I’m home from Berlin and there aren’t enough swear words. Trust me.

I know, I know. What happened to this enviable adventure? The world traveler? The six months of reckless abandon? The torrid affairs? The food? The stories? The art? Well, I had some of that and now I have breast cancer. Passport and boarding pass, please.

Perhaps you just gasped, swore, dropped something, sat down, stood up, almost threw up, actually threw up, yelled, reread it, cried, clutched your hands to your chest…¬† Oh, don’t I know it. Because the few of you I’ve had the strength to look in the eye and say out loud that I was sicker than any girl my age has a right to be sick… Don’t I know what you’ve just done.

Now, don’t get that hurt look on your face because I should have called you, met you for coffee, said something at the party. You see, I wake up every morning and a herd of elephants has trampled my lungs. Millions of mad babies are screaming. Billions of metal objects are scratching themselves down a universe-sized chalkboard. Every time I have to hear myself tell the very worst truth I could ever tell, a little part of me gets left on the floor. Every time I have to tell it, I know I am upsetting someone. Every time I have to know the words I need to say, I have to know a little more for myself. It’s the cruelest joke. The insult of all insults to exclaim. It is anger and fear, frustration and disappointment. Loathing. And it is what I wake up with every morning knowing you don’t know and I am fighting for the words to tell you I am fighting for my life. It is not because I don’t love you that you didn’t hear it from my lips. It is exactly because I love you that I am telling you now.

It doesn’t matter what it’s called, what Stage it’s in, how big the tumor is, or when I found it. If I told you you probably would throw up, so just know that it has a long name, it’s so special they can’t Stage it, and it’s big. What really matters is that I was able to spend the last few months with a few incredible people, hiding out in “the eye of the storm” in Amsterdam, Paris, Berlin, Prague, taking photos, painting, writing, drinking, smoking, eating, dancing, kissing, living. With every cell of my body. And if anyone has been paying any attention to me at all over the last year, they would have felt a distinct shove forward, seen a spotlight that was aiming towards a life that was long overdue. My life. Get that taste of freedom in your mouth for the first time in ages and My. God. Just get on the plane. Go. Live. And I was living, right alongside a giant wall of terrible injustice, the Wall, and it would seem I have run smack into it. But… If you have been paying any attention to me at all over these last 38 years, you know exactly what I’m about to do.

I know the real truth. I am a lucky girl to have the life I have and the people I have in it. If not for you there would be no writing this, no taking pictures, no getting through last week, last night, tomorrow. “How can I help,” is an OK question to ask me. It’s the very first question, and it is the very best question. I am bracing myself, shoring up, battening down and I don’t know what I need because the storm is only just now hitting. I’m getting better at asking, and all I really need this moment is for you to ask me about my most recent adventures and let me tell you the rest in my own time. As for what happens next, well that doesn’t matter either. If I told you you would throw up. I did. Just know that right this minute I am exhausted and hopeful. Over the next 6 to 8 months I will be very, very sick and in the end I will surely come out of this but just as surely I will not come out of this looking like I went in, for the rest of my life.

And for all that we don’t know, know this. There will be photos.
For the rest of my life.
I have the 10-4 from Sniper 1 to shoot my way through this.
And I will not stop.

Week 2, #12 – Biopsy Series, 2011

I am Botticelli’s Venus. I am Helen of Troy.
I am the Winged Victory of Samothrace.

Fuck You, Cancer. I am Ali.

It’s all a blur to me now so many weeks have passed and I can’t remember one day from the next and the hours fly by and it’s 4am and I am just going to bed and when I wake up it’s late but it is still early and people are just arriving from the day before and there’s so much to do before the time is up before it gets dark and then light again and there are hours days nights spent in galleries on subways walking in snow drinking sitting in smoky bars sitting for a painting watching listening talking feeling it’s dark and then it’s light again and there’s a rush to see something to feel something to know something before there’s no time left to try and make out the landscape through a dirty window speeding away to somewhere unknown and exciting and for a moment it is impossible to think that this time this blur is sharpening and it will too soon be time to try and make out the landscape through the dirty window speeding away to somewhere known and familiar sitting dreaming aching for a little more time.

*photo: The Czech Republic

And the truthahn is gefroren.
Have fun Googling that.

It’s Thanksgiving in Berlin. Well, it’s Thanksgiving in my room, and I am grateful for the little box that arrived from the US yesterday filled with birthday presents, cranberry sauce, a couple of sweet potatoes (?!), dates, Stovetop stuffing, pumpkin scone mix (just add wasser!) a canned ham (?!), a jar of peanut butter and a paper tablecloth and napkin set with turkeys on it. Thanks, Mom.

But perhaps today I’m even more grateful for what woke me up this morning. No, it wasn’t a sound check at the J√•gerklause (lucky for them), or a circular saw across the hall (that was yesterday), but rather SUNLIGHT. I’m not exactly sure what I did to call up such a phenomenon, but today, after snow and gloomy darkness just hours before, in all it’s cloudless sky glory the sun was out. Lucie Belle! Wake up! Get your chain on and let’s go!

Bundled against the -5C temp and wind, Lucie Belle (that’s my bike for those of you who think I’ve recently shacked up with a Southern girl) and I hit the pavement and headed to Prenzlaurburg Allee in search of a turkey, a bookstore, and a projector. Agreed, that list is about as random as any list of mine on any given day in Berlin. It’s part of the adventure, the challenge, the charm, but I digress…

And so it was, a sunny Thanksgiving day, doing what I love to do most here, which is ride my bike aimlessly (sort of) around Berlin, breathing in the construction dust, the car exhaust, freezing my ass off and trying not to get run over by an ambulance or a trash truck, or another biker (I’m still working on my Berlin Bike Etiquette. The rules are in German. Gimme a break).

Did I find the turkey? Yep. And it was, not unlike my very first Thanksgiving dinner on my own, still frozen. Did I find the bookstore? Well, I found A bookstore where the OTHER bookstore was supposed to be but no, I guess I didn’t. Did I find a projector to rent for my upcoming show this weekend? Lots of them. Very expensive ones. And not unlike most things European, the price online and the price for showing up with a US Passport spans miles. And no sir, I do not have a eurocard or a registration or whatever it is you want me to present to secure the rental or $100 euros deposit in cash please stop flailing your hands at me and muttering in German I’m standing right here.

So, did I arrive home empty-handed and downtrodden? Not in the slightest. A secret little Christmas Market, at the end of the narrow Allee of W√∏rtherstrasse had cr√©pes to order. Kinda got used to a couple of those a day in Paris last weekend (sigh). And so I had not one but TWO. Pretty satisfied with my aprikose fix (that’s apricot jam to you gringos), I headed down another side street, a shortcut, to the Allee that would return me to my warm apartment and a cup of tea (and my box of grateful goodies), and there it was.

A tree.
A magical, magnificent, wonderful tree.
A tree that would send my dear friend Susan into fits of giggles and snorts.
A tree with tiny little doors to tiny little compartments, filled with books.

A take one, leave one book tree, and it’s sole purpose was to share the love of reading with anyone walking or pedaling by.¬† Two in English found their way into Lucie Belle’s basket, and over the river and through the “woods” to our Berlin home we rode. Barely able to feel fingers or toes and happier for it. Choking on Ubahn-encrusted air. Sunshine on my face for the first time in almost a month. Stovetop stuffing in my room. Eternally grateful for all of it. All of it.

Happy Thanksgiving to the many I love both near and far.
Ian, don’t you DARE touch my plate.

XO

Sunday, November 14, 2010

In Germenglish, what that translates to is, “Flea market finds … A Sunday in Pictures.” But you probably guessed that. Flea markets here are all the rage. There a big ones, little ones, Saturday ones and Sunday ones. There are ones on Tuesdays and Fridays, and ones just for food and household goods and ones just for bikes. Berliners apparently love a bargain, have a lot of junk with some cool stuff mixed in, and they are not afraid to put up a tent. Wanna learn German? Haggle. And so it was this past Sunday that I found myself with a couple of friends, roaming around, blinded by the most sun we’ve had since arriving, haggling away at one of the largest flea markets in the city, the Mauerpark Flohmarkt.

It was dirty. It was crowded. It was a ridiculous mess. But it was a treasure trove. There was something for everyone. And I mean EVERYONE. And they bring it all home on the tram. We found appliances, and furniture, and enough dishes to outfit a town full of kitchens. Clothes upon clothes, shoes upon shoes, a stack of old family photo albums next to stacks of old Playboys. It was a photojournalist’s dream, and really, photographs might be the best way to show you my Sunday…

There were photos...

... fresh food

... hats (heads extra)

... shoes

... your P's

... your Q's

... cameras

... carry-ons

... crap

... flying things

... fun food

... frames

... forks

... SUN!

... a few more hats

... kites

... kids (this punk wanted a $1 from me. For taking a photo of Stewie Griffin)

… and Karaoke. (click to watch it!)

I have a thing for birds.
Especially the birds in Berlin.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I know what fear looks like.
And I know how to drag it out of every German in East Berlin.

Sprechen Sie Englisch??

On our second day in town, my pal Ron and I walked down Karl Marx Allee, right down the boulevard of Soviet Power, towards Alexanderplatz. We scouted around this famous boulevard, checking out the glamorous new shops and galleries that have moved into this otherwise very austere neighborhood since the fall of the wall. We found a little antique store that had a shoebox collection of old black and white photos from the early years, before the war, and some even during. I was ecstatic. I needed the whole box. For what, I had no idea. But it was just so ridiculously delicious I needed it.

Sprechen Sie Englisch??

And there it was. Eyes wide pools of fear, a grimace, a grunt, a slight look of contempt, a wave of the hands for no, the mutual acknowledgment between us that gestures and sounds are going to have to do. A shrug for us both. My worst fear. His worst fear. But we’re in this together. I want the photos. He wants my Euros. We soldier on…

How much for this whole box? I make the gestures with my hands for bills between fingers and I lift the box. He digs through. Grabs a piece of paper, and writes down 80 euros. Oh. That’s about $130 US dollars. Nope. I shake my head. He pulls a few out and somehow I understand that a few of the items in the box are very valuable. Very historic. Very expensive. Ok. I’ll come back. I’ll come back? Ron, help. Return? Ah! Zur√ºkkehren! Yes! I mean, Ja. I mean, we’ll be back. Oh boy. Nobody speaks English. Myth. Busted.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

“Is that the doorbell? Can someone get the door?”

“I’ll get the door? I just pick up the receiver right? Hello? ”

“Caroline?”

“There’s no one here by that name.”

“Caroline at Takt?”

“I’m sorry, but there is no one here named Caroline. Maybe she’s supposed to be here, But she’s not here. Ok?”

“No! No!”

“No? What then?”

“It’s MEEEEE, Caroline!”

And so it was, at the bottom of the stairs. Sweet Caroline. Our little gypsy girl from Manchester, England. With as many bags as we had all arrived with combined. The youngest of us all. Dressed in pink with matching Barbie shoe earrings, exhausted, giggling, rambling away and not making much sense, but with the most adorable smile. It was hard not raise one eyebrow while immediately falling in love. Welcome home, Caroline.

Caroline's Room