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.


past utterances
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30.3.07

:: streber ::

it will never be enough._ no matter how you strive to make of your own self the best person you can, you will never be the best person you could._and they will haunt you forever -insofar as they, themselves, what they think and how they react, are what you think you should make or yourself._and in your mind there will always be a subterfuge, a little corner where you'll sit and wonder how it is possible that they, who made you who you are, can forever condemn you and take away what they had said would forever be there, when all seems to be, for once, in order._yes, they'll haunt you, and you'll strive._compensation will never be the answer; no matter how good your grades are, no matter how well you get to portraying "the look" of any given thing, no matter how well you behave in public or if you stopped cutting your hair: it will never be enough._for you are no more than an error of nature._and to yourself you will always be the mere aproximation, the lesser of two evils, the less worse thing you could be._and that will never be enough._it ought not to be enough.

coming in through my ears:: my mother, ranting

 


27.3.07

:: kam ::

he makes language obsolete by way of his hands._if only words could convey what a single image made by his ten fingers and two forearms and his millions of millions of interacting braincells does, then i would never cease looking for such words._but i know his greatness lies not in what is said, but in what is shown, and in how he mimics every wonderful side of himself with a plaster of colours and an array of shapes._ and how it strikes me with pain and dread to see him lurking in the few dark corners of an ever so luminous mind; and how it contradicts everything i know to be true about his way of being to think of tears and anguish brought to his face; and how i know i'll look up to him for as long as i have the strength to pick up a pencil or a brush._ he makes me want to not leave myself behind, to not trap myself in disquisitions only, to search forever in the realm of the line and the dot and the stain._and i thank him._i will forever thank him.

coming in through my ears::little drops of water crashing against the shower floor

 


26.3.07

:: alcibiades ::

what then, socrates, am i to do with myself?_i don't want to be a ruler, i don't want to be a leader._my wishes for my own self are far more humble than those you set out for the 'good' and the 'temperate' to follow._and while you say that learning is like seeing, but then again not quite seeing, my mind stumbles from one thing to another and drifts from the safe path of understanding._how am i to know the difference between what belongs to what belongs to me, what belongs to me and this me when you say nothing much about what this 'looking' is about?_how am i to start searching if i know not what i should search for?_and i think maybe it's not my soul i should dig into, but rather into these hands and what comes from them, maybe into these ears and what comes through them, into these green watery eyes and the piercing light that blinds them and at the same time makes them work to their virtue; maybe i have no access to what my soul may be other than through these things you tell me i should not care for, i should renounce to._what then, socrates, what have i to aspire to, when you've left me on the side of the wretched?_ i am tied to my body and my sight and the product of my hands and i will not believe that it is precisely that what makes my sorrows rise to the surface._i will not accept that the controlled tremor of my fingers is what makes me be mistaken and not the strange ways in which i lose myself in thoughts of that which i do not see._and if your god, socrates, tells you that i'm no more than a slave to this wretchedness you so despise, then i ask you, what am i to do with myself?

coming in through my ears:: Twentysomething//Jaimie Cullum

 


25.3.07

:: protege moi ::

the rush, the thrill, the overwhelming noise both out and inside my head._those almost stroboscopic lights, the tiny little figures in the background, the encompassed moving of every tendon, muscle and fiber in my body._the screaming, the jumping, the throwing my arms into the air, the smell, the pause for breath, the pause for tears, the way time slid through my fingers and my eyelids, the way i felt i'd never be again so compelled to screaming my lungs out._and now comes the calm and this smile i cannot seem to get rid of._and as we were there, in entirely different realms of existence, as i was there singing out to my own self, that self from so many years back, and that other self a couple of months back, and this other self a couple of days and hours back, i, and she, and her and all and none; as we were merely there, aligned, i knew i'd known forever._ and now you know, too.

coming in through my ears::Get your way//Jaimie Cullum

 


21.3.07

:: transparent, translucent, translated ::

i sat in the sun today for a couple of hours._ what at first appeared to be a conglomerate of shapes started becoming slowly, ever so slowly, a bulk of spots and blurs of indeterminate colours._it's a shame that my eyes hurt so much under bright light, it's a shame that tones start meshing together without asking for permission from my head, without letting me cling to that first impression of how everything looked like to me._it's as if, in the process of translating this ever changing third-dimensional reality into a two-dimensional attempt of capture, my own self -what i make of me and what is around 'it'- shifted uncontrollably between warm greys and gelid browns._and yet, it's surprising to see that there is enough of everything entirely fixed to make it possible to structure a whole in a little piece of paper, with nothing more than these hands and diluted ground._and it may be just 'that' which is in me fixed what makes me not disregard those words today again uttered by a total outsider._yes, that may be what constitutes the basic standing point in this whole thing; i've denied it, i've fought against it, i've abandoned it, i've run from it desperately... it's still there, always._now, however, i feel not frightened by it, not at all coerced by it, for it no longer means a mistake was made, a wrong path was chosen._ i have all the time in the world to stand still on my own ground, i simply do not wish to do so right now._there are many more things awaiting -and being awaited.
i guess i could say that if anatomical drawing has taught me that it is incredibly important to learn to see -really see, not just look at-, my brief -but, as of today pleasant- experience with water colours has left me with something else._one must learn to do things from the beginning._and from then on, to do things in the way they're meant to be done, in the right order, following the right steps._otherwise, blots and blurs are just blots and blurs._i know i don't want my life to be a collection of just blots and blurs.

coming in through my ears:: Pierrot the clown//Placebo

 


19.3.07

:: commit ::

it may not be possible to stop us from drifting apart while making our own footsteps vanish into the background._the way in which life sets our boundaries is extremely hard to understand and certainly impossible to handle with our bare hands and our bare souls._there are many things that can forever remain out of focus, while playing a greater role than we would like to acknowledge in how everything shifts from one side to another._and yet we seem to struggle against that every single day, with every single breath._we hold on to the idea of what may have been and what may one day be of us and decide, with eyes tightly shut, with that burning pain in our livers and our lungs, decide all the time, decide what we cannot decide on._ and as we stray alongside our shadows with no more than this collection of misconceptions of what we were and what we'll be, we are bound to ourselves in ways we hardly ever notice.

coming in through my ears:: Post Blue//Placebo

 


13.3.07

:: pucker up ::

right before i woke up today, i got the feeling that a pair of lips i have not yet come to know had set themselves upon my own._for a second i wished i would never wake to find myself without them, but then i did._i could no longer recall whose lips they were, or if they were lips at all._it took me quite a long while to make sense of this discomfort i felt throughout the day, but now i know._i want a kiss.

coming in through my ears:: Al otro lado del río//Jorge Drexler

 


11.3.07

:: butterscotch ::

two at a time come little lights and set themselves over strange looking objects right in the corner of my eyes._ i can't look at them directly but i know they're there; they've always been there._little creases in my socks tell my toes that there still is life after being forever confined in black boxes with black laces._the little lights and the little creases do a little dance that makes my little head quiver and then i open my eyes so wide that i can no longer see my own eyelashes and i turn my hands 45ºto the right and a little bit downwards and pretend i play the piano to the beat that my head made up but had never put to practice._ i am here standing and with long breaths i start to get the feeling that this world is not as heavy as i thought and smile._my lips are burning and my stomach's turning and i think that everything is set to motion at astounding speed._i feel my lungs trapping my heart and i feel it racing, and my mind floats and falls and rises and swerves, but it no longer bothers me, there's not one thing to think about, not one thing to cling to.

coming in through my ears:: the television set

 


7.3.07

:: cough ::

i have this terrible cough._i haven't been able to sleep for days._my mother is urging me to go to a hospital, but i have no health care._she says it sounds just like that other cough i had when i was little and she had to drive me to the doctor's in the middle of the night so that i could breathe again._she hadn't been worried about my health for a very very long time now._but i'm not._i figure it'll pass._ one way or the other.

coming in through my ears::a high pitched sound when i breathe in

 


6.3.07

:: ::

there's nothing more to be said._ and still i talk, as though i had something new to hear from myself, aside from all this pointless ranting._it's not your ears i crave; it's my own._whatever did i do with them?

coming in through my ears:: Black eyed//Placebo

 


4.3.07

:: hairball ::

and you try to rid yourself of bad thoughts and impressions about others._ and you try to simply understand that people are just people and some just can't be helped._and you try to stay ahead of the game, not being too moved by fakeness or vagueness of words; you simply try to let it slide off your shoulders._but at night, when everything else is silenced by the cold, that's when the little fur you ate throughout so much time starts making itself into a ball and climbing up your throat._that's when all that's been churned and seemingly digested comes back up and then out trough your spiked tongue and chubby hands._that's when you realize that you are, indeed, the terrible person you don't want to be, that horrid monster crawling by your side in your dreams._and then it hits you; no wonder you wake up alone.

coming in through my ears::The Eraser//Thom Yorke

 


2.3.07

:: Pamuk ::

Cuento
para que el lector comprenda que los hechos que describo han sido expurgados de esas agradables y entretenidas ficciones preparadas para adular las pasiones y las emociones humanas. Si algún día alguien lee mis páginas, que pesarán mucho más que las seis mil de Evliya Çelebi, verá allí, tal y como es, la masa nebulosa de la historia que hay en mi mente. Todo estará sobre el papel, como lo que escribía Evliya, como cosas naturales, como un árbol, un pájaro o una piedra; y el lector percibirá que detrás de aquello yace un hecho igualmente natural. Y así podré expulsar esos extraños gusanos de la historia qeu pienso que andan paseándose por mis circunvoluciones cerebrales y por fin me libraré de ellos. Y en ese día de mi liberación quizá pueda irme, por fin iré a bañarme al mar. Y el placer que el mar me proporcione será similar al de Evliya en el estanque, y mientras me decía todo aquello me asusté de repente [...]Encendí un cigarrillo, crucé el jardín, salí a la calle y contunué andando. Bien, ¿qué vais a mostrarme ahora, muros, ventanas, coches, terrazas, vidas en las terrazas, pelotas de plástico, chanclas, flotadores, zapatillas de plástico, botes, cremas, cajas, camisas, toallas, bolsos, piernas, faldas, mujeres, hombres, niños, insectos? Mostraos, mostradme vuestas inmóviles caras muertas, mostradme vuestros hombros morenos, vuestros pechos maduros, vuestros brazos delgados e inseguros, vuestras miradas torpes, mostradme, mostradme todos los colores y todas las formas superficiales porque quiero olvidarme de mí mismo golpeándome contra ellas, quiero volar, quiero olvidarme de mí mismo posando la mirada en las luces de neón, en los anuncios de plexiglás, en las pintadas políticas, en los televisores, en las mujeres desnudas colgadas de las paredes en los rincones de las tiendas, en las fotografías de los periódicos, en los carteles vulgares; vamos, mostradme, mostradme...¡Basta!¡He llegado hasta el espigón! Ha sido una excitación vana: ¡me engaño a mí mismo!

Ohran Pamuk. La casa del silencio
coming in through my ears::Alarm Call//Björk