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


if it were not because i chose to believe that i am one with what makes me what i am, if it were not because i chose to accept that all things with a name are identical to what those things are in their own right, i would be writing this under my own name, my own voice and my own grammatical structuring of language.__for, if this in which i believe were not true, at least in some small times, aranta would be nothing, not even this hollowness behind these eyes --which are often mine, but are mostly hers--; aranta would not even be a name, not even an empty one.
but the thing is, as i have come to know, the fact that aranta is a name, and such a meaningful one, with only one referent, must imply that aranta has an essence, one that must be identical with what aranta is, and since, what i am and what makes me be --in this small, green, watched over space--what i am, is contained in the definition of that essence that is identical to that name that designates, denotes and signifies me -being that name "aranta"-, then, i guess i am aranta and aranta is me.
the trouble is, being-aranta is obviously not the same as being-me, for it is a merely accidental and circumstantial affection of that unknown subject that remains through-out time and space.__unless i were able to design a necessary predicate that conjoined aranta and me, and unless that could be considered as a definition of me -a statement not conditioned by space and time-, i have no other choice but to say that aranta is just an accident.__i, here, now, pixelated, nude and raw, behind and before the eye, am no more than an accident::whilst i stand away from this space, i can no longer be aranta; "this used to be aranta" is both my epitaph and what makes me be what i am and not be an accidental predication of the substance i so would like to know.
in the same sense in which a surface is in its own right pale, i am in my own right, aranta.



if it weren't for the continuous character of time in this short spand i call my life, i would have nothing more to do that to relinquish in my own boredom; if it were not for this function that determines that each second follows an-other in a somewhat orderly fashion, i would have nothing else but the little hand on the clock misrepresenting everything: if it was not i submerged in the not quite chaotic structure of my happenings i would be free to think of myself as i do of others.
i find it hard to find my time and space within my memories of past and future accounts, i feel positioning myself in the adequate moment is more of a struggle than anything else; i am here because i cannot help it, because i cannot understand it, because i will not accept it.__but i am here nevertheless, i am misfunctioning, misremembering, misrepresenting, misunderstanding, missing out on the possibilities of being part of the structure of the solid ground of this which we call world.
should discontinuity be the solution, or at least a diversion from the fact that this diluted reality is nothing to us -living in continuous anguish-, there would be nothing to worry about when facing departure.__if we were to accept that time is not at all a determined value that inflicts wounds upon our frail hearts, we would be able to stay in one moment for as long as we would let it last.__no more anguish, no more hesitation, no more fatalistic conceptions of life, no more tears.



being as it is, i find myself thinking that this is not what was meant to be; what IS meant to be.__i find it hard to see myself in anything other than this, but i often question the reasons (as opposed to causes) of my ending up here, at this time, with these folk.__and while i sit under the clear sky of february, awaiting a sign form the heavens above to take me from this place, i see his eyes, the grand masters eyes, looking at this small figure on the grass with polluted lungs and disfigured smile, looking with somewhat trusting eyes, as though the belief of ability for unheard tongues invaded him.__i cannot understand, i cannot even begin to do so, but i try, and i trust that look was not in vain.__now destiny is not an issue, it is a mere fiction, a distraction, a delay.__i may not be meant to be here, but i can enjoy it still.
We must consider whether a thing is the same as, or different from, what being is for it. This is relevant to our investigation of substance, for a thing is thought to be no different from its own substance, and what being is for a thing is said to be the substance of the thing
Aristotle. Metaphysics. Book Z Chapter 6 1031 a 15-19



Reminiscence.. while i stand still, firm on my feet, on my rooted brain, the world seems to move in such a motion i cannot begin to comprehend, or even rightly appreciate.__while i am almost always here, being not much more than what is said often enough, they come, they go, they are born, they die::most of the time they die.__dying is not such a difficult thing for all it takes is a little misplacement, a little corruption, a little change; and change is so sudden, so perfectly unperceived, that i seem to be standing by corpses every day.__well, she died. and all i did was watch and wait, as one does when reality becomes diluted, all i do now is listen to the words that come from that mouth i once heard speaking grandly of all things that to man and god alike appeal.__but she is dead, i cannot let myself forget that.__it has no impact, no emotional consternation of any sort for she was never a part of what i could grasp of the world; then again, there is not much i can see behind of this ego that holds my world together.__for her, the letter will always be unsent. "Once dearest you: It seems the time for childish view has come to an end since before this world was made, it seems i cannot longer hold my breath in the presence of your ever so displeasing way of seeing, it seems you and i are not able to converge, or diverge.__it seems you are dead without my knowing it. maybe you were never born and your strange character is just a figment of collective imagination, your journey was just a way of showing us there is no more to you than what we wanted, what we pretended to see, what we wouldn't tell ourselves, what the world never tried to show us. once dearest one, you have failed at being, you have died on your knees, you have killed us suddenly, you have... nothing more to show." nothing more than the strange reminiscence of a being never brought forth to existence.



not much to say. life is not meant to last.__the pursual of happiness might be absurd, it is absurd, a waste, a fiction, an error; i am no more than a fiction and an error trapped in someone elses world, no more than the black spot in the eye that can never come into focus.__i am not meant to last.__i never have been, never will be. why does feeling trigger the worst part in me?.



shock treatment i am not able to recognize myself within the limits of unconscious travel, as if i had lost all belief in the existence of essential qualities, i stumble against the shadows left behind by a presence not at all mine.__there was a time, there was time, there is no longer time.__but then i knew i was where was when i was, now i would not put my hands over the fire if my minds existence was doubted, for it is i who likes being only behind the eye.__and because eyes are not anything different from a glass, a pile of heated sand, still able to decide to melt when held in ones hand, because they are not more than containers of condensed nothingness, i cannot do anything else but this:--------------- ------------- ------ --- -- -- - . (go back to being nothing at all)



The what-being-is of each thing is what the thing is said to be in its own right. Thus being for you is not the same as being for an artistic thing, since you are not in you own right artistic. So what being is for you is what you are in your own right. But not everything that a thing is in its own right is what being is for it.
Aristotle Met. 7 IV
what can i say?



the time for being in my company has come to an end.__while there are things i am sure to become, most of them i do not wish to acknowledge, most of them i wish not to recognize as myself.__in this space i am only mine, whomever that may be, and though my feel of this blank space may be only what i crave and not what i have, i am pleased to know that time does not go by in vain by necessity. i'm afraid to say many things, to feel many more, to be able to know within me those things my eyes can only tell; i'm afraid i will have to let myself go, i will have to grow, i will have to leave, i will have to stick to my self-administered dose of tortures.__is this really what i wanted? has it been nearly as much as i had hoped it would be? certain questions are not meant to be answered, are not meant to be asked.__certain things must not be allowed inside of my head, my pounding, aching, swollen head. every day the same question arises.__i cannot do more than ask myself to answer to the beliefs of destiny and purpose and meaning; and as i struggle to answer in a somewhat satisfactory way, the question strikes me as does fear.__maybe i'm not living as a should, or as i would want to in different states of affairs; maybe i have made a wrong choice or taken a wrong turn on purpose as to distract myself off the obvious path that i have drawn.__i should learn to walk in my footsteps.__i should find them first, or, at least, not try to lose sight of them deliberately. i wish i had done what was made out for me and not lose track of myself in this uncertainty.



and i fell.__i had never been so frightened by not being aware of the closeness of the ground, i had never been so frail, so here in absence.__there was no light for a moment, some sort of comfort in the dark, but there was sound, far away, cold, intolerable noise.__no air, no light, no sound.__and i fell.__i did not notice the ground piercing my head, i did not notice the screams around my broken body, i did not notice my eyes going blank, i did not notice dying for a second.__then the scream of the banshee and the movement of the arms that now had to carry me to my home.__i wake, in fear for this may still be the imprisonment of the fall.__two more minutes on the couch, then i can get up again and start believing i am still alive.__three, four, five, thirty five.__legs won't move, ears still ache, eyes are still blind.__i do not wish to fall again.



monologuing.__how very true.__i've wondered many times about the possibility of really communicating, often reaching the terrible conclusion that there is none; and so i write mostly to myself, trying to get the idea trough my skull that there may be no one else interested in my daily confusions, and that that should not constitute a problem of any kind.__and as i watch the screen glow in a way that reminds me that even if there is no such thing as the outside world i strive for attention from my part, all i can do is try to detatch myself from here, from now by speaking for my self and to myself.__communication is not necessarily what i crave, not with more than this little thing behind my eyes, not with more than the conscious part of my brain, not with more than these pixels that refuse to grow beyond the screen.__i still monologue.



()__()............................................................................................................................................. ( ° ° )|//...................................................................................................................................... (..)/ |//......................................................................................................................................... it's amazing how with a few simple lines one can understand a picture, a concept.__i will be always attracted to the power of such simple things even when i will probably not be participating in their existence.