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


:: oppositions ::

i was born a gemini. born a contradiction, raised a contradiction. i decided to study philosophy as a way of understanding why the one thing i was recognized as 'good at' presented me with an irresoluble conflict. i'll leave my home soon awaiting a solution. maybe too platonically, i view this world as an opposition between two existing things ; i view myself as two things stuck in one temporary existence. it marvels me to think of how many options there are to be taken, and how few are, in fact, opted for. for there is no thing as hard as the recognition of one's self as a duplicity of desires and constrictions. i blame myself for not being what i had once desired to be, but then i realize i am here, now, doing, acting, suffering, taking pleasure, diverting, focusing, repenting, willing. and so i ask myself if i should acknowledge these two sides to myself as such: as two sides of just one me. the answer is as clear as it is unexplainable, this is me, all i know to be myself is contradictory and yet consistent. it may be philosophically inaccurate to think of this matter in such a simplistic way, but i cannot expect to reach a point where a rational explanation for this feeling in my 'gut' is brought forth. nevertheless, many, many attempts have been made. the identity of self, the platonic Model as a way of erasing the line between intelligible and sensible, the everlasting conflict between the forces of nature and freedom, rigor and beauty, a graphic line and a linguistic line, love and distance, myself and all other.
Porfirio says he can prove that there underlies no dualism to platonic philosophy. i hope he cannot show such a thing. i believe that the beauty in it all lies in the fact that it so gracefully portrays the constant struggle with which the world and ourselves understand what goes on. Unity between two conflicting sides cannot be reached in a peaceful manner; that would certainly imply a dissolution of one or both, an end to the gracefulness and the grandess of the proposed view. Then again, i'll probably end up making efforts beyond my capacity to show that such dual perspective is inadmissible.

coming in through my ears:: miguelito on the phone



:: tyranny III ::

The worst part of it all is not knowing what's going on. I haven't been able to eat solid foods or speak for a long time now; I'm worried these digitally created letters are all that's left for me. The doctors say it would be healthy to write a journal, to keep track of what goes on in my head, they think it's better not to refuse communication entirely. But what do they know? What could they know? They know nothing; they've known nothing since the start. But I figure it's better to put to rest all these demons in my head, to scream, as strange as it may appear, through this keyboard and this screen.
I woke up one morning with a slight pain in the back of my mouth, I took it for a cold, at most a problem with my tonsils, nothing to be too worried about. I got in the shower, had a big cup of dark coffee and took my bus to class. I hadn't read, so I felt I didn't have to speak, three hours went by in complete silence. By the time I was out of class, rang the phone. While I was trying to utter the word "hello", a sudden, striking, awfully painful contraction took hold of me; my heart pounded so hard it could be heard from the other side of the line. I was scared, I still am, when I think of it. A kind of rusty taste developed in my mouth, and flooding blood came out slowly, then faster, then frighteningly unstoppable. My white striped blue shirt began to turn deep purple; the warm, sticky texture warned me of the graveness of the matter. I had to find help, but there was no one around. I swallowed it, with disgust, then walked to the building where people usually meet. The pain grew stronger, now it wasn't only the burning feel to a mere cut, there was also a sort of pressure and friction, as if there was something trying to make its way through my throat. The phone rang once more and I gathered my strength in order to answer, I knew that simply saying "hello" would be a waste, so I said, rushing, "I love you". That’s the last thing I recall. Someone took me to a hospital, where, as they told me, three different surgeries were performed.
It seems there was massive trauma to the vocal chords and the windpipe, that the esophagus and palate were lacerated in an unexplainable manner. I woke up a few days later, disoriented and pained, in a bed with white bed sheets and a mint-green robe. There were bandages all around my head, neck and part of my chest. My mouth was closed shut by means of four pairs of wires attached to my jaw; I remember my lips burning because of dehydration. A tall, sturdy, white haired doctor approached the bed, and in the tenderest of tones explained to me what they thought had happened. He said I was attacked, for they had found a blood stained dagger next to where I was found, that my aggressors were still on the loose, but that the police were trying very hard to catch them. He said that the recovery was to be very slow, for the cuts and bruises were very deep, but that it was very important that I write a description of what had happened to speed up the police's investigation. So I wrote. They didn't believe a word of it. They thought it was post-traumatic stress. That I was trying to protect someone.
Two awful months went by until my jaw was re-opened. It still hurt very much, but they said that was normal, that I shouldn't try to rush the healing process. I was taught sign language. And got a lap top, and a bell to call whoever was needed. He was always there, feeding me soup through a straw, believing that "I love you" was not the last thing to ever come out of my mouth. Sadly, he was right.
it was a good day, I was feeling rather good, my throat no longer hurt and I was able to breathe almost normally. A big smile was set upon my face, the contraction of the muscles felt strange, but very very good. And as I prepared myself to speak once more, a silver blade stuck out as if reaching for the fresh air after a storm. I almost died this second time, too much blood was lost, too much life was spent. I went back to the hospital and stayed there a month and a half connected to several tubes and monitors. The iterating sound still haunts me in my dreams, where I scream my lungs out, where I scream until my ears hurt. The doctors said that the "aggression theory" was rebutted, and that they now thought a tumor of some kind was to be held responsible. Tens of tests were made, no results were found to be decisive.
I don't know what to do. Everyday a little bit of hope is lost. I may never be heard -of- again.
tyranny III is being published before tyranny II, while the latter is still being conceived.

coming in through my ears:: Von hier an Blind// Wir sind Helden