I'm going on a trip to tomorrow. Part of the reason to travel to Riga is my devised plan to investigate the theory of final causation, as purported by Nicolai Harmann, who was born in Riga. I look at it as a research trip, but it mainly works as a kind of self-experiment on whether a "final cause", a cause that "pulls" (Hartmann) the subject towards an action or final goal, which at the time of its inception is located in the future, can actually exist, or whether all events and actions are in fact caused by events that have passed. By going on this trip I give the final cause the opportunity to unfold. At the same time I am aware that I'm creating a paradox - my decision to go on the trip has already placed the cause prior in time. It is in the nature of the experiment to be self-refuting, while at the same time leaving the opportunity to be told otherwise by some unknown cause that cannot yet be known. That's the premise.
So, if anybody knows some nice people in Riga who would sublet a room for cheap for two weeks, or of any other things I should not miss while I'm in Latvia, or has some idea relating to the subject of final causes, that would be just lovely.
from a window in my house loud, obnoxious punk music is blasting out in the back courtyard. the courtyard, thereby transformed into a claustrophobic vertical tube-shaped arena, responds by supplying a massive echo of mid-90s german grunt 4-chord guitar rattle for all residents of number 29. because it is still summery warm, all the windows in the five-storey house are open and i imagine each one functions a like 2x1 meter loud speaker that an evil spirit has planted into the walls of your flat without giving you a way to unplug. my punker neighbours enthuse with a fashion sense that hasn't changed since 1981, they are also at all times surrounded by a flock of very smelly dogs. i call them prototype prolos. it's perfect conservatism. living screaming stereotype beercan rebellion w/o a cause. if the medium is the message, my neighbours are articulating a melancholic whimper through an overdriven spraypainted amp they got for their 15th birthday. they always hold the door open for me and expect me to act surprised. and they are no kids, they could probably be my parents, or at least my uncles. maybe that is why i still have so much affection for them. they are like the farm family in the village who sit on their muckheap and hold on to their muckrake when everybody around them got computerized manure removal with digital displays fifteen years ago. or maybe that's not it.
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