My obsolete 128MB GeForce 6800 finally died. I remember buying it when the GeForce 6 series cards were still hot new toys, only to find that I didn't have a power supply to properly run it. The 6800 sat on my shelf of spare parts until I finally upgraded the power supply, and I replaced both components at once. By that time, of course, nVidia was well into the GeForce 7 series, and on the verge of the next generation.
In light of this issue, I've decided to upgrade my obsolete hardware. My gear is all well past its prime, and some of it was purchased at a time when I was taking a break from games altogether, so it was never too great at handling EVE anyway. I need my computer for work as well as games, however, so the overhaul is entirely justified.
With a recent disbursement of excess education funds from scholarships and grants, I had planned to pay off my taxes, but the computer keeps me eating and living indoors, so losing functionality is truly catastrophic for me. The IRS will have to wait until next semester to get their payoff, and I'm sure they won't mind tacking on more interest and penalties in the meantime; I presume the Treasury Department will print more money to cover Uncle Sam's appetite for pork, anyway.
Anyhow, my pod overhaul includes a new motherboard, quad core CPU, 8GB memory, and a 500GB SATA drive to replace my old 80GB IDE drive. I'm switching to a widescreen LCD monitor, so I can finally give back the monitor my company loaned me when my last one died (I don't even work for them anymore! They're so awesome!). The new graphics will be powered by a 1GB GeForce GTS 250, as I simply couldn't justify the cost of the latest GTX. With new speakers and headset to replace my sound equipment that suffers from wiring problems, EVE may finally have sound, too! I'll also replace the power supply to ensure everything has enough juice to run smoothly.
Perhaps with a shiny new pod, powered by a shiny new operating system (switching to Windows 7), I might be able to see a bit more of what EVE has to offer.
14 September 2009
29 August 2009
Life's Great Swindles
I visited Mother after dinner with Aurora. While she would've loved to hear that I'd spent my evening with a lovely young lady, I didn't mention it. After all, we're only friends. Over the course of the night, however, Aurora and I had spoken some bit about family, and in light of our conversation, I found it fitting to make time to take a trip home, seeing that I was on the planet anyway.
Despite the late hour, Mother was overjoyed to see me, and though I typically consider her overzealous attention quite smothering, my thoughts of James compelled me to indulge her. I never paid him much heed, given that I never knew him, but I know Mother doesn't want me to suffer the same fate, so it's certainly not fair to treat her like such a burden. I've managed to climb much higher than James, so it's only reasonable that she worries that I might fall.
When Mother was no longer able to keep her eyes open, I ventured into the hedge maze in the early hours of the morning, well before sunrise. I can't recall how many times I have navigated every turn, though allowing myself to get lost spares me the trouble of facing the buried grief of my family. Upon reaching the center, I sat with James for a good while, looking up at the stars and wondering if his soul was out there somewhere, perhaps following along on his baby brother's adventures in the heavens. For the first time, I found myself wondering what sort of man, what sort of older brother, he would've been.
James was only seven. He didn't deserve to be cheated out of life. It seems unfair to me, being reborn, that I may very well have lived a thousand lives prior and, being a capsuleer, could live a thousand lifetimes still. What judge toys with the fates of men so arbitrarily? Perhaps there is none, and we are all victims of circumstance. I can only hope that whatever happens when we pass on is worth more than our time among the living.
Until the day comes that I do meet him, I should endeavor to better fill his shoes for my mother's sake. Fate has swindled her once, and I am loath to break her heart again.
Despite the late hour, Mother was overjoyed to see me, and though I typically consider her overzealous attention quite smothering, my thoughts of James compelled me to indulge her. I never paid him much heed, given that I never knew him, but I know Mother doesn't want me to suffer the same fate, so it's certainly not fair to treat her like such a burden. I've managed to climb much higher than James, so it's only reasonable that she worries that I might fall.
When Mother was no longer able to keep her eyes open, I ventured into the hedge maze in the early hours of the morning, well before sunrise. I can't recall how many times I have navigated every turn, though allowing myself to get lost spares me the trouble of facing the buried grief of my family. Upon reaching the center, I sat with James for a good while, looking up at the stars and wondering if his soul was out there somewhere, perhaps following along on his baby brother's adventures in the heavens. For the first time, I found myself wondering what sort of man, what sort of older brother, he would've been.
James was only seven. He didn't deserve to be cheated out of life. It seems unfair to me, being reborn, that I may very well have lived a thousand lives prior and, being a capsuleer, could live a thousand lifetimes still. What judge toys with the fates of men so arbitrarily? Perhaps there is none, and we are all victims of circumstance. I can only hope that whatever happens when we pass on is worth more than our time among the living.
Until the day comes that I do meet him, I should endeavor to better fill his shoes for my mother's sake. Fate has swindled her once, and I am loath to break her heart again.
19 June 2009
Empty Space
I haven't spoken to a soul in weeks. I have found life in space to be as hollow as life at home. Those who aren't among the privileged caste of pilots hang onto our every word and action as if we were deities, hoping perhaps for fortune and glory. They are an entourage of sycophants who would gladly trade their lives for the slightest acknowledgement from a pilot.
Among the pilots, I have no friends. I don't want to be like them, egocentric and ruthless. Where, then, do I turn to find a genuine companion and friend?
Isolation will surely drive me mad in short order. I am already hearing things that aren't there and imagining menacing shadows at the edge of my periphery. I question whether humanity has any value at all if they surely find no value in me, yet perhaps most disturbing is that I still find no value in me. Just another reborn. A ghost with a new face. I came to space to discover what truly matters, and I have found that nothing matters.
Going home would cost me my dignity, yet remaining in space may cost me far more. As I ponder the price, I find I'm unwilling to pay either sum, so I remain adrift in the insufferable emptiness.
Among the pilots, I have no friends. I don't want to be like them, egocentric and ruthless. Where, then, do I turn to find a genuine companion and friend?
Isolation will surely drive me mad in short order. I am already hearing things that aren't there and imagining menacing shadows at the edge of my periphery. I question whether humanity has any value at all if they surely find no value in me, yet perhaps most disturbing is that I still find no value in me. Just another reborn. A ghost with a new face. I came to space to discover what truly matters, and I have found that nothing matters.
Going home would cost me my dignity, yet remaining in space may cost me far more. As I ponder the price, I find I'm unwilling to pay either sum, so I remain adrift in the insufferable emptiness.
22 April 2009
Coming of Age
I had lost a ship once previously, shortly after I graduated from the Navy Academy. Until recently, however, I had not lost a crew. I can only say that it has been a sobering experience, so much that I have not had the nerve to speak of it until now. My thoughts of those thousands aboard the Enduring Friendship are unpleasant at best; I find myself wondering how many perished, escaped, or found themselves conscripted by my victorious assailant. Had I not foolishly allowed myself to be engaged, then perhaps. . . well, I suppose that's of no consequence now.
Those minutes of fighting seemed an eternity as I struggled in vain to stave off the inevitable. Helplessly trapped and unprepared for the fight, I thrashed wildly as my enemy raped both my ship and ego, a display of incompetence and impotence that I should rather not soon repeat. When he had finished with me, as I saw my ship's broken hull sparking and bleeding plasma fires into space, I remember feeling relieved that it was over.
Relieved. Relieved to hear silence rather than crew chiefs reporting damage across all decks, shouting over the nearby screams of their comrades. Relieved to see my adversary warping away to find other prey. Relieved to see the tiny running lights of my capsule on the camera feed. Relieved that, despite so many dead, I was not among them.
Is this what it means to be a capsuleer? Selfish concern for my own welfare in the face of senseless carnage? The bitter irony that the immortal captain should be left alive while the crew perish in gruesome fashion gnaws at me, yet I have already replaced the ship and found another eager crew. I still can't decide whether it is appropriate to mourn the loss or simply carry on as though nothing has happened.
Father always tells Mother that she should let me grow up. For the first time since I left home, I think I'd prefer to still be her little boy.
Those minutes of fighting seemed an eternity as I struggled in vain to stave off the inevitable. Helplessly trapped and unprepared for the fight, I thrashed wildly as my enemy raped both my ship and ego, a display of incompetence and impotence that I should rather not soon repeat. When he had finished with me, as I saw my ship's broken hull sparking and bleeding plasma fires into space, I remember feeling relieved that it was over.
Relieved. Relieved to hear silence rather than crew chiefs reporting damage across all decks, shouting over the nearby screams of their comrades. Relieved to see my adversary warping away to find other prey. Relieved to see the tiny running lights of my capsule on the camera feed. Relieved that, despite so many dead, I was not among them.
Is this what it means to be a capsuleer? Selfish concern for my own welfare in the face of senseless carnage? The bitter irony that the immortal captain should be left alive while the crew perish in gruesome fashion gnaws at me, yet I have already replaced the ship and found another eager crew. I still can't decide whether it is appropriate to mourn the loss or simply carry on as though nothing has happened.
Father always tells Mother that she should let me grow up. For the first time since I left home, I think I'd prefer to still be her little boy.
13 March 2009
Blissful Insignificance
I've been in space nearly eight months now, and I can see why Captain Zek didn't seem particularly concerned with my desire to be unimportant. He had given me a charming smirk that hinted he knew something that he wasn't telling me, and now I know. No matter how important I was back home because of Daddy's money, it doesn't mean anything in space. As capsuleers go, I am among the poorest, and there is no abundance of fairweather friends and moochers hanging about. I am as unimportant here in the heavens as I could have ever hoped.
A new dilemma presents itself, however, as I have no idea what to do with myself. Lacking notoriety is wonderful. Lacking purpose, not so much. On the other hand, I don't feel any need to rush. People tell me that time is on a capsuleer's side, so I imagine I might as well enjoy it. The past several months of traveling, meeting interesting people, and experiencing other cultures have been absolutely wonderful. Perhaps as I stumble around a bit, I'll find some meaningful goal to pursue.
In the meantime, destiny can wait a while longer.
A new dilemma presents itself, however, as I have no idea what to do with myself. Lacking notoriety is wonderful. Lacking purpose, not so much. On the other hand, I don't feel any need to rush. People tell me that time is on a capsuleer's side, so I imagine I might as well enjoy it. The past several months of traveling, meeting interesting people, and experiencing other cultures have been absolutely wonderful. Perhaps as I stumble around a bit, I'll find some meaningful goal to pursue.
In the meantime, destiny can wait a while longer.
11 March 2009
Commencement
I started playing EVE in 2004 with a character named Kendar Zek. I sent him to the great beyond, believing I wouldn't return to the game. Several months later, I chose to start again, and I wrote this piece of background to provide a bit of continuity, tangential as it may be.
I woke up that morning like any other, prepared to go about my business at the Navy Academy as I’ve done for the past several years. I hadn’t much considered the importance of the day until I laced up my shoes. Sitting there staring at my faint reflection, washed pale in the white polish, it dawned on me that it would be the last time I’d wear a midshipman’s uniform.
When I came to the academy four years prior, I’d planned to accept a commission and become a fighter pilot. Coming from a wealthy family, I’d always enjoyed an easy life on Gallente Prime, wanting for nothing. The ideals of duty, honor, and service were abstracts to be borne by other men, and I might have lived all my days under the blanket of freedom they provided without reverence for so many sacrifices weaved into it. I had no particular longing for excitement, and being a pampered child, my parents’ only living son, the very notion that I should dirty my hands with work was abominable to them.
My only interest in anything other than myself had been the religious heritage of the Intaki people. Being a reborn Intaki, I always found it difficult to reconcile that part of me was a remnant of someone else. Was my laziness and apathy toward the world at large my own, or was it handed down to me by that man who lay on his deathbed when I was born? I became wholly resentful of this duality of character, so I decided to pursue a naval career to prove that I am my own man rather than a product of my circumstances.
The family was shocked. Upon realizing my resolve in the matter, they were quite furious. They were reluctant to let me go, but I was old enough to decide for myself. Sometimes I smile when I remember my father shaking his head at me in disappointment.
Life in Duripant hasn’t been easy. Everyone thinks the rich kids are only here because mommy and daddy bought them a seat, and the general misconception is that connected families ensure their children have a privileged stay at the academy. Indeed, some kids do get a golden ticket with the admission board, but I had the luxury of a top-notch private education, and I earned my way in here like everyone else. As for the part about special treatment, I certainly saw my share of it.
My treatment was so special, in fact, that I stopped writing home. It seemed whenever I’d send a letter about my experiences, my folks would try to pull a few strings, call in some favors, or flash some cash to buy me a little comfort. Every letter from my family made my stay a bit worse, as I’d find myself doing all manner of menial chores generally reserved as punishments; my instructors were absolutely giddy whenever they informed me they’d heard from my parents, and my heart would sink.
After three years, my classmates finally realized I was working diligently to be more than they expected, but a warmer social environment wasn’t my concern. I wanted to convince myself that I had ownership of who I am. Every night I’d go to sleep wondering if I was really my own man, and I frequently laughed at the irony of joining the military in an attempt to be unique.
My plans changed at school. I had come in looking toward carrier duty out on the fringe, protecting the borders in a fighter. In the course of admissions, however, I’d qualified for capsule training, so I jumped at my chance to pursue the more difficult track. I didn’t realize at that time that my decision would result in some clarity of purpose a few years later.
The last midshipman cruise found me on a privately owned vessel, a rare occurrence for a Navy Academy cadet, but I shall never forget my time aboard the Victory. A Navy Megathron is an almost unheard of assignment at the academy, and I found it difficult due to the sheer luxury of the vessel, reminiscent of a life I was trying to set aside. Her captain had outfitted her as a sort of parade boat, and my responsibilities as a limited duty officer were minimal, as she rarely put out of station.
I didn’t learn much during my watches, to be honest. The officers’ wardroom, however, proved to be a most valuable source of insight. I had the privilege of dining with them regularly, and it was not uncommon for the captain to share a meal with us. I recognized his name, as I’d studied his papers on drone warfare, and I admired his demeanor in dealing with his staff. They treated him as nearly iconic – not in the way a crew generally respects a captain, but with a heartfelt loyalty that transcended duty; these men were family.
I had learned from my hardships in school that it’s best to keep my mouth shut and do what I’m told, so I was utterly amazed when the captain directed his attention to me one night. He shook my hand and smiled before taking a seat beside me, then proceeded to inquire about my dreams, as though we were good friends. Long after everyone else had departed, we were still there chatting.
He had come from nothing and had everything. I came from having everything and struggled to be regarded as common. We shared a common interest, however, in that we were both driven by a quest for personal identity. Three nights later, Kendar Zek passed away in his sleep, and the Victory was placed under the command of Takashi Kurosawa, his partner in racing.
I went back to Duripant two weeks later. I pondered my future as an officer at length, and I realized my heart wasn’t in it. With a few short months to graduation, I informed the Navy that I would not accept a commission, opting for a private license instead. I finally wrote to my parents again to tell them I’d be home soon.
Finishing with my shoes, I donned my jacket for the last time. Standing in formation, the commencement speeches rang hollow, and foremost on my mind was Captain Zek’s reminder that where we come from is not as important as where we’re going, that today is the day to define Norrin Ellis, and whatever powers lie beyond the heavens will know me by the fruits of my character, not the roots of my existence.
A part of me is borrowed from a man I never knew, and my life is his legacy. What a fortunate turn of fate that I am able, as a pilot, to bring him far closer to immortality than he might have imagined.
I woke up that morning like any other, prepared to go about my business at the Navy Academy as I’ve done for the past several years. I hadn’t much considered the importance of the day until I laced up my shoes. Sitting there staring at my faint reflection, washed pale in the white polish, it dawned on me that it would be the last time I’d wear a midshipman’s uniform.
When I came to the academy four years prior, I’d planned to accept a commission and become a fighter pilot. Coming from a wealthy family, I’d always enjoyed an easy life on Gallente Prime, wanting for nothing. The ideals of duty, honor, and service were abstracts to be borne by other men, and I might have lived all my days under the blanket of freedom they provided without reverence for so many sacrifices weaved into it. I had no particular longing for excitement, and being a pampered child, my parents’ only living son, the very notion that I should dirty my hands with work was abominable to them.
My only interest in anything other than myself had been the religious heritage of the Intaki people. Being a reborn Intaki, I always found it difficult to reconcile that part of me was a remnant of someone else. Was my laziness and apathy toward the world at large my own, or was it handed down to me by that man who lay on his deathbed when I was born? I became wholly resentful of this duality of character, so I decided to pursue a naval career to prove that I am my own man rather than a product of my circumstances.
The family was shocked. Upon realizing my resolve in the matter, they were quite furious. They were reluctant to let me go, but I was old enough to decide for myself. Sometimes I smile when I remember my father shaking his head at me in disappointment.
Life in Duripant hasn’t been easy. Everyone thinks the rich kids are only here because mommy and daddy bought them a seat, and the general misconception is that connected families ensure their children have a privileged stay at the academy. Indeed, some kids do get a golden ticket with the admission board, but I had the luxury of a top-notch private education, and I earned my way in here like everyone else. As for the part about special treatment, I certainly saw my share of it.
My treatment was so special, in fact, that I stopped writing home. It seemed whenever I’d send a letter about my experiences, my folks would try to pull a few strings, call in some favors, or flash some cash to buy me a little comfort. Every letter from my family made my stay a bit worse, as I’d find myself doing all manner of menial chores generally reserved as punishments; my instructors were absolutely giddy whenever they informed me they’d heard from my parents, and my heart would sink.
After three years, my classmates finally realized I was working diligently to be more than they expected, but a warmer social environment wasn’t my concern. I wanted to convince myself that I had ownership of who I am. Every night I’d go to sleep wondering if I was really my own man, and I frequently laughed at the irony of joining the military in an attempt to be unique.
My plans changed at school. I had come in looking toward carrier duty out on the fringe, protecting the borders in a fighter. In the course of admissions, however, I’d qualified for capsule training, so I jumped at my chance to pursue the more difficult track. I didn’t realize at that time that my decision would result in some clarity of purpose a few years later.
The last midshipman cruise found me on a privately owned vessel, a rare occurrence for a Navy Academy cadet, but I shall never forget my time aboard the Victory. A Navy Megathron is an almost unheard of assignment at the academy, and I found it difficult due to the sheer luxury of the vessel, reminiscent of a life I was trying to set aside. Her captain had outfitted her as a sort of parade boat, and my responsibilities as a limited duty officer were minimal, as she rarely put out of station.
I didn’t learn much during my watches, to be honest. The officers’ wardroom, however, proved to be a most valuable source of insight. I had the privilege of dining with them regularly, and it was not uncommon for the captain to share a meal with us. I recognized his name, as I’d studied his papers on drone warfare, and I admired his demeanor in dealing with his staff. They treated him as nearly iconic – not in the way a crew generally respects a captain, but with a heartfelt loyalty that transcended duty; these men were family.
I had learned from my hardships in school that it’s best to keep my mouth shut and do what I’m told, so I was utterly amazed when the captain directed his attention to me one night. He shook my hand and smiled before taking a seat beside me, then proceeded to inquire about my dreams, as though we were good friends. Long after everyone else had departed, we were still there chatting.
He had come from nothing and had everything. I came from having everything and struggled to be regarded as common. We shared a common interest, however, in that we were both driven by a quest for personal identity. Three nights later, Kendar Zek passed away in his sleep, and the Victory was placed under the command of Takashi Kurosawa, his partner in racing.
I went back to Duripant two weeks later. I pondered my future as an officer at length, and I realized my heart wasn’t in it. With a few short months to graduation, I informed the Navy that I would not accept a commission, opting for a private license instead. I finally wrote to my parents again to tell them I’d be home soon.
Finishing with my shoes, I donned my jacket for the last time. Standing in formation, the commencement speeches rang hollow, and foremost on my mind was Captain Zek’s reminder that where we come from is not as important as where we’re going, that today is the day to define Norrin Ellis, and whatever powers lie beyond the heavens will know me by the fruits of my character, not the roots of my existence.
A part of me is borrowed from a man I never knew, and my life is his legacy. What a fortunate turn of fate that I am able, as a pilot, to bring him far closer to immortality than he might have imagined.
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