The center of any experience is the beloved. The beloved being is the one from whom I am away. I feel myself to be away from the center. In other words, the only question is, where is the center? The center is not where I am; it is where he or she stands whom I would like to get to first when I arrive somewhere. The center is never again me, myself. And this is a very troubling experience because it is the experience of being out of the center for the first time; what I really am is no longer with me. I am reunited with myself only when I am in the same place as another. That other being, according to a paradox of St. Augustine’s, is more intimately myself than I am myself. If I want to be with me, I have to be somewhere else than the place where I am. I have to be where he or she is. And so I am away from myself.

Jean-Luc Marion, ‘What Love Knows’
(via ecrituria)

juliana spahr

March 17, 2003

We slept soundly during the night, beloveds, and when I woke
yous were wrapped around me and I thought it was this that had
let me dream of windows and doors opening and light entering, a
relief from my recent dreams that have been so full of occupations.

But we wake up and all we hear in the birds’ songs is war.

When the birds sing outside our window they sing of the end of
negotiations with the UN, of the Dow soaring on confidence of a
short war, of how rebel forces in the Central African Republic have
dissolved parliament and suspended the constitution, of the
resumption of the trading in oil futures in London after protestors
broke into the building and fights broke out on the trading pit.

They sing of how someone makes Natalie Maines apologize for her
shame that the president of the United States is from Texas, of
seven people, killed in Palestine, of drug-resistant pneumonia that
continues to spread, and of the worldwide mourning for Rachel
Corrie.

The birds also sing of how celebrities in Los Angeles are getting
their manicures and their hair done as they always do.