Pulp Friction

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My wellness practices this week have been largely based on survival. I’ve been working too hard. It’s damn infuriating that the rewards of working too hard are generally not rewarding at all. As usual I find myself embroiled in a steamy hot love affair with Exhaustion. I am caught in the muscled clutches of Exhaustion like the lusty fair maidens of those bodice-ripper paperback novels.

Only without the big hair, big heels, and duty-beauty. More like the limp, barely conscious captive languishing in King Kong’s fist. I can’t vamp right now. I look tired. I sound tired. I swear I probably smell tired.

Does Exhaustion have a scent? Yep. It smells like coconut. You can smell him all over me. Or her. I don’t suppose Exhaustion has a gender. Or maybe Exhaustion has both genders.

That would be the perfect name name for our trashy thrashy romance novel though–Coconut Surrender. Exhaustion would be native to the island. I would be the stranded daytripper. My resistance would already be low due to jet lag, decompression from real life, and the premature frenzy to indulge in island delights while on hiatus from reality. I’d be easy prey for Exhaustion. He/She would barely have to work at it. And I would probably just lay there, making a crappy novel even crappier.

Yeah. Based on what I’ve written so far it is probably better that I stay off the blog today except to deliver the Tinas.

No double exposures this week (who has the energy?) but I did go back to black and white (so soothing and restful). I confess that the two Tinas in the green shirt were taken on the same day. I try not to double-up but when you see the slideshow below you’ll understand why I did it. You can’t really tell in the collage but as I turned to gaze over my shoulder something hilarious happened to my chest. (Hilarious if you’re exhausted, mildly amusing if not.)

The twist of my torso makes it appear that I’ve got one bodice-filler hanging about six inches lower than the other. The heart on the t-shirt only makes it worse. You’ve heard of uni-boob? This is tilt-a-boob. (I know, sounds like a carnival ride. Might be fodder for a tilt-a-plot chapter of Coconut Surrender.) It made me laugh so hard I popped a seam upon which Exhaustion probably wasn’t tugging.

You can see it better in the slideshow…

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The broom was supposed to be a joke. I festered fiercely in a crabby mood. I meant to convey that it was time for me to go for a ride. You know, on the broom. Like a witch. But tilt-a-boob eclipsed it in mirth and all-around greatness so the joke paled.

And this toast to the glass half-empty rhetoric…(I told you I was in a mood.)

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And this…

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Kayak clansmen practiced their underwater rolls along this ledge after a release from the nearby dam. I wouldn’t have believed it. Boaters who want to tump over? And practice it? To get better at rolling around underwater? And maybe get stuck and have to bail out, all while upside down in white water? (I saw that happen.) Sure. Okay. Whatever doesn’t float your boat.

And this…

Peaco and the sexy kitties you already know. Sun spots through the bamboo grove at the Jesus Crack House you already know. The ghost art was left behind on the top of a picnic table. Muddy river water receded after a flood and left behind these dusty bleachy tattoos across the top of the table. It was enchanting enough to temporarily lift me out of that mood. But then the vampire mosquitoes set in and the enchantment was shattered by a wailing flailing dash to shelter…not unlike our heroine of Coconut Surrender fleeing the island in a crescendo of resolve before Exhaustion claims her anew.

Let’s give her a name, shall we?

— Birdie Copper

(bodice ripper)

P.S. I just remembered I never explained duty-beauty. It was a phrase coined during WWII, when women were told “Beauty is your duty!” to help enliven the spirits of servicemen. When not bolting rivets and rolling bandages women were supposed to keep morale high by looking good. I appropriated the term because nobody–and I mean nobody–makes it onto the cover of a bodice-ripper novel without a dutiful amount of glamour as well. Duty-beauty.

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