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


:: skin deep ::

my hands are full of scars._ on my right hand, the reminder of a fall separates almost entirely the tip of my thumb from the rest of the hand._i was probably four years old when that piece of glass found it to be not much of an obstacle; i remember -almost too clearly for it to be a true memory- my own dark blood on the hallway floor over which i walk every day._a dozen stitches accomplished what gloves, spices and promises of gifts had not been able to do._it stands there as one of the few things that prevails from those so long gone times._my right palm shows a line that could say nothing about my future; on that occasion, a friend, from whom i've not heard in a while, drove a wire into my tender flesh._not much blood was lost._out of rage, i bit the protruding part -there, where the pencil leans against- of my right middle finger off._it bled so much._my skin is somehow differently coloured there, but nothing even similar to other scars is to be seen._i couldn't draw or write for almost two months; it healed, as most everything does._on my left hand,a pink line, interrupted on the precise spot where a wedding ring were to be put, reminds me of that day, on the grass, smoking like i'd never done before, crying like i hope i'll never do again._it has taken a lot of time to heal; i guess that happens with all self-inflicted pains and sorrows._countless little 'v' shapes are testimony of my attempt to do something of worth on that linoleum; scratches and cuts that never vanished show themselves while in the sun._the rest of my body is likewise covered in scars._some are reminders, most of them are simply there._my skin, as does my heart, holds onto what has been with extreme and constant effort._it may heal, but it allows no forgetting.

coming in through my ears:: Se va, se va, se fue//Jorge Drexler



:: ablaze ::

twelve hours and twenty four minutes from now i'll be holding the brush in my hand._three minutes later, i will have reconsidered for the first time the lines indicative of some sort of perspective very lightly drawn onto the surface of that grainy piece of whitened out cellulose._eighteen minutes and forty five seconds later i will have made up my mind and decided that the best possible version was the one erased six and two quarters minutes ago._ i'll be again frustrated by my own incapacity and distracted from the whole point in this whole thing._hours later, with eyes glued to the screen of the television set in our little rat hole, i'll remember it was all about learning to learn._ slightly drunk i'll find myself twenty four and a half hours from this moment telling those who'll soon leave how much i will miss them._i won't be able to remember how i got home._sören will curl up between my arms, pressing his arched spine against my chest and i'll finally get a couple of hours of sleep.

coming in through my ears:: Help the Poor//BB King & Eric Clapton



:: ::

there's a window beside the desk where i write without pause the words to utter this thursday's afternoon._the world goes by at sluggish pace without showing much of itself through the rain stained glass that separates me from it._ i sit and wonder how it is possible that so much dread has gone by without my knowing, without my presence._and as the news come through this other glass that sets me apart from the world of those that have for a while become my own world, i bleed out through my fingertips thinking it would be best to be somewhere else._the pain inflicted will not be taken back, the lacks, the losses, the missed chances will not await to be amended._and i still write, and in my mind it looks as if i were moving forward, as if every letter were a step taken in a yet not known direction._i'm overflowed with fear of what could never come to be.

coming in through my ears:: nothing at all



:: yawning ::

the little bug inside my head flaps its wings 345 times per second._sometimes the noise and the heat produced by such movement makes my eyeballs dry up and consequently makes my blinking grow more frequent._trying to fall asleep to the dance of the millions of bees indicating the way towards the desired nectar seems, at times, a ludicrous task._these insects behind my eyes know not the difference between daylight and no light; they couldn't care less for the position of the sun, or the moon, for that matter._i feel my muscles tightening up and my bones loosing their power to keep me standing._the acids in my stomach become every day and every night slightly more corrosive, and the immediate connections between my braincells wait for entire milliseconds in line, awaiting their turn to segregate the needed transmitters._i toss and turn to the beat of my insects; i lie belly up, face down, sideways, no ways, i sit, i stand, i make my bed, i take a shower, i drink infusions, i read and write and sing in my head, i cry out of desperation, i took the pill that did not work, i fill my blog thinking it will help me sleep._but it doesn't.

coming in through my ears:: Within earshot//Kenna



:: gift ::

"Wenn ich doch zeichnen könnte." Diesen Satz höre ich sehr oft un vielleicht habe Sie sich selbst schon dabei ertappt. Die Antwort, die mir darauf sofort einfällt, lautet: "Warum tun Sie es nicht?" [...]Tatsächlich kann man sagen, dass eigentlich jeder zeichnet[...] Im alltäglichen Leben sehen die Menschen Dinge, von denen sie gelernt haben, dass sie einfach da sind. Aber durch den Vorgang des Zeichnens legen wir unsere Erwartungen ab un nehmen Feinheit bei Gestalt un Konstruktion, Skultur und Muster, Licht und Schatten wahr [...]Bevor das eigentliche Zeichnen beginnt, öffnet der Künstler oder die Künstlerin das Skizzenbuch, wählt einen Bleistift aus und spitz ihn. Und dann kommt da ein kurzer Moment der Erwartung, der Aufregung, ja sogar der Angst. Es braucht so etwas wie Courage, um auf einem jungfräulichen Blatt Papier die erste Markierung zu machen, aber sobald diese Markierung gemacht ist, kommen die anderen wie von selbst.

Peter Gray, Zeichnen Lernen
coming in through my ears:: Broken Homes// Tricky feat. PJ Harvey



:: draft ::

lately my dreams have begun to betray me._they've become a little less out of the ordinary, tempting my waking thoughts into following their elusive unrealities._as soon as i close my eyes, a scent i only once had the chance of capturing through these asymmetrical nostrils of mine invades much more than merely my head._and then i'm gone.

coming in through my ears:: Comfortably Numb//Pink Floyd



:: this picture ::

through the white creases of the dozens of balls of paper now lying on my floor an insinuation of the shape i dreamt about last night can be somehow seen._but no more than a simple insinuation._my fingers have not been able to depict what so clearly appeared behind my eyelids after those -perhaps too many- glasses of dark beer._it is an image that constantly clouds my brain, that occupies every interstice, every corner, every thought; it's pleasantly invasive, deliciously infectious, but merely an image in my head._as i sit here, trying my best to translate it through these lines that evade any control over them, this image comes and goes and makes of its own self something more of a grin i dare not place onto my face and a flutter somewhere in between my lungs and my stomach._it is the flickering of those candles unknown to me in pupils i wish to portray that ties me down to this graphite and cellulose and what makes these unsuccessful efforts end up crumpled up on the floor as reminders of my lack of ability._it is that shine i cannot describe through the flowing ink that keeps my mind from easing._won't you please teach me to see such an image with my eyes and not merely with my head?

coming in through my ears:: Helden//Mia