The central premise of Blogspace9 is that nine authors is optimal for the telling of any story. Any more muddles the text. Any fewer fails to deliver enough points-of-view to allow unfettered consideration of phenomena. Therefore, it is necessary for you to include more of your personnel in this endeavor.
Furthermore, a cursory read of your communications suggest, to our security analysts, a need for additional safety provisions to be put into place. Therefore, in order to protect our investment, and in concert with section 6.2.11 of the grant application submitted by Drs. Michelle Cavalcante and Cyrus Sanderson, we are sending a risk analyst to designate new security parameters as we move forward. A package has been sent to him at your address in advance of his arrival.
Kim Castillo
age:
26
occupation:
graduate student, lab director/Segovia, Peru
education:
M.A. Yale University - historical archaeology - colonial Peru
personal:
single, fluent in Spanish
hometown:
San Antonio, Texas
hobbies:
dancing
food/bev:
Chinese/vodka tonic
life goal:
live and love beyond all measure
fav movie:
The Hunger
obscurity:
paid for college by working as an exotic dancer
June 16, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Kim Castillo
http://www.bellisima.blogspace9.ex
You know, the whole point of having a generator is to be able to generate electricity. I can appreciate that we’re off the grid, stuck out here between the cane and the ocean, jammed up against this god-forsaken, demon-spewing hell-mouth of a pyramid. What I can’t understand is why the generator so consistently and regularly fails to generate.
We buy fuel. We pour the fuel in the tank. The generator turns on, and half an hour later, for reasons unfathomed by God or man, it turns off. I swear I’m close to my breaking point. I can take the frigid nights, the biting winds, and the relative deprivation. I’ve gotten used to the cold showers, the relentless sexual harassment, and the shuffling ghouls or whatever they are that prowl at night. But could someone please just fix the goddamn generator so that we can have predictably cold beer and a warm laptop?
My name is Kim Castillo, and I fell in love last night. Please understand that the two previous ranting paragraphs are more a reflection of my normal self than an indication of my current mood.
By way of introduction, I am an archaeologist working on my Ph.D. Cyrus is my advisor, which is why I’m down here slaving away on his project. I was originally supposed to be the lab director, but we never got it together to put up a lab. So I do a little excavating, but mostly I process the documents that Michelle and Leon dig up.
Michelle tells me that I have to write something interesting, and there’s little enough in my young life that has been more interesting that the last 24 hours, so I’ll tell you about them. I’ll start with last night when the lights went out.
There was a knock on the door. Big deal, right? But here’s the thing; nobody knocks on our door. We don’t get visitors. Ever. And nobody comes or goes at night due to the shuffling zombies that nobody will acknowledge. So I have to admit that we were all a little alarmed by the knocking.
Next thing you know, Leon lunged for the door. Leon is a drooling cretin on a good day, but he’s been wearing these pirate guns that came in the mail. And on his way to the door, he tripped and one of the guns fell out of his pocket and snapped, or whatever it is that guns do. It didn’t have any bullets in it, but if it did, it would have shot one.
Cyrus was wearing his headlight, so he came over and took the guns away, put them on the shelf and went to open the door. Meanwhile, Michelle and I were lighting candles.
A car drove away just as the door opened, leaving a man standing outside with his bags. Cyrus sped out to the yard, furious that the gate was open, and got it closed as he waved the man inside. I almost melted.
This man was maybe five and a half feet tall but I swear he was the best looking human I’d ever seen. He had black hair and black eyes. He wore a black leather jacket and matching boots. “Forgive my tardiness,” he said, “I only arrived in the country today.”
“Can I ask who you are?” Cyrus had that headlight shining on him.
“Yeah,” said Leon, sounding like an idiot. “What’s your business here?”
The man took out a cigarette. And with his other hand, he struck a match against the zipper on Leon’s fleece jacket. I didn’t know that was even possible, but I guess it is. And it was about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I swear, if he hadn’t been holding a lit match, I would have jumped into his arms and made myself his.
“The young lady requested assistance,” he told Cyrus, lighting his cigarette. “And I am here to provide that assistance.”
“What young lady?” Leon demanded. “And what kind of assistance?”
He pointed at Michelle. “This young lady. My work is of a protective nature. I keep people safe.” He snapped his fingers, and Leon went out to carry his bags into the house, as if that was the most natural thing in the world to do when someone snapped their fingers.
“Wait a minute,” Michelle said, “are you saying that Blogspace9 sent you?”
“That is correct.” He turned to Cyrus. “You’ll forgive me. It was not possible to bring my weapons on the plane, so they had to be delivered by other means.”
“Who are you?” Cyrus asked him.
“Bolivar,” he said. “I believe you have my guns.”
I won’t lie. Once everybody got themselves sorted out, once the lights were out, I tiptoed across the cold tiles of that great hall, and I tapped three times on Bolivar’s door. When he opened it, I stepped in without waiting for an invitation. He was wearing a silk robe, as was I, and I swear his was shorter.
He grinned at me, a thin cigarette between his lips. He took me firmly by the arm, spun me around, and then smacked my butt as he led me back into the hall. Just before he shut the door in my face, he bowed and clicked his heels together. I didn’t know that heels actually made a clicking noise all on their own, without shoes, but they do. I went back to my room, but I didn’t sleep much last night.
Archive of the Indies
Avenida de la Constitucion, Seville
phone: 954 50 05 28
HOURS: M-F 8:00-3:00
Completed in 1584, this building served as the principal economic and political locus of federal Spanish interaction with the colonial Viceroyalties.
A UNESCO World Heritage site, the Archive now contains an estimated 80 million pages of Spanish colonial documents.
June 17, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler
Sorry to hear about your unrequited crush, Kim. I’m crying on the inside. But remember, you’ll always have Leon!
It’s been a busy day here at the Archive. I’ve been going over those documents that you guys found, and I have to say that this is an extraordinary trove of information.
May the Inca gods bless the arid sands of coastal Peru for this remarkable preservation! Think about it, guys, we’re reading bits of a journal that’s more than four hundred and thirty years old. And seeing how you just dug it up, we’re the first people to read it in four hundred and thirty years. Let’s hope we can make something of it.
Piecing things together, our dear ordained friend, Father Sebastiano Gota, if that is indeed his name, seems to have written several letters in addition to his journal. But we’d have to assume that none of the letters were sent, since they’re still there. So either he couldn’t find a stamp (joke) or he just never mailed them. Maybe he was afraid to.
So far you’ve unearthed seventeen letter fragments plus a twenty-three page journal with only five legible sections. Not a huge corpus, right? But there are already five refere
nces to our pyramid:
1) ….piramide de fantasmas… – ghost pyramid
2) ….en esa estructura demonico… – in that demonic structure
3) …los del piramide ya no tienen almas… – those of the pyramid now have no souls
4) …a los indios en mi cargo, quienes numeraron treinta y un indios… (OK, I’m just going to go with the translations here because the spell checker is giving me grief)… – to the Indians under my care, who number thirty-one males and fifty-three females with their children, who belong, it seems to me, belong to the pyramid, where they claim their dead still walk
5) …pase otra noche encima del piramide mientras comunicaban… – I spent another night on top of the pyramid while they communicated…
To sum up what we now know: in 1580, a young Franciscan priest named Sebastiano Gota arrived in Peru and was sent to Segovia, a small, remote Indian village of about a hundred residents. He was not the first priest to be sent there, we know that because the church was founded in 1578. What became of that first priest, after just two short years, we don’t yet know.
Like all priests in the new world, Sebastiano is charged with converting the Indians. But he’s afraid. There’s something in the pyramid that’s scaring him — and I don’t blame him, it scares me too. But instead of leaving, or locking himself in the church at night, he goes out and climbs the pyramid.
I didn’t know where to go next, so I started reading some general ecclesiastical letters written by the Archbishop of Lima to Pope Gregory XIII. At one point, he notes that the Incas treat their ancestral mummies as if they were still living.
Now, we know that the Inca emperors considered themselves immortal, and were mummified after their death so that they could live forever. But what if it was more than the emperors? What if that was a more common funerary practice? What if everyone was doing it?
That could be what Sebastiano was writing about: his Indians kept their mummies in the pyramid, and would go there to talk with them. Anyway, it’s something to think about. Maybe that’s what’s keeping you all up at night; all the mummies arising to walk with the living!!!
I spent the rest of the day working on the scans of the journal, and I’m now not sure it’s a journal. I think it might be a manual. The word ‘maleus’ on the cover doesn’t mean anything in any language I can find. But there are a couple of instances where I’ve found Sebastiano’s spelling to be sub-par. Maybe he meant to write ‘malleus.’
In 1486, the Catholic church published Malleus Malefacicarum – hammer of the witches. It’s now commonly referred to as the Malleus, and it spells out the church’s belief about witches – women who engaged in orgiastic behavior, ecstatic intercourse, and shape changing, all of which my sweet Michelle has been known to partake of from time to time.
Here are some passages from the Malleus: “women are naturally more impressionable than men, and more ready to receive the influence of a disembodied spirit….they have slippery tongues…they are feebler in mind and body…they are intellectually like children.”
That being said, I think we’re dealing with something different. Malleus Malefacicarum was responsible for fanning the flames of the Witchcraze in Europe, but much of that had burned out, especially in Spain, within a few decades. So if our good Friar Sebastiano is walking around Peru a hundred years later, I find it hard to believe he was afraid of witches.
There weren’t five Spanish women in Peru back then, and chances are, no more than three would have been witches. As for local witches, well maybe. But I can’t see a priest writing his own Malleus. I spent much of the afternoon trying to follow this up, but I didn’t get any further. Finally, I went back to the main search directory, and just for shits and giggles, entered “Fr. Sebastiano Malleus Segovia pirámide.” And guess what? I got a hit. A document referenced as ‘TrujilloArchivoGioti-privato-doc.corr. LLX16705409.’
That’s not a standard index reference, so when I tried to request the document using my investigator’s license, it just spit it back out. I asked the reading room administrator, and she said she would contact the director to see what could be discovered. But for now, I’m at a standstill, and it’s nearly five. I might just call it a day. It looks like I’m the last one here anyway. All my amigos are gone. They invited me to tapas but I’m shy.
Hey guys, I’m noticing something strange. I just started packing up my things, getting ready to leave, and there are no guards here in the reading room. Actually, I’m the only one here right now, which never happens. There are still at least half a dozen original documents sitting out on the tables waiting to be re-shelved. And I’m alone in the room with them, which is not allowed. I’m not sure what’s going on here. I’m going to go see what’s up downstairs. If I don’t come back, avenge my death.
June 17, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Cyrus Sanderson
Listen to me very carefully, Bruce. I think you are engaging in something unwise, and it needs to stop. We have a brand new ultraviolet scanner here that was delivered this morning. It’s the size of a refrigerator, and we have no idea who sent it, but we can now image a whole lot more of what’s written on the documents we’ve excavated.
Michelle and Leon are out at the pyramid. They’ll be back for lunch any moment now, so I’ll be brief. Blunt too. Shut this thing down, Bruce. I don’t want any more of our material flowing out into cyberspace. You never know who might be paying attention.
This is raw archaeological data we are developing, and it is of great value. I know I signed off on this blog thing, but this is still my project, and I want my information pipeline capped.
Here’s why: information has been/will be/should be controlled. It’s not for every-day consumption. Do you think the Inca emperors cared about sharing knowledge with the masses when they devised their quipus, the most complex record-keeping system ever created by humans? Do you think the Maya lords let any old farmer peruse their tax roles? What do you think Pharaoh Ramses II was thinking when he had his scribes adorn Karnak with more Byzantine words than any king had yet written in stone?
These men were living gods, and they understood one important aspect of power: control your information. Fail to do that, and you never know who is going to start poking around your business. And once you start worrying about that, you’ll do little else. You’ll worry all the time. You’ll fail to pay attention to details, and the Huns will come. Or the Assyrians, or the Romans, or the Spanish. But the point is, someone will come.
So can we please shut down this internet experiment before we let someone in that we’d rather not let in? It’s bad enough we now have a 19th-century Spanish gunfighter sitting out by the pool with spurs and a Mai Tai.
June 17, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Michelle Cavalcante
Say what you need to, Cyrus, but as you know, grants are not as lucrative as they once were. And if you recall, the Ministry of Culture refused to give us excavation permits unless we agreed to Blogspace9’s involvement. You know as well as I do that money changed hands there. I’m not afraid to write it. Somebody paid somebody off. Can you pass that yellow hot sauce, Cyrus? You hanging over me watching me type is not going to change what I type.
The world is changing, Cyrus. The axis of information has shifted dramatically since you were in graduate school back during the Paleolithic. Information is still power, but that power now comes from sharing rather than hoarding. That’s something the Inca never realized. That’s something the Egyptians never suspected. That’s something the Maya never dreamed of.
The kings of old were paranoid sociopaths, more concerned with their own fragile thrones than with the larger more glorious pictures that were everywhere before them. The professors of old were no different. But those kings are long gone, Cyrus. And those old professors are on their way out, soon to be replaced by a vast army of underpaid, uninsured, unloved adjunct professors who will, in short time, be chewed up by academia and become alcoholics.
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br /> You want to wait, Cyrus? You want to process your data, and then sit back and write an article for Latin American Antiquity, circulation 1, 600? Light your tiny candle, big guy! As of this morning, our hit counter is at 702, 429. Almost three quarters of a million people are going to read the words I am typing right now. I’m only thirty-two years old, and I have more people paying attention to me than all the Inca emperors combined ever did. Now pass me the damn yellow hot sauce.
Thank you.
In any case, Blogspace9 gave us a lot of money. So, if you want to cancel our agreement, and take a chance at losing our permits, then have at it. Go get us some grants. On the other hand, you own three houses, Cyrus. Sell two and pay us what we’re worth.
Bruce: I’m going to send you the scans that Kim is pulling off this infrared light box or whatever it is. We’re still trying to figure out where it came from, but you’re not going to believe how much of the lettering is legible now.
Leon is here and he wants to write something. I think he wants to tell you about his new man crush. I can’t yet tell who is more taken by our new bodyguard Mr. Bolivar – Leon or Kim.
Before I go, Kim wants you to look for a name – Quiroga. It looks like Father Sebastiano was expecting a visit from him, and it doesn’t look like he was much looking forward to it.
June 17, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Leon Samples
Bruce, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that smoking a cigarette by the pool wearing nothing but horse-riding boots and a Speedo isn’t cool. And ordinarily I would agree with you, but that’s what my new best friend is rocking right now, and he’s the coolest cat I’ve ever seen.
He’s only been here a day and a half, but I’m already tight with Bolivar. He’s like the Starsky to my Hutch, the Hall to my Oates. I think Kim is in love with him, and you know what, I don’t blame her.
The Mummies of Blogspace9 Page 4