loving don juan

let me just repost agnes's entry about don juan de marco. i will never forget to see things beyond my eyesight. it won't hurt if you try.


"What would you say to someone that said
that this was a psychiatric hospital,
that you're a patient here, and I'm your psychiatrist?"
..."I would say that he has a rather limited
and uncreative way of looking at the situation."

There are those who do not believe that a single soul born in heaven can split into twin spirits and shoot like falling stars to earth. Where over oceans and continents, their magnetic forces will finally unite them back into one. But how else to explain love at first sight?

Although there is no metaphor that truly describes making love to a woman, the closest is playing a rare musical instrument. I wonder, does a Stradivarius violin feel the same rapture as the violinist when he coaxes a single perfect note from its heart?

Have you ever met a woman who inspires you to love until your every sense is filled with her? You inhale her, you taste her, you see your unborn children in her eyes and know that your heart has at last found a home. Your life begins with her, and without her, it must surely end.

Have you ever tasted a woman until she believed that she could be satisfied only by consuming the tongue that had devoured her?

Have you ever loved a woman until milk leaked from her as though she had just given birth to love itself and now must feed it or burst?

Have you ever loved a woman so completely that the sound of your voice in her ear could cause her body to shudder and explode with such intense pleasure that only weeping could bring her full release?

A woman's underclothing barely touches her skin, it rides in a cushion of air as she moves, the silk floats about her body, brushing her flesh like an angel's wings. And I understood how a woman must be touched.

There are those who do not share my perceptions when I say that all my women are dazzling beauties. But I see these women for how they truly are. Glorious, radiant, spectactular, and perfect. Because I am not limited by my eyesight.

Women react to me the way that they do because they sense that I search out the beauty within them until it overwhelms everything else and they cannot avoid their desire to release that beauty and envelope me in it. The way the woman's body is made, the way the man's body responds to it, the intense desire to merge as one.

You need me for a transfusion because your own blood has turned to dust
and clogged your heart. Your need for reality, for a world where love is flawed, will choke your veins until all the life is gone. My perfect world is no less real. Yet it is only in my world that you can breathe.

What is this thing with age? Why does everyone want to pervert love and suck it bone-dry of all its glory? Why do you bother to call it love anymore?