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


:: ::
walking down the staircase, noticing the squeaking of just the left foot, checking both sides, blinking, once, twice, thrice._there's not much left in my pockets, not much left in my head, not much left in this room, but that could not begin to be my problem._ oh no, my problem is of a different nature, something closer to the non-squeaking of the right foot; that was never right, now that i think about it._ but there's no such thing as right, despite my wishes of there being such one thing._ the amber lighting that once struck me as amazing turned today into a silvery blue shade upon buildings i had never seen in such a manner._ very hard it was to believe that it was, once again, my eyes deceiving me... but that would suppose thinking that there is some kind of limit between what's true and what's not... and this is no time to suppose anything._my not-that-much-to-the-left hand is starting to tremble more strongly and frequently, should i worry? should i believe that there is something behind such trembling? should... bad word, bad bad word...
coming in through my ears::


:: hush ::
my heart is wrapped in a slight whisper._ the little creases of thin air exhaled by others cling to the velvet-like walls of this pumping beast a little to the left of the middle of my chest._shapes and tones are now irrelevant, not quite present, but not quite gone._ the resonance of colours once sought through the almost sealed reflective eyelashes ceases not to undermine this faint smile i consider so mine, so properly bestowed upon my face by means i dare not tell here._i am now half asleep, but dare not start to dream; dreams are much too dangerous for those of us that live our lives in doubt of what may be._and then it beats again, if not for the first time, if not for the last._and though my mind would rather have no object, no feel, no more, this little heart of mine listens carefully to the aired voices in this room._if only there were no more than such faint sounds... soon my lashes will once again close my eyes to the world and soon my hands will cease their movement and my mind become numb._soon, soon, everything is always soon, too soon.
coming in through my ears::



:: 32 still counts ::
sometimes i think that memories are just made up images in my head, that nothing that has happened, to this day, can hold the title of a real thing._ things just change so suddenly that i have no time to think about whether or not they were really a part of my life._ maybe nothing has really been a part of my life, maybe all that happiness belonged to others,for others to see, to touch, to feel, to hear, maybe not for me, maybe not here, not now, just then , just there._ but how can one tell the difference between a real thing and a fake thing? continuity??? that has to be a load of crap... you clearly cannot trust the world to remain the same for two seconds, and if you can't trust the world, surely you can't trust people, and if you can't trust people, you can't trust yourself, and, if you can't trust yourself, then, there's really not much to think about now, is there? thinking may not be the best thing, feeling is clearly the worst thing one could ever imagine doing, trusting is impossible, writing makes no difference, silencing oneself is no different from doing anything else._ it just depends on your mood, and your mood depends on everything... now i'm back again to "what am i to do with all this fire?". CRAP
coming in through my ears::nothing


:: duduba, dudubaba ::
ich bin ja betrunken._ wenn man betrunken ist, sollte man nicht schreiben._ aber es ist mir ganz egal._ ganz ganz egal._betrunken oder nicht betrunken, es ist immer dieselbe Sache._ there are times in which i think about myself in such a manner, that being completely drunk and dancing and ordering more drinks is something more than a shameful thing._ but not when i'm drunk._ it feels somehow natural, despite the irrepressible feeling of being someone else inside my head, despite of my feet moving to a beat a cannot understand nor feel, i cannot represent inside my head, this tiny little head of mine._but i do it, over and over and over again._ no reason, no purpose, no nothing._ i just lose myself in me, in a me i cannot tell about, i cannot show anything of, i cannot describe, i cannot feel if nor present, i cannot remember clearly, i cannot be -well, if i could only be for a couple more minutes a day, then maybe i would find something interesting to tell, or show, or feel, or know...-._ i think my problem is thinking that there's somebody out there that could really have some kind of interest in these little conversations of mine with me... i think my problem is one of egocentric nature, one of narcissistic interest, one of many i have only to fight with myself._being here, without really being here is mesmerizing... i am not me, i am not anyone, i am not someone, but, i am not no-one._there's still a heart beating in my chest, for no one, but me._ das genügt. [and then i think... thirty two is still a goddamn number, thirty two still counts, gonna make it count, gonna make it count, gonna ah, ah, ah... LONG LIVE THE KING; LONG LIVE THE QUEEN... ]
coming in through my ears::Oedipus//Regina Spektor



:: better ::
and so my mouth opens and comes out a monster i knew not to be mine, reflecting the gushing blood that my arteries contain, and so this voice so unknown to me rushes out, out, so out, i know not to chase it, i know not to hold it, i know not to tame it._i leave this place for a single moment and come back soon enough to leave again and fail to realize that it is not my thing to lose myself in these short breaths that would have to be deeper and stronger and much more defined._and so i come and go and know again how good it feels to be living this one life that i've been given, this only chance to do and undo myself with my own self as honourer and punisher, as judge and victim, as me with me with i with her with all with none._and now i would say that if you kissed me where it's sore i would feel better, but maybe sores are not to be kissed, anyway._these are good times, and the lack of many things valued seems not to overcome the joy brought by so many things present and so this "bittersusser Schmerz" is clearly much sweeter, the joyfull sweetness of things my own.
coming in through my ears::Better//Regina Spektor