In the early days of courtship, the Mister would frequently reach for me, pulling me back into bed, at o’fuck thirty as I tried to slip away and ready myself for work. He would draw me close, uh, demonstrate his need and whisper in my ear jokingly that guys were rationed a limited number of erections during their lifetimes, and it would be unconscionable to waste one.

What if our lives are predefined by allocated quantities? Each person is granted a specified amount of love, hate, luck or passion. Not predestination, but energy appropriation. Frequently, I don’t I have enough passion to meet all my needs. It’s as if all the passion I’m granted is indivisible for separate endeavors. All or nothing.

There are weeks I flit around from one task to the nest, never finishing anything, just exchanging one preoccupation for the next. After all the absent mindedness settles, I concentrate for longer periods of time, until the concentration morphs into a palatable unwavering focus propelling me to work longer, harder and more efficiently. The casualties of this driving force are usually those who mean the most to me. Ironically those same people, or should I say the same person, doesn’t grasp I can’t dismiss this burning like one does a wrong number, or an ill-fitting pair of shoes. I’m just not hard wired, they same as he.

I proselytized the importance of balance in life to decease the complexity and danger of juggling too many issues, yet I rarely maintain steadiness for an extended period of time, when left to my own devices. I have a single measure of antisocial passion. It either leaves me with an an insatiable appetite to straddle my man, or the desire to draw, sketch and develop, but rarely the desire for both during the same cycle.

The house painting is complete, the walls adorned, the bathroom vanity is almost dry, and the Mister is properly laid. The projects which guilted me away from the studio, are driving me to return. The approaching ardor is completely selfish. I am returning to more structured studio time for my need only, not the encouragement of my friends and family. If I did it for them, I would feel somewhat beholden, as if their pleasure took priority over mine.

I need to divide this passion, allowing my relationship to burn with the same intensity as my desire to create. Yet, it’s never that easy. When I devote myself to a drawing, I relinquish all of myself to the imagery, the media, and the emotional process. Waking hours are wasted expended in complete service for whatever project is at hand, whether it be drawing, construction, dirty flip book, or landscape design. I neglect sharing myself (emotionally or otherwise) with my partner, when I am consumed.

I don’t want drive to be an all or nothing proposition. I don’t want to compromise my libido for a suite of erotic drawings, nor do I want to forfeit creativity in favor of an lunchtime lay. I (actually, we) need all these things to continue a strong relationship. We both need to feel independent, and simultaneously needed, lascivious and purposeful, whole yet symbiotic.

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Beating a Dead Horse
This was a personal project I started on to cope with my lackluster career as a graphic designer. Beating a dead horse doesn’t translate in Spanish as an idiom, but I wanted a phrase that was significant to me. Media: Colored pencil.