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


Ask about hesitant..... what is it really to be considered as a hesitant character?, i'm no good for definitions, no good for analogies, maybe i'm just no good at being even slightly concerned about being understood. still i would like to deny the fact that i am seen as a miss- missunderstood-girlie, i somehow would like to portray myself in an other manner... but it seems at this point i cannot believe anythig other than i -as everyone else is- am just another phenomenon, that it is of no importance whether or not i feel anything, for, i am all alone in this shipwreck of life, in this consumed ego, in this un-cared for existence. And i wonder if it is true that we all suffer, that we must struggle with things far from our grasp, that the only reason why we are still alive is to show off our enhanced capacities for destruction... we only live to kill or be left dead..... i hate to believe, i hate to believe that... and as much as i do, i am still hesitant, still struggling with my desire to believe, to become... there is no worse thing than to hesitate over existing for one’s self.


Y, bueno, las cosas a veces proyectan otras demasiado hirientes; parece ser que todo lo que en este pedacito de red está expresado en el estúpido código binario corrompe la tan esforzada apariencia de fuerza que tantos años me ha costado. Siento decir que son demasiadas las razones por las cuales me comporto como si me viera a mi misma balanceando objetos de masa inconmensurable con la mia en el aire turbio y viciado con mi esfuerzo; siento decir que por demasiadas cosas soy mas débil de lo que aceptaría y lo suficientemente terca para no remediarlo.... remendar un carácter diluido en este caos empecinado es más complicado que afrontar la vida con una cínica sonrisa en los labios cubiertos de permanganato sódico. y así pasa mi vida en esta ambivalencia, entre la culpa inminente por decidirme por el facilismo y el profundo asco por hacer de mártir en una obra escrita por nadie. Ya no guardo la esperanza de una respuesta.... ni siquiera la inquietud de una futura pregunta; la inercia me mantiene viva y me tortura con la muerte que no es un prospecto sino un pesado presente, un eterno momento.



Creo en ocasiones que existe una especie de instinto de responsabilidad con serias debilidades en cuanto a su programación; es quizá la necesidad de sentir que estoy andando para alguna parte segura la que despierta este maligno demonio que se oculta detrás de mis ojos y parece martillar como si puliese la espada con la cual en algún momento dará el golpe de gracia. No sé si culpar a la enfermedad o a la inconsciente culpabilidad por estar situada emocionalmente en una curva errática sobre la cual, aunque tengo control, parezco no querer ejercerlo, soy en realidad una personita demasiado débil, digna de ser atropellada por el mundo que no considera digna de existencia a una nimiedad como yo. Son cosas complicadas, necesariamente complicadas, pues, si no lo fueran, sentiría todo el peso de mi obesa inconciencia y demasiado evidente búsqueda de atención; detesto saberme tan débil, tan frágil, tan llena de errores, sin garantía.... pero son solo migrañas. ¿Son sólo migrañas? no. no son sólo lo que me gustaría que fuera una excusa para mi molesta existencia, para la asfixia que sobreviene al pensar en los compromisos, en la gente: en la abrumadora cercanía de seres humanos infinitamente superiores, dedicados, VIVOS. Creo que empiezo a ver las verdaderas dimensiones del problema de la inercia, he estado mirando por una ridícula ventanita esperando que la película mejore, esperando que me escriban un papelito en el libreto.... And here i am again complaining about my own lack of intention for living, for my own voluntary condemns, for my decidednessss in living in regressive manner. Here I am as usual, trying to hide my true weaknessss behind veils of not-so-well-written-nonsense. Is this the time to repent and mend mistakes of self deprecation cycle? Or is it time for eluding myself to the point I can no longer take what is given to me as existence? Sometimes I think I hurt myself only to feel alive, only to be able to understand that pain has been given as proof of the frailty in which we seem to be trapped; maybe I need this illness in me, maybe I crave my own attention….



a little something by the stones.... maybe it just signifies exactly what i'm used to thinking. It seems i get frightened too easily at the thought of death, having it so closely bonded to our frailty, to what we believe to be more than the ever depressing idea of nothing more than phenomenic existence. Sometimes i just find myself staring at nothing, just mimicking deep thinking, hard contiousnesssss --something about the sssssss is just to much to avoid-- and then, i wake up and ask myself: "where was i" when the real question should be: "was i anywhere at all?" There are so many things that escape my ability for understanding, for predicting, for explaining, for seeing; i may be inevitably blind, maybe even willingly blind, pleasantly blind. Aren't we all?, do we not wish to be numbed? I have believed for a very long time now that we grow hesitant over our status of animated creatures, because we find ourselves too deeply compromised, our life has become a debt, a sentence... we are not free to live unless we feel death breathing on the back of our heads. That may lead us to thinking that we are not really alive unless we are constantly killing small amounts of ourselves, it may become a death sentence passed by the inertial mode we have been brought up in. As i usually do, i am speaking for those for whom i have no say, i may be interfering, disrupting, distorting... but this emptynessss behind my eyes is all i am and all there seems to be, a great nothing for which i am not responsible; it surely is drag getting old.


What a drag it is getting old "Kids are different today," I hear ev'ry mother say Mother needs something today to calm her down And though she's not really ill There's a little yellow pill She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day "Things are different today," I hear ev'ry mother say Cooking fresh food for a husband's just a drag So she buys an instant cake and she burns her frozen steak And goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And two help her on her way, get her through her busy day Doctor please, some more of these Outside the door, she took four more What a drag it is getting old "Men just aren't the same today" I hear ev'ry mother say They just don't appreciate that you get tired They're so hard to satisfy, You can tranquilize your mind (?) So go running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And four help you through the night, help to minimize your plight Doctor please, some more of these Outside the door, she took four more What a drag it is getting old "Life's just much too hard today," I hear ev'ry mother say The pusuit of happiness just seems a bore And if you take more of those, you will get an overdose No more running for the shelter of a mother's little helper They just helped you on your way, through your busy dying day



Y bien, aqui sentada en el computador como suelo hacerlo --sin causa aparente--, me encuentro a mi misma recorriendo la serpientica entrecortada con la punta de un dedo que a no ser por la concentracion que con tanto ahinco imprimo en su banal actividad, no sentiría. Así suele ser todo, una inercia inexplicada, una cierta conformidad con la ausencia de lo que en chiste llamo 'perrenque'; todo es mas dificil cuando se sabe que ya ni siquiera lo externo tiene el poder de cambiar la trayectoria. Algunas veces he pensado que es muy complicado no ser vista como víctima de una patología depresiva con tendencia narcisista a la extinción de la sensibilidad con aras a la supuesta solidificación de un ego decadente. Es dificil no sentir que este mundo solo empuja para un lado de forma en que no se pueda reaccionar con eficacia; cada vez que un ser humano se corroe en la miseria que se le ha impuesto y todo lo que hace es devolver cándidamente la sonrisa que expresa la extrema carencia de consideración por la diferencia, es sentir que se siente menos, que se necesita hacerlo menos, que es urgente hacerlo menos. No sé si sea prudente seguir pensando que el eterno recorrido de un dedito sobre cicatrices teñidas sea suficiente excusa para escribir sobre lo que me empeño en sentir como una babosada. Now, it seems relevant to allow myself expressing in an unusual way. Though my english may not be at all what one would expect, i find it rather comfortable; i feel very much at home in this forged identity of a spanish name and french surname, in this ever growing plurality... All except me is to be expected of this... me, strangenesssssssssssssss, me, hollownesssssss, me, me ,me, me and all that is nesssssss from it. I am nothing but this space behind my eyes, nothing but this swamp of saline sea of dissolved identities, nothing other than nothing, it seems to me that there is no reason for belief, no reason for reason, no reason for belief IN reason, and still, I cringe at the thought of parting with this lack that has become the main course o fthe meal of day to day living.