misscam: (Team Awesome)
Note to self on writing:

- Finish that stupid AU Void Doctor/Rose fic before it eats my soul.
- Write the Five times Sara said she loved him after she returned prompt before I feel too guilty.
- Write something longer with Adama and Roslin before I feel too guilty neglecting other fics.
- Play less WoW. (*coughIfyou'reonmyWowfilterImadepicspamherecough*)

And because I am curious and steal inspiration from my flist....
[Poll #1171574]

Meanwhile, it's the wank that never ends again - Rowling versus Lexicon and again. It even made Norwegian news. Fandom in real life is so odd.

For all my fannish interests and worries about TPTB smacking out fanfic, I find my sympathy in this case really going towards Rowling. How about you? (This is probably related to working in a IPR firm - getting some insight into how it works and why has been quite enlightning.) Why do so many fans turn so bitter towards the creator, anyway? It's a trend I see repeated time and time again. I can understand getting upset over something you love not going in the direction you want, but the intensity and rage of it sometimes really baffles me.

*ponders*

Poem post

Sep. 21st, 2005 12:57 am
misscam: (Dawn by10000_pixels)
When you see this, post a poem in your journal.

My choice is a Norwegian poem written in the mid-30s about the dangers of Hitler - but might be worth a think in our time, too.

You must not endure so terribly well
the unfairness that upon you never fell!


Du må ikke sove! )

Translation: You must not sleep! )
misscam: (Trout)
misscam's LJ stalker is maureenlycaon!
maureenlycaon is stalking you because another friend of yours told them you liked them. They are also prank calling you regularly!


LiveJournal Username:




LJ Stalker Finder
From Go-Quiz.com



Hah! I wonder if I'm stalking anyone?

Been a lovely weekend - bro came to visit and we watched the D-Day event in Normandie. It was strangely touching -as my brother phrased it: "There is nothing quite as moving as old men being moved." It was also quite nice to see the German leader and the French leader embrace. It's not that long ago Europe was divided and always ready for a war. And now we have peace. May it last.

Reagan died this weekend, but I felt no particulary sorrowover that. I was too young to notice him when he was president. But I feel pity for him - of all the ways to die, Altzeimer's must be one of the nastiest. I would not wish that upon anyone.

And if any of you are wondering why I haven't been online much of late - my laptop is having power issues. It's not getting enough power, so it drains the battery when it's on. Thus I can only use it for a little time until the battery is almost out, then recharge it (which takes forever). Obviously, it needs to be fixed. It also keeps me from writing as much - and the fact that it's summer and warm and alluring outside.

Speaking of writing - sometimes, I think writing OFUM was the silliest thing I ever did, for some of the e-mails I get about various thing OFU-related are just a pain in the ass. Requests, nags about some other OFU not being updated (as if that is my responsibility), questions I have already answered a gazillion times... Sometimes, I just get really fed up. (Of course, alot of the e-mail I get is also pleasant, but since waking up today I've had several dizzy spells and annoying e-mail does not help.) And to add to that, some just can't seem to spell - when requesting to do a fanfiction university to teach the art of good writing, for crying out loud. I mean, how hard is it to know the difference between you're/your, anyway?

When Norway invades the US, I'm sending American teenagers to GrammarBootCamp, that's for sure. And until they can form coherent sentences and know the many pleasures of King Kong Comma in his proper place, they can live on gammalost and flatbrød. Perhaps even lutefisk.

(Yes, I know. I'm evil and venegful. It feels oh so good.)

P.S Thanks to all those who offered to help on my previous entry. If I haven't e-mailed you, it means I shan't call on your help this time around. But thanks muchly for the offer. *bows*
misscam: (Asatru)
DANDYWILBER'S FREE TUTORIAL ON HOW TO TYPE/SPELL/SPEAK CORRECTLY!
Or: How to sound mildly intelligent!
When to properly use your or you're (you are)
YOUR
your
adj. The possessive form of you
1. Used as a modifier before a noun: your
boots; your accomplishments

2. A person's; one's: The light switch is on
your right


So, what does it mean?

Your is a word that states that the possession of some object or abstract idea is in the possession of you. The hat is not you're hat. It is YOUR hat. As you're cannot be used in place of your, the same is true for the reverse of this lesson. Your cannot be used in a sentence when the meaning of the word should be "you are," such as you are not very intellectual or you are in possession of the grammar skills of a 4-year old. This is where YOU'RE comes in, not your. See the right side, YOUR right side (of the computer screen) for instructions on how to use YOU'RE.

Some examples:

This is your pink flamingo.
Our Lady Peace is your favorite band.
Please, stop your car and run into oncoming traffic.
YOU'RE
you're
Contraction of you are.

contraction
n. The act or process of shortening
1. The shortening of a word, or of two
words, by the omission of a letter or
letters, or by reducing two or more
vowels or syllables to one; as, ne'er for
never; can't for can not; don't for do
not; it's for it is.

Huh?

In short, you're means you are. We do all know what "you" and "are" mean, don't we? I should surely hope so! One uses you're when they wish to speak regarding a person.

Some examples:

You're not a very nice individual.
You're coming with me this evening.
You're not serious, are you?
Post this tutorial in your journal!!


Thank you.
misscam: (Default)
I interviewed an Aussie member of the Church of the World Creator last year and this is what I wrote.

White God

By Camilla Sandman


David is a religious racist.

David believes in God. He goes to church because he wants to, not because he feels obligated. David loves his God and is convinced his God is the right God.

David believes in race. He goes to meeting declaring Jews the menace of the white race because he wants to, not because he feels obligated. David loves his race and is convinced his race is the right race.

“My religion is my race,” he says calmly, as we sit under the open sky in a Brisbane café, watching people walk to and from.

David is white. Under the bright sun he looks almost brown, tanned and the poster child for Australian surfers. He likes to surf, he has told me earlier. He did well in school. He really admires Adolf Hitler.

Adolf Hitler killed millions of Jews and ethnic minorities in his concentration camps, an act condemned by most of the world. David doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t even believe it happened. He sees himself as a ‘Revisionist’, a small group of people whose one purpose is to ‘revision history’. History is not about facts, David tells me. History is about who writes it.

I don’t tell him I have been to Auschwitz and have seen all the history I could take before I had to run outside, pale and shaking. I don’t tell him that green grass grows in Auschwitz, and that I cried when I saw it. I don’t tell him I’ve met a Holocaust survivor and that I believe no one could fake that dread and horror.

David thinks Holocaust is a big hoax. He met infamous self-proclaimed British historian David Irving when he was in Brisbane in 1986. David and David even got to talk. Irving went on to write more books of how he saw history. David went on with his education.

I ask David how his namesake had fared even though I knew. Irving had sued an American author for calling him a Holocaust-denier and a falsifier of history. Irving had lost on all points, a damning verdict declaring him for all times the worst kind of liar. A set-up, according to David. He doesn’t explain how. It is not the first how he has failed to give me – how holocaust can be a hoax has not been explained to me either. David believes in whys.

He tells me in great length why the Jews would construct such a hoax, why the Allies would go along with such an elaborate conspiracy, why Hitler invaded Norway and Denmark to protect them from England, why God is white.

I don’t tell him I find it strange that the Christian God would be racist when there is no mention of it in any version of the Bible I have seen. I don’t tell him the very notion makes me sick and that my coffee tastes bitterly now.

He tells me more of his White God even though I have not asked. It seems a strange combination of faiths – Christianity and racism. One proclaims love, the other hatred.

“We need hatred,” David says. “Hatred makes us strong.”

I don’t tell him the many victims of hate-crimes might disagree. I don’t tell him hatred torched a mosque here in Brisbane, causing more hatred to erupt. I don’t tell him I believe hatred spawns hatred and that hatred kills.

David tells me he wants to visit Norway, but that he would likely freeze to death there. His laugh is charming, his smile bright. I could have passed him in the street and thought him normal. In a sense, he is. We’ve talked of cricket and he very patiently explained the game to me. He paid for the coffee. And then he told me he hoped Australia would close its borders and not let any more non-Whites in, as it was soiling the purity of the race. Australia should be white, as it once was. He speaks of the strength of the white race, and how it has diminished.

I don’t tell him Australia was never white, that the whites were not even the first here. I don’t tell him I think opening ourselves up to other cultures is good and that we can learn much. I don’t tell him I would like to throw the coffee on him and walk out.

It is David who makes his excuses. He has a meeting he can’t miss, but he enjoyed meeting me and that he hopes I’ve seen his viewpoint.

I don’t tell him I could never see his viewpoint. I don’t tell him his vision makes me cold with anger. I don’t tell him if we ever meet again, I will be on the other side of the fence, protesting against his opinions. I can’t tell him, because I’m a journalist. I tell the stories, I do not pass judgement.

“Do you believe you are right?” I ask as we are about to part.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He looks strangely at me.

“I just know. History will deem us right.”

He smiles as he leaves. David, the Revisionist. David the Religious. David the Racist. David the Human.

I could tell his story without my opinions. But if he is right, and history is about who writes it, this story is also about me. And I will not let his vision come to pass.

As I walk home, the skies open, pouring down on black and white alike. And I realise one thing revisions cannot change.

In the rain all humans look grey.
misscam: (OB)
It reminded me of the happenings of late, somehow. The article is about Vidkun Quisling, infamous traitor of Norway. He's painted as the great villain in Norway - yet he believed what he was doing was right. He was sure. I think sometimes people who are very sure what they are doing is right, are the most dangerous of all (Hitler for one). A lesson to perhaps remember in these times, with all the talk of reshaping the world. The world always changes, and there are always people who want to reshape it. Sometimes, it is for the good. Sometimes....

Quisling wanted to reshape Norway. And history has painted him as evil for it.

******

Just a Word
By Camilla Sandman

It’s sometimes tempting to believe in ghosts. Not just for the promise of continued existence. It would mean dearly departed were not so departed from us, but would linger on, watching over us, loving us.

Not all ghosts would be dearly departed, of course. Some would not linger, but rather haunt us, their legacy more than just words.

There is a word in the English dictionary. Quisling. To most it would seem merely a word – a word for traitor, a betrayer. But the word was once a name. Vidkun Quisling. A Norwegian. A husband. A political leader. A son. A traitor.

A ghost.

He was executed in October 1945, one of the last men to be so in Norway. The death penalty has since been abolished. He was among the last, as he was the first – to so boldly sell Norway out to its enemies.

But that is the end of the story, not the beginning. The beginning seemed harmless enough, hardly the telltale signs of evil.

Vidkun Quisling was born in Fyresdal in 1887, the son of a priest. As a young man he served in the army, and even helped Norwegian national hero and artic explorer Fridtjof Nansen with relief work in Russia. Indeed, he was said to have much sympathy for the Russian regime to start with. A sympathy he would later transfer – onto Germany.

He quickly rose in rank. Perhaps even then he had ambitions to become a leader – a Fuhrer for Norway. From 1931 to 1933 he served as Defence Minister in the Norwegian government, then quit to form his own fascist party, the National Union. It polled badly in the following elections, and Quisling’s dream would seem broken.

But in Germany Hitler ruled, and there Quisling went in 1939. He met with the Fuhrer himself, and as a famous urban legend would have it, the exchange went something like this:
‘And you are?’
‘Quisling, mein Fuhrer.’
‘Yes, but what is your name?’

The Fuhrer and the wannabe-Fuhrer met twice, and it is said Quisling urged Hitler to occupy Norway. History does not tell us what might have happened had those meetings not taken place.

It does however tell us that on April 9th 1940, German warships steered into Norwegian ports. That very morning Quisling marched up to the National radio, took over a studio and proclaimed himself new Prime Minister of Norway. He urged the Norwegian people to welcome the Germans, who had most kindly come to protect us from those vicious English.

Vidkun Quisling must have thought his dream had come true that day. He was Fuhrer, but of a most unwilling people. Indeed, the Germans thought him mostly a nuisance during the occupation years, for so badly was he regarded by the Norwegian people.

And so, his name became a curse. An insult. A traitor.

For five years he was hated. But with peace came reckoning. Quisling was put on trial. His defence was patriotism. By his side was his wife Marie. Accusing him was almost the entire Norwegian people. Against such a potent a prosecutor there could be only one verdict.

In September 1945 he was found guilty of treason. His appeals failed. On October 24th 1945, before the sun would rise to greet a cold autumn day, shots rang through the old Akershus fortress.

To the very end, he believed in his patriotism. A Bible was fund in his cell, a sentence underlined. ‘He shall redeem their soul from defeat and violence and precious shall their blood be in His sight.’

Some people are willing to die for what they believe in. When history deems their belief right, they get streets named after them. When history deems them wrong, their names become the very essence of villainy.

And so, Vidkun Quisling’s legacy is easily found. It’s just a word in a dictionary.

Just a word.

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