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


:: atmen ::

my house is full of mirrors.__light keeps refracting and reflecting from one corner to another; the way this house is built, there is not much that can be left out of sight, we have just enough walls to keep the roof from caving in.__sometimes i feel imprisoned in this house, i keep imagining that there's an all seeing eye safe guarding whatever there is to keep safe guarded here.__ when i was a little child, i remember having thought that the devil hid in a corner made of the space between two large pieces of furniture; there were no sources of light to make perceptible the carpet underneath the little bamboo table and the blue-flowered sofa.__i figured that while living in a house where most everything is seen and most everything is known, some strange force was necessary in order to keep a spot in total darkness.__for years i lived with that corner invaded by an extreme fear, refused to sit on any one of the sofas surrounding it and avoided by all means having to plug in the christmas tree -for the plug was to be connected to the wall that gave the corner depth-; how could it be possible for it to remain dark?__later i let go of the concept of the devil, i was far too old to believe that a tall man whose goat legs and pointed tail were too big to hide in such a small place was in fact crouched and breathless between bamboo and cloth.__but i was never able to let go of the fear brought forth by the strangeness of the dark there being, i cannot yet walk up the stairs without turning on the lights in fear of some strange force willing to take me away into the realm of insane delusional irrational beings.__but now she has brought mirrors, a dozen of them scattered, throughout the house, reminding me of the dangers that keep stalking me from that corner.__she has once more become that which is meant to be hated and feared, she has not yet understood the infectious character of her conditions.__and so she brings mirrors to rejoice in her self-contemplation as a being that belongs to another realm, as if the mere recognition lacked by all else were not enough, she craves the absence of all but her image.__sometimes i think that because of her, this house that in my childhood was a lighted panoptic, has become nothing different than a deep puddle, so dense that no light can ever make it's way through, no matter how many mirrors are placed to seek it.__nothing is here seen, nothing is here known.

coming in through my ears::Radio Deutschland Kultur_Live



look at her.__ shifting head from one side to another, as if there could be a kind of control of the trajectory of the graphite by bringing tension to a determined area of the neck.__ a tongue sticks out and moves gently throughout swollen lips, those lips often bitten with such urgency; a hand softly sliding across the white surface, across that receptacle of the material reality being now created; a trembling left hand keeping form and matter in one same space.__and though it might be said that this motion requires a correspondence, there is really nothing going on beyond it. she is for one second of her life one with what exists not with or by the necessity of her hollow skull?s pretensions, but rather by the breath left hanging in thin air.__ [i cannot say what i think about when i am faced with the infinite possibility of the white, i dare not even say i think. for a long time i refused to let go of the idea that it represented no less than an escape from thinking, from putting images into words, when, what i found to be natural was the exact opposite. but every time i am confronted with a piece of paper, be it of any kind you can portray, i am left with the sensation that it is not enough to simply thrive on it?s being there, just there. i cannot say whether or not i consider it right to meld with the image, for i know i would be leaving behind something that i?ve learned to hold dear.]__ a line could be traced from the black-silvery particles spread across the whitened cellulose and the simple electrical impulses in the shifting head, a continuity could be exposed, made manifest, a beam of light could dilute the opaque glare.__ but eyes fixed on nothing in particular, and certainly not on the line being drawn crave none of this reality, none of this existence, none of this joy with which the material becomes real to others; eyes simply seek images meant to stay un-made, un-shown.
and then I decided to stop drawing, for good.__ and yet, no good has come of it.
coming in through my ears::Living for the City//Stevie Wonder



:: dripping ::
i've always been amazed by the appearance of a drop, sometimes it seems as though it was a symbol of the strength with which one clings to consciousness, as though there was a fine membrane containing the translucent content of one's self. sometimes i think about what it would be like to be a drop, a teardrop, a drop of blood, of paint, of ink. the astounding power that a simple congregation of molecules brings to mind takes my breath. they are simply by ceasing to be. running down a cheek, or throughout the extension of paper, on this window's surface, they leave behind what they are, without showing their 'coming to be incomplete'.
and as i watched those drops running down such skin i wondered if i could ever come to be as they were in that instant. and i can, i am while ceasing to be, by him.
coming in through my ears:: Overjoyed//Stevie Wonder



thus this breath is no longer mine.



:: bottled up ::
a swarm of locusts devoured the few strands of life that still stood after the great storm. no one could have noticed them, for in a most unusual manner their wings cut the air in patterns that resulted not in a horrid noise, but rather in a calm melody taken for the healing wind. they grew stronger, larger in number and vindictive; as their life-source became scarce they moved in circular motions disrupting the air, creating an uneasy atmosphere. but still they remained unseen, unheard. who could have thought there was something there? to whom could it be obvious that something of enormous proportion was bound to happen? the rage of the storm was long gone, the cruelty brought upon all was taken for a distant happening, all remained oblivious, all but the small spirits that like dust floated in the light.
and so came the day awaited by the plague. a clear blue sky, a comforting wind, the warm touch of others, happiness was settled in, moderately friendly connections were now beginning to make their way, they were on the move. poison poured out of my mouth, piercing tears forced their way to the surface of the perceptible world. their hunger manifested, my life was no longer what was craved.
i can still feel a flutter in my stomach.
coming in through my ears:: American Idol



:: how distracted one comes to be ::
i remember the day i was first taken to school. there were two lines of people waiting to be interviewed. i had not yet finished my kindergarten period and it was the third or fourth school i was taken to. the other schools were bigger, prettier, but this one, somehow, felt familiar. perhaps it was the fact that two girls i already had come to know were there as well. there was an interview. i remember taking a pencil in my now useless left hand and writing down a couple of words. the look on the interviewer's face is something i have not been able to forget. my parents decided that because of the presence of their friend's daughters it would be best for me to attend to this particular school. it meant no significant difference for me, not then at least. it was decided that i was too young to enter first grade, so i didn't. the first couple of years were frustrating, to say the least. my left hand was turned into a worthless appendix and i was taught to manage with the other one, writhing and drawing with the right hand, the wrong hand. happy faces all the time. condecorations. a bee-suit and singing "yellow submarine" with girls two grades ahead. three years later, Jacqueline, the english teacher, had asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. most of them answered "ballerina", one of my friends answered "clown"; i cannot recall what i said, i just remember i ended up in the school psychologist's office. we had a little book in which we had to write down all we had to do: homework, doctors appointments, disciplinary bulletins. it was a pile of white paper with dark blue lines across and a hard cover of the same colour. my book was always full of notes in red ink. i never showed it to my parents for they were tied up in more important assets. i was six, i lied about having to wear glasses. the new girl could draw better than anyone i had ever seen, she came from scotland, she spoke better english, got better grades, was a year older. some girls in my class had trouble reading, i always cheated. i calculated how many girls came before me and mentally read the lines i was later meant to read aloud. the good grades compensated the amount of trouble i caused. big handed bully. i went to a couple more schools and was interviewed, my parents threatened to transfer me to some place i could employ my "energy" in a healthier manner. but i could not accept that. i had an adversary i had to beat. i started paying attention to my drawing. i found that the more pressure on the pencil, the more brightness in the colour. i recall a bee, on a stencil, being filled in, ochre, brown, black, bright yellow. everyone else was playing outside, i had to finish, i had to make something special out of it. the little bulk on the middle finger grew by the second. it's still there, modestly reminding me of the simple principle revealed on a morning less than a year before first grade.
it sometimes scares me to realize that i remember more clearly what happened such a long time ago than what happens on a daily basis nowadays. time was then expanded, dilated. my father's breathing was so slow in comparison to mine. now i can't even tell if anyone apart from the one laid beside me and myself is breathing. it takes a lot of effort to get time to dilate again. but it happens sometimes, out of nowhere, a moment elapsed. a strong imprint, like the bee.
twenty years from now the story will be not of myself becoming anything, but rather of myself remembering brief breaths. will i be able to recognize myself as the little left-handed girl on that first trip to school? i certainly hope so.

repeating in my head::mamachichimama



it's not strange to be merely a mute eye without reflexive capacity. everyday i sit before myself and wonder how i manage to speak without ever hearing any voices, neither mine nor anyone else's. but it seems it is far too complicated, far too absurd, far too far to be involved in a conversation, in an interrelated whole. maybe that is not what is of importance. expressing is perhaps that which is more distant to my nature, there is no way of knowing how much i've missed of myself by pretending to portray emotions through a simple stroke of a brush: only to come to the conclusion that there is nothing more to a drawing than the drawing itself. no content, no revelation of anything, no secret significance to the disposition of what has been, in a way, disposed of. and perhaps i have taken refuge in a puddle, in a watery grave that doesn't suit me, that doesn't appeal to me. for i have found words to be more of a complication than a solution. i am not meant to write, i made that choice but i didn't stick to it, the inconstant nature of the geminian border-line conscience... what wonderful times i had imaging my concepts, what peace of mind brought by being stranded in the realm of graphic. but it is true i have no stories to tell, i have no words to express and i have not much to say about anything. i have decided to remain silent while speaking. it doesn't really matter. none of this is really being said. i thrive in learning, but not much can be learnt if there is not a way of getting it out, not much can be understood if there is not a sense imposed by the uttering of an affirmation. this is not supposed to drive to a conclusion, this is not supposed to make something better out of me, it is not even supposed to make something of anything, then, why keep doing thins? why keep struggling? why keep saying and not hearing? a choice is a choice, and much more than that. blind and deaf, solipsistic, self-retained, self-absorbed, self-refused.



:: :: :: ::
hit pause. try to breathe. try not to refrain from feeling. try to smile. just look. such strength. such beautiful eyes. what a perfect grin. touch. hear. stay in pause. the slightest movement could compromise the splendor of it all, nevertheless, move. exhale.
coming in through my ears:: Triumph of a Heart//Björk



:: lack of subjectivity ::
it has been haunting me. is there truth in such a statement?, if so, what kind of truth? i find it difficult to understand how one could come to one such conclusion; we are brought into the world and introduced to most all of our thoughts through a distinction that now seems to become blurred. and i wonder what kind of faith is needed in order to maintain oneself sane once it is acknowledged. perhaps that could explain why certain things appear as "really" important, while others, simply as a misunderstanding, as a corruption. i used to think that that part of the activity that thinking involves was -is- what must be sought, then i changed my mind, i came to believe that in the end, all is no more that a simple game that one must learn to play in order to understand; now, i'm not so sure.
i've lost myself in this. can i be recovered?
does recovery imply another kind of loss?
i had the opportunity today to re-view myself through known eyes, i am not as myself as i would have hoped. the terrible look in her eyes when i confessed not having drawn anything in almost three years froze me; i stood there, in that restaurant, knowing that i had decided to leave myself behind, searching for a truth that must never be sought after. nevertheless, this new thing is comforting -in many ways it's making me happy-, a new self built up from scratch, self-approval is now relevant for i am no longer tied to what for so long was thought of me. i am hoping to become myselfish.
coming in through my ears:: Eins Live Radio