Scully, debugging.

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Probing code and life choices. Capitalism and idyll and buzzing ad lib. Let there be rain.

 

The carpet was Aegean Sea. Golden medallion motifs on Tyrian Purple, hand weaved with intricate velvet. Shipped in from Otago, where the landlord’s son taught at the university in the gloriously bucolic Dunedin. The walls were paradise palm, leaves of magnolia dashed over ivory white, a throwback to an era when the night sky was there, still. After a millennia of inebriating Monday morning incense at temples, eating delicious pea curry by the street out of Organic leaf-bowls, reading newspapers in the winter sun as a recreation and waiting on forever for the BSNL modem to connect, we had a girl from the town in the valley. Probably not the first one, but she might as well be. And as much I would like to loiter in the headlong indulgence of a certain John Steinbeck, this is where the story sheds it sedate cadence and goes out of its way to go boom, like a meteor hurt, and takes over west end like the red part of Manchester on game night. She was sitting on a history of disquieting pain and an endless penchant for good programming. Sweats cold and the muted cries for help at dawn were the muses of the towns gone by, at least for now, and the road to be traded was out there under a workbench, lounging under the Pacific sun, crisp. The cab driver was an elderly white man. He did not speak any English. Each thought thought over infinitely, guarded, looked, protected, cursed.

The heels and the hues of her now distinct invincibility glided her through the sidewalk, meticulously cut hedges, the wide elevator, symmetric furniture sets, nauseating air fresheners and disingenuously drab urban utilitarian architecture into the project ODC, an all consuming concoction of human trepidation and Jungian struggles thrown into a mish and mash of highly efficient, even impressive, computer systems and apparent intellectual pursuits. An issue came waltzing in, as her anxiety had warned before hand, and before she even knew it, and by good habit, she put everything she was thinking of on the dark side of the moon and delved into the problem. It’s all the same isn’t it? Whether you bat or act or quiz or debug. You can practice all you can but when the moment comes, you just let it go and watch your brain do its thing. More or less. The program was behaving as if it was on imported produce straight from the great state of Jalisco. A not insignificant portion of the requests were throwing 500 internal server error. Logs were seen diligently and it was found out that codebases were switched while the code was imported.

Log statements were put in like IV fluids and the problem went. But, and this is where the boat sails, when a part of the instrumentation was removed, the program started behaving erratically. The error came and went, like a bunch of phase separated sine waves superimposed and clamped out and stuff. Too complicated? Think about the woman. She kept looking at it, looking at it, looking at it, the log files dancing before her, yet not revealing their colors. What would she not do to see the back side of them, and may be she would be sufficiently amazed and relieved, life affirmed, new. The sunlight was coming in through the window onto her desk now. She longed a walk. Down the elevator, cream cupcake and coffee. A look into the concrete horizon, conscientious disenchantment, more power. What was she doing here anyways, and what is all this concrete and electrical wires and the jargon trucks and complicated, convoluted writing. What happened to plain old love, and doing things as you pleased. What happened to telly with mom, to Maggi and comfy track pants and a stable future working for the government. Why this obsession rash called nepotistic altruism , this thoughtless abomination thrown in by the imperial powers of the past to make us play fetch in circles wanting super sweet gelato all the while. She had an inflamed throat for more than a week now .She hated gelato now, didn’t even have a chance to have it before the throat got bad. She put the coffee mug on the promenade and ran back. How is it that she had an infection while a lot of people who consumed a ton of that stuff did not have it? Sampras watching his feet move around flushing meadows, act of genius? Genius in rebellion.

The normal code path and the patch code had the Opcode cacher in common. After a bunch of tests, they found that identical source files were resulting in distinct sets of compiled operation codes, causing the strange behavior. A further look into the cacher, and the problem exposed itself, almost smiling with a sense of accomplishment, as she would later describe it. Multi-tenancy was the blight, with space conservation being done by the system by caching a set of operation codes, compiled, for all the set of users. That was the end of it, absolute path made its way into the whole thing, and the identical files now hashed to separate cache locations. The lead was impressed. She was done for the day. Oil in hair. Call to mom. Evening reading. Soy latte. Rapture.

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