hesitant aranta



depicted

[foto de ºCHiViSº--flickr]

incoming
Nicomachean Ethics//Aristotle
Eudemian Ethics//Aristotle
Poetics//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

Volta//Björk
Medùlla//Björk
Vespertine//Björk
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
straying

[...]
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
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30.12.03
"they're nothing but worms with wings"

" I'm always here I'm never there, I'm never ever anywhere, because I'm here, and here is where I am... and when I move from here to there, my here moves with me everywhere, and so I'm here, 'cause here is where I'm in" i wonder what it is like to have the entire spectrum of a single thing, i would like knowing something for what it is and not for what it is to me. but i cannot do such things for i am a mere part of this strange liquefied reality, i am very much diluted in it, i may be no more than what is "known" through these eyes, and if that is to be, then i cannot blend into reality even if i am only liquid, so i cannot know anymore than what is given to me through my very defective apparatus of perception. i hope one day i can face myself in the mirror and not have any pain for being less that what the one with whom i struggle seems to be. i've thought that not recognizing myself in the mirror is some kind of pathological aversion towards the idea of being like someone -even when that someone is myself-, but then i realized that i seem to find myself represented in things different from a mirror. strange things happen to me... the need to continue reading what i had read once before is enormous. as if it were some addictive combination of characters, my eyes cannot escape the lines and graphs of such a story. i know i am here, wasting myself whilst others are striving on the numerous pleasures of life, whilst others are living grandly and getting acquainted with more things that i can think of; i know for a fact i am here stumbling through my own bittersweet flow of un-conscience, that i am here facing what was taken from me by the hand of some other who had the luck to put it into words. what i don't know i somehow cannot care for, and it is too much of life, too much of myself, too much of those whose kind words often make me think that there is not much that i should care for. but i don't know and maybe i cannot begin to do so, for i am too small and too apprehensive. still, i am compelled to become more of what i am trying to get away from trough the reading of that which represents the traitorous path of my pathological inertia; my raging instincts tell me that blood is what should drive me, but the consideration of what has been, and the innumerable pages written over that tell me that blood is not to be my way anymore. no true satisfaction is to come from this reading anymore, no lessons, no commitments, no more unveiled truths are to be found: no more recognition of my helplessness in the lines that taunt me, no more "me" in what i did not do.