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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29.4.07

:: 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