DBKate's Journal

mousekate @ 2008-05-04T22:28:00

2008-05-05T03:10:11Z

When stupid little children think certain words are hot.

I'm not a stranger to internet stupidity, I've engaged, hell, started plenty myself. So no comments on the boring minutiae of this particular wank.

But I wouldn't mind talking about my mother's Kristallnacht experience.

My late mother had the monumental bad luck to be born in Eastern Germany in 1931. Bad luck, not because she was Jewish, because she wasn't, but no one who was around in those days was having a great time and even those that were ended up on the wrong end of a cyanide pellet or hangman's noose, which is only right and fair.

My mother talked about her war experiences only intermittently (and after a few drinks) which was fine by me. There's only so much talk about years of slaughter, horror, hate and fear you can take at one sitting.

But she did mention Kristallnacht, once. What I gleaned from that talk was that the most interesting thing about it, being the ordinary pogrom it was on the surface, is that the targets of it were possibly some of the most secular, assimilated Germans who'd ever lived. Many of these "despicable Jews" didn't even practice their faith.

Germany in 1938 wasn't exactly a hotbed of religious unrest. The deeply integrated mix of Jews, northern Lutherans and Catholics to the south got along fine for the most part, because they neither knew or cared what the other was doing. It was a time of grand secularism, especially after the deep scars of WWI had robbed many of their faith.

(By the way, this was Hitler's genius, taking what was essentially a non-issue and making it the most important thing ever, the one thing that only HE could fix. We see this mentality today, in the U.S. right now and if this doesn't scare you it should, but I'm getting away from my point.)

The point is that on the evening of Kristallnacht, my grandfather hid his family in the back of the house, not knowing what the hell was going on, except that a gang of armed hoodlums had come into their small town to kill them all. When they finally emerged the next morning, they discovered the systematic destruction throughout the town, affecting a few unlucky homes, which included their next-door neighbors whose house had been broken and burned, the occupants never seen again.

These occupants included my mother's little best friend, who was eight years old at the time. She told me about shuffling through the ruin for days, sifting through the broken glass and splintered wood with her bare hands, staring at the mess and my rattled grandmother yelling at her to get out of there in case the killers came back.

She was told not to talk about the neighbors again. And she didn't.

Fast forward many years later to her telling me this story. What was the part that killed me? When she said this ...

"I didn't even know she was Jewish."

So here we have a tragedy made even greater because it wasn't about religious zealotry at all, it was about random acts of terror committed to subjugate a nation, then the world if they got the chance and there's nothing sexy about cowardly murders in the dead of night against a population who were nothing more than good scapegoats for something as ordinary as political domination.

I'm sure the writers of the role play called "Kristallnacht" will try to spice things up a bit, because what good is a sexy name without some hot times had by all.

With this very important task, I wish them luck.

In the meantime I hope they never are herded to the back of their houses in the middle of the night and wake to find a beloved friend gone, never to be seen again. I also hope that twenty years from now, with some help from a big-ass bottle of wine, they don't turn to their kids and say, 'The Internet? Oh, yeah, I played on the Internet back in the day and boy, was I an asshole.

I won't hold my breath for the latter.

War and No Peace Yet

2007-10-17T00:32:29Z

And here's another one, from April 13th, 2003:

One of the things that really angered me about the Iraq antiwar protests was the appalling disinterest of the protesters as to examining real reasons for this war and their complete refusal to see the need to present a coherent counter-argument -- as if war itself, under any circumstances, is enough to automatically turn the majority of Americans into placard-waving sheep, baaing at the Powers That Be, screaming "Hell No! We Won't Go!" and taking time off for the local Die-Ins without question.

When that didn't work, they, like Bill Clinton under oath, threw out a virtual spaghetti pot of excuses against, each one more trivial and outlandish than the last, hoping one would stick to the wall of American indignation and fire up the nation to oppose the war.

Not surprisingly, they were astonished when it not only didn't work, it backfired like an '86 Taurus from Honest Fred's Used Car Lot, creating a vicious flag-waving parade the likes of which hasn't been seen since W.W.II.

My fellow Americans in general may be ignorant about a lot of things, but one thing I will say about them: their bullshit detectors are among the sharpest in all the world. They may not always call a politician/criminal/pundit on their baloney, but they can smell the putrid odor of spin a mile away and with these lazy, self-absorbed, sometimes violent (!!!) "peace" protests, the smell was overwhelming.

The cries of "No Revenge for 9/11!" and "No Blood for Oil!" were merely jingles for a Bullshit Sandwich, because: a. if this war was "revenge" it was obviously going to be the pussiest-ass revenge ever, against the wrong people and, b. the possibility of more oil was always a mere fringe benefit, since we haven't used a drop of Iraqi oil in decades and there was no guarantee we would have had any to steal, if Russia and France had come onboard willingly to protect their vital interest in the black stuff they've been buying from Saddam for years.

No, the real reason we went into Iraq was obvious from the get-go. We invaded Iraq to stick our Big American Dick in the region and swing it like a Texas lasso over all the other countries, while drawling in our best John Wayne voice: "Don't mess with us, lil' doggies or this is gonna git uglee" -- up close and in person. Forever.

You can see it right now in the Rumbush's gleeful frothing in the direction of Damascus, hardly 24 hours after the taking of Tikrit. They haven't even waited a decent interval (when the smoke clears from Baghdad would have been nice) before yanking their pants down and giving Syria an old-fashioned flashing with Their Giant American Cock, threatening more, much more, if they don't start toeing the line.

"Things have changed and I think they all need to recognize that now," says the once levelheaded Colin Powell (thanks, France, for turning him into a maniac too) and staunch nationalist that I am, even I think it's crass, it's ugly, and it's disgustingly obvious, not to mention dangerous because once we go down the path of Imperialist ...

So why didn't the protesters latch onto that and run with it way back when they had the chance? Couldn't anyone make a neat enough slogan for it? Didn't the anarchists (nasty little jerks who should never have been allowed to participate in the first place) find a way to fit them on a ripped black T-shirt, to wear while they punched poor police horses in the nose? Couldn't the anti-fur/animal rights groups (another bunch who had no place there, but went along because every left-wing cause is now, for some bizarre reason, interchangeable) have stamped something catchy on a puppy's ass and let him run around with it?

Or was everyone "playing" protester, too busy painting their faces with peace symbols and mumbling tired mantras, beating "world" instruments while munching on tofu salads? Were they all too caught up in reliving the glory days in the streets of the 60's and too lazy to see that they not only needed an updated haircut, but an updated sensibility as well.

It's no wonder Bush & Co. were able to dismiss the Iraq peace movement in one word -- it was all very "quaint."

Iraq wasn't Vietnam. The next war won't be Iraq and the American people are no longer unsophisticated sheep being fooled by The Man. We're a nation weighing our options after 9/11, and while some of them are ugly, some might be necessary and it's up to each side to present its case in the most logical, truest light.

Bush lied to us about why we invaded Iraq. The peace groups lied to us about why it was wrong, content instead to strike silly forty-year old poses, whether they fit the situation or not.

So the American people made the choice on their own, for their own reasons and will again, until someone who can sway without spin, comes around to change our minds.

I'm just terrified that this bunch hasn't learned the meaning of sophisticated disagreement yet.

And from June 11, 2003:

I'll admit it. My brain has been thoroughly washed by spy novels and the X-Files.

My vision of the U.S. government has always been one of shadowy precision, able to assassinate movie stars (poor Marilyn!) without a single clue.

JFK? Brain toast to a CIA gun. RFK? Sirhan was one of Hoover's leftover LSD experiments, pointed in a vengeful direction. John Belushi, guess you shouldn't have made fun of Nixon all those times, you poor bastard.

The FBI, the CIA, Centcom, the Navy ... hell, the Boy Scouts were all cogs in the wheel of government deception, cloak and dagger expertise, who had my DNA in at least three files. This always pushed a little shiver up my spine (My God, do they know about the spaghetti incident?) but gave me a sense of security too.

We were safe. The Evil All-Knowing Ones were on the case.

Only not.

It's becoming more and more apparent that these intelligence agencies have been coasting on their wicked reputations and good looks for the past twenty-five years, while in fact, they are as bloated, confused and inept as the N.Y.C Board of Education - an analogy that will terrify the New Yorkers among us.

Take Iraq and the so-called Weapons of Mass Destruction. Seriously, how freakin' hard would it have been to "salt the mines" so to speak and have Special Ops stick a few vials of anthrax and nerve gas or whatever they were crying about in some abandoned shack somewhere and scream "AHA! Told ya!"

In fact, I fully expected the government to plant a few of these weapons for "finding", since I had a sneaking suspicion that the progress of Saddam's weapons program was ever-so-slightly exaggerated. In a country that seems to have a severe chair shortage -- it was the most popular looting item -- the CIA may have had reason to formulate a back-up plan, especially if they were the ones who exaggerated those reports purposefully in the first place.

I could blame Donnie "We Won! We Won!" Rumsfeld for pushing for a war that was pointless to everyone but himself and the Haliburton Corp. but even he isn't dumb enough not hedge his bets once the smoke clears and make sure there's something to find, lest we risk the sort of rotten egg on our face the rest of the world is just dying to clock us with. Or is he?

Either way, this sort of ineptitude terrifies me.

Yo, dudes, you are simply not evil enough.

Go rent "The Manchurian Candidate" right now. I want a full report and two assassinations by Monday, 22:00.

I was 100% right about it all and yet, it all happened anyway. This had to be the stupidiest, most useless war of all time.

And if anyone tells me that Bush wasn't getting revenge for his old man, I have fist in the face to sell them, for nothing. That little fuck literally thinks he owns the world.

The more things change, the less they do .....

2007-10-17T00:08:59Z

Backreading through my entries, I found this post, dated October 10, 2002.

It seems I read this right all along. (Not locked because it's that important.)

From October 10, 2002:

Old Fic -- Handmaiden Tales: Rabe

2007-09-16T22:38:47Z

I stumbled across this tiny fic I wrote a long time ago and it made me weepy.

That's either incredibly egocentric or my hormones have finally hit the breaking point. I fixed a few typos and wanted it here for posterity.

Category: Tiny Tales, Drabble, Vignette
Fandom: Star Wars (The Phantom Menace)
Rating: PG-13 (adult themes)

Summary: A tiny Rabe tale.

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HANDMAIDEN TALES: RABE
by DBKate
-------

Always buried within her books is how her parents described Rabe to their friends. Piles of datapad cartridges were strewn all over the house, then hidden beneath the pallet when her family started discarding them in despair.

Despair over their only daughter becoming too smart to find a husband.

Rabe was a daughter of courtiers in the court of Naboo and beautiful enough that her questing mind would only be a detriment to her father's desperate desire to marry her off above her station.

"Why not like the others, Rabe?" her father would moan. "Pull your eyes out of those scrolls and look around you. The others look kindly upon the young men at court, why not you?"

"Stand straight, don't slouch so," her mother commanded as the datapad would be pulled away and soon Rabe had to hide that too, finally taking refuge in a nearby wooded area, huddled at the foot of an ancient junip tree, her cloak hood raised, her texts clutched gratefully to her heart.

It was there that she met him.

A man youthful of face, old and wise in demeanor. She felt his eyes on her before she saw him, a strange shadow spark of prescience, and he'd bowed to her before removing his cloak hood and revealing himself for what he was.

A Jedi knight, newly made, his hair still shorn in the style of an apprentice.

He was polite and charming, interested in what she was reading. Shyly, she showed it to him, and they talked then, long into the evening, then again on the next day and the day after that, discussing philosophy and physics, poetry and art.

By the fourth evening their eyes met, the datapad fell aside, and they talked no more.

She was eighteen, he, perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty, it was hard to tell. She didn't tell her parents; Jedi knights were not considered suitable husbands for any woman, let alone the daughter of a respected courtier.

The knight warned her that he couldn't stay, and while she understood his words, her heart refused to listen. She gave her soul as well as herself to the Jedi and he was gentle and kind, passionate and tender, and Rabe's hopes grew.

But a month later, his mission was over and he took his leave of Rabe as politely as he'd greeted her that first day in the woods. Her breath caught somewhere within her chest as he uttered his goodbyes and she struggled for days on end to take in enough air to ease the terrible clutching ache that lingered in her heart after he was gone.

She took to her bed and her mother sat beside her, silent and knowing. Bathed Rabe's feverish forehead and cheeks, told the rest of the family to leave her be, and whispered hope to her night after night, until Rabe thought she might be ready to believe that her life was not over.

Some months passed and Rabe returned to her faithful books, letting them give her the only solace she could find. She ignored everything else; the court, her family ...

Even the sickness to her stomach that began to plague her each and every morning.

Irritably, she pushed her mother aside and claimed it was nothing. The food of the court was too rich, the weather was too hot -- it was nothing.

Finally, her mother asked her pointedly when her last cycle had passed, and Rabe's life suddenly changed forever, for it was then she realized that she was with child.

A child whose father was gone with the stars.

Twenty weeks later, Rabe's son was born, and she named him Ishtial, or, "Forgotten One" in Naboo. He had his father's coloring, but her eyes, and there was no scandal once it was discovered who the father was.

"To bear a Jedi child is an honor," the older courtiers insisted. "Soon, he will be brought to the great Temple and raised there. Have no fear, his father will return for him. They always do."

Rabe began to pray this wasn't true and she held her infant son close, night after night staring at the stars, unable to sleep. But it was true -- the Jedi did return and bowing, he bundled his son within his cloak before kissing Rabe's hand in thanks.

She stood stock-still as they boarded and watched the transport ship take off. Dry-eyed, she turned away from the hangar and never looked back.

That night, she threw her datapad in the refuse bin and presented herself at court. She danced and drank with the young men there, always smiling and laughing. She indulged in scandals, gossiped and caroused, and never again did she mention the Jedi and her child.

Not even to the new Queen who became her mistress after the old king was removed from office.

Not even when two other Jedi arrived and delivered them from a deadly invasion.

Not even when a young knight named Anakin Skywalker visited the court one day and sat beside her mistress in the garden, asking politely what the Queen happened to be reading that afternoon beneath the shade of an ancient junip tree.

-------
finis

BSG FIC: falling like fire (pg-13)

2006-10-24T13:37:41Z

fic: falling like fire by mousekate
fandom: BSG
pairing: Adama/Roslin
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: Property of lots of people, not me.
summary: A meeting of the minds. The reunion scene we never got.
A/N: Thanks to paigehunt and ingridmatthews for the pre-reads.

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falling like fire
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When Laura Roslin returns to fleet, she smells like ashes and there is nothing she'd like better than a shower, even as tired people gather around the desk aboard Colonial One, as supplicants to an altar.

For months she's been a mythical figure, even more so than she was while dying and there's something frightening in the stark eyes of the survivors staring at her, even as she sits patiently, her fingers tightening invisibly when the ship rocks to dock alongside the scarred battlestar for refueling.

There's a worn diary on her blotter, a photograph of abject failure in her drawer and her glasses fog just a little when the phone rings and she hears Adama's rough voice on the other end.

"Madame President ..."

Her throat tightens. Her eyes are stinging beneath her glasses and she wipes at them with an annoyed gesture. "Admiral," she replies and in some ways, that's all she needs to say. Except for ..."And it's not President of anything, not yet."

He makes a quiet noise on the other end of the line. "It's good to hear your voice, regardless."

"The same here. How did the rest of the evacuation go, by your early estimates?"

"Stunningly well, considering I expected us all to die."

Isn't that the truth, she thinks, placing a hand on her Occupation diary. It feels all too solid to the touch and she shivers to think she might have to reread it some day. "But we didn't. And we have you to thank for that, so let me be the first to say, thank you." The damned lump in her throat grows, until she's nearly weeping. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. And thank you ..." He sounds just as moved. "Thank you for not giving up. For believing."

"How could we have done otherwise? You've never let us down."

It's true, he never has, even during the times she thought she'd have to drag him kicking and screaming into the light of reality. But they know each other now, better than ever, even after a year of being apart and she never doubted him, not for a second.

There was no surprise, at least to her, when the Galactica fell like holy fire from the sky, only pride that she had read him right from the first: he was a man of obscene courage, second to none.

If the Cylons weren't full of fear now, they sure as hells should be.

"Will you be coming aboard later?" he asks and she has to shake herself a little to concentrate on his words. Gods, I'm so tired .... so damned tired.

"Maybe," she replies vaguely, knowing she'll be there approximately ten minutes after she's showered away the last of the filth that clings, the final tangible evidence that miserable place. She tries to lighten her tone. "Don't let me make you wait up."

"See you here in a couple of hours," he says, as if he hasn't been listening to a word she's said, which means everything is exactly as it should be.

"See you then," she murmurs, not caring that the people around her desk have been listening to every word. Not for the first time, she wishes she had Billy there to clear the room, but it doesn't matter anymore.

They might have heard, but they don't understand and to Laura Roslin, understanding is the key to all.

---------

His quarters are messy, which is odd for him, but she doesn't mention it. There are bits of broken things lying on the floor and Laura wonders how many of them were thrown against the wall in a fit of frustration and rage.

All of them, if she had to guess.

It's a shame, really, especially as his beautiful model sailing ship seems to have taken a beating, but not quite as much of one as his antique clock which is lying cracked on the floor. It reads a date and time that is exactly three minutes after the Cylon invasion of New Caprica occurred -- not that she really has committed the numbers to memory, except she has.

Every minute is burned there, in her mind, for the rest of her days. Gingerly, she bends to pick up the clock, running her fingers over hands that are frozen in position. "We should keep this, to remind us."

He looks at her somberly. "As if we'll forget?"

She puts the clock down on an empty shelf. "The next generation might. We can't let them."

A chuckle rumbles through him. "That's what I like about you, Laura. Always thinking ahead." He hands her a glass, filled nearly to the brim with something brown and sharp-smelling and she takes it gratefully. "Enjoy it. There's not much left."

"I will." She sips deeply and while never much of a drinker, she can't deny it tastes like heaven. Raising the glass to a toast, she smiles thinly at him. "To happiness short-lived."

Hesitantly, he allows her to click her glass to his. "Let's hope that's not the case."

"But let's be ready nonetheless," she replies, draining the glass, glad there's not enough ambrosia left in the universe to begin to dull her pain, lest she drink it all.

He's thumbing the lip of his glass uncomfortably. There's something bothering him and she waits for him for hint at it, which is all she ever gets, just a hint, but that's usually more than enough to go on.

This time, however, Adama surprises her, coming straight out and saying it. "Are you making a deal with Zarek for the Presidency?"

She splutters a little, a few drops of ambrosia dripping onto her chin. She wipes it off with the back of her hand and smiles. "Does Tom Zarek seem like a man who makes deals?"

"I don't know. Things have changed," Adama says. He rubs at his upper lip. It looks sunburnt; he must have just shaved. "But there is talk going around ... about you and Zarek. About how you two have gotten together. Politically ... and ..."

And suddenly she realizes what he's asking her. It's blunt and delightful and so ridiculous she starts to laugh and wonders if she'll be able to stop. "Oh, Bill ..."

At the sound of his first name tumbling from her lips, he relaxes. "I'm just trying to gauge the situation. He is President, you know."

"And I am not impressed," she replies, feeling warm from the liquor; warm from his lopsided smile. "Remember, I've had the job. It's a rotten one."

"A rotten job everyone wants," he counters, but his shoulders are no longer so square they could be used as rulers. "But I'm glad to hear that you and he ..."

"Aren't doing anything ... illicit ... together, no," she interjects, putting her palm against his cheek. It's far softer than it looks. "But thank you for thinking I still have all my deviousness intact. Not to mention such seductive wiles at my command."

It might be the liquor, it might be exhaustion, but she could swear he's leaning into her touch. "I've missed you," he says softly and she can hear a confession in his voice, one that doesn't come easily.

"I've missed you too," she replies, torn between laughter and tears. "Gods, there are no words for how much I've ... missed ... you."

There is no kiss that follows, because there doesn't have to be. That moment had passed the second she'd seen Galactica falling through the clouds and she'd silently turned her face up toward its red-glowing helm, her lips burnt by its fire.

There has been nothing like this for her, no love to claim its equal and Adama has to look away as well because he understands ...

And understanding is all.

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