a safer future.
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Citizens have never been more divided ; An increasing number of the
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lesser minded are pushing for the release of the lockdowns; The
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infected be damned, my momentary freedom worth their sacrifice,
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until the time comes for my lungs to be on the chopping block. As
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much as I'm privileged to be safe from the horrors of the pandemic,
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cabin fever is catching up to me. I feel myself losing grip of my
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identity and my flow of time. My moods grew from restlessness to
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agitation, then to apathy. I can only hope for the better.</p><h2>Unexpected EOF</h2><p>I shall stop here. Thanks for reading so far. For you dear
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reader, stay strong and stay safe. Like the euphoric sight of your
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first double rainbow or the arduous toils of your younger days,
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times like these, too, shall pass.</p><blockquote>The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must
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be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest,
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bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground.
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The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be.
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How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could
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drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on
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the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people
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who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing
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the fruit- and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains. And the
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smell of rot fills the country. Burn coffee for fuel in the ships.
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Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the
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rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people
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from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let
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the putrescence drip down into the earth. There is a crime here
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that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping
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cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our
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success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy
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trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die
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because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must
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fill in the certificate- died of malnutrition- because the food
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must rot, must be forced to rot. The people come with nets to fish
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for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come
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in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is
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sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by,
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listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered
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with quick-lime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a
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putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the
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failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In
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the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing
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heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.<br/>
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- John Steinbeck</blockquote></body></html>
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</description>
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<pubDate>Tue, 03 Jun 2003 09:39:21 GMT</pubDate>
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<guid>
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http://liftoff.msfc.nasa.gov/2003/06/03.html#item573
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</guid>
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</item>
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