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