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 am no more than the shadow of she who lives beneath the soft breath of the night fall.



i dreamt of a kiss.



fingers cling to reality, for a rock is all there may be.__my fingers cross in hopefull anguish for to be there, and stay and watch and feel the touch upon the wall is more than i could ever hope for.__a slight tremmor in this face, a smile; no, a grin produced both by satisfaction and disapointment for the lateness of the task.__i see and hide my fear in this huge eye that now is my only face.__i am starting to believe there is nothing more in air than simple particles expelled from my lungs.__only the rocks and i must exist.



i have felt some things lately that i had not allowed myself to feel in a very long time.__ a kind of lust invades me when i am faced with that, with those, with them.__it feels raw, simple and pure and yet it is as frightening as everything must be to a new born child.__ i may be scared but i am confident, i may be hesitating, but am deliberately thrown torwards the feel of it; i may be here but not entirely conscious of it: i just might be losing my mind while being embarked in a pleasant river of emotional libation.__i am not what i am when i am there and not at all present.__ i wish not be but only am when here i stand in front of them.__ i must not feel and may not think otherwise, i have not been for a long time in thin ice.__i am standing in very unsafe places, walking uncertain paths, breathing nothing more than wishful thinking, i am here but not at all.__breath is all i crave.



i've decided to challenge myself and try and work out a better version of my old template... i don't know if i like it yet. it has a lot of problems, one of them: there seem to be posts that do not want to be inside this green space. any suggestions on what i should do?



créale, váyale... this has got to be the most amazing thing i've done in a long long time. i finally found out i have two legs and two arms.



a scent in the air has just made me realize that there are many things that i cannot understand about the ways in which i experience the world.___a slight change in light, an almost impossible to perceive movement in the air, a sound, the hairs on my neck standing up.___something in the smell that has now vanished reminds me of many things, many words piled up in books that now seem far and strange.___i am amazed, stunned and thrilled by this, by all and at the same time by nothing, as i usually am -but rather unconscious of it-. consciousness of the marvel that seems to be always present is more than i can handle for a while, knowing that i know and i feel what i am now knowing and feeling builds a grin upon my face.___::smile::



there's music.__something like the great resonance of a masterpiece distorted by a glass held against one's ear.___ harp like sounds in the tone of childish voices at play.__there's darkness.___black all around, inscrutable blindness except for the tree that stands in my path; enormous, proud, solid as nothing else i had ever seen.___there's movement.___circular motion and the revolving of all that lay behind my eyes, changing patterns that seem to fluctuate only because of what i presume is my movement.___then a change.___the tree approaches what would be the ground but is nothing more than a black delusion; it falls with amazing speed, but it is not the tree that is moving, it is i (both of us), that move, as if i were submerged in the whirlpool of ever growing anguish.___but there is no sound as the tree falls, there is not a noise different from the music in my head, there is no way of knowing if the tree is a tree or just a diluted part of this darkness.___it did not break, did not crumble, did not fade.___it is now no more than a small circle around which i seem to be rotating.___the music gets louder, as does my fright.___while moving i notice the tree again, the enormous sequoia looking down on my, threatening to bring itself to an end again.___a cycle is shown.___again the tree falls, again i spin, again it stops being, again the music, again the tree.___i dare not look up to see it, i dare not stop moving, i dare not speed my pace, i dare not change my path.___i dare not go, but i can no longer stay.___i'm as frightened as i have been in innumerable occasions before.___black is overwhelming.___the music will not stop.___the movement is eternal.___i wake up.___breathe.___breathe.____breathe!!!!. the tree is still here.



two more things to read before i become a slave of myself again: Heart of Darkness by. Joseph Conrad. And once more: El Túnel de Ernesto Sábato.



too little light through the iris diaphragm everything happens as though god was lighting a cigarrette; all of the noise in the world is no more than the little strands of once living things becoming fire and black snow.___ all in the world may be no more than the smoke that rises and swiftly vanishes into thin air.__ all but tears.___ there must be no fading of tears for there may be no more in my life than the salty swamps behind and through my eyes; there must be no fading, no diluting, no delusion on that account, there must be nothing else and yet they must not be more than a struggle to become more than the languishing smoke of god's terrible adiction. and though everything else is as subtle as the feeling of the warmth of a tear i must prove to myself wrong about cringing, about suffocating myself with unallowed consecuenses driven errouniously -illegitimatelly derived from-, about denying that there is something more to life than that which is apparently permanent.___ a reflection does not, and cannot, show all that there seems to exist outside of it, but is always more than beautiful, exhilirating, overwhelming, it is always me thrown out into the world divided by a glass, watching as my eyes don't show a thing, don't say say or know a thing: it is always me, hiding from myself behind the light. say cheese--------clic.