love(part 2): wild little jungle.

we sat in the sun surrounded by an untamed jungle garden. the conversation was really a gift. i never felt an answer could be drawn to the complications of love. could raw love really be simplified? i read him poetry because on some basic level our stories were intertwined. his past was my un-imagined future, which i slowly dissolved to eradicate that kind of mental addiction to romanticism. i watched his walls, how his windows had curtains that could be drawn, how his studio had little windows that could be opened and the view led to a spiraling green jungle. he said his un-kept garden needed attention, but i saw it needed none, just to grow wildly, like his love never grew. i've had many conversations with older men who have learned many things through out their lives, yet we seem to be able to connect our conversations timelessly. i'll never forget the words one man told me once while we were having lunch months ago. about his wife: he said, "she's a really great, smart, wonderful woman, but never really what i wanted "physically." that hurt me, even though it was completely unrelated to me. i thought "wow, i never want to feel like that." today in our conversation we talk about that, the physical. how when you add sex into the equation, but not just sex, but the layers that are really the magnetic field around it, this whole story become like a wild little jungle of it's own. physical love, that kind of lure is demeaning.
i don't really know why we began talking in the first place. he just approached me, like an angel, completely trusting me to listen to his story. somehow, there were all these syncronisities that tied in, the jungian psychology surrounding the jungian student, the music of the late 60's and 70's, the un-ruly art that explored color like how my un-ruly mind explores layers, and the story after story that just melted into all my stories, but somehow had different boundaries. there was all this psychology wrapped around abstract art, bulging out, waiting to become. the words loomed through the paintings, i like undefined outlines, raw, with vibrant color. the sun was really bright. it was a beautiful california sunny day. i don't really know how to describe this kind of interaction, but it made me feel on a really deep level, some sort of continuity with leaving and becoming and discovering and dreaming. all i could think about was anias nin on paper back juxtaposed against a cinder block wall that hung a birth control chart of diaphrams. i think the rest of the story somehow takes place in new york...
it's hard to think that i could have left much sooner, but i was chasing after love, and it led me to all these beautiful places i would have never gone, had that feeling never initially been there.