The sound startles a pigeon awake, on the floor of his apartment; it
begins to walk and he blunders toward it, begging it to leave. He grabs
a broom as it soars into the rafters, terrified. A bird in the house
means death is coming; his brother has something he wants. He’ll be
dead soon. And Lee will feel so much guiltier about it than he knows,
because this morning her face is a bird, fluttering against the glass.
He swings wildly and knocks something else off a table; he begins to
curse the bird. She’s caught, against the sky; she fights something she
can’t see because she is afraid. She fights because she doesn’t know
how to do anything else. Lee Adama loves Kara Thrace.
So say we frakking all.
Last one ever, guys. Boom boom boom.
The humans touched the picture, remember? They all touched the
picture of the pilot and they put up pictures in the hallway and they
walked down it to remember: Here is the ground. We walk in the sky but
here is where we came from. They laid down trails of breadcrumbs to get
back to where they were, strings from one soup can to another so that
the vibrations of sound carry the echoes of their past back to the
beginning, so that anytime they want to, they can hear it, who they are.
the wind blows the breadcrumbs away, or they’re eaten by birds. And
eventually you run out of cans and string. It’s too far to hear the
echoes anymore. You rely on the pictures in your head, of where you
came from and what it meant, and sometimes those pictures are just shit
you made up because it’s been too long to remember and you’re scared to
tell anybody your past is just a blank sheet of black. So now it’s lies
upon lies, and you’ve left all your old ties behind, and you’re relying
on memory, which is faulty at best. You might as well rely on fairy
tales. I mean it, you’d be better off. Where are you then? What do you
go back to, when you need a place to rest?
Here, that’s where.
Your stories. You tell them around the campfire and they might not be
entirely real but they’re not entirely false, even if they’re about hot
chicks in space blowing up killer robots who believe in a unitary
deity. The stories that switch you on, that light you up, that make you
want to be more than you are, those stories come from anywhere and
everywhere, they’re written by anyone, everyone, and they come out of
nowhere and slam into you, hard. Where were you, when you heard the
thing that made you what you are? Who said it to you, said it out loud,
into your ear?
(Confession: I was sitting on a couch in a
basement, and two boys in chairs were facing me, their feet up on the
couch cushions beside me. And I made some point in the argument we were
having and they laughed, loud and unrestrained. We were poor,
all three of us, and sick, and miserable. That’s where I was. I still
talk to both of them almost every single day.)
confession: I’m kind of drunk. The end of Babylon 5 — the last show I
loved this much and identified with this strongly — wrecked me for like
three weeks. To this day I still can’t watch Sleeping in Light, the
finale, without feeling like something slammed into me. So I’ve been
worried about this, because this show grabbed me in a way even B5 never
did, and since about 6 p.m. I’ve been pre-emptively dulling the pain
with wine, and I’m blaming any ensuing typos and nonsensicality on
that. Just so you know.)
Quick takes, not just on this ep but on the whole frakkin’ deal:
I will never ever be able to watch in anything else ever again without
thinking of their characters in this show: Olmos, McDonnell, Sackhoff,
Lucy Lawless, the dude who plays Doral, and man, every time I see
Tricia Helfer on Burn Notice bitching about not being able to break
into somebody’s office to steal something I yell at the TV, “You’re a
killer robot, for frak’s sake, just bust the damn door down and
drop-kick some bitches!” It’s true. You can ask Mr. A, it drives him
I really think Kara Thrace and Laura Roslin might be my favorite fictional women ever. It’s hard to beat outMary Russell andAnne Edwards
for my affections but Mary doesn’t get drunk and get into fights with
superior assholes and Anne doesn’t chuck people out of airlocks because
they piss her off. I don’t know what it is about sci-fi but there’s a
serious glut of kickass chicks bailing their dopey boyfriends out of
interstellar jams and I fucking love it.
Cally, fucking things up from beyond the airlock. Cottle, continuing
the awesome all the way to the end. Lee’s new hair, which was a full-on
mullet by the time the credits rolled. PRESIDENT ROMO LAMPKIN. ADMIRAL
HOSHI. SHOOTING GALACTICA INTO THE SUN. I started shaking when Husker
tore the lie detector strips off and when he picked up Laura … oh,
forget it, it was the alcohol crying, not me. And I don’t think there’s
anything as beautiful on the planet as Galactica ramming her old, broken
fist straight into Cavil’s Colony and burning beneath his guns. Take
that, saggy motherfucker, take that and eat it for breakfast.
Boomer, “tell the old man I owed him one.” Tigh and Adama at the strip
club, which will NEVER STOP BEING FUNNY.
I could have lived without the cutesy-clever addendum at the end,
could have lived with an ending as beautiful and mournful and hopeful
and true as was given us before that. Mr. A disagreed, found it the
perfect coda, we argued about it for ten minutes before I realized I
don’t care that much. Four years of gorgeousness, I’m not gonna get
hung up on five minutes.
So the people who were standing beside you when you became who you
are, when Ron Moore’s God wants to get a message past the firing line,
that’s who He sends.This God doesn’t fuck around, he knows you’re only going to listen to somebody who gets you that deep.
He sends Starbuck Leoben, the first person who ever knew about her mother.
He sends Kara her father, too, angels to angels, gods speaking with
gods. He sends Gaius the first person who ever showed him completely
unselfish kindness. He sends Caprica the first person who showed her
love. He sends the men and women of the fleet, he sends Lee and Bill, the girl who walked
between the stars and cheated death a thousand times. He sends them an angel. He sends them Kara Thrace to show them the way home.
The way home that goes through a nuclear holocaust and a tomb,
through desert moons and algae planets and 33 minutes of hell, through
water riots and coffee riots and Admiral Helena Cain, through Kobol and
New Caprica and Earth, through terrorism, betrayal and mutiny, through
politics and ritual and death and pain. All the while long she was
talking them through, with her heroics and her fuckups and her
victories and her defeats. She took hold of them however she could and
shoved them forward, and every step she took backward she screamed in
frustration because she could see it, it was so clear to her, always,
Kill some toasters. Fly CAP. Kick some ass. Whip the nuggets into
shape. Gut a Raider like a trout and fit yourself inside and make your
escape. Force the Admiral to admit Earth is a lie, then force him to
make it true. Fight until you can’t. Become the Arrow of Athena, save
the world a thousand times, drag your stupid jock boyfriend out of his
pinned-down stupidity and make him a man. What are you all waiting for?
COME ON. Let’s go, people, move it.
And in extremity, when her ship’s body was dying all around her, she
punched in the numbers and she turned the key and the music sang, the
notes assigned to the numbers of her days, her hands in the doorway and
her hands on the keys, her destiny to lead them all to their end.
friend wrote a story once, contained the line, “the world is ever
ending.” All of this has happened before. We pick ourselves up, sometimes with our angels’ help, and we decide who we’re going to be.
All of this will happen again. We take our enemies’ hands, hold our breath, and jump.