hesitant aranta



depicted

[foto de ºCHiViSº--flickr]

incoming
Nicomachean Ethics//Aristotle
Eudemian Ethics//Aristotle
Poetics//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

Volta//Björk
Medùlla//Björk
Vespertine//Björk
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
straying

[...]
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.


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16.5.06

:: linkshändig ::
i'm beginning to fear that my english is going away slowly. all these new german words are taking over my brain, at astounding speed, without asking for my permission to invade that little side of my brain that is reserved for this other language. it's becoming hard to utter complete sentences when there's the need of speaking in english, the grammatical structure seems to get mixed up, revolve around a verb that in other circumstances would have no way of being at the end. i suppose it's normal, but nonethelesss frightening. it makes me think that i have not the capacity of learning more than one thing, that everything that's new necessarily pushes something known out of the reach of consciousness. deswegen (see what i mean?), i must try, at least, to write as much in english as i possibly can, while speaking, hearing and writing in german during these three months.
i'm beginning to write with my left hand again. the handwriting, of course, is that of a three year old -age at which i stopped using my left hand for writing-, but the possibility of it becoming better or somehow more fluent or elegant is not what drives me to writing once more through it. i discovered yesterday that it takes so much effort to get a messagacrossss with such weak pulse and blurry letters, that a new perspective of things reopens, so to say. as i was writing a small letter, i found myself feeling exactly how i did on a friday morning when i was five. i remember it perfectly, for it was an incredible sensation of empowerment that overflowed on that occasion. i was sitting on my desk, at school, filling in with orange anochrere a littlstenciled out bee. i had been trying for a very long time to get the colours to fit exactly the shape, to get it to look as though i was already in control of everything over the paper spread in front of me. i remember being in the kindergarten and feeling frustrated for not being allowed to use my left hand to colour, frustrated for not being able to do the same things i knew i could do on a daily basis with this wrong hand -now a bit stronger and more precise when it comes to certain tasks-, frustrated to know that right was not the right hand at all. then, one day, it seemed to me that all difficulties vanished into thin air; i could colour the bee with sucprecisionon that no left hand was to be needed. and so i became a right-handed person. nowadays, it seems that despite the development of so many new capacities and dispositions in this right-hand of mine, mi sinister left keeps struggling to gain once more control over my life. perhaps it was not enough to let her brush my teeth and comb my hair, hold the wine glass and the beer bottle and roll up thcigaretteses; she still wants to write. and so, i as a hold the pen on the hand with the little freckle on the finger and the unbruised thumb, i see the world in the same fashion i did when i was five and sitting on my desk. and i like it. the lines, despite not being so clear and decided are certainly more voluble and voluptuous, somehow delicately delicious. there's something almost erotic to it all. i guess that's why they call it sinister.
coming in through my ears:: what i say//Miles Davis