Excerpt From: Bartolomé de las Casas. “A Brief Account of the Destruction of the Indies.”
Some Captains since the Year 1502 to 1503 undertook Four or Five Voyages to the River of Plate, which embraceth within its own Arms great Kingdoms and Provinces, and is peopled by rational and well-temper'd Inhabitants. In the general we are certified, that they were very injurious and bloody to them; but they being far distant from those Indians, we frequently discourse of, wer are not able to give you a particular account of their Transactions. Yet beyond all Controversie, they did, and still do go the same way to work, as others in several Regions to this present time do, and have done; for they are the same, (and many in number too) Spaniards who went thither, that were the wicked Instruments of other Executions, and all of them aim at one and the same thing, namely to grow Rich and Wealthy, which they can never be, unless they steer the same Course which others have followed, and tread the same paths in Murdering, Robbing and Destroying poor Indians.
After I had committed to Writing what I have prementioned, it was told me for a great Truth, that “Cruelly and Bloodily with these harmless People, at a horrid rate, having a greater Opportunity and Convenience to be more Infamous and Rigid to them, then others, they being very remote from Spain, living inordinatly, like Debauches, laying aside, and bidding farewel to all manner of Justice, which is indeed a Stranger in all the American Regions, as is manifest by what hath been said already. But among the other Numerous Wicked Acts following this is one that may be read in the Indians Courts. One of the Governours commanded his Soldiers to go to a certain Village, and if they denyed them Provisions, to put all the Inhabitants to the Sword: By Vertue of this Authority away they march, and because they would not yield to them above Five Thousand Men as Enemies, fearing rather to be seen, then guilty of Illiberality, were cut off by the Sword. Also a certain number of Men living in Peace and Tranquillity proffered their services to him; who, as it fell out, were call'd before the Governour, but deferring their appearance a little longer than ordinary, that he might infix their minds with a remark of horrible Tyranny, he commanded, they “they should be deliver'd up, as Prisoners to their Mortal Indian Enemies, who beg'd with loud Clamours and a Deluge of Tears, that they might be dispatcht out of this World by their own Hands, rather than be given up as a prety to the Enemy; yet being resolute, they would not depart out of the House wherein they were, so the Spaniards hackt them in pieces Limb by Limb, who exclaim'd and cryed aloud, "We came to visit and serve you peaceably and quietly, and you Murder us; our Blood with which these Walls are moistned and sprinkled will remain as an Everlasting Testimony of our Unjust Slaughter, and your Barbarous Cruelty. And really this Piaculum or horrid Crime deserves a Commemoration, or rather speak more properly, the Commiseration of all Persons.”
26.12.12
montevideo spring
Butoh in the Sala Verdi
In the late afternoon he goes running and Gershwin's Rhasphody in Blue comes on the headphones. The vista is broken into two. Sea and skyline. Eclectic buildings arrange themselves around the waterfront. The sun begins to fail.
At night, with C rehearsing Henry the Fourth, Parts 1&2, he goes around the corner to the Verdi. There's a Butoh dancer from the States performing. In his other life he would never go to a see a Butoh dancer from the States perform on a whim. It would cost too much, it would involve travelling too far. But this isn't the other life, this is this one. It's round the corner and it's free. So he goes, meeting a friend in the lobby.
The Butoh dancer appears. In her opening sequence, she is caught up in a vast red sail, struggling to escape, writhing in the most deliberate of fashions to music by Phillip Glass. In the next, she is naked on a plinth, contorting her body into bizarre, challenging, impressive but uncomfortable shapes. In the third, she is naked again. Again, her body is contorted. Her shapely figure struggles against gravity. Her hands become one with two branches lying on stage. She gives birth to the universe. At the climactic moment, a phone rings. The dancer is immune. She is giving birth to the universe. My friend suggests this must be the end. I say there's plenty more to come. I am right. Now that the universe exists, it needs to be populated. The next phase is a film. The dancer, naked, contorted. Her mouth held open in an eternal O. As though meditating as she turns herself into a living sculpture. Soon she's back in person, only now the projection is there too. She's double dosing. Now she achieves an even more impressive feat. Not content with giving birth to the universe, the dancer now gives birth to herself. Petals fall from the ceiling. Transcendence is back. In spades. Old ladies shuffle in their seats. The theatre creaks. So much nudity is not good for its blood pressure. Acknowledging this, the dancer puts some clothes on for the final sequence, a Butoh parody of a ballet, all strained limbs and minimal movement. She appears for her curtain call. Montevideo rises to its feet.
+++
Oro De Rhin
The Germans get everywhere. They didn't have much of an empire, ever. Which probably didn't help. But, just like the British, whose influence reached parts you would never expect, the Germans had long tentacles.
So here I am sitting in one of the city's oldest cafes. Which looks like something out of old Berlin or Vienna. Pretty tablecloths and faintly art nouveau chairs. A place inspired by Mittel Europa and populated by the descendants of elderly Spanish ladies. Who are now, on the whole, elderly Hispanic ladies themselves. Drooling over their cakes and elaborate coffees served in glass cups with emaciated handles. Piped Brazilian music waxing over the airwaves. So tasteful you can almost smell the odour of the Motherland. Although it's not clear which one.
In theory this is the sort of place where Lenin plotted the Russian revolution or Klimt dreamt up eroticism. You don't really get the feeling anything too radical is on the cards here. If anything it has the feel of a place which should feature in a movie involving a neurotic mother of two grown up children who believes she used to be beautiful but no longer is who finds love one last time in life with the unlikely figure of a manic depressive former rock god whose star has now waned and who wiles his days away creating sculptures of celebrated pre-Colombian monuments out of guitar plectrums. Sort of Julian Cope meets Kirsten Scott Thomas. I can picture them now, whispering to each other in a corner, struggling to find a way to say how fascinated they are by each other, the man twisting a plectrum in his hand inside his coat pocket, the woman fearful that her mobile phone will ring even though it's switched off, knowing that people know her mobile phone is never switched off.
+++
Another Kind of Bar
This is where a whisky nacional costs 25 pesos. Just across the road from the bus station. On a day so grey it could be the 1st day of Autumn, forget about Spring. A small bicho crawls across the table. Might be an ant. Might be something uglier. An old man struggles to stay standing as he tries to read the paper and drink his whisky at the same time. The music is Bryan Adams. The waiter has grey hair which touches his nape and bifocals. He looks like he should work in advertising. Have three children by his first wife. One with the second. A stepchild he gets on with better than his own children. A house that backs on to the river with a half acre lawn and plans for willow trees. Says he doesn't like work and complains when he gets home but he'd be lost without it. The ant crawls across my hand. The waiter stares out of the window. He's got some great ideas for the Persil account. The anti-white. An ant crawling across an iceberg. A fly on a woman's petticoat. The detergent that will annihilate not just stains but your enemies too. Clean up your bank balance. Your conscience. Your carbon footprint. The ideas are endless. They spill out of him. If it wasn't for the customers interrupting his train of thought he'd be rich.
+++
Cafe, Plaza Independencia
We've started rehearsing in SUA. SUA is the actors' union. Their offices are in the centre of town. One of those old, inordinately high-ceilinged buildings which were constructed by rich families in the late twentieth/ early twenty first centuries. When Montevideo and Buenos Aires would become the new Europe, eclipsing the tawdriness of the States, describing possibilities which Borges alone fulfilled. In the pages of his books.
We rehearse in the ground floors. The embossed wooden doors are the giraffes of the door fauna. So tall and elegant they should be on a catwalk. Three D tiles, designed by the computer graphics merchants of the 1920s adorn the floors. The sound of water and voices permeate. The influence of the Alhambra is there somewhere.
In this space, the work flourishes. My pair of distressed loners find a way to communicate without words. They dance and repeat themselves and make strange noises which betray the feelings which words cannot reveal.
+++
A writer requires these moments. Those that fall between stools. Which don't belong to anyone. Whose redundance permits vacillation, pedantry, impermanence. Space for the words to slip through.
The wind gets up and the flies, which have only just hatched, prepare to die again.
+++
In the late afternoon he goes running and Gershwin's Rhasphody in Blue comes on the headphones. The vista is broken into two. Sea and skyline. Eclectic buildings arrange themselves around the waterfront. The sun begins to fail.
At night, with C rehearsing Henry the Fourth, Parts 1&2, he goes around the corner to the Verdi. There's a Butoh dancer from the States performing. In his other life he would never go to a see a Butoh dancer from the States perform on a whim. It would cost too much, it would involve travelling too far. But this isn't the other life, this is this one. It's round the corner and it's free. So he goes, meeting a friend in the lobby.
The Butoh dancer appears. In her opening sequence, she is caught up in a vast red sail, struggling to escape, writhing in the most deliberate of fashions to music by Phillip Glass. In the next, she is naked on a plinth, contorting her body into bizarre, challenging, impressive but uncomfortable shapes. In the third, she is naked again. Again, her body is contorted. Her shapely figure struggles against gravity. Her hands become one with two branches lying on stage. She gives birth to the universe. At the climactic moment, a phone rings. The dancer is immune. She is giving birth to the universe. My friend suggests this must be the end. I say there's plenty more to come. I am right. Now that the universe exists, it needs to be populated. The next phase is a film. The dancer, naked, contorted. Her mouth held open in an eternal O. As though meditating as she turns herself into a living sculpture. Soon she's back in person, only now the projection is there too. She's double dosing. Now she achieves an even more impressive feat. Not content with giving birth to the universe, the dancer now gives birth to herself. Petals fall from the ceiling. Transcendence is back. In spades. Old ladies shuffle in their seats. The theatre creaks. So much nudity is not good for its blood pressure. Acknowledging this, the dancer puts some clothes on for the final sequence, a Butoh parody of a ballet, all strained limbs and minimal movement. She appears for her curtain call. Montevideo rises to its feet.
+++
Oro De Rhin
The Germans get everywhere. They didn't have much of an empire, ever. Which probably didn't help. But, just like the British, whose influence reached parts you would never expect, the Germans had long tentacles.
So here I am sitting in one of the city's oldest cafes. Which looks like something out of old Berlin or Vienna. Pretty tablecloths and faintly art nouveau chairs. A place inspired by Mittel Europa and populated by the descendants of elderly Spanish ladies. Who are now, on the whole, elderly Hispanic ladies themselves. Drooling over their cakes and elaborate coffees served in glass cups with emaciated handles. Piped Brazilian music waxing over the airwaves. So tasteful you can almost smell the odour of the Motherland. Although it's not clear which one.
In theory this is the sort of place where Lenin plotted the Russian revolution or Klimt dreamt up eroticism. You don't really get the feeling anything too radical is on the cards here. If anything it has the feel of a place which should feature in a movie involving a neurotic mother of two grown up children who believes she used to be beautiful but no longer is who finds love one last time in life with the unlikely figure of a manic depressive former rock god whose star has now waned and who wiles his days away creating sculptures of celebrated pre-Colombian monuments out of guitar plectrums. Sort of Julian Cope meets Kirsten Scott Thomas. I can picture them now, whispering to each other in a corner, struggling to find a way to say how fascinated they are by each other, the man twisting a plectrum in his hand inside his coat pocket, the woman fearful that her mobile phone will ring even though it's switched off, knowing that people know her mobile phone is never switched off.
+++
Another Kind of Bar
This is where a whisky nacional costs 25 pesos. Just across the road from the bus station. On a day so grey it could be the 1st day of Autumn, forget about Spring. A small bicho crawls across the table. Might be an ant. Might be something uglier. An old man struggles to stay standing as he tries to read the paper and drink his whisky at the same time. The music is Bryan Adams. The waiter has grey hair which touches his nape and bifocals. He looks like he should work in advertising. Have three children by his first wife. One with the second. A stepchild he gets on with better than his own children. A house that backs on to the river with a half acre lawn and plans for willow trees. Says he doesn't like work and complains when he gets home but he'd be lost without it. The ant crawls across my hand. The waiter stares out of the window. He's got some great ideas for the Persil account. The anti-white. An ant crawling across an iceberg. A fly on a woman's petticoat. The detergent that will annihilate not just stains but your enemies too. Clean up your bank balance. Your conscience. Your carbon footprint. The ideas are endless. They spill out of him. If it wasn't for the customers interrupting his train of thought he'd be rich.
+++
Cafe, Plaza Independencia
We've started rehearsing in SUA. SUA is the actors' union. Their offices are in the centre of town. One of those old, inordinately high-ceilinged buildings which were constructed by rich families in the late twentieth/ early twenty first centuries. When Montevideo and Buenos Aires would become the new Europe, eclipsing the tawdriness of the States, describing possibilities which Borges alone fulfilled. In the pages of his books.
We rehearse in the ground floors. The embossed wooden doors are the giraffes of the door fauna. So tall and elegant they should be on a catwalk. Three D tiles, designed by the computer graphics merchants of the 1920s adorn the floors. The sound of water and voices permeate. The influence of the Alhambra is there somewhere.
In this space, the work flourishes. My pair of distressed loners find a way to communicate without words. They dance and repeat themselves and make strange noises which betray the feelings which words cannot reveal.
+++
A writer requires these moments. Those that fall between stools. Which don't belong to anyone. Whose redundance permits vacillation, pedantry, impermanence. Space for the words to slip through.
The wind gets up and the flies, which have only just hatched, prepare to die again.
+++
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