Happy November 10th - 20 Years After the Change....

Just a short reminiscence of the times before..........

Water Melon-choly

The art of Thai vegetable and fruit carving originates from the floating lantern festival (Loi Krathong Festival) of the kingdom of Thailand at Sukhothai dynasty 700 years ago.

Cloud Porn

I borrowed the title for this post from a group I'm member in on Flickr. The content is much more innocent than it sounds - I found those images around the intewebs and I couldn't wait to share them (as I said, I just don't have time to write; it's so busy busy busy lately). I wish I could say I've seen as well defined shapes in the clouds myself... but hey, there are so many summers and so many hours of lying in fields and staring at the sky ahead of me!

Yoga Dogs

I usually find such things infantile but I couldn't resist this one.... It makes a good Xmas present too!

In Honor of the New Windows 7

I will use XP as long as there's even one single installation disc left and a code for it, and after that I will master Linux if I have to. In my University they already use Windows 7 and I let me tell you I hate the entire Office pack. Why they had to go and mess everything up just to make it look different?! Less clicks my a**. I had to battle for half an hour just to find the print button.And I had the notion that I am computer savvy... Anyways, here's something in honor of the new Windows product:

Real Indie Music!

I follow Funny or Die for some time now and although they have tons of not so good material, there are a few videos which betray a real talent. This is one of them!

Loser: Literal Video Version - watch more funny videos

Google Doodle - The Cookie Monster!!!

If you type google.co.uk at this very moment in your browser, you'll see this:

It's a kind of magic! :)

What's Wrong With This Picture?

(click to see large)

I am too busy to write lately (because I'm busy writing :) but it seems that I have one too many photos and videos to share. In relation to my recent I Love San Francisco post, here's a photo that illustrates the subject further. Something about the white hued Victorian buildings by dusk, the characteristic streets on the hills, the grand but cute pyramid skyscraper...and particularly the view to the Death Star that enchants me every time I think about this awesome city.

Hahahahaha!

SNOW-WHITE

AND THE SEVEN DWARFS

ROALD DAHL

When little Snow-White’s mother died,

The king, her father, up and cried,

“Oh, what a nuisance! What a life!

“Now I must find another wife!”

(It’s never easy for a king

To find himself that sort of thing.)

He wrote to every magazine

And said, “I’m looking for a Queen.”

At least ten thousand girls replied

And begged to be the royal bride.

The king said with a shifty smile,

“I’d like to give each one a trial.”

However, in the end he chose

A lady called Miss Maclahose,

Who brought along a curious toy

That seemed to give her endless joy-

This was a mirror framed in brass,

A MAGIC TALKING LOOKING GLASS.

Ask it something day or night,

It always got the answer right.

For instance, if you were to say,

“Oh Mirror, what’s for lunch today?”

The thing would answer in a trice,

“Today it’s scrambled eggs and rice.”

Now every day, week in week out,

The spoiled and stupid Queen would shout,

“Oh Madam, you’re the Queen sublime.

“You are the only one to charm us,

“Queen, you are the cat’s pajamas.”

For ten whole years, the silly Queen

Repeated this absurd routine.

Then suddenly, one awful day,

She heard the Magic Mirror say,

“From now on, Queen, you’re Number Two.

“Snow-White is prettier than you!”

The Queen went absolutely wild.

She yelled, “I’m going to scrag that child!

“I’ll cook her flaming goose! I’ll skin ‘er!

“I’ll have her rotten guts for dinner!”

She called the Huntsman to her study.

She shouted at him, “Listen buddy!

“You drag that filthy girl outside,

“And see you take her for a ride!

“Thereafter slit her ribs apart

“And bring me back her bleeding heart!”

The Huntsman dragged the lovely child

Deep deep into the forest wild.

Fearing the worst, poor Snow-White spake.

She cried, “Oh please give me a break!”

The knife was poised, the arm was strong,

She cried again, “I’ve done no wrong!”

The Huntsman’s heart began to flutter.

It melted like a pound of butter.

He murmured, “Okay, beat it, kid,”

And you can bet your life she did.

Later the Huntsman made a stop

Within the local butcher’s shop,

And there he bought, for safety’s sake,

A bullock’s heart and one nice steak.

“Oh Majesty! Oh Queen!” he cried,

“That rotten little girl has died!

“And just to prove I didn’t cheat,

“I’ve brought along these bits of meat.”

The Queen cried out, “Bravissimo!

“I trust you killed her nice and slow.”

Then (this is the disgusting part)

The Queen sat down and ate the heart!

(I only hope she cooked it well.

Boiled heart can be as tough as hell.)

While all of this was going on,

Oh where, oh where had Snow-White gone?

She’d found it easy, being pretty,

To hitch a ride in to the city,

And there she’d got a job, unpaid,

As general cook and parlor-made

With seven funny little men,

Each one not more than three foot ten,

Ex horse-race jockeys, all of them.

These Seven Dwarfs, though awfully nice,

Were guilty of one shocking vice-

They squandered all of their resources

At the racetrack backing horses.

(When they hadn’t backed a winner,

None of them got any dinner.)

One evening, Snow-White said, “Look here,

“I think I’ve got a great idea.

“Just leave it all to me, okay?

“And no more gambling till I say.”

Tat very night, at eventide,

Young Snow-White hitched another ride,

And then, when it was very late,

She slipped in through the Palace gate.

The King was in his counting house

Counting out his money,

The Queen was in the parlor

Eating bread and honey,

The footmen and the servants slept

So no one saw her as she crept

On tiptoe through the mighty hall

And grabbed THE MIRROR off the wall.

As soon as she had got it home,

She told the Senior Dwarf (or Gnome)

To ask it what he wished to know.

“Go on!” she shouted. “Have a go!”

He said, “Oh Mirror, please don’t joke!

“Each one of us is stony broke!

“Which horse will win tomorrow’s race,

“The Ascot Gold Cup Steeplechase?”

The Mirror whispered sweet and low,

“The horse’s name is Mistletoe.”

The Dwarfs went absolutely daft,

They kissed young Snow-White fore and aft,

Then rushed away to raise some dough

With which to back old Mistletoe.

They pawned their watches, sold the car,

They borrowed money near and far,

(For much of it they had to thank

The manager of Barclays Bank.)

They went to ascot and of course

For once they backed the winning horse.

Thereafter, every single day,

The mirror made the bookies pay.

Each dwarf and Snow-White got a share,

And each was soon a millionaire,

Which shows that gambling’s not a sin

Provided that you win.

I Heart SF

Another Cloud Reel ... from Delrious on Vimeo.

Happy Santa Muerte Day!

I was always fascinated by how much South American and Balkan cultures are alike.

We both have similar themes in our crafts - the colorful carpet weaving for instance, the amazing pottery, the traditional clothing and folk music - and we both worship the dead. Latin America has Santa Muerte, the Day of the Dead, and we have Zadushnitsa, the Day of the Souls.

I find this on the edge of being somewhat morbid, but nevertheless fascinating. It's like a superstitious insurance we pay so that the dead stay dead and don't come back haunting the living. We give them food (which they most certainly don't need) and material gifts (which they rather can't use), we remember their names and their deeds. I think it's ominously charming yet it does more than keep the dead happy. It helps us, the living, feel better about losing someone. It enables us to look at Death as something bearable, something acceptable. By consciously making Death a part of our lives, we stop for at least a minute to be afraid of it.

So happy Santa Muerte and remember: eat, drink and wear your new clothes. Life is just too short not to!

Something for Goodnight!

Random Acts of Kindness

It's Proven! Being God Can Change the World! Or so New Scientist Magazine says in its recent article.

See, I and John were thinking about this during the weekend. I often become hugely frustrated because I feel I can't magically change the world , regardless of how much I desire to. Even as I sit and write this, people die and suffer, the ozone hole gets bigger, the ice caps are melting. It makes me feel helpless to know that despite our best efforts war and destruction are still happening.

Then I though:

When I met John, my life changed. As my life changed, the life of my parents changed, and with it, my sister's and Ally's life changed. My in-law's life changed too, and I like to think that our friend's life changed at least a bit because of us. One day we will have kids, who will change someone else's life as well. So maybe the right thing I have to think about is how to make this change more global, visible and permanent. I am starting to work on that now! :)

The Evolution of an Artist II

The Artist at Work, Lovech, 2009

Here we are, at the end of 2009, and my Pumpkin Ally is already 7 years-old, in first grade, studying English, computers and martial arts, and she's still drawing like mad. Gone are the days when I was the most prominent artist in the family. The next generation, as it should be, gets better and better in everything we used to think we did well. It is the most wonderful feeling to see the potential in a child and to dream of a future where everything is possible. Ally gives me a good reason to believe that the future will be of the bright kind!

I am following Ally's artistic development here on Big Rock Cat and here are some of her latest works:

Mid 2008

Late 2008

Early 2009

(A Black Girl)

(Mermaid)

Late Winter 2009


Spring 2009

(Princess)

(Indians)


Summer 2009

(Power Puff Girls on fire-driven skateboards)

(Tribal Girl in the Jungle)

(Kung-Fu Panda)

(an Alien)

Fall 2009

(A girl in a room with perspective)

(A Female Clown)

(A Japanese Girl)

(Red Haired Princess)

The Artist, stretching after a hard and long drawing session :)

Visualizing a Childhood Memory

When I was in kindergarten, and even in the first few years of primary school, I remember how on a few instances we were made to undress, put a special pair of plastic goggles and then we were lead to a dark room with a peculiar little lamp in the middle, where we had to stand still for a few minutes. We were told not to take our goggles off and to be patient, not to move or talk.

I recall this experience as something almost surreal, and until today I wasn't sure that it happened at all. The room smelled electric, like the air before а storm - a scent that resembles violets but is actually ozone. I couldn't really feel anything, or see well from behind my goggles, but I remember being strangely warm and after I got dressed and continued with my games or studies, I had the aftertaste of some unexplainable adventure, the sense of a big mystery that had happened to me.

Later, every time I thought about those episodes of my early childhood, I couldn't help to wonder if we were a subject of a secret experiment. Yet the memory wasn't traumatic in its nature, and I vaguely suspected that it should have been some sort of a medical procedure as the people who led us to the dark room were usually the nurses of the school.

Today I opened my Google home page, where I have a National Geographic gadget, and I saw a photo that practically paralyzed me for a short instant. It was a perfect visualization of my childhood memory. As if someone had actually went back in time and snapped this strange ritual while it was happening.



The caption below the photo says this:

"Make-believe summer lasts for a minute or two as kindergarten children in sunless Lovozero bathe in ultraviolet light. Brief exposure to UV radiation provides the children with vitamin D, normally supplied by sunlight. The "sunshine vitamin" strengthens young bones."

Did You Guys Change Your Clocks Yet?

I salute my geek friends with the following images of clocks. They once again prove that geek is sexy and don't you forget it! :)

Customizing Religion or Do Dogs Go to Heaven?

Lately I have been reading lots of US press, namely the New York and the LA Times. I find that these two particular newspapers have to offer great story writing as opposed to the more sensational and conservative European press. I like the American approach to a given news story, it is often done on a personal level but still remains professional, something the European journalists haven't yet mastered due to the canonical belief that personal involvement should be removed from news for it to be truly objective. I refer not to political or social analysts, who in fact do an amazing job in the Telegraph or the Sunday Times (and of course, the Guardian benefits from employing working writers to contribute to its editions), I am talking about daily news journalism, about the people who present us with the current information and updates about ongoing events.

Once again it struck me how fundamentally different American and European cultures are when I think about religion. In Europe people inherit religion as part of their countries' century long history, while in America religion is something people find and rediscover constantly. I understand Catholicism, Eastern Orthodox Christianity and even Islam well enough, but I am quite puzzled by the idea of Protestantism and all the types of American religious inventions that have sprung from it. And while religion in Europe is something you belong to culturally, and practice in the traditional rituals of the church, in America Jesus seems everywhere - on the radio, on the TV, on highway poster signs and even in bars and supermarkets. I am amused by the way America customizes its religion by making it popular, inclusive and user friendly.

In this connection I offer you this article in the LA Times about the Southern California Bible Belt's megachurches. It is fascinating how different the outcomes of such organized religion are compared to the somewhat stale, immobile, unchanging and exclusive traditional religion in Europe:

"San Diego's Rock Church offers a multitude of ministries, including those for dog lovers, rock climbers, skateboarders, four-wheel-drive enthusiasts, people with eating disorders, even strippers and mimes. Since it opened in 2000, the church has more than tripled in size. Each weekend, 12,500 adults and children pray in its sanctuary. Members also are encouraged to put their faith to use in the world outside of the church, which has set a goal this year for its members to perform 600,000 "Do Something" hours of service in San Diego County and beyond -- mentoring children, picking up trash, planting trees."

I am certainly an atheist when it comes to believing in God, but I do recognize and respect religion in its potential power to bring people together for a good cause. And if megachurches work for those people, I guess it's all good.

However, I can't restrain myself from including the following popular Internet joke (which I suspect as bogus as I look carefully into the images) that seem to say everything about the difference between Protestantism and Catholicism.

Beauty of the Week - Liv Tyler

I saw Stealing Beauty by Bertolucci recently, which along with its poignant story about coming of age, has sensual visuals and an extraordinary soundtrack. It also made me remember how much I like Liv Tyler, both as an actress and as a woman. She is a bodily reincarnation of female beauty - pure, gentle and playful, yet strong and searching.

Nut Flower - A Story About an Abortion

The photo is by my Flickr friend Nick, aka Biscuit. We never met, yet our conversations about life's tough moments made me feel so much better about the whole thing. Thank you, Nick!


I contemplated a long time on the question if I should write about my abortion here on my Blog and I decided for it. It is a serious subject, and a heavy one, not very politically correct and extremely personal, but if I know something for sure is that we cannot always avoid facing the reality of our existence, no matter how much we want it to be a series of fortunate events. There will always be a day when along comes trouble and since writing is my cathartic way to deal with everything, I'm facing my troubles here, I'm addressing them and I hope they will look a bit more bearable after I'm done. So much happened during the last three weeks and I went through so many revelations that I feel I need to put them out there, as I hope they are universally valid for thousands of women around the world.

And, of course, I am absolutely positive that soon the kitties and the music and the celebration of the world's peculiarities will overcome again, because it's just the way it is - after a storm the sun comes out and after an abortion life goes on.

Part One - The Realization Comes Home.

Two weeks after the "condom incident" I saw John out to his Saturday football game and I took the test. I told myself it's just a standard thing to make me feel better about my missing period. I will do it, I thought, and of course it will be negative, so I'll just take a deep breath and soon be waiting for my period in better spirits. I was only a day late anyways. So I unwrapped the funny stick, peed on it and by the time I had my pants back up my life had changed in proportions I didn't believe were possible. The test was positive. Very faint, very tricky, but I could see it. No way, I thought. Just what in the name of Jesus Christ almighty I will do now?!! (I always rant religiously when I'm frustrated)

I went up and down the stairs three times just to make sure I saw it right. I didn't want to have anything to do with the funny stick so I left it in the bathroom lying on top of the laundry basket. Up and down, panting, slightly dizzy, talking to myself, repeating Oh My God like a lunatic. Have you noticed how you don't find any interest in God until you catch yourself praying? I am a complete atheist if there was ever one, yet I prayed a lot that day. My first instinct was to call John and make him come home. He was on his way to the pitch, probably in a teammate's car, talking about football scores and strategies and techniques. I didn't call him. I realized I will ruin his day too if I do. John deserves his Saturday matches, 90 minutes of running and breathing hard, and getting dirty, salty with sweat and excited, free, alive. I had to wait until later to talk to him. I never felt so alone in this house.

The first two hours were strange. I felt something of a schizophrenia. On one hand I was ecstatic, perfectly blissful and uplifted, and on the other I was scared shitless. I was mortified. I was also very curious. Do I feel different? How different do I feel? Can I feel it inside of me? Do I look different? I spent 30 seconds staring at my own pale face in the big living room mirror which made me even more nervous and confused. When you stare long enough into your own eyes you will begin to see another person there, a person you don't really know. I sat down on the floor, back against the heater, knees under my chin, shaky, wanting to laugh and cry at the same moment. Do they call this hysteria? I believe so. Hysteria is caused by trauma. Trauma is cured by voicing the events that caused it, narrating the incident, sharing it aloud. I didn't have anyone to talk to - I wanted to tell John first before I told my parents or friends - so I started thinking. Guys, rarely have I had to think as hard as I did before that day....

When John finally came home that afternoon, in his somehow happily tired way, I sat on the bottom step of the staircase facing the front door. I smiled with an effort and I told him I had the test and it came out positive. In my mind's eye this was the worst way you can tell the man you love that you're pregnant with his baby. I had practiced in my dreams a million ways to announce this stunning news, all of them artistic and original. I would put a pillow under my shirt and parade around the house. Or he will come home from work and ask me how my day was, and I would say: "Oh, nothing much. I found a cure for cancer, I won a Pulitzer, and I am pregnant!". I would post a photo of my positive test on Flickr and send him the link. I would make a fortune cookie for dessert that says: "You'll become a father 9 months from now".... And when I had to utter the words that Saturday under my breath, hardly looking him in the eyes, I knew this wasn't right. Damn the man!

Part Two - How Easy is it, Exactly, to Get Pregnant?

We spend our sexually active lives attempting to not get pregnant. A whole industry is devoted to the matter, research, new chemicals, propaganda and awareness. Let me tell you - it's quite easy to throw all of those things out the window and to wake up one morning with a bun in the oven. Despite all the precautions, getting pregnant is a real possibility. And thank God! (See, God once again.) I find it fascinating that the human body always finds a way to beat science. You stuff it with hormones, restrict its fluids, implant devices inside of it and sometimes you even cut the tubes, yet fertility often recovers, regardless. And in the life of a young a married couple, a passionate young married couple very much in love, getting pregnant is almost a fact every time. Suddenly I opened my eyes to the truth that contraception is an enormously exhausting process.

I was on the Pill for about two years, on and off. Fuck the Pill. It's ridiculous. First I used to feel sick till I got used to it. Then my legs felt heavy, I had pains, I had strange moods. Then, everything became too even. Flat. I lost my sex drive somewhere. I was taking the Pill to prevent pregnancy while having sex, but ended not wanting to have any sex. And for me this is quite, umm, unusual. Okay, not normal. I hate the Pill.

The good old condom, a relief from the hormones. Served us well until now. Good deal - you get what you pay for. Condoms are cozy and comfortable until they slip off. We didn't panic and we went to buy the morning-after pill. More than 80% effective, they say. Read the small print. Yet again, we found ourselves in the group of less than 20% lucky winners. Super fertile! As John pointed out, that at least, is good news.

With all the contraceptive means failing, I was pregnant and quite angry. Why should women, on top of the numerous discomforts we already have with our periods, PMS-es, pregnancy worries and birth pains, despite all the efforts we put in protecting ourselves, end up faced with the horrors of abortion?!! Mother Nature is such a character... That day I realized that, at least for my own case, it's very, very easy to get pregnant. No amount of cigarettes I have smoked, or drugs I took, or lifestyle I had, made it impossible. I am grateful. Thank you Mother Nature for the good chances and the good genes. But why NOW!?!

Part Three - Timing is Everything.

I and John have an understanding about our life together. We want to make each other happy, we want to let each other be happy, we want to do big things together and we want to do small things together, all of them right and good and well intended. We want kids - two, maybe three. I don't want twins, but hey, if we have a pair we want them to be a boy and a girl so they won't be entirely the same. If we have a boy first, he will be named John Anthony Pfeiffer the Fifth. We haven't had thought about girl names... yet. And although I was the first to talk about babies, John amazes me lately with his ideas about how our children will be everything we are, multiplied by a 100. I think he meant our talents and positive qualities because I just can't imagine raising a little guy who's a 100 times more stubborn than John.

Yes, we will have a kitten called California, a dog called Optimus Prime, a robot to help me wash the dishes, and a house with round angles. We will. We are moving to the States in 2010. You probably know how new beginnings tend to be - hard. Mostly hard, but also fun and full with possibilities! And one of the things we plan on after we move is to have a baby. The problem is that we are still in London and we are on the threshold of achieving all of the things we dreamed of: a raise and a higher qualification for John, a finished novel for me, seeing more of Europe, paying off our debts...you know, life! I always think about our life here in London as our 'hippie years'. We do our things, sleep on a mattress, have no furniture, work on our ideas about the world and we enjoy each other.

We have an understanding. No kids until the States.

Part Four - Making a Choice.

I am pro-choice. I believe that if a woman was raped and gets pregnant afterwards she should be able not to have her rapist's baby. I believe that if there's a chance for a baby to be unhealthy or if there's a danger for the mother's life, abortion is something one should be able to do freely. I believe that when a woman has three kids and gets pregnant with a fourth, she has the right to decide against it. And of course, when a woman is 15, she should have the choice whether or not to become a mother at such an early age. Abortion means choice.

Making this choice in some ways was harder for me than the abortion itself. Because I knew even then, in the first hours of the discovery that I'm pregnant, that I'm not having the baby. See, I am extremely vulnerable that way - I like to believe that I am a tough girl for being through the things I've been, but the very idea of going to a clinic and getting scraped inside out of my womb's content was a concept that I couldn't easily get my mind around. But I also knew that I am privileged to have this choice on the first place. Some people just don't realize what advantage they have by living in developed and civilized countries where they can actually exercise their human rights and even more importantly, they can build the lives they want to. Having that in mind, I embraced logic and reason and tried to find the strength to make this choice truly mine, consciously and honestly, and to stand for it, to justify it to myself.

That Saturday John and I sat down and talked. I didn't cry much, and if I did it was out of a pure stress and frustration. I still haven't realized the full implications of our new situation but I knew it will be hard as it was just before my first week back in school. This is my final year at University and I have an overall of 50 000 words to be written during both semesters. The pressure was enormous and we talked basics, we talked in variations, we talked and hugged each other because at the end of the day there's nothing more you can do. And although I had to make the choice to have an abortion alone, I wanted to believe that I am not alone when I do. This, I think, is the very essence of marriage - absolute trust. It's a fine and noble way to be with someone.

We decided we could do it, yes, we could have a baby now. We are young, healthy, smart and capable. We are flexible and we deal well under pressure. We love each other and we can find the strength to endure this surprising happening. See, it just doesn't feel good when you put things in such terms. Parenthood is hard enough as it is. We want to enjoy it, not to endure it. We want to celebrate the coming of a child in our lives, not to suffer it. Just another story about unexpected pregnancy. No, not us. And we said what we knew and had agreed on long before it happened. We are not having a baby yet. I cried.


Part Five - The Strangeness of Being Pregnant

I spend a lot of time alone. In fact, I spend most of my time alone, and I like it. I stay at home and write, read and watch movies, do all of those things a person can do only when alone - I dance and lip-sing to a favorite song, I eat fruits in my pajamas and stain them with drops of juice, I do my nails for a whole hour, I write e-mails to people and chat with them on Skype (just to remind myself that I'm not alone in the universe, only in the house), I edit photos or browse the Internet for random things I find worthy to blog about later...but mostly I think about things. I think about my stories, my projects, my school work. I tend to think more than I actually write, but that's a common writer's problem. Thinking things through is something I take great delight in.

However, even this simple private pleasure was somewhat disrupted for me after I found out I was pregnant. At home, or when I finally did go out and met people, all I could think about was "Pregnant! Pregnant!" It was written with large neon letters in my head. I couldn't stop repeating it. At night I lay awake with hands on my belly and tried to feel what's going on in there, trying to detect changes and new occurrences, both in my body and in my general state of being. And maybe because of my knowledge that I was pregnant, or just because they were real, I found them. Changes.

My stomach felt lighter. I ate as much as I wanted, everything I wanted, and I didn't gain weight. Usually I bloat instantly if I stuff my face with donuts and chocolate, but now, o! miracle, I was invincible. My skin became clear, my moods (apart of the fundamentally stressful breakdowns I would suffer on different occasions) became milder, I was glowing. Something about my hormonal balance clicked in place and I felt great. Yes, I was having a very good first few weeks of pregnancy. Now I understood why some women get addicted to having babies...It's just so cool!

Physically, that is. Otherwise I was not so good. I wanted out. I had to live with this thing inside of me for three weeks after I found out, and it wasn't easy. It's like having a benign tumor. (Ah, I know, it's a sign of a bad taste to say this.) I wanted it to be done and over with, gone. I just couldn't stand it since I had decided that I won't keep it. And at the same time I didn't even dare to take ibuprofen! I was afraid I would damage it. All I wanted was a cigarette (more like a 20 pack) and a drink (straight up), yet I didn't even have a beer. Strange days in my life.

Then my breasts swelled so badly I couldn't even sleep on my side. I've always been heavy-chested but this was getting ridiculous. I was wondering how would it be in my 6th month...and I was glad I'm not yet to know. Man, those women who want boob jobs are insane! They just don't appreciate how lucky they are for having small breasts and hence being able not to wear a bra and to sleep on their stomachs... Instead, I get back aches and itchy nipples. It never ends, does it.

Part Six - About Bureaucracy and Keeping Secrets.

We went to the doctor first thing on Monday. Our GP is an Indian man of middle age, usually curt and reserved. He is an okay doctor, definitely okay for a free local NHS doctor, and he saw us at 6 o'clock working overtime in the otherwise deserted clinic. I told him I was pregnant and I needed to discuss a termination of pregnancy. He said that there's nothing to discuss, the choice was mine/ours. I felt relieved at the time as I expected him to ask me questions about my decision which I wasn't ready to openly answer with a stranger. Doctor, yes, but the first person to tell about all that after John. Later, however, I was struck by his lack of interest. I thought that he sounded a bit judgmental too. This was just the first of a long list of things one has to go through while arranging an abortion. Slight judgment appeared to be the least of them.

The next day I had my letters of approval and the phone number of a private charity clinic. I called with the hope of getting an appointment for the same week. The main thing to understand here is that in the Great land of Britain health care might be free and of a good quality, but it's not miraculously fast, and you need about a 1,000 pages of documents and papers and stamps and letters only to start thinking of getting something done. The man on the other side of the phone collected my information, including my ethnic background and my height, and asked for just one last simple thing in order to give me an appointment - ladies and gentleman, the notorious Proof of Address!!!

See, without it you simply do not exist in the UK. If you can prove that you live somewhere, then the world (or at least this bizarre island) is yours, but if you can't, then it sucks to be you. As if a pregnant woman who is planning an abortion doesn't have anything else to worry about. This particular woman didn't have a proof of address, i.e. a bill or a bank statement or a pay slip on my name sent via post on my address. And that's because I do not pay bills, have a bank account or a regular (okay, any) employment for that matter. And I don't have a bank account because I don't have a proof of address. And I don't have a bill, aka a proof of address, on my name because I don't have a bank account. I had to laugh. This was too much like the description of the Vogon's bureaucracy in the "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy".

DON'T PANIC is written on its cover. I tried not to.

We somehow gathered some documents that we hoped would meet their stringent criteria and faxed them to the clinic, so by Thursday that week I had had a confirmation that I would receive a letter with the date and the time for my appointment with the clinic for the following week. I got the letter on Friday and my appointment was on Wednesday. I had to not only wait, wait pregnant for the love of God, but I also had to skip my first class with the versatile, relentlessly clever and absolutely gorgeous Leigh Wilson, who's teaching modern fiction and is my model for what a woman should be.

Meanwhile, I was faced with the dilemma should I tell my parents and friends. I spent a long time weighing my options sitting in the local pub where I usually go for a couple of hours on the weekends for my regular cappuccino and a pint of orange juice and lemonade, and I resolved that I needed to tell my parents if I'm to go through such a major thing...but I decided not to tell my friends. I was afraid they will influence me in some way or confuse me even further. I needed to concentrate and do this without any distractions. The downside of such situation was that I had to pretend that nothing was going on, and I'm very bad at pretending. The communication with my friends is scarce as it is, all of them being in a different country, depending on the mercy of technology. But in light of what happened later, I believe that it was a good thing I saved them the worry. They are good enough friends for just existing.

My parents understood. I wouldn't go so far as to say that they were okay with it, but they were strong and wise enough to show that they are not too sad about it. Once I had my parents' support I felt relieved. I noticed that they did their best to avoid the subject, sticking only to the main thing - if I was healthy, sane and alive - but I can't blame them. It must be tough to talk about things like that with your kids, things so close to sex and death and big life choices.

My in-laws were great too. I felt almost guilty telling them because unlike my parents, my in-laws are yet to become grandparents. I want to make them happy, because they make me happy, but I guess that we all have to wait a bit longer for that. In any case, I am so very lucky to have a big and loving family. It makes everything taste a bit better.

Part Seven - The Procedure

I am still flabbergasted about the fact that abortions in London are free. If you go through the usual channels and survive all the bureaucracy, you get surprisingly good health service in this country. Capitalism and Socialism hand in hand do a great deal for the people. England may be many things but its social politics is next to perfect.

Mostly, it was waiting. Waiting in different waiting rooms, reading awful gossip magazines with shabby pages (I couldn't concentrate on any of my usual books or school reading), trying to avoid the eyes of the other patients but unable to do so, as their faces sooner or later looked up to face me. I wondered if I looked just like them - haunted. Then there were numerous doctors and nurses, asking questions, taking samples, writing down things on yellow and blue forms. Waiting and more intense thinking.

There were a few moments worth being noted here. First was the encounter with the anti-abortion protesters in front of the clinic. They just stood there holding brochures and smiled in a way they maybe intended as warm and genial, but to me it looked slightly creepy. They didn't attempt to convert me or to invade my private space, but their very presence, so ghostly and passive, made me feel uncomfortable, almost guilty.

Then there was the scan. I ay on the clinic bed and tried to relax so the scan results would show clearly - they had explained that if they didn't see anything they would not give the procedure a go - so I breathed deeply and I stared at the ceiling without blinking. "Here it is", the doctor exclaimed, "Just stay still for me to get a good view!" I did. Just a few minutes later I was sitting on the edge of the bed, peeking from behind the doctor's shoulder. She was holding the printouts of the scanner but was very careful to hide them from me. I saw them anyways. The thing, the possible future baby, MY possible future baby thing was exactly 5 weeks and 3 days big and looked like a nut, it's edges slightly curly. A nut flower. This was the closest I got to thinking of it as something real.

The day of the termination procedure (almost another week later) I was waiting to be called (John firmly next to me) and I looked around for one last time. With the tempo the clinic was working, and the number of women I saw there, I thought that I was a witness, no, a part of this oh so strange voluntary scientific holocaust. I am not good at math but I figured that at least 15 women were treated a day at this very clinic, and it is only one of the 5 locations of the same organization in London. If I speculate that there are, say, a hundred more places like this, and 15 women go through each every day...Well, that's a lot of people. A lot of parallel universes. And even after this realization I didn't get up and leave. I never said, or thought, that I can't do this. I didn't storm out in tears. I sat there and I waited. Because I knew that each and every one of these women had made their choice just like I made mine. It was a test for my judgmental side. I think I passed. No matter how unnatural abortion seems sometimes, and how hard the choice to have it is, I realized what it meant that if all those women (including me) gave birth without really wanting to. I will never know (we learn to love and live despite everything), but I decided to believe that the possible parallel universes wouldn't be the happiest place.

The worst part of the procedure itself was the moment I was rolled into the operating theater and I was temporarily blinded by the surgical lights. It was just too similar to all those movies I have seen but it was happening. There was no turning back. This finality of the situation almost paralyzed me. There were at least 5 people with me there, all in some sort of a rush, some serious professional hustle. The doctors asked me if I'm American. Common misconception - it's because of my adopted California accent. "I pick it up from my husband" I said. The doctor laughed from the heart. I still don't understand what was so funny. He made me count but I screwed it up. "I lost count", I said, "Can I just lie down here and relax?" He laughed again and shot me with something that appeared to be a very strong drug for horses. I expected the world to blur and fade slowly but this time there was no cinematic experience. I fell asleep in a split second, in the middle of taking a deep breath. Someone just switched the lights off to a deep, utterly blank darkness.

I woke up from pain. That was the only serious pain I felt through the entire day. It lasted just a few seconds, and then I was back again, myself, awake and alive, a little bruised, very thirsty, but not pregnant. And that's all there is.

For reasons of gratitude for the professionalism and the good care I received, I will publish here the name of the clinic that treated me. I think that it is wise to turn to experienced and well respected doctors when there's a need, and the doctors who handled me were exactly that. Also, I would like to add that there's nothing a woman can't survive about abortion if she is generally healthy and, of course, sure in her choice.

Bpas Organization Website


Part Eighth - Recovery and About the Logic and the Magic of Life

Less than 3 hours after the procedure I found out that I could walk again. I was ravenously hungry so I and John stopped at a fast food place on our way to the Tube station (don't judge me, I had just had an abortion and I wasn't responsible for my unhealthy greasy spoon cravings). We didn't talk much, we didn't need to. I was surprised that I actually felt okay. A bit sore maybe, tired, but okay. There was this feeling that something was done to me, something I couldn't help, and I guess that's one of the consequences of any medical procedure under a general anesthetic. We ate well, we rode the train and we got home. Today is the third day of my recovery and I am not yet ready to do sit-ups or go jogging, but I went to all my classes and I was just fine.

To recover is to heal, and although I'm very lucky to have a strong body and to be up and about so soon, there are things a woman can't recover from just by healing physically. There will always be something bitter about the memory of the abortion experience, regardless of how conscious and sure I was while making the decision. Because after is not the same as before. Something has been spoilt. Maybe just a little, but somehow broken.

Every event in our lives is more or less traumatic. Our birth - being thrown out into the world, naked and screaming, being forced to live. Childhood's scratched knees and difficult discoveries about life. The teen years' angst and confusion, the first kiss, the first time - there are always some blood and some tears accompanying those big events. And even though it seems that life is dragging its feet most of the time, passing by us so smoothly until one day we find gray hairs on our heads, there are times when we are taken for a ride, a fast and scary ride, because life is never linear and rarely predictable. And just when you think you got the hang of it...BAAAM! Something incomprehensible happens and you just have to cope or bust.

Abortion is one of those BAAM things. It's when you finally know that you've finished growing up and you're finally an adult, whatever that means. Yes, an adult. Who else would otherwise go through such a painful choice willingly? And choice is the triumph of rationality, an attempt to be on top of things, in control. It is the time when you have to show what you're made of.

Now, this idea that one could ever be in control of his life is quite ridiculous in its absolute implication. I know, because I thought I had it all in order until I was struck by the fact that now, after I had an abortion, I am responsible for ending a life. It's a stretch, and I don't mean it in any religious way, but I am conscious about it just the same. I am an adult who made her choices and as a result her innocence is over. But at the same time I must confess that I don't feel bad about it. The most important part of recovery is that you don't look back and question yourself. It's done. The wisest path you can take now is to continue your life according to your choices and to make the best of it.

So although there's a bitter taste and a feeling that nothing is ever the same, if I had kept the baby things would have definitely changed. Forever. Things change all the time. It's the fundamental truth of existence. And as for the imaginary sense of control I have over my life, well, it's self-evident that if you don't try to organize your life and set it in a certain desirable direction, it will most certainly go to hell sooner rather than later. Life is the only thing I have. It's too precious to be wasted.

Part Nine - About John and Love

I am still about to learn if talking about my abortion so publicly in my Blog was such a good idea, but while I am firmly up for putting many of the issues of my personal life out in the open, John is more of a private creature and I'm afraid that he will have to bear a certain amount of embarrassment after I publish this post. I feel, however, that I am being only fair to him. I will not even attempt to speak about how he felt during the whole ordeal, but I can say this:

Once during the summer, my Mom asked me if there's something John can't do. I could list many things, yet when I opened my mouth to answer, I realized that my Mom wasn't actually asking me. She was telling me so. She said: "Maybe curling. But that's because he never tried to do it!"

Aside from my Mom's adoration of John, during the last few weeks I once again discovered John for who he truly is - a great man. Minus the curling, that is. He was nothing short of brave, strong and true during this time. And although I was the one who had to go through the physical pain and fear of the abortion, John was always there with me.

From the position of my hindsight I realize that we never stopped giggling and laughing. We were scared, but we didn't let this affect our relationship more than it already had. Now when it's over, I see that nothing is so profoundly different than before. A writer should be able to transcend the moments of which the rest of the people find no words to describe. And I am sure that if I try, I will succeed in depicting my love for John. But John's love for me is something I won't even bother to put into words. I prefer to keep it where in belongs - in the mystic warmth of the nook we call our family.

Thank you all for reading.

The Rules of Immortality

Build a House.

Have a Baby.

Write a Book.

My father-in-law John Senior told me this over the phone the other week. He heard it from a person he knew back in the day in Pacific Grove. John have had already built a bunch of houses and had two babies...so I won't be surprised if he beats me to the punch.

Thank you, John! You don't talk much, but you always know what to say when you do!