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


:: ::

let me go._that's all i ask of me._renounce to wanting._that's all that's left._flee this scene of broken glass and ruptured muscles -well, muscle-._don't come back, don't look back, don't think back._don't think at all._just go, let go, let me go._that's all i ask of me.

coming in through my ears::



:: crossed eyed mary ::

now it's not just the pencil._not merely a pen._not only crayons and coloured pencils._now it's water colours, oiled pigments, tempera, acrylic, blood, sweat and tears, so to speak._i've been spending more and more time locking myself up in this enjoyable prison of in-my-head-images i cannot yet translate into two dimensional blots and blurs._i want to draw a portrait, i have it so clearly pictured in my mind, i know exactly where i want the colours to be, to mesh, to fade away._ i can almost taste it, if i'm allowed to say such a thing about an image._but i lack a lot of experience and talent to actually get to making it._that, and a certain bashfulness i cannot begin to describe here._i think to myself that if everything that crosses the strange frontier built in between being imagined and being made into an image is to be seen, then it might as well be seen by that pair of eyes it was originally intended to -or at least hoped to- be viewed by._ but i'm not sure about how much i really want such a pair of eyes to set themselves upon something specifically made for them._and that's why, maybe, i won't get to making this image into a real object anytime soon._if it's not for them, it's not worth making._there's yet another problem._ most of the times in which i think about an image, specifically in a portrait of some sort, what comes up behind my eyes is something more like a feeling than an actual image._i don't know how to explain it properly._ it's as though i could feel my own face and body as those from the one being portrayed, somehow like transforming into someone else._if i can't feel how a certain gesture feels like -imagining perhaps that there's a strict correspondence between how it feels and how it actually looks-, there's no way i can draw it._it seems, then, that there are a lot of steps i had not accounted for._maybe i'm just too used to thinking that everything that comes out of these little chubby hands is to be in some way a self portrait...

coming in through my ears:: Wolken ziehen vorbei2raumwohnung



:: blameworthy ignorance ::

i don't know what to do._and i don't say it as a desperate statement in the midst of a terrible depression._as a matter of fact, it has little to do with feeling sad, or even upset._i simply do not know how i should act most of the time._i don't know to what extent what i'm doing is appropriate, if it's something i do by letting my mind slip, or after careful examination of the circumstance._ i don't know if i should stop myself from speaking, or if i should let my tongue lose and turn my brain off or if i should hush and think carefully about every single word._i haven't the slightest idea as to what consequences every gesture and shift of tone of my skin may have, i can't tell between what i would and would not do anymore._and the problem, it seems, concerns not only what i later find out about my own self, but rather that every single waking moment i end up making a mess of things without even noticing it._ i don't want to live my life second questioning insignificant choices -although i definitely hope to do so with those choices that actually have a large influence on the large picture of life-, i don't want to have to worry about not having been perfectly aware of every cause and consequence of every word and look and pause and silence._but it seems i'm stuck._how can i even star to let go of so many things if i'm not even able to lay back and be once more unaware of how terribly difficult it is to make part of an articulate group?_how can i begin to convince myself that everything will, in the end, turn out to be all right when leaving before time seems to me as some sort of infamous thing to do?_ why am i always so certain that the centre of my life cannot and will not be separated from what i had grown so incredibly fond of?
i cannot say how much i'm saddened by the fact that there's nothing i can contribute in someone else's happiness._not in absence, not in presence._ there's simply nothing to be done to aid someone in pain._ i can't take it away, i can't heal it, i can't divert his mind from it, i can't, perhaps, even fully understand it, despite how hard i may try._ and it's terribly frustrating to be in such a situation; i am, in the end, not part of a great whole in which i had once hoped to play a great role._ the thing about how things evolve is that they seldom act in ways i can predict and control; people are always falling out of my range of view, of my field of action._it hurts much more to know that that someone is in pain than it hurts to hurt by my own self._i don't know why i feel guilty, but i do.

coming in through my ears:: Such great heights//The Postal Service



:: dressierten Affen ::

"wir müssen nur wollen".
i think that's the whole issue here, having to want._but wanting, as i've been told, cannot be void, it is always of a determinate, particular, in time and space located thing._if it weren't for that, all would be much easier._ i could tell myself that the point of it all is that despite the fact of not wanting anything at this particular moment of my life, i still want something in the long run._ but that may not be nearly enough to make me sleep well and keep me from drinking 7 cups of coffee every day._ it may not even be enough to keep my mind at rest when sitting on that bus, or in that classroom, when reading, writing, singing and talking none sense._ i, for some strange reason, have made myself want things i know not for certain if i want right now, just for the sake of wanting something._there are moments in which i clearly can tell the difference between wanting them for their own sake and wanting them merely for wanting; but, then again, there are many many times in which i know not if my desire is genuine or the consequence of a false belief._ i may never find out._and then i wonder if i can truly say that such a difference exists, if there is, within me, something that could begin to shed light upon the matter, or that if even is important that a difference in origin makes the passion -so to speak- be something different, regarding what the desire itself implies or what it may lead to._mh.

coming in through my ears::Müssen nur wollen//Wir sind Helden



:: shame ::

i can't get over the fact that i am much more out of myself than i ever thought i was._i can't get over the fact that i struggle every day when waking up against memories of what i don't want to dream about._i can't get over the fact that i am no more than this lonely self in the night._but i must get over it._over it all._over myself.

coming in through my ears::



:: swollen nose ::

i wonder why it is so easy to deceive one self into thinking that there's a simple way of figuring out what goes on behind one's eyes._the more i think about it, the more i know that there is not much to go around when facing the hard truth of being not entirely awoken to what is so clearly going on._ i wish i could tell myself otherwise, i wish i could once again begin believing that i am in control of what this "here" or "now" is; but control is not my strong suit; it has never been._how to stop myself from breaking down into the smallest pieces i can imagine? how to stop giving way to what i want not to be me?_i thought it was a matter of not pausing, of not ceasing to be for any given amount of time; i thought it was just a matter of staying on track, where ever that would lead me, of moving always with one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed on a future i believe to be there, but not in any determinate way._and i walk still, no idea as to where i'm headed, with eyes completely shut, thinking it to be the best, only to know that in my many moments of terrible weakness, i wake up to the truth of not having yet awoken, of being still immersed in a barely conscious state of mind._is it then a small pause what i need, despite not at all what i crave? has it finally become clear that i can't handle what is most definitely out of my reach? should i just stop trying to keep walking?_what can come of stillness?

coming in through my ears::Helter Skelter//The Beatles



:: run run gingerbread girl ::
i remember hearing someone say "i'm the happiest world in my person"._ to him it was a great discovery, but i could never understand that fully._to think that many worlds were given inside his little head and that such thing as 'happiness' could be said of them was something i could not begin to picture._ i remember him saying a great deal of other things that were to him, and maybe just to him, a great deal._ now i sit and wonder why it is that i can only do small talk when surrounded with certain people with whom i had in another world -perhaps- spoken of bigger and more important matters._ it is not that i have become suddenly void -there's no such thing here implied as not having been void previously-, or that i find it difficult to centre myself on things that would allow me to properly speak._no, i think it's more of a feeling of derangement in what is given by the interaction with them, as though i could not understand the fact that they, indeed, are the same ones as before._and so i talk about my parents -which i do very seldom amongst other people- and day to day things that are not at all relevant._it may be just a question of fear, of admitting once more to be terribly vulnerable to scrutiny, of being a new world to them and they being a new world to me._ the question of how to approach such a complex mixture of things makes me want to bite my own tongue in fear of being my own ridiculous self with my own ridiculous beliefs, of being examined and judged._but then i know and feel and think that running away from something as valuable as speaking with my own voice is an act of cowardliness i cannot afford at these times._again, who is this speaking and to whom is everything addressed?_clearly much more is lost than a single person in this scheme; a lot of worlds have vanished, hopefully not the happiest one of them all.
coming in through my ears::Sören purring on my belly



:: unfold ::
and then there was that rain again._i could have walked for many miles without caring much for the strands of hair unevenly running down the yellowish pale tone of my skin, or for the small bruises inflicted by these somehow over worn shoes, or for the tremor of my then almost frozen hands, or for the sweat salted water making its way through my eyebrows, straight into my eyes._ i most definitely would have not cared at all for any of that._but to feel the piercing pain that the tiny drops of that water that once crashed against the window of that train in which i was never to be found -but in which i was certainly lost- was too much to make myself walk in that rain._and so i got on that bus, with my wet shoes squishing and creaking and croaking all about, and sat beside an old woman that reminded me of the person i will someday become._she complaint about my shoes, saying that it was not good enough to walk these streets with undone shoelaces and holes in the bottom, that it just didn't cut it to let myself get cold for a little stroll._and when the rain stopped, as it always does, the pain shifted from my skin to my eyes, and the remembrance of times past found its way to this exterior setting, this confusing new here._so i'll walk just a little bit farther, trying to undo the tight knots into which my life has slowly developed._i'll just walk, rain or shine.
coming in through my ears::Pablov's Daqughter//Regina Spektor



:: preacher man ::
and then there was light._and that hurt my eyes, as it usually does._staring into it i fight my impulses, i struggle against this self-preservation instinct, i burn my own retinas out._but it's nice, it's worth every single second of sight._so many colours invade my head that it becomes ever so hard to concentrate on shapes, rather than shades._so many textures divert me from the borders, so much movement all around, so much of so much...and then there was no other thing to look at, or perhaps there never was any other thing to stare into._i think of the barrier put between my salted self and this salted world and think that maybe i should try and cross it, tear it down, demolish it, trample upon it; or maybe just sidetrack it._'cause i don't want to think things in terms of absence, i don't want to stare vaguely, i don't want to simply hear, i don't want to simply stray._there is certainly more to life than this, but maybe not much more than life... but life is so much, so much._i'm finally willing wanting, despite how little sense that may make.
coming in through my ears::Consequence of Sound//Regina Spektor



:: fuck ::

turns out there's no job._no money._no chance to get out of here._and just when things started looking up._this world owes me big time._it'd better give me some great love or luck from which i will not be able to look down from._and soon.

coming in through my ears::mi selección trying to even the score



:: pickles are just pickles ::
i'm frightened to think that all of this is all there is._it can most certainly not be, for i am but a child._new born eyes in a world much older than i can imagine._the existence of many, to whom i relate to merely in terms of the time shared comes into focus as some sign of something greater, incomprehensible just yet._my trust in "so weit ich weiß, teilen wir dieselbe Zeit" may be nothing other than one of my many puerile delusions._i haven't been here long enough to share enough time with, well, anyone, really._and it is when i think of all the time that is to come, and the lack of certainty of my sharing it with anyone, that my stomach ties up in a knot and i think that life is a most astounding thing._there are seconds, hours and years to come; what will come of them? not knowing anything at all is part of the charm of it all, and yet terrifying._ the crossroads that have led me to imagine that i make part of a greater scheme slowly vanish and shift direction; those known become unknown and those that will forever remain absent become slowly shapes and shadows mimicking these illusions behind my eyes._will the conversations i've had with my own self ever come to be, if not exactly as pictured, at least somehow alike?_so much time spent on thinking about how to spend time, so much energy implemented in saving up energy for the best part of this 'whole', so much colour and movement that has not yet come to be... how does one get near someone else? how does one break the necessary barrier built between glares and suggestive looks? is there anyway in which i could start to leave myself to come back to something other than me?_and then i think, after having heard it a lot of times now, that people are just people, just that._and oh how hard it is to understand such a simple arrangement of words; people... not merely the plural of persons, now, is it?._and even if it were, it's still much harder to understand what a single person is in order to understand what the plural of such one thing could be._can one really think in terms of many persons known, unknown, slightly known and merely acquainted?_i sincerely don't know._it all comes out of focus after having spent the last four days trapped in this small room, staring into this monitor in hopes of some cure or answer to my isolation._are those with whom i talk through this pixelated reality really the ones i have had the chance to stare into in several occasions?_am i the same one with whom they spend their time?_is this voice the same for the one that writes and the one that reads, and speaks, and draws and sings? i may be a little to febrile to keep writing...
coming in through my ears::Cucumber Slumber//Weather Report



:: cry baby, cry ::
i refused myself the possibility of crying for a long time._there were many many years in which i would not allow myself to shed a single tear, no matter what._the impression that gave me of myself was one of strength, courage, and a lot of other things i thought were worthy of having._i found out, not too long ago, that such an impression, aside the fact of being not at all accurate, was detrimental to myself._so i started crying again._ well, i had my reasons, i guess._ i cried for two months, and then again a couple of weeks ago._ the pain does not dilute into the salted water running down my cheeks, nor is it liberated in any way i can -still today- notice._though the pain stuck to my heart, my eyes found it somehow easier to let go of the stiff, tough look i could not stare into in the mirror._last night i cried again._ but not for the reasons i thought to be there present._ i cried for hours, without the least idea as to why something i had seen and heard and thought about before then struck me as one of the most horrid things to put out there, for others to see._in the middle of the night, alone in my bed, with nothing more than the pale light of the television set to save me from the gelid darkness and the remote control in my hands, i cried myself to sleep._that's a bit scary.
coming in through my ears::a dog barking by the window