Like an undiscoverd work of art

I want him to touch me like the Gardener, like I’m a rich, beautiful plot full of potential and earthen mystery, like my curves and valleys and topography have purpose and difference in yield and required attention. No two plots are the same, and in fact, no two areas of one fertile field are necessary the same type of soil, the same distribution of sand and loam and silt. And If he doesn’t intuit this, as the Gardener did, I want him to study the lay of the land and learn it.
I need him to challenge me and refine me for courtly presentation, as the politician did. He must have the mind of a studied historian, the wit of a jester, the poise of a stately diplomat, although only in the most necessary of amounts. Too much and the charm of sophistication is lost, like a fine Scotch consumed to excess.
His verse must sing with honesty and insight, as the Writer’s verse has. He must be able to craft and compose his dreams and desire and love for me with the care and purpose of a poet writing his own legacy. Yet I need him to be able to edit this prose, not run it on and on and on, dulling its meaning.
His dreams and optimism must be real and achievable, as they were to the Actor. Yet his playing need go no further than the stage. His words, with me, his actions, must be all his. All original.
All of these things I need from the man who is art yet undiscovered, the one who easily and completely turns my artistic talents to more than words and lines on a page. All of these things alone, with nothing else to compliment them, as they existed here, must work together, in one who inspires my world. All of these things and one more, the most important of all, really. For what is an understanding of the physical, or the mental, if it is not complimenting an understanding of the indescribable essence of who I am in all my parts? The dreamer, the actor, the poet, the planter; I too, am each of these things. The diplomat, the jester, the muse drunk on my own power… each of these things, as fundamental to my complimentary half as they are present in me, are hard to grasp and understand. Fluid, always changing, always moving, these pieces of my world must be quietly understood and sought out like the great adventure they are… just as the Wanderer sought to do.
The wanderer. For his downfalls and unsettled manner, his turbulent changes of atmosphere, he understood these parts of me like no other. But, in equal parts unsettled and in search of distant shores, greener grasses, I too, could not settle and remain content with the fluid life that such a journey provides.
There is no importance to the order of application of these parts. Like a song, many parts are layered and harmonized to complete the motif. All murals great and small, are colors and shapes and strokes woven together as part of the panorama. Body, plot, problem, resolution, all move a story from beginning to end. There is no set formula to the application and organization of these elements, they simply must come together to complete the artistic whole.