hesitant aranta


[foto de ºCHiViSº--flickr]

Nicomachean Ethics//Aristotle
Eudemian Ethics//Aristotle
De Anima//Aristotle
Cause, Necessity and Blame//Richard Sorabji
The Fragility of Goodness//Martha C. Nussbaum
Essays on Aristotle's Ethics//Amelie Rorty (editor)
Aristotle's Theory of Action//David Charles
Aristotle on Moral Responsibility//Susan S. Meyer
The Fabric of Character//Nancy Sherman
Choosing Character//Jonathan Jacobs
Aristotle's Psychology//Daniel N. Robinson

Vespertine Live at the Royal Opera House//Björk

Carbon Monoxide//Marlboro Reds
caffeine in not so large ammounts

a whole lotta love

secondary bibliography

overt influences

Wie ich mechanisch eine neue Zigarrette drehe und die braunen Stäubchen mit feinem Prickeln auf das weißgelbe Löschpapier der Schreibmappe niedertaumeln, will es mir unwarscheinlich werden, daß ich noch wache. Und wie die feuchtwarme Abendluft, die durch das offene Fenster neben mir hereingeht, die Rauchwölkchen so seltsam formt und aus dem Bereich der grünbeschirmten Lampe ins Mattschwarze trägt, steht es mir fest, daß ich schon träume.
Da wird's natürlich schon ganz arg; denn diese Meinung wirft der Phantasie die Zügel auf den Rücken. Hinter mir knackt heimlich neckend die Stuhllehne, daß es mir jäh wie hastiger Schauder durch alle Nerven fährt. Das stört mich ärgerlich in meinem tiefsinnigen Studium der Bizarren Rauchschriftzeichen, die im mich irren, und über die einen Leitfaden zu ferfassen ich bereits entschlossen war.
Aber nun ist die Ruhe zum Teufel. Tolle Bewegung in allen Sinnen. Fiebrisch, nervös, wahnsinnig. Jeder Laut keift. Und mit all dem verwirrt steigt Vergessenes auf. Einst dem Sehsinn Eingeprägtes, das sich seltsam erneut; mit dem Fühlen dazu von damals. [...] Vision. Proza-Skizze//Thomas Mann.

past utterances


:: ::

i'm tired of writing about myself. i suppose i'll be back, one day, but not any day soon.

coming in through my ears::



:: ::

i'm turning into the kind of person i don't want to be._it gets out of control, sometimes, this terrible tendency to let out the worst possible version of myself._i have to learn to pace myself while judging, to keep my mouth shut until the sudden rage vanishes; i have to stop being so self righteous, it's sickening.

coming in through my ears::



:: noch mal, Pamuk ::

[...] A un retraimiento parecido recurren los estambulíes para enfrentarse a la pobreza y la opresión. Ese sentimiento, que significa una retirada consciente ante la vida, por un lado se beneficia del prestigio que la palabra ha ganado en la literatura mística y, por otro, les parece a los habitantes de la ciudad una causa orgullosa y conscientemente elegida para su fracaso, su indecisión, su derrota y su pobreza. En este sentido, la amargura no se presenta sólo como el resultado de importantes carencias y pérdidas en la vida, sino, lo que es más importante, como el verdadero motivo [...] La amargura paraliza a Estambul, pero también es una excusa para la parálisis.
Ohran Pamuk, Estambul

coming in through my ears::Sören meowing



:: vergeben, vertrauen, vergangenheit ::

the thing about taking courses in moral philosophy, the whole appeal of the matter, is the fact that it compromises the central pillar of all belief._such sensible subjects do not very often lend themselves to rigorous analysis without threatening one to face what little intuitions about how things should be, how one should be, and acknowledge how far off from the best possible version of a person one actually is._i have such poor intuitions, such base propensities toward action and passion, such weak character and such little drive towards striving for the best, that every couple of sentences i make a stop and wonder if i should simply write something different, or rather be someone different._whilst the first one is more or less in my hands, i have begun doubting whether the second one is._it's frightening, very much so.

coming in through my ears:: a dog barking next door



:: [...] ::

i have a huge problem managing time._it seems to me almost impossible to do things at the time they are supposed to be done; it's almost as if i had not yet understood the real meaning of measure-units._this is probably why i am the kind of person that spends her time making up for time lost, the kind that apologizes for faults instead of preventing herself from wrongdoing._my mind takes a while to catch up with my actions._and thought i am very much conscious of this thing being the case and deploring it being so, i seem to be unable to take a step towards the understanding of others within the limits of my own patterns of behaviour._ i judge too harshly mistakes -or what i take to be mistakes- and build up grudges that are not easily diluted, not easily torn apart._i fall prey to the tendency of making stories in my head which cover every possible contingency with some ill intention or planned out scheme of action; i tend to believe the worst in every case, but refuse to attribute to myself such motivations._for a long time i've become used to distorting my own first impressions in order to fit them into a greater picture that i somehow can control and understand._there is no space for loose ends within my made-up version of the world._actions, persons, facts, interpretations, versions, excuses, justifications, words, gestures -and the lack of all of the above- fit into strict categories, sometimes even overlapping to the demise of the very premise that supposes that that is the way to get a hold on what goes about._and so i sit here, writing this thing instead of what i should be writing, utterly unable to focus on the way to explain why feelings are good way of reaching into the character of the agent, and rather thinking about why it bothers me so much that the right solution to whatever brought on this mess was not given at the time it should; about why every single one of us was unable to make time for what was demanded.
i'll summarize what i think is the matter._a)a huge mistake was made when he asked for my essay._the dynamics of the contest itself suppose that organizers and contestants have no such interactions. b) it was a greater mistake on my part to accede to turning in such an essay, while in knowledge of it not being qualified to participate._the fact that i explicitly asked whether or not it was a problem if it was already published and assumed that the answer given made it alright to turn it in was indeed irresponsible on my behalf._i can read, i may not be very clever, but i can understand, at least, the terms and conditions of a contest. c) despite not having any intention of wining the contest, i should have not participated._at least, i should have made it even clearer that i was sending in a paper "for statistical purposes", meaning i expected it to be rejected at once, because of it having been already published.
i have no interest in being awarded a prize i do not deserve, i would want for myself to not be seen as someone that deliberately sought to skip the norm and take advantage of a system that supposes the integrity and honesty of both participants and organizers._but i cannot deny that i am responsible for what has happened and can do no more than take the blame._of course, i will not accept blame for cheating, for, according to the description of the action that includes what i knew of the matter and what i intended when acting, that is not the case._i renounce both to the prize and the mention, for having been less than intelligent in my acting._i regret not having spoken sooner.
there is, still, another side of things; one which i cannot so easily explain or solve -i cannot solve it at all, nor do i intend to, perhaps because i'm sure there is no solution to be reached._much harm was done that cannot be explained easily._ things should have been done and spoken about at the right time and in the proper manner; too much of passionate intervention was allowed into a dialogue that could've dissipated doubts, had it been unbiased by external factors._versions intertwined, making it ever more complicated to see what was really behind all this mess; the worse being the lack of humbleness to accept that mistakes were made and the attack -the preying upon, even- on those undeserving of mistreatment._ i've tried my best to stop my mind from making up stories that would end up in thinking about the people involved either as monsters or second-agenda-driven agents; i've tried to isolate the personal level._but i don't know if that can be done or if it should
be done._i have only partial bits of information; no matter how hard one tries to get to the core of things, one must always trust whatever little information is given by others -i cannot supposed to be lied to all the time, that would not be fair to them, nor to me._the thing is, i cannot hope to be offered an apology, for, strictly speaking, nobody owes me one._i am, nonetheless, disappointed by the fact that the real 'victim' of it all has not been given proper 'compensation'._it makes me think, only, that in the future, "disappointment" will be an inaccurate word to describe it, for i now believe that nothing much is to be expected from him.
coming in through my ears::Medúlla; Vespertine; Volta//Björk



:: ihr ::

i wonder why, if time is supposed to be the moving image of eternity, it seems to be utterly insufficient regarding my will._ maybe the whole of it can be summarized in saying that eternity is not a real measure of anything._ time could never, ever, be enough.

coming in through my ears::



:: wertfrei ::

effort is usually overrated._it's too often taken as something to be expected, as some sort of obligated response toward being confronted with whatever it may mean to simply be there._most of the time -most of my time- effort is fruitless, and still i strive to quiet down the voices telling me this urge to keep on expecting a somehow adequate response is useless._no more._i'm done with this._here is the line._shaikai is right, the point is to stop expecting, that's what it took.

coming in through my ears:: Boogie Stop Shuffle//Charles Mingus



:: pueril ::

what does it really take to let go of things?_is it mere passive forgetfulness?_or rather a conscious decision to struggle to attribute less importance to certain aspects of an action committed -or, for that matter, of an action not committed-?_is it really in one's power to stray away from things definitory of what one is?_are they really so relevant in what that of which i think about when i use the word "me" has come to be?_it pains me terribly to know that i cannot escape my tendency to judge too harshly, too self-centered-ly, too much in absence of many relevant features of the circumstances surrounding what has been._ i am but too negligent towards others, i resent their judgment of my actions in ways i would not accept my own judgements to be resented._i am terribly unjust, the utmost child regarding interpersonal relations._i need not be, i want not to be so._ what does it take to really let go of this way of seeing things?

coming in through my ears:: Comatose (In the Arms of Slumber)//Eagle-Eye Cherry



:: y ::

While you are away
My heart comes undone
Slowly unravels
In a ball of yarn
The devil collects it
With a grin
Our love
In a ball of yarn
He'll never return it
So when you come back
We'll have to make new love

coming in through my ears:: Unravel//Björk



:: ::

i've been siting in front of this broken down computer for a greater number of hours than i would've liked._not a single line, not one coherent concatenation of words has been added to that file i am to turn in in less than a couple of months._my feet are now numb and it seems i cannot smoke one more cigarette without getting a headache._i simply cannot concentrate._it's as if i had forgotten what i was about to write exactly as my fingers gently slid from one letter to the next over my keyboard._i've already showered twice today, in hopes of remembering how exactly to write down all i've been thinking the past few days._no good._it's terribly frustrating to acknowledge just to what extent i am unable to do the thing i've been taught to do for the last five years._i'll stay up tonight trying to get something done.

coming in through my ears:: Rock and Roll//Led Zeppelin



:: noch ein draft ::

just now the night sets upon me._those whispers forever present in my room, those subtle breaths i have for years thought to be the sound of the air circulating from the bottom of this house that has seen me come together and tear apart to the top of the celing of this room where every night i lay with just myself to fall asleep, give me every second an excuse to not vanish between my sheets.



:: draft ::

if the world had stopped spinning at any given moment, the speed with which my body would have been launched toward the skies could not be compared to the ever increasing acceleration of the beating of this heart._and is it just a muscle wrapped around itself what makes every single one of my greenish veins and arteries suddenly be overflooded, pressing themselves against the nervous terminals and give this distorting feel of not having a big enough body for all that can be at once be felt?

coming in through my ears:: Zentralmassive//2raumwohnung ::



:: fizz ::

it's like piercing the surface of that ever so still water with the whole palm of my left hand; the way the shift in temperature makes me conscious of just how much of a stranger and at the same time how at home i feel in between two worlds separated by mere tension between molecules._feeling how, from above, the irresistible gravitational force pulls my hand towards the bottom, lower and lower, deeper and deeper and then feeling, from underneath, the gentle resistance that makes all rise to the surface._and in that seldom acknowledged space between my tongue and my eardrums a subtle trickle of ginger comes and goes in waves mimicked only by that swaying of my fingers on the surface, in perpetual balance forever accompanied by the fright of suddenly sinking and losing my last breath to the deafening surroundings._

coming in through my ears::



:: my head is filled with so many things i can't start to classify them ::

i get scared._really panic, sometimes._but i'm more afraid of being afraid, than of that, which makes me be afraid._the mere possibility of losing myself in fear and becoming the same kind of person, that cannot stand for herself in the world, that by force becomes more of a burden than a person, makes me, for more than an instant, feel as though my feet were welded to the center of the earth._in this apparently unmovable state, my stomach presses against my lungs and that kind of vertigo, at other times so amazingly pleasant, fills my head with that limited range of possibilities from which i am bound to choose, despite my unwillingness to do so between any of them._ that, i believe, is precisely the point._whatever is to be accounted for as a sign of character must be somehow attached to what one would not desire, given a different world._ it is not the choices i make under ideal circumstances, it is not the good i set out to follow, regardless of what can, in fact, be; it is not what i would wish for, but what i must decide upon._the asymmetry between my daydreaming and my day-living manifests itself, at times, with the most horrific of strengths, with the greatest weight imaginable._but it is such asymmetry what ties me to this life, to this way, to this self._i guess feeling scared is a sign of being conscious of just how much is at stake, of just how many things there are out there, still to be lived, of how much i would not want to be situated in another life._after all, happiness is not the result of a process, not something awaiting at the end... again, it sticks to my thoughts "die Lösung fällt mir gar nicht ein, doch scheint die Suche das Besondere dabei".
it's gonna get a lot worse, before it gets any better._or so they say._but, given that "good" can be said meaning so many different things, perhaps i should not be as scared as i am starting-to-stop-being._or something.

coming in through my ears::



:: verlernt ::

how irrational is it to blame oneself for missing the same mark twice, or thrice, or even one thousand times?_how irrational is it to learn the strong impact that that one not-so-little thing has over it all and then by way of some indescribable act of this mind -or this soul, or what you may- forget what it was, that was supposed to be taken into account?_what sense does it make, in the end, to cling to the same suffering -with the same causes, the same symptoms, the same unreachable answers- over and over again?_and then to take upon me this suffering as a burden that must forever be carried; and then to, out of spite -spite for this never ending irrational way of aproaching it all-, rub my nose so deep into it that i can no longer tell the difference between the stench and the pristine air i once thought there present?_not a minute of silence._there's not enough time to be able to shut the smallest part out, to divide it into those almost irrelevant -but still so real- minuscule particles, to dissolve it, in exchange for resolving it._aliquot by aliquot the unity comes together as the sign of that which i should have long ago learnt, but couldn't.

coming in through my ears:: Keep me on edge//Chin chin



:: hiatus [draft] ::

it seems to me inevitable to write whenever this particular situation -iterated in precise cycles since the very beginning of my life- takes place._ it may be possible that the first page of the first notebook -that almost journal-like thing i'm so attached to- was filled with words wrung out accompanied by a few tears -now, for mere practical purposes vanished from my life-._ how many more words could be said about this? i've expressed my fright toward it, my rage -that hypnotic state into which i fall every time i see myself as utterly overcome by the power of that which i cannot change or control-, my guilt -unfounded, perhaps; perhaps not at all-, and above all my feeling of being somehow not at all me._ but words have not the strength i wish they had; they do not purge, they do not cure, they most certainly not reassure whatever sense of holding the reins i may have at different times._ i can't help but wonder how it is possible that an ever expanding joy is so abruptly interrupted; and, at the same time, how easily this frightful reality of the ever-present dilutes into the slightest of shadows far behind my eyes when i let myself get lost in those eyes i yearn to see with every awakening._

coming in through my ears:: Guitarra y vos// Jorge Drexler



:: backlash ::

i'm freaking out, i really am freaking out, i can't breathe right, my hands shake, my heart pounds and my head aches -that rhymes, but it shouldn't, not right now, not today-._i've brought this onto myself, it was all my fault to begin with; sleep deprivation, alcohol and cigarettes, little control over a very little mind, illusions, delusions, dilutions._i'm terrified but i know not what of, i need some comforting and all there is available is this paper i cannot seem to finish writing; i'm waisting my time, while this pulse of mine races... i'm so sick i can't even sit up straight anymore._i must really stop being this self indulgent.

coming in through my ears::blood rushing behind my eyes



:: gleichgültig ::

we're all just drifting._drifting away._on a raft built on egos and unfounded convictions._and if the boat rocks, stump on it harder; there seems to be no shame in being the cause of one's own demise._the pounding of waves against those rocks, against our ears, is so deafening that there seems to be no sense in simply hearing anymore._and while the fog sets lower, however long that may take, or if such a thing is ever to be the case, we shut our eyes tightly, remembering forever a light we might have merely imagined, embracing whatever sort of delusion we believe to be what's worth the fight, and we drift._we're all just drifting.

coming in through my ears::some icky tv show



:: richtung ::

the way in which all varies, the way in which the flow ceases, the way in which the rising temperature suddenly drops, the way in which i realize i don't crave as much as i'd thought._the way in which my mind fills in gaps that were not left by any real dynamic, the way in which i picture a possible solution to something that was never to be a problem, the way in which i just stand there, avoiding a void glare._ the way, that way, that one-out-of-two way, my way and the highway, all at the same time._truth be told, it saddens me that it is no more a matter of "diaporein kalós".

coming in through my ears::



:: red (finger) tips ::

stretch out those fingers that cannot be measured in inches or centimeters; those that crawl slowly up and down my scalp, those that fiercely cling to that light that seldom bathes these damp globes, those more mine that these others with which i write and draw._if only such fingers could be allowed the smallest part of tactile feel, if only they could for once sense somewhat slightly solid, slightly real within their reach; if only those fingers could be properly called fingers._those 'relentlessly restless' fingers of mine yearn each second a mere touch, a subtle stroke given by equally debating between being and ceasing fingers, by dendrites, roots and branches almost intolerably grounded on my outside._they stretch through night and rain and shadows, through walls of glares and stares and glimpses, they curve themselves in the creases of grins and frowns, they follow stubbornly the scent that must remain unknown._ and through that stretching out they bend and break and mend themselves without my knowing, producing shapes within my head, revealing forbidden corners of this already too bent over self._but oh how i thrive in their stretching.

coming in through my ears::something on the Animal Planet



:: volta!! ::


I am leaving this harbour
Giving urban a farewell
Its habitants seem to keen on God
I cannot stomach their rights and wrongs
I have lost my origin
And I don't want to find it again
Whether sailing into nature's laws
And be held by ocean's paws
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Lust for comfort
Suffocates the soul
Relentless restlessness
Liberates me (sets me free)
I feel at home
Whenever the unknown surrounds me
I receive its embrace
Aboard my floating house
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Wanderlust! from island to island
Wanderlust! united in movement
Wonderful! I'm joined with you
Can you spot a pattern?
(relentlessly restless)
Can you spot a pattern?
Can you?

how is it possible that this woman does the things she does?
i am in love._very much so.

coming in through my ears:: Wanderlust//Björk



:: absent ::

the past few nights and most of yesterday afternoon a not easy to describe feeling has come over me._it's as though there were something other than what i can see and directly feel going on; as if there were some urgency to be somewhere other than my bed, somewhere other than my skin._it feels almost as when one is certain of not being yet awoken, when that barrier between dreams and the waking state is entirely blurred by the numbness of the body and the unstoppable rambling of the mind, when the consciousness of the existence of each limb and each part does not imply the sensitive experience of it all._it feels a bit like being, but not quite being my own._as i sat in the dark room of the cinema -something i hadn't done for months- i found images just passing by._it was not at all that my mind was set on some other subject, that i was tired or simply distracted; the world passes me by without leaving much of a mark lately.

coming in through my ears:: Bachelorette//Björk



:: snob weekend ::

it's just like humming the bass line of a song while everyone else in the room jumps around frantically to a distorted beat; it's like closing my eyes and opening them to the many strands of my already somewhat damp hair and not being able to focus my sight on anything in particular; it's like feeling my lungs expanding with every puff of the cigarette between my second and third finger; like making my arm go that extra distance in order to make 'the finish'; like running backwards with both my eyes set on the rotating yellow sphere headed directly to my face._ yeah, that's something like what i was looking for._and then i become terribly platonic.

coming in through my ears:: Close to me//The Cure



:: shedding ::

i hold my right hand with my left hand._stretch the fingers back, as far as possible, until the tendon connecting with the elbow shows through the skin, until the bicep and triceps make the arm an almost curved line in a direction opposing the natural position._leave the hand in pain, without much irrigation, feel the lactic acid building up in between oxygen deprived strands of muscle._i hold my left hand with my right hand._bring it forth, watch the depression formed in the space generated by the shift in location of the carpian bones, feel the tips filling up with that scarlet now almost toxic liquid._i arch my back, notice those once evident muscles covering my belly tightening, hear many times over those almost fish-shaped fragments of the central pillar of my body rearranging themselves, my eyes go blank and my breath fades into a misty cloud out my nose and now slightly opened mouth._i place my forehead on my knees and reach out in a rush for those somewhat too long ten toes; a screaming yellow floats over my tongue, i fall into a state of enchantment for a single moment.
the seconds that follow bring a mellow tone to my ears; now, fully awake, i can go back to my daydreaming.

coming in through my ears:: Drive-In Saturday//David Bowie


:: draft ::

how could i ever deny such a simple fact?_ i do leave the sound on, because silence is harder._these waves disrupt my balance, tread on the nearly verbal content of that which floats beneath my conscience, bend my will, interfere my sight._i can see no more than the unshown movement of those words never uttered, i can hear no more than the thousand radial hues immersed in their own salt; the undulations of my fingers reach out to the tremor of a yielding warmth._but all i have to look forward to is the void of my sleep.

coming in through my ears::