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


:: gleichgültig ::

we're all just drifting._drifting away._on a raft built on egos and unfounded convictions._and if the boat rocks, stump on it harder; there seems to be no shame in being the cause of one's own demise._the pounding of waves against those rocks, against our ears, is so deafening that there seems to be no sense in simply hearing anymore._and while the fog sets lower, however long that may take, or if such a thing is ever to be the case, we shut our eyes tightly, remembering forever a light we might have merely imagined, embracing whatever sort of delusion we believe to be what's worth the fight, and we drift._we're all just drifting.

coming in through my ears::some icky tv show



:: richtung ::

the way in which all varies, the way in which the flow ceases, the way in which the rising temperature suddenly drops, the way in which i realize i don't crave as much as i'd thought._the way in which my mind fills in gaps that were not left by any real dynamic, the way in which i picture a possible solution to something that was never to be a problem, the way in which i just stand there, avoiding a void glare._ the way, that way, that one-out-of-two way, my way and the highway, all at the same time._truth be told, it saddens me that it is no more a matter of "diaporein kalós".

coming in through my ears::



:: red (finger) tips ::

stretch out those fingers that cannot be measured in inches or centimeters; those that crawl slowly up and down my scalp, those that fiercely cling to that light that seldom bathes these damp globes, those more mine that these others with which i write and draw._if only such fingers could be allowed the smallest part of tactile feel, if only they could for once sense somewhat slightly solid, slightly real within their reach; if only those fingers could be properly called fingers._those 'relentlessly restless' fingers of mine yearn each second a mere touch, a subtle stroke given by equally debating between being and ceasing fingers, by dendrites, roots and branches almost intolerably grounded on my outside._they stretch through night and rain and shadows, through walls of glares and stares and glimpses, they curve themselves in the creases of grins and frowns, they follow stubbornly the scent that must remain unknown._ and through that stretching out they bend and break and mend themselves without my knowing, producing shapes within my head, revealing forbidden corners of this already too bent over self._but oh how i thrive in their stretching.

coming in through my ears::something on the Animal Planet



:: volta!! ::


I am leaving this harbour
Giving urban a farewell
Its habitants seem to keen on God
I cannot stomach their rights and wrongs
I have lost my origin
And I don't want to find it again
Whether sailing into nature's laws
And be held by ocean's paws
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Lust for comfort
Suffocates the soul
Relentless restlessness
Liberates me (sets me free)
I feel at home
Whenever the unknown surrounds me
I receive its embrace
Aboard my floating house
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Wanderlust! from island to island
Wanderlust! united in movement
Wonderful! I'm joined with you
Can you spot a pattern?
(relentlessly restless)
Can you spot a pattern?
Can you?

how is it possible that this woman does the things she does?
i am in love._very much so.

coming in through my ears:: Wanderlust//Björk



:: absent ::

the past few nights and most of yesterday afternoon a not easy to describe feeling has come over me._it's as though there were something other than what i can see and directly feel going on; as if there were some urgency to be somewhere other than my bed, somewhere other than my skin._it feels almost as when one is certain of not being yet awoken, when that barrier between dreams and the waking state is entirely blurred by the numbness of the body and the unstoppable rambling of the mind, when the consciousness of the existence of each limb and each part does not imply the sensitive experience of it all._it feels a bit like being, but not quite being my own._as i sat in the dark room of the cinema -something i hadn't done for months- i found images just passing by._it was not at all that my mind was set on some other subject, that i was tired or simply distracted; the world passes me by without leaving much of a mark lately.

coming in through my ears:: Bachelorette//Björk



:: snob weekend ::

it's just like humming the bass line of a song while everyone else in the room jumps around frantically to a distorted beat; it's like closing my eyes and opening them to the many strands of my already somewhat damp hair and not being able to focus my sight on anything in particular; it's like feeling my lungs expanding with every puff of the cigarette between my second and third finger; like making my arm go that extra distance in order to make 'the finish'; like running backwards with both my eyes set on the rotating yellow sphere headed directly to my face._ yeah, that's something like what i was looking for._and then i become terribly platonic.

coming in through my ears:: Close to me//The Cure



:: shedding ::

i hold my right hand with my left hand._stretch the fingers back, as far as possible, until the tendon connecting with the elbow shows through the skin, until the bicep and triceps make the arm an almost curved line in a direction opposing the natural position._leave the hand in pain, without much irrigation, feel the lactic acid building up in between oxygen deprived strands of muscle._i hold my left hand with my right hand._bring it forth, watch the depression formed in the space generated by the shift in location of the carpian bones, feel the tips filling up with that scarlet now almost toxic liquid._i arch my back, notice those once evident muscles covering my belly tightening, hear many times over those almost fish-shaped fragments of the central pillar of my body rearranging themselves, my eyes go blank and my breath fades into a misty cloud out my nose and now slightly opened mouth._i place my forehead on my knees and reach out in a rush for those somewhat too long ten toes; a screaming yellow floats over my tongue, i fall into a state of enchantment for a single moment.
the seconds that follow bring a mellow tone to my ears; now, fully awake, i can go back to my daydreaming.

coming in through my ears:: Drive-In Saturday//David Bowie


:: draft ::

how could i ever deny such a simple fact?_ i do leave the sound on, because silence is harder._these waves disrupt my balance, tread on the nearly verbal content of that which floats beneath my conscience, bend my will, interfere my sight._i can see no more than the unshown movement of those words never uttered, i can hear no more than the thousand radial hues immersed in their own salt; the undulations of my fingers reach out to the tremor of a yielding warmth._but all i have to look forward to is the void of my sleep.

coming in through my ears::



:: stumble ::

a bomb has been dismantled and in it's place a plague has begun to grow._it hasn't quite yet started infecting the small bulbs and wicks that light up my nights as soon as these eyelids shut out the world._but it will._ pretty soon i'll watch the slow decay and festering of my interstices, of that safe place built for me throughout my life; i'll watch those images so craft fully put together in between waking hours dilute into salted strands dripping down my face._not quite yet, no._the confirmation of the existence of the cause for such fears must be to all lengths put before me to give way to a racing heart and sweated palms and trembling legs and unsteady feet.
one single finger has within it thousands and thousands of interconnected crevices with which to cling to the outside and differentiate the toucher from the touched._a finger throbs with a rhythmic sway, obedient always to a heart._a heart contracts and expands with exceeding rigour to the pace set by millions and millions of webbed structures spitting out the smallest amounts of what i would not know accurate to call existing._and those structures, ruled by some strange force i cannot grasp, i cannot picture, i cannot dive into, make that finger and its counterpart cling making the toucher and the touched one and the same for a little more than a mere second._the pulsing sound surrounds all there present, it crawls inside and makes its nest, it comes and goes without paying heed to the hectic swerving of those hearts and brains and minds and souls._all that's left are aligned crevices in the middle of that day that has never come to me.
the infectious agent must reproduce itself a great number of times in order to cause this slightly feverish state to worsen._it may very well not have anything to do with my will or my strength whether it does so or not._i might just be subjected to whatever speed it decides to give to the decay of delusions._ the copies of it self need not to be exact; mere traces of its essence are enough to flood my veins and cloud my eyes._it has begun.
taking a step not only implies the synchronized tensing and relaxing of numerous muscles and tendons._it also necessarily supposes an impulse directed toward some determinate thing._when the first foot is lifted, as if by magic or divine intervention, the weight of the world is taken from the shoulders and eyes are allowed to simply focus on that object of desire._those pupils enlarge, hiding the coloured strands that compose the eye; capture light, both from outside and in, both from what's not seen and what's wanted to be seen._and then the encompassed movement of that whole makes it clear how that unclear way of touching of two pupils in two eyes in two heads directed by too much of what i don't understand is the motor of it all._and then freckles and pupils and crevices and lips align and my eyes close dry from the fever, wishing to not see what is seen as wished.

coming in through my ears::Liverpool-Chelsea

:: dare ::

if i could, i would._wouldn't you, please?