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Oct 31, 2007

According to the prestigious online network, Wallpaper News, the term "stripper" can be defined as "A gel or liquid that is applied to walls to facilitate the removal of old wallpaper."

Oddly, I find it difficult to accept this as a an accurate description of my working life.  At the same time, however, as I remove my clothes, pin my hair up and check my body for any embarrassing toilet paper residue of an average working day, the last thing on my mind is any form of "strip tease" or "exotic dance" (that is, of course, if I am not letting my mind wander to potential evening activities for the mutual enjoyment of my hubby and I).

I'm more likely to be giving myself a little kick in the bum for being slightly late - once again - and missing the chance to do a little light stretching in preparation for the marathon of stillness that lies before me.

Throwing on my bath robe and a pair of flip flops and cursing any chilliness that might be causing annoying goosepimples to crop up all over my arms, I make my way down the hall towards my "office" which - considering my lateness - is abuzz with tired morning faces, chatting with each other, desperately sipping at the final traces of their morning coffees, and preparing their work areas.

I step up to the podium, take one last hopeful glance at the clock as if it might be nice today and give me a couple of extra minutes.  Having ascertained that this is not the case, I remove my shoes and robe, turn my head away from the clock so that I can see out the large windows onto the (rather dreary) asphalted carpark, place my feet into the little feet shaped outlines on the podium, and settle into position.

Two and half hours, four short stretch breaks, 10 white cars, 7 red, 3 green and 8 pedestrians later, I am handed my robe and I am allowed to wander around for a bit, chatting to the artists about their little versions of me and - sometimes - what they had for breakfast.  Rather stiffly, I make my way back down the hall to the door marked "Modellrum" ('Model Room' in English).

Once or twice, as I change into my casuals, I have found myself pondering the relative absurdity that I spend most of my paid working hours completely naked and a hell of alot more time naked in public than most people could ponder even in the worst of their "walk-into-a-room-full-of-people-and-suddenly-realise-you-have-forgotten-to-wear-pants" dreams.

Certainly, there are situations where nakedness is perfectly acceptable, if not a necessity.  Showering for instance.  Sex, also, becomes rather complex in the absence of some degree of nudity.  Even in some public domains, people are expected to be somewhat unclothed; nude beaches, bath houses, gym change rooms, etc.  But, still there is a strange wall or fence or other form of metaphorical stop point that evokes various reactions from those to whom I choose disclose my current proffesion, none of which, might I add is "oh, that's nice".

I have heard everything from "you do realise that makes you a prostitute...'cause you're selling your body" to "AWESOME! How much does it pay and where do I sign up!".  Most people are interested to know how I manage to stand for hours on end with a room full of people staring at my naked body.  And, while I'm more worried about what would happen if my mind suddenly ran out of interesting things for me to think about to pass the time, I can see their point.  I can't say that I'm perfectly happy with my body and, like most women, I suffer from the unfortunate result of modern society's portrayal of the female specimin, a poor body image.  But to tell you the truth, after about 4 seconds, any uncomfortable feelings dissipate and I can even forget that I'm naked.  It's just a job, like any other, except with more bare skin.

For want of a better way to conclude today's rant, I will say:

Bye now,

Hanna

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Posted: Oct 31, 2007 2:41am
Oct 28, 2007
Focus: Environment
Action Request: March
Location: Australia
The current Government's refusal to ratify the Kyoto Protocol has set back urgently needed action on climate change. Walk Against Warming in the lead up to the 2007 elections and show the next Government you support immediate action.

The nationwide walk will take place on the 11th of November.  I will not be walking as I am currently in Sweden but my family back home will be walking for me and I encourage all concerned Aussies to join the cause, raise awareness and send the clear message to our leaders that imitating the US in not ratifying the Kyoto Protocol and denying the seriousness of global warming is NOT OK.
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Posted: Oct 28, 2007 4:53am
Oct 27, 2007

'Myth' defined: a traditional story accepted as history; serves to explain the world view of a people... (taken from Wordnet)

The myth that you will read today has nothing to do with the fanciful little creatures that live in your washing machine and steal all your left socks.  It has nothing to do with stories of creation nor does it allude to any highly glorified versions of the lives and deaths of past Kings.  And heaven forbid, I would dare bring up the subject of Santa Claus this early in the year (although I am getting the feeling that the department stores are just itching to bring out the tinsel and start belting out music_note_sixteen_jpg.jpg picture by ibimpi'Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, the very next day, you gave it away'music_note_sixteen_jpg.jpg picture by ibimpi over the loudspeakers, but are holding their breath until November 1 when it is almost...and I repeat ALMOST...not shameful to do so).

No, this myth is far greater and far more dangerous than all of those put together, namely:

The Myth of the Even Vague Possibility that at Some Time Somewhere the Complete and Lasting Repair of a Bicycle Wheel Tube was in Fact Achieved by Anyone Other than a Super Bicycle Expert Man

and it is traditionally told as follows:

One mild autumn day, a capable young woman by the name of Hanna found herself enjoying a pleasant bicycle ride along the road on her way to meet up with her tactfully hansome and caring boyfriend, Mats, for lunch.  Suddenly, she noticed that the soft pedelling motion that had brought her gracefully thus far no longer had the same effect and, upon inspecting the situation, found that one of her bicycles tires had alarmingly little air left in it.

Acting quickly, Hanna pulled over and made of use of a conveniently placed flat grass area by the side of the road.  Whipping out her handy bicycle repair kit, and after removing the tire from the bike with the spanner she luckily had with her also, she proceeded to remove both track and tube from the tire.

Quickly locating the small puncture, our hero lightly sanded the area and carefully applied the glue.  After waiting 2 to 3 minutes, during which time she joyfully gazed about herself, taking in her beautiful surroundings, she applied the perfectly cute little rubber patch, which stuck easily and immediately to the perfectly prepared surface. Five minutes and a few moments of faint concern that she would be slightly late for her date later, she felt sure that tube was strong enough and set about replacing the tube and track into their original positions on the wheel frame.

Having pumped up the tire to the appropriate pressure, Hanna stowed away the repair kit, elegently mounting the newly restored bicycle and riding off into the sunset.  The eagerly waiting Mats was appropriately surprised at the unfortunate occurance and glad that his beautiful girlfriend had been somewhat delayed, as he himself had been held up by some adoring fans (and rightly so, as he was a famous digital artist) who just would not let him pass without recieving personal autographs.  They proceeded to enjoy their (almost) perfect day together.

It's like some sort of beautiful dream...

Unfortunately, the reality of the matter is that Hanna would not have remembered to bring her handy bicycle repair kit, the road on which she was travelling would have been lined in thick goopy mud and, no matter how carefully she carried out the reparation, the procedure would have involved significantly dirter hands, lounder screams of frustration, and would ultimately result in a spectacular failure as well as a considerable loss of valuable (necessary) hitchhiking time.  I would also imagine that our hero would find it difficult to maintain that swavy air of elegance with mud covered hands and that painfully grumbly stomach she would recieve as a result of missing lunch.

And, on a final note, she probably wouldn't be on her way to meet the adorable boyfriend for lunch, but instead, be heading towards an incredibly important meeting of some sort for which being late is somewhat of a federal crime.

So, I urge you, people of the world, do not be fooled by people who say it can be done...because it can't, it's the way of the world and there's nothing we meager humans can do about it.  Buy a new tire tube, it's the only way...it's the only way.

Until next time,

Peace, love and cherries to all,

me

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Posted: Oct 27, 2007 5:00am
Oct 25, 2007
So begins another day
Another day of tooth decay



Having attempted to keep blogs in the past, my acute powers of premonition are giving me strong (depressingly negative) signals.  Soon enough, the space that should have been occupied by my incredibaly interesting thoughts concerning world politcs, my toenail clipping adventures, and most importantly, food, will be but a desolate landscape where the days highlight will be the migration of tumble weed from the left side, to the right.

With that in mind, shall we begin...

Today's Topic: Pretentious Poetry

According to the prestigious dictionary.com, ' pretentious ' can be defined as "characterized by assumption of dignity or importance" while a search for ' poetry ' brought up the definition, "the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts."

For me, pretentious poetry is an incredibly attractive artform as it combines three of my greatest motivations for living life; imaginative creation, the written word and my own self-importance.  This style encourages writing for oneself and for the simple sake of writing in the constant hope that any readers will be so dazzled by the beauty of the verse that they will fail to notice that, in actuality, the text has little to do with anything.

Having discovered this fantastic means of expression, I promptly set about experimenting with it's possibilities.  Behold my creations:


This morning

This morning came like cold contentment
tasting of distance and an ambitious sunrise
infused with the bitterness of semi-indulgence
which I have plucked from the stony ruins
of a girl labouring, once again, over her dark sheen.
This morning came softly and mercifully
the filth, the newness familiar as old sweat
a hazy ocean of moments more body than resolve
lifting the tired green in reluctant prayer
and denying the night its stranglehold.
This morning came quietly
humbly scarring the hands of labourers
and ruining the reflection of the proud.
Today , perhaps will leave me empty
Today, perhaps will leave me hoping for rain.



To the Ceiling

I am convinced
that the last thing I see
will be light
moving across some ceiling somewhere

Yes, I will die lying down
remembering the lights that moved me
when the darkness wasn't complete


Well, that's pretty much it.  Feel free to comment, though I cannot promise not to become defensive.  I am, after all, the most interesting person in the world, and therefore reserve the right to tell you that you are wrong

Topic for next time: Mending a punctured bicycle tire...
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Posted: Oct 25, 2007 1:58am

 

 
 
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Hanna Sandgren
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Visby, Sweden
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