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


you've told me.



and in my ears there was music
while numbed, i search for comfort in mr winamp. here we go, the random 10 for today:
1. Medeski Martin and Wood: Improv.
comment: i found out about the existence of this marvelous group while being in a traffic jam. I thank Pablo for this amazing discovery.
2.Sigur Ros: The Nothing Song.
comment: my launch player gave it to me once and i liked it. I must say there is something about iceland and its musicians that is worthy of praise.
3. Gustavo Cerati: Te llevo para que me lleves.
comment: este hombre es un genio.
4. The Doors: Touch me.
comment: something a bit brighter for this day. "i'm gonna love you 'till the stars fall from the sky for you and i"
5. St. Germain: How do you plead.
comment: getting pumped up by this...
6.Aimee Man: One
comment: "one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do"... how appropiate.
7. Pink Floyd: The post war dream.
comment: my father introduced me when i was very very little to this magnificent band, though i am not very often found listening to it (there's a certain nostalgic feel to it all), i must say it is a piece of genius work.
8. Alanis Morissette: Still
comment: from the movie Dogma (in which, miss Morissette played god). there's a sort of indian sound to it that makes the little hairs in my back stand up, little bittersweet shivers make me love it (and her) as i do and have for a long time. I love the way breath sounds on the microphone.
9. Eric Clapton: I shot the sheriff.
comment: he did not shoot the deputy.
10. R.E.M: It's the end of the World as we know it (and i feel fine)
comment: after numerous times, i've managed to sing it word by word.



my brain is numbed by the small amount of oxygen that my small and corrupted lungs can manage to send to it, my hands are cold and stained with black ink, my hair is on the ground and my nails are full of blood and all the filth coming from my fingers.__my eyes are dry, but not for long, i'm aching, starving, dying from a draught, but, there he is, looking, loving, standing.__i cannot complain, i cannot think of complaining.


it's not up to you... well it never really was.... it was never up to me either.



"Immediately then the thought came sweeping across me, what miserable friendliness and loneliness are here revealed. His poverty is great, but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it."
Bartelby the Scrivener
Herman Melville



calm, tension, acceleration, crashing, falling, forgeting, calm, tension, acceleration, crashing, falling, calm, tension, acceleration...__that is basically the mechanics of her life, of all our lives.__and while i crave calm in the midst of this accelerated beauty, she wishes for acceleration in her calm existence far away from all objects into which she once crashed and forgot about; having marveled at the constant trembles of this dilution and delusion, distance seems like the only path to take in search for strength, for calm and comfort, for silence before her storm.



eons ago, some slightly deformed form of existence, what one woul call an entity, had a stroke of luck: existence was no longer an absurd deviation of the wanting of an overpowered child.__existence was now the child, the abuser, the victimizer, the hunter, the demon, the power, the yearning, the will, the Entity.__once the power was given to that which was once powered, destruction roamed as though the inevitability of wanting what is often considered un-wantable was now the queen and future heiress of the character of child.
{in these childish schemes, games and tribulations we revolve, we must revolve, we may revolve; but it is in this miss-shapen reality in who we find comfort and ease, trouble and pain as two faces of the unknowable dodecahedron of our short stay in this child.__ ¿are we to be the child? ¿am i to know whether or not to yearn, to want, to will, to show, to care, to try, to mend, to be?}
so our little existence decided to travel alongside destruction -her well formed companion and forsaken enemy- and where-ever she lay her self, one was made and one was destroyed and one had enjoyed and pained and ceased and begun.__for there is no more in this than existence and lack of existence, for contradiction is a meaningless term in this space, in all spaces, in her view; our little maker and hunter is a child at play, lustfull daemon, a distorted mirror-image of itself.__go on little one, marvel me with your demented tortures, overwhelm me with your unpredictable turns and gaps, make me repent, make me endure, make me your own so i can fade gracefully before my eyes and become like you the child, the bearer and watcher.__come swiftly and let me fall into your liquefied truth.__there would be nothing more i could want.



cowai dakara
my hands cannot reach, cannot let go, my feet are not steadily grounded, my head is not willing to give energically the order for deployment of strength.__i am here, hanging, in much pain, but am willing to do nothing, as i do most of the time; i am here by will, by force of desire, by the inscrutable force of puerile yearning.__i can try, i can pretend i try, i can convince myself of trying, but, then again, trying amounts to nothing, or does it? no, not to much...
i am a coward, true... but not at all sad, or is it? probably so... probably so... the only comfort i can think of is that there is no such thing as coward-ness... but, there is, i know it by heart, i know all of the little wrinkles in the cloak of coward-ness, i've driven them all, i've walked them all, spoken them all, heard, seen and touched them all.__my life's experience is no more than the touch of coward threads of my own soul, mind, body and spirit -if there is no difference between them all, then forgive my introducing categorical mistakes-, no more than the contemplation of the fear behind my eyes, of the tremble of the world through them, of the abrasive touch of reality upon this frail creature, of this frightened thing i call me.
these hands, these feet, this head, these eyes.__we are all being hunted by what lies beneath them, by what is above them, by what is nothing more than these hands, these feet, this head and these eyes.



pixelated solitude.
there are many times in which i feel the strength of faith or will or power or trust or love or kindness or simply life fade between our fingers as if we were trying to cling onto water, to stop its necessary flow.__there are times in which i think it would be better to stop singing and laughing and thinking and loving and being in order to manage to get the slightest hint of comfort and justification.__but there are times in which i realize that this may not be the burden i believe it so angstly to be, that this place and this time are not only fading but leaving marks that will forever stay, if not in my memory in those that others bare as the protocols of our shared life spands; there are times in which i catch the soft scent of glory and of plenitude, there are times in which i thank whomever is to be thanked that this is not forever but it is all i will ever know to be.
and so, while i sit here contemplating ourselves as no more than pixelated solitudes in search for a soul to live for, i stop my self and trigger that which lies in the darkest pit of myself and marvel at the site of those that are in some way around me.__ to whom it could concern, there is much more that what is evident to this eye, there is more that what one can consciously see; the imperceptible madness of this world is far more beautiful that what one can imagine and so much more than what one would hope for.