Don Juan (De Marco), a tribute

With two inconspicuous categories, one on Seduction and the other on the Lover’s Ethic, it seems rather out of balance to leave out a character like Don Juan. Yet, I’ve always known this; I’ve known and I’ve hesitated. My hesitation sprung from the concern that Don Juan was fictional and the story regarding his character varies depending on who’s telling it. One thing is general about Don Juan: he lived for women, but more than that, he lived for life herself. There is a most fascinating relationship between every man who lives passionately and the richness of his life. These people are almost always shinning and charismatic, their gaze is wild and hypnotic. This trait is by all means not sex-bound, it is available to both – society needs to drum this in with utter conviction and fervour, for life’s sake. One thing remains the same, these people are alive. Life flows from their bosom, so does adventure, tragedy and drama. Their life is like a wild storm: now thrusting left, now pushing right, now spinning and sweeping powerfully everything it comes into contact with – it is in other words, alive. This life is alive. What a tautology, yet don’t look at it and condemn it. Question yourself? Is your life alive? Is it really?    

What exactly living for woman and living for life actually means, and what their relationship is, is subject to interpretation. My interpretation I would like to bestow you with in the form of Don Juan, and I will take my bearings from a most auspicious and conspicuous source, which I invite you all to enjoy. The very under-rated Hollywood movie with some fascinating elements entitled: Don Juan De Marco, with Johnny Depp and Marlon Brando. The movie itself arises from an even more conspicuous source: Lord Byron’s book entitled Don Juan. This movie brings out the tension between Realism and Romanticism (a distinction I’ve flirted with elsewhere) with a touch of mediocre genius; just a touch, a light and soft touch.   

I’ve written about Giacomo Casanova, yet I’ve left it until too late to write about Don Juan, it’s about time I paid him a tribute. Don Juan was more bound to women than Giacomo, he was their slave. Whilst for Giacomo, women were the spice of life; the touch of pepper to the steak, the fine wine to that last dinner. Unlike Don Juan, Giacomo was in control of himself, he understood and embraced women, and the dynamics that arose from an abnormal admiration of them. He had an enigmatic comfort with passion. He knew the power and influence of sexual dynamics, but also the power of reciprocal exchange – this is perhaps his most auspicious difference, and why Giacomo was nowhere near the Lover. Don Juan was the opposite in this aspect, he knew nothing of exchange, he didn’t even think – he just loved, he burned, he made bud. He was blind to each and every woman; blind, lost and mesmerized by her bosom (not breasts) and eyes – he burned with desire, a kind of desire that melted her defences, a desire that saw right through them. Looking beyond what the eye could see. He’d bring out the infinite in her, what we’ve called before: her soul. He’d disclose it, hug it, kiss it, affirm it, make love to it and then offer it back to her as a gift. The kind of man a woman feared, but was excited by all the same; a tormenting man. The kind of man she would imagine about and tears of joy would moisten her tender southern flesh – her soul would weep in longing, just for a touch, for a kiss, for a look… The reader must bare in mind these differences between these two, and their similarities. This post however, is about Don Juan, so let’s get back on course. 

It seems unfair and quite difficult to juxtapose historical figures such as these two, not least of all because of their notoriety and controversy. One is particularly certain of this: the question remains open as to whether these two were ‘actually’ seducers – even though they have been labelled as such. Culture these days is cancer-like enough to make anything outside its sphere something condemning or worthy of alienation, and yes, seduction is something to be condemned – primarily because of its limits. There is one particular depiction of Don Juan that makes him absolutely nowhere near a seducer. I would argue Don Juan is the closest depiction of the Lover I have come across, thus far. Giacomo was not a Lover, he was openly a seducer, he at times bought sexual pleasure and led astray many women – although, one needs to be as harsh to women as possible, they always knew and still went along. The pleasure from a man such as Giacomo, the ambivalent kudos that comes with it, bypasses the danger arising from social depravity – the possibility of social depravity is precisely the problem, it is the inhibiting agent. This is the kind of pleasure that needs to be celebrated, for its various positive affects. Although, Giacomo still remains a seducer, but a peculiar kind of seducer, one with the wings of the Lover, the uncanny admiration for women. But, not yet a Lover himself.    

Don Juan’s primary difference lies in the following, he was a kind of mystic. A mystic that found eternity, found God, in woman, and this is why he is the closest thing to the Lover that history has to offer. The Lover sees God in and through woman. Woman is the medium to what mystics call God. What others have called, the affirmation of life; woman as a means to life, a mutual means. To make love to a woman is to make love to life herself; to make love is to make love to life. To make love is to make life.

This following quote from the movie always depicts a remarkable picture of making love from the Lover’s perspective, the scene is amazing. Everything that happens in that first ten minutes of this movie paints a picture of the Lover, like no words can.

“No. I, I never take advantage of a woman. I give women pleasure… if they desire it. It is of course, the greatest pleasure they will ever experience. There are some women… fine featured, a certain texture to the hair, a curve to the ears that, that is, sweeps like a turn on a shell. These women… have fingers, with the same sensitivities as their legs. The fingertips have the same feelings as their feet, and when you touch their knuckles, it is like passing your hands along their knees. And this, tender, fleshy part of the finger, is the same as brushing your hands along their thighs. And… finally…”  (Movie)

The ambiguity of this quote is fascinating, severely so. He initially proclaims that he does not take advantage of a woman and then, as if “by accident”, proceeds to the crux of seduction, to insinuation, to a promise of pleasure. Further, through the suggestive sexual innuendo that runs by so smoothly and at such a small distance, you’d have to be a complete idiot not to understand his point. “And… finally…”, women know this ‘finally’, they dream of this ‘finally’, they tremble with excitement at this ‘finally’ like a child at “Toys R Us”. Is he a seducer though? Does he, as the lady initially proclaims, “seduce women”? Apparently not, yet, a good seducer covers his tracks, a good seducer will seduce without seducing – the best seducer is precisely not a seducer; in her eyes. I write this because I want you to feel the ambivalence, I want you to feel the state of confusion. Why? Because precisely that is as far as seduction goes. Confusion is the decoy and deploy of a seducer. The next part, the next step, is the Lover. To see beyond this deploy, to view this ambivalence as precisely what needs to occur for the pleasure. It is what needs to occur for love and ultimately for the affirmation of life, to surrender all thought, and to surrender all defence. This is the job of the ambivalence: to shut you up, both internally and externally. Such that a space is open. Why, what is this space for? So that you can experience pleasure; and finally, so that you can love. The space allows room for pleasure to enter and possess you. A space to make you lost in the moment, so that you can feel alive once again, like your intra-ordinary keeps asking the Lover to make happen.

“Every true lover knows that the moment of greatest satisfaction comes when ecstasy is long over. And he beholds before him the flower which has blossomed beneath his touch.” (Movie)

Don Juan cares not about his satisfaction. He cares not about hers either. He cares about life, he cares about budding. He cares about bringing to life something that has long been in torpor, something that has been suffering from hypersomnia. The only conquest for him is the conquest of the death of life, of the misery of life. “Behold,” the Lover would say, “behold”. Behold the woman as he found her, and the woman as he left her, behold how his love was contagious – how his love gave life. How he infected her with life, how he instilled life back into her, how he made her drunk without a single drink – drunk on life.

“Every woman is a mystery to be solved. But a woman hides nothing from a true lover. Her skin colour can tell us how to proceed… a hue like the blush of a rose, pink and pale, and she must be coaxed to open her petals with a warmth like the sun. The pale and dappled skin of the red-head calls for the lust of a wave crashing to the shore, so we may stir up what lies beneath and bring the foamy delight of love to the surface. 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?” (Movie)

Woman is absolutely not a mystery. The only mystery is man’s stupidity and man’s lack of concern, man’s lack of awareness regarding his woman. Man has been working blindly, his member thrusting and retreating, his eyes completely shut. Shut away from his woman’s facial expressions as he thrusts. Shut away from his woman’s eyes: are her pupils dilated or not? Shut away from her chest and cheeks: are they red (or flushed) or not? Shut away from her breathing: is she breathing heavily and uncontrollably or not? Shut away from her reactions to his touch: does her body tremble when you position yourself as such, when you touch her in this way and in that place, or not? Man is blind and stupid, therefore woman is a mystery, to him. Woman in general, is not a mystery. For Don Juan, and in general, woman is more sexual than man. She thinks about sex so much, that she constantly fights with herself in order to stop it. Woman has been tamed, fundamentally, and this taming has produced the type of women that yearn for a Don Juan as much as they fear him. It has produced an ambivalence in woman that is most saddening, only to a man who knows what lays in pure reception between his legs – what beauty wishes to lose itself in his touch.

Why is Don Juan close to the Lover?

“By seeing beyond what is visible to the eye. Now, there are those, of course, who do not share my perceptions, it’s true. When I say that all my women are dazzling beauties, they object… the nose of this one is too large, the, the hips of another they are too wide perhaps, the breasts of a third, they are too small. But I see these women for how they truly are… glorious, radiant, spectacular, and perfect… because I am not limited by my eyesight. Women react to me the way that they do, Don Octavio, because they sense that I search out the beauty that dwells within them until… it overwhelms everything else. And they cannot avoid their desire, to release that beauty and envelop me in it. So, to answer your question… I see as clear as day that this, great edifice in which we find ourselves, is your villa, it is your home. And as for you, Don Octavio de Florez, you are a great lover like myself. Even though you may have lost your way… and your accent. Shall I continue?” (Movie)

Don Juan is a rarity, even for the Lover. His vision is both Lover-like and not. It links him to the Lover because of the admiration he harbours for woman, but at the same time, it makes him deviate from the Lover because he seems to place no value to the intra-ordinary. Although, I would argue that one can interpret this looking within as precisely the intra-ordinary interaction in its most romanticised expression. Yet, a Lover has one fundamental difference: his very own intra-ordinary pushes her to break herself in a reaction long before the sex – she becomes alive before the passion. Rather, the passion is there and burns through it all, before any of it whatsoever.

The Devil

A little gift for my friends the fundamentalists and priests. The Devil is none other than God entering your head, your mind, and poisoning your reason. The only God is the one that enters your heart. If God has entered your head, know thee that the Devil has placed a most cunning disguise, a most cunning mask and taken thee for a fool.

For further information, consult Jesus, Gautam, Muhammad etc. They will tell thee of where God shall find his/her humble place – it is the heart.

The food of life

Romance is the food of life, a little bit of life finding itself tightly compressed and uncannily positioned within a sweet moment. A honey-sweet moment that ripples into past, future and present rendering each one a negligible, conceptual representation of a waste of time. Romance, and its variations, gives life back where all else takes it away; the Romantic moment is either this honey-like moment, or it is nothing at all.

Sexual Leisure

The view of sex as leisurely has the unexpected effect of a diminution of sexual pleasure, of a drop in sexual excitement and a rise in the need for a replacement: drugs, depression, suicidal tendencies, criminal tendecies etc. Sex must not be seen as a way to experience a release of tension, rather it should be an experience that brings that tension to its maximum peak, a constant struggle for that peak in all manners: foreplay, periodic abstinence, tension and/or experimentation with a lover etc. The peak of the sexual act is infinitely more powerful in breadth and depth than leisurely sex allows it to be, with its release prior to the peak. Leisurely sex is a release of tension prior to the peak and nothing more. A race to release tension, which only breeds apathy for oneself and the partner. Sex in its full capacity is a celebration of the tension, a worship of the tension, an abandonment to it such that one wills its growth, again and again, and again. It’s growth to such a degree that its release is from an overflowing, not from release itself, not from rushing (one simply shouldn’t rush sex, one should play it like a harp). Sex must overcome the human mind with its tension, it must break the human ego, and the true orgasm is akin to a loss of consciousness in favour of a delirium – the peak of a tension, whose only effect is joy and loss of self (death of the self), then a repetition of the cycle. Bataille beautifully remarked that sex is the marriage of life and death.

It is the willed contraction and the holding on that one experiences during the orgasm that brings sex back to the leisurely release. It’s almost as if one fears the full effect of sex, they hold on to their body and themselves even during the exquisite delirium of pleasure that is possible. One must try and not contract during an orgasm, even if that orgasm comes and goes too quick and one wants to sustain its pleasure. Instead one should abandon and trust the orgasm, then next time do the same again, and again, and again. With each time, with each orgasm of abandon as opposed to contraction, the orgasm’s duration will have increased but also the breadth and depth, the pleasure and length will be bigger and bigger each time.

What sex can do is not grasped with the casual approach one has bestowed on humanity in our current era. Sex must have obstacles, it must experience some kind of transgression, otherwise its after-effects are not economically worth the act itself. Western culture has socially devolved in terms of sex, and the ardent paternally-oriented monotheistic rise in morality has been a key cause of this effect. Alas, to place a taboo on sex has had the transgressive effect in the past as adequately shown by Casanova’s period of life. It lead to leisurely sex, as depicted by our current era, because a distinction was unforeseen, along with it effects. We must understand the distinction between certain taboos and others. Taboos that favour transgression and taboos that completely disregard and devalue it i.e. Christian, Muslim and Jewish taboos, as well as other religious and monotheistic taboos. Sex must be celebrated, not devaluated. The latter has caused the era that Western culture finds itself in, the era of trangression without anything to transgress, pleasure via contraction as opposed to release from an overflowing of tension – the lowest form of pleasure, and closer to the lowest form of life. Further away from life than possibly any other act.

Wittgenstein’s beard

Meaning is the most powerful determining concept, it renders finite and necessary that which is infinite. But, meaning itself is use, and use has no criterion over and beyond habit, and a particular way (form) of life. Alter the habit, alter the life, and you’ll encounter the meaning of meaning: contingency. Meaning is purely synthetic.

Similarly, Kant saw rules (empirical laws) as synthetic, however, he gave them a foundation in the categories and also a necessity via a prioricity. Something that he ardently fought for tooth and nail, against the genius of David Hume’s induction problem. Kant’s synthetic a priori is precisely what Wittgenstein wants to break, but how? By breaking the necessity in a prioricity, perhaps even a prioricity itself, in favour of the a posteriori (as contingent), use and interpretation. No rule can be determined ad infinitum because of temporality, because of experience (and perhaps pragmatism of a particular life-form). I may grasp a rule to reproduce that which the rule is for, but for how long? Can my grasping (using) the rule at one time ever ground my grasping (using) this same rule indefinitely? Can one reproduction determine all possible others – ad infinitum? The criterion for ad infinitum will always be lacking, for Wittgenstein.

Wittgenstein argues against definition; but only the kind that determines a thing and all its possible variations ad infinitum. He is, in my view, a peculiar kind of non-essentialist – perhaps in the linguistic realm, but will ultimately push the same idea in all realms.

The Sculptor’s Tools

A speech for all the sculptors out there, my brothers and sisters who just wish so desperately to give birth to themselves in one form or other, and who struggle day and night in the process. A speech for the strong souls whose only weakness is the desire to express themselves in their own way: business, art, science, philosophy…

A sculptor must be honest to his tools. He must keep them safe; shielded from the wind, from water and rust, from old age and decay, from bluntness and breaking, and from all possible dangers. For to the sculptor, his tools are everything. His work is his life; it’s how his soul desires to extricate itself and take shape outside of him – to sever itself from him with every work, and to nourish itself with every attempt. His tools become his most cherished possessions.

Yet, he must also have the courage to flaunt them! For what is a soul if it is not seen, and what is a work if it is not enjoyed – and enjoyed not only by him. Why possess a gift and not be able or even wish to give it? Who has the courage to harbour a gift and never desire to give it? Who’s soul is so destitute as to be born with a gift and to wish to place it on one’s shelf? – hidden from the world where it can slowly wither and clothe itself with dust. Nay! Let him whose soul possesses a burning desire to speak, let him speak! Let him whose soul possesses a burning desire to sing, let him sing? Let him whose soul possesses a burning desire to be silent, let him be silent. Him who writes, let him write. Him who destroys, let him destroy. Him who creates, let him create. Him who smiles, let him smile. Him who cries, let him cry. Him who punishes, let him punish. Him who desires, let him desire. Let him, let him, let him.

Let them all flaunt their burning souls, let the burning warm one and all. For the warmth of a soul is the like the warmth of a sun – it gives life, it gives wonder, it gives nourishment and it gives breath. So flaunt your soul and flaunt its tools, keep them by your side wherever you go, whatsoever you do and whomsoever you meet. Let them see that shinning sickle by your side, that sharp and elegant knife by your waste, that mighty hammer by your hand, that flashy cane that supports your battered limbs… Be who you are, and become who you’ve always been.

Social Malady

Being lonely is the cause of one too many social maladies. Don’t confuse being lonely with being alone; aloneness could be an ecstatic remedy.

Joy and the hermit

Aphrodite sits in contemplation with a bowl of cherries placed competitively next to a bowl of grapes, of which she received as gifts from Dionysus – oh, how he courts her. On the one hand she attempts to slowly place a most perfectly shaped grape in her mouth, and the other she fiddles with a conspicuous feather drowning in elegance. It is white, could be a dove’s or a swan’s, with a dash of black at the tip. She looks at it melancholically and begins to speak to it,

“Hará, my love, share thee I must not; why dost though make me do this?”

Proclaiming with a quiet and disarming voice - truly the voice of a lover - silence consumes her, almost as if the feather replied back to her abruptly and brimming with confidence. After an excessive period of quiet the door to her chamber sounds with a gentle knock, and she welcomes them in with a seductive voice,

“Come in.”

Eros bows at her, and walks slowly and assuredly to sit by her and looks up into her eyes. She smiles and kisses him on the forehead putting her arm around him and playing with his curly hair. Speaking sweet words of poetry into his ear, he smiles and looks down at the feather she is holding by his chest and asks,

“What be that, mother?”

She doesn’t reply, but moves her arm away and the atmosphere turns dense and heavy – he feels it and is enveloped by a demeanour of concern. She holds the feather up to eye-level and gazes at it as if she is communicating with it. Dropping her head slowly, her chin gently rests between her shimmering collarbones,

“Son,” she proclaims, “come thee hither, I have a quest for thee…”

“Yes, mother”, Eros replies, his voice dripping with alarm.   

“Hand me thy arrow, son”, she gently and confidently sounds out.

He offers her the most cherished of all his arrows d’amour; it’s perfectly cut, the linearity is flawless, the blade is sharpened to perfection and the feathers are exquisite and brimming with a glamorous shade of purple – like Eros’ own wings. She looks at it, smiles at the pleasant exemplar of the aesthetic and tears out one of the three feathers. Whence little Eros expresses a deep pain – as if the feather was torn straight from his wing. Placing her own feather on the arrow, she begins to inform him,

“This, son, be Hará, my most trusted companion and secret kept from all my other brothers and sisters. A gift bestowed me by Zeus; a gift that his wife has found it reason to harbour ill-will towards me.” Her voice fluctuating from sadness to agitation.

“It is beautiful…” Eros remarks eyes and mouth wide-open revealing an utter charm, overtaken by beguilement. Aphrodite smiles subtly and tenderly, then raises her eye-brows ever so slightly. She takes the arrow into both hands and lifting it in the air such that the sun-light penetrates gracefully on it, she sheds a gentle tear. Her head along with her hands move down to face her son and she begins to instruct him,

“Listen to me. Take thou this arrow with Hará and find thee the hermit living in the metropolis. Thou hast the capacity to seek him. The only thing thou needst knowest is that thou must strike him as he is lying with his beloved, Joy. A silence will strike them and she will reveal a tender smile, that is when thou strikest him. This is important son, don’t thee forget it.”

Eros nodding meekly, picks up his bow on one hand, places the pack of arrows on his shoulder, and grasps the arrow with Hará firmly in the other hand. Moving slowly towards his mother who was now sitting back down draining in melancholia, she looks in his direction and he kisses her on the cheek. Aphrodite looks him straight in the eye with a fiery fervour and intently signals with her head to the exit, as if to say “Go”. Eros stands up straight and spreads his legs shoulder distance, then erects his body resembling a war statue. Looking up away from his mother and into the sky, his wings spread unanimously and with a thunderous thrust that sends a miniscule gust, which flaps Aphrodite’s hair back as he takes leave, he leaves. She looks in his direction as he is consumed by the sun and the distance, all the while she cannot hide her concern and sadness – she’s losing a tender and most sacred item.

Flying over the metropolis, all seems chaotic and moving too quickly – he wonders how worthless his arrows are in such terrain – his brother Himerus is infinitely more successful. Yet, this hermit he knows too well, he’s made his acquaintance before, and he’s struck him on many occasions. He finds his place with sufficient ease and haste, as his ego’s worth plummets at the thought that he’s serving his mother’s quest with comfort. Upon arrival he makes the hermit’s acquaintance, somehow, the hermit is the only human for millennia that can feel his presence. He looks with respect and admiration upon this man, sitting there humbly with his Joy as she rests her pretty little head on his lap. The atmosphere makes Eros tilt his head to one side, extend a slight one-sided half-smile and a subtle blush. They converse together and the whole world in that moment disappears, it is just them two speaking to each other. Yet, Eros knows that this is not all, the whole world stays with them in their conversation, in their words, in everything that comes out of her mouth and everything that enters his ears waiting to be filtered. The hermit plays with her dashing semi-long, wavy and dark-brown hair. Her glistening eyes gazing intently into his, his back at her, they begin to stop conversing and just gazing at each other. Joy reveals a pleasantly illuminating smile that shines the room and the hermit’s eyes brighter. Eros’ head comes back to its normal position and he readies himself – this is it, he thinks. He takes Hará and aligns his bow, then as if by a flash he is struck by a paralysis. From behind the hermit he sees his brothers Himerus and Anteros side by side, both armed at the ready. His paralysis turns into a fear, then into a series of thoughts regarding past, present and future. All becomes clear to him and he begins to weep and a tear drops on Hará. Looking up at his brothers, he winks at them and nods. They nod back and all three of them simultaneously release their arrows. The arrows fly cutting the air gently and hit the hermit, two at the back, one at the front, straight to the chest and into his heart. He feels a spasm and gasps intensely for breath as Joy springs up with concern. Holding his chest with both hands and finding his breath again, he stops and the atmosphere changes. Then he gently brings close his beloved Joy and cups both his hands on her tender rose-like cheeks, and kisses her with a passion befitting a man who has not kissed a woman in a millennium. The kiss burns right through all barriers and she collapses as her heart is overwhelmed, she falls on his hands and he falls inside her straight to the heart.

—

Inspired by, Straight To The Heart by Sina Vodjani,

and a woman.