I pull my rental car into the space. I don’t even notice the smell of cigarettes the car is caked in anymore. Wearily, I get out and walk towards the shopping complex. Somewhere in there is a burger joint, and all I want right now is a burger. And some friends to have dinner with. No, I push that thought out of my mind. I’m an adult. I should be able to handle a meal on my own. Just get my food, get out, go back to the hotel, sleep it off. Maybe tomorrow will be less lonely. I pass by a taco place on my way in. Lots of groups my own age, smiling and having fun. All I can see is groups. No lone wolves like me, leaving the safety of their dens to fill their bellies. I’m too hungry. I waited too long to eat, hoping someone would respond to my pleas for dinner. I don’t know what I expected though. They all have their own lives around here, I’m just an intruder. I can’t expect them to entertain me every time. Finally I reach the burger place I had picked out. A saloon. The crowd here is older, but somehow louder and more lively. A sign reads “Patio Seating - Seat Yourself”. It’s a nice night and the noise of the crowd inside feels like the gnashing of teeth. I retreat to the patio, slip into an unoccupied table. A man from the saloon comes over to me, asks if I plan on drinking anything. “Just a water,” I say, the first words I’ve said aloud in hours. “You’ll have to tell your waitress,” he says, “I’m just here to check IDs.” And then he leaves. I realize why this table was empty. It’s right under the saloon’s neon sign. A few of the tubes are only half-working and crackle loudly as they struggle and fail to light up. Consider moving, realize I just don’t care. Save the quiet tables for others. Nicer to them than I am to myself. I scan the menu and check out all the different kinds of burgers. Make my decision quickly. I’m bored and hungry. Take a book out of my pocket, The Short Stories of Breece D’J Pancake. I know I’ve read all of these before, but can’t remember how any go. All I remember is the feelings he invoked. Such melancholy from the mundane. Picked this book for dinner because it feels relatable to my whole trip. And leaning into my melancholy has never gone wrong before, I think to myself sarcastically. The saloon is playing classic rock, just what you would expect based on the crowd. I barely hear it. All I hear is the sad folk music I’ve been listening to all trip. The sad Phoebe Bridgers and Breece D’J Pancake, they know how to capture my feelings. Breece killed himself at 27. That’s just a few years away for me. Will I make it past then?

“And so, no one has any idea what it is about?”

“How could we? All of our attempts to study Dr. Barom’s final work have been unsuccessful so far.”

The two men sat across from each other in Dr. Walters’s study, the great oak desk between them.

“To call our attempts catastrophic would be an understatement,” Dr. Walters continued, “Two senior members of faculty and six grad students, soon to be seven, dead by their own hands.

Veni, vidi, vici, he said when he conquered the world. I came, I saw, I conquered. But what did They say? Ubique sumus, videmus omnia, omnes nos habent? We are everywhere, we see all, we own all?

They’ve trained us not to see them, but They’re there. Whispering in the background, telling people what to do. They’ve got us all wrapped around Their fingers. Their long, creepy fingers. I’ve only seen Their fingers once. I was walking along 5th street, in the heart of town. Across the street one of Them loomed up tall, wearing the dark grey robes They always do. I tried to avoid looking at It. The symbols on the robes make me nauseous, make me feel like the ground is sand and I’m peering into some sort of abyss. I wanted to mind my own business. I didn’t want to see what It was doing there. It noticed me. They always do. They’re so used to being ignored that They can tell the difference between those who can’t see Them and those who pretend not to see Them. It grinned Its sardonic grin. From the sleeve of the robe came a grey, shriveled hand. It held one finger up to Its grin, sushing me. I stopped where I was. I didn’t want to be there, I didn’t want to see It. But like always, my fear made it impossible for me to act. Frozen by fear, every circuit of my brain telling me that I needed to do something, to move, to look away, anything, anything at all.

Listen - none of this is steeped in reality. I’ve never understood the real world. All I know is my own perception of the world. And even that is tenuous and changing. So I guess I don’t even know that. Why even write? I don’t know that either. I know stories. I read them, watch them, play them, invent them all the time. But do stories convey anything about meaning? Are stories real? They change the way we think; stories whether true or fiction change the world around us.

I currently work for a company called Pure Storage. One of their products is called Flashblade. I couldn’t find any examples on how to use Flashblade’s S3 capabilities programmatically anywhere online, so I’m putting this out to hopefully help people realize they can move their object store into their data center with very little changes to their code.

Code Snippets

Most of the work with the libraries I’ve used involves figuring out how to get the client configured properly. Once that’s done, all of the methods work just like they do with Amazon S3.

This book was… Fuck I don’t know how to describe this book.

It’s partially an exploration in writing. David Foster Wallace is obviously a brilliant writer, and the book contains many scenes that were nothing short of gripping. But it’s also obvious that he was having fun writing this book. He was playing around with it - mixing in multiple different writing styles, the endless footnotes, the odd ways he tells you important information. It’s just… eclectic. And wonderful. And difficult. And funny. And dense. It’s all of these things, and so much more.

It just won’t go away. The chill that pierces deep within. Or does it come from inside of me? It’s the worst in the limbs. My arms and legs, so cold no matter what I do. And then it creeps in. Up the spine, through the meninges, into the scalp. My hair stands on end with the chill. I’m just so damn cold. Make it go away. It makes all the bad feelings worse. The cold pulls me inwards, into myself. Into the thoughts I want to get away from. I dwell on them, feel the darkness of them as the chill gets worse.

Intro

My New Year’s resolution in 2018 was to keep track of everything I read. Context is important when trying to recall how you felt about books, not just the content of the words. Due to different life circumstances, the same book can be incredibly illuminating or insufferable. My goal in keeping track of all of this would be to be able to look back on the year and see how I’ve grown and what I’ve learned from all of my reading.

Alright, so in general video games have really really bad writing in them. And a lot of them can get away with that, because they’re still fun. But there are quite a few video games that actually manage to have good stories. Here’s a list of some that I’ve played.

• Arcanum: Of Steamworks & Magicka Obscura
• Bastion
• Bioshock
• Chrono Trigger
• Golden Sun 1 & 2
• Her Story
• Persona 5
• Planescape: Torment
• Portal
• Puzzle Agent
• The Stanley Parable
• Thomas Was Alone
• To The Moon
• Transistor
• Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines
• The Witcher series (especially the 2nd and 3rd games)
• The Wolf Among Us
• The World Ends With You

Here’s a collection of talks or articles that I really enjoy.

The Error Model

Joe Duffy describes the error model in an experimental programming language that he worked on. Starts off by describing different ways that programming languages give programmers to express and deal with errors. He discusses the pros and cons of each strategy, and then goes on to describe how they designed around those problems to create something truly unique.