Currently, I’m lounging on a sofa sipping coffee, and yawning uncontrollably. Thursday afternoon, kissed the Mister goodbye, before he left for work. Earlier that morning, we hung the dart board in the basement after sharing breakfast.

Wednesday, at eight, we sped down the interstate and I narrowly avoided being sucked out the sunroof of the Mister’s SUV when the front of the queen-sized mattress tied to roof caught a gust of air. (Note to self, don’t be so fucking stupid). The good news is the guest bedroom is fully equipped. Wednesday morning, jet lagged, I swore uncontrollably at the neighbor’s dog who barked an early morning wake-up call because a jogger passed by.

Tuesday afternoon, I sat next to the Mister as he navigated the traffic on the downtown connector while simultaneously muttering obscenities about Atlanta drivers. One hour prior, I tracked my flight over the courtesy monitor, and noticed our flight path passed near this blogger’s home and this blogger’s home, but I thought better of requesting the flight crew make unscheduled stops. When I looked down at the Appalachian Mountains, bordering North Carolina and Tennessee, I was reminded of the short hike we took Saturday. The world is a small place. At 9AM that morning, I completed a pen and ink drawing in my travel sketchbook.

At 8AM I was engrossed in Catcher in the Rye. At 5:30AM I was drinking pinot noir and eating grilled salmon. At 3:30AM, I waited for name to be cleared from the standby list.

Monday evening, between the hours of 7 and 12PM, I tossed and turned, counted sheep,and sang the lyrics of all the Aimee Mann songs I could remember in my head. At approximately 8PM I took an ibuprofen tablet to combat the unfortunate side effects of the headache which resulted from the over-consumption of champagne gifted to me by a flight attendant on my arrival flight to Frankfurt. I turned off the lights in anticipation of the 2AM wake-up call. Between 1 and 4 PM I dined on authentic German cuisine with the Mister and some of his coworkers in Frankfurt. (Jagerschnitzel, potatoes even Dr Adkins couldn’t resist, and respectable beer) Between 9AM and 12PM, the Mister and I explored the plotz at Wiesbaden.

Sunday evening at 2AM I arrived at the Frankfurt. I lamented the briefness of the trip, and regretted my indecisiveness regarding travel. Had I known a few days in advance I would have contacted, this lovely expat. Between the hours of 10PM and 1AM, I read the Catcher in the Rye. Between the hours of 5PM and 9PM I finished The Devil Wears Prada. From 3 to 4 PM awaited being cleared from the standby list to board the flight. From 11AM to 1PM travel by car with the Mister to Hartsfield Jackson International Airport. Between the hours of 9AM to 11AM, I packed my suitcase as I tried to decide if I would actually follow through with joining the Mister on his business trip. Who decides to fly internationally with less than three hours to prepare? Apparently someone who doesn’t want to spend three days alone with two cats.

Saturday evening, we drove home from the Smokey Mountains after a post-6-mile-hike beer and hamburger. At 7PM, we poked fun at the ostentatiousness of Pigeon Forge (Think Las Vegas with Miniature Golf, Fudge kitchens, and Jesus, instead of gambling, drinking, and legalized prostitution. Although on some level, those are really the same things.)

At 3PM, we admired the view from The Jumpoff, an overlook on the Boulevard Trail, that branches off the Appalachian Trail. This brief segment of the Appalachian Trail was moderate and ran mostly along the ridge. At 9AM we finished breakfast before parking at the trailhead.

Friday evening, we fell asleep in the hotel before the respectable hour of 10PM. Sometimes your body feels so fucking old, while your inner ten year old simultaneously plots skinny dipping in the hotel pool. At 8:30PM, we enjoyed ribs at a favorite restaurant, post-hike post-strenuous-walk to Grotto Falls.

At 7PM, we spotted a black bear and two cubs when we were leaving the trailhead. At 6PM, the Mister and passed behind the falls for a closer look. At 5PM, we drove around the park looking for the trailhead. Between 1 and 3PM, we walked around Gatlinburg proper in search of hiking shoes for the Mister, completely fascinated by what is quite possibly the last wasp stronghold in the greater south. The lack of diversity left me feeling strangely uncomfortable. At 8AM, the Mister said, “Do want to hike the Smokies?”

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.

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.

It crept up silently. The economy of motion was comparable to one fingering a light switch. Even the Mister noticed it and he’s a guy. I ran out of words. Not sad, but empty. It was like walking through a vacant warehouse, the only sound is the repetition of your footsteps echoing across bare floors, and the only movement, your liquid shadow. A few days passed, my period arrived, and I wrote the whole experience off as being hormonal. I like to fantasize about being unshakably reasonable and above the influence of estrogen, but Mother Nature is a twisted sadist who likes to fuck with me too.

I regained purpose, or rather, busied myself with completing as much painting, and maintenance as I could tackle. Transient thoughts weaving through my mind, in synch with my music playlist, but nothing requiring the capacity to dwell. The Mister came home for a few days, and then departed again. We’re nearing the end of the interior work. It seems I’ve been nesting forever, but in truth it’s mostly a bunch of painting, and a small bathroom facelift, interrupted by trips downtown to eat awesome food, buy fresh produce, or get the Mister a chiropractic adjustment. I find comfort in the ordinary.

Later, when I tackled the bathroom, it struck again. There was a small inconvenience derailing progress, and I almost let it defeat me. It took more time than it should have for me to right my head and get back on track, but for hours, I found myself sliding downhill with the parking brake engaged.

It happens frequently. I engage myself with machine-like precision and endurance completing a series of tedious yet un-glorious task, and I maintain the pace longer than many could, yet ultimately I jump the track due to some inconsequential inconvenience. An inconvenience, that challenges me to get over myself. It’s that minor hiccup, the proverbial straw, that is remembered and dwelled upon, not the head of steam that produced the bulk of the progress. I long to turn off my head some days as I am often my own worst enemy.

***************

A gift to the new bride and groom. I noticed the peacock was a recurring theme in their wedding announcement and invitation. I thought it might be significant. Colored pencil. Not a subject, I would choose for myself, but it was appropriate to honor the occasion, and well received. Part of the joy in making art, is capturing the spirit of the recipient.

Thanks for your compassion and support on the last post. Things are quiet. If that sounds vague, worry not. Though not synonymous with peaceful, quiet is a good thing. I poured my frustrations and insecurities into this space because I didn’t want to pick a fight with the Mister. Some might argue he doesn’t deserve an extension of grace, but attacking him (even if deserved) is fruitless. It doesn’t correct his actions, and it does nothing for my self-esteem to emotionally kick a man in the crotch, after his parents have tried to rip his heart out of his chest. I can’t condone being mean for the sake of being mean.

The Mister has been supportive and believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. He’s tolerated my cutting remarks, and he’s held back my hair while I puked still greeted in the morning with the words, “I love you”. He’s encouraged me to chase my dreams. Dreams I seldom acknowledge much less consider attainable. Unconditional love. The least I can do is return the favor. I’m no saint. I just haven’t written about my character flaws it yet.

It’s important to learn from everyone. Those who know more than you and those who know less, those who learn from their mistakes, and those who don’t. I try to learn from my mistakes, and make adjustments should I face a similar situation occur in the future. The Mister, in his unshakable optimism, believes things will happen differently in spite of his indifference.

He believes whereas I suspect. I suppose both methods have a place in this world, and neither should be exclusive….

Tuesday morning the Mister met with the One Eyes and a contractor who has been hired to work on the One Eyes’ home. The Mister didn’t ask me to accompany him, and I didn’t volunteer. In the home’s current state, it is unsafe to be occupied by the One Eyes. Carpet must be installed, leaks repaired, handrails installed, closets re-equipped, ceilings repaired, walls repainted, and the whole structure cleaned from top to bottom.

The Mister returned from the meeting before lunch. I asked how he managed not leave without taking his parents to lunch and he replied, “I think they were ready for me to leave”. That never happens. They ALWAYS expect a road trip to get lunch. I didn’t ask any more questions about the meeting.

Later Mister Hombre mentioned he saw his brother at a fast food restaurant on the morning of the meeting, but his brother didn’t volunteer to join him with the contractor. I asked him if he would have volunteered if the situation had been reversed and he responded,”No, but this isn’t about me, it’s about my brother.” This is a good example of how the Mister and his brothers operate. Ignorance is bliss.

I talked to a friend who met the One Eyes when the Mister took them shopping. She acknowledged we had our hands full, then she asked how I was doing. I told her there are good days and bad days, but I’m hanging in there.

©2008 Cloud Study, Chalk Pastel on Textured Paper

As a kid, dreams were so vivid. I would awaken from sleep with a jerk, bleary eyed and confused, and realize I had escaped the unadulterated pleasures of my unfettered imagination. I would close my eyes tightly in a vain effort to return to the parameters of the previously romantic notion. It hardly ever worked. Rare was the night I could return to the sleepy fantasy I had so carelessly abandon.

Plenty of people put stock in nocturnal dreams, and what they reveal about your hopes, your fears, your future, and your psyche. I’m not well read enough to offer interpretation, praise or disembowel Freud on this one. At this place in life, I’d rather not overanalyze, and prefer to enjoy to dreams for the escape from reality they offer.

Most of my nocturnal dreams are positive or neutral. As a kid, there were recurring locations. Most were not real places, but accessed from my childhood home, either through the attic, or crawl space. In my dreams I explored these fictitious spaces that seemed to extend for miles.

In my twenties the dreamscape changed. I ceased exploring, and fell into the trap set by college and wage earning. These dreams were non-restful and stressful. In college, I threw pottery in my sleep and awakened to the buzzing of that fucking alarm clock and felt absolutely exhausted. If I could have brought all THOSE pots back from my dreams, I could have easily stocked a crematorium, and a flower shop. My first full time job, fueled computer dreams. I would spend hours plotting points on paths for die cuts, and later writing html (Can you tell I have trouble letting go of things?

Recently, I woke Mister Hombre up talking in my sleep. Make that, talking loudly. Apparently, I was talking to my father in the dream, and I wasn’t being heard. I woke up, firmly saying, “I’m going to be fucking clear about this…” It was with the strained tone, you have when you fight to emerge from drowsiness. The Mister laughing, and we were confused and amused.

Dreams I remember fondly are light and airy. Sometimes I am ice skating, gracefully. I can leap, but most importantly, I can land (I can skate. I am NOT graceful. Think daschund walking a tightrope.). These dreams feel weightless, as if all the burdens of ordinary life have been discarded for the moment. In some, I can fly, or at the very least float. I wake up feeling relieved like I have released some unnecessary, but tightly held burden.

The best dreams usually include friends I don’t get to see often enough. These are people I long to spend time with, but life, families, jobs and geography always seem to interfere. Last week, one of these friends came to me in a dream and it was wonderful. We were hanging out in a grassy meadow lounging on a blanket, talking about nothing and everything, leaning shoulder to shoulder, and laughing. The memory is so crisp, like it really should have happened…maybe it did.

Study of hands from sketchbook. Gel pen on colored paper. Probably my hands.