Saturday, May 23, 2009


Not much is actually happening in my life besides my monthly ovarian revolution. Little bolshevik bastards, pounding outside the doors of my beautiful palace and makin' my palace look all bloated and shit. So bloated that I can't wear any of my palace pants, and have to resort to the only pants that will accommodate such rancor for the monarchy and abdomen beating...they happen to be plaid.
Nor can I wear my normal palace shirts because they make me look like a big bratwurst with ill-measured casing....or Star Jones-Reynolds. Zing! So, instead I have to wear my special palace shirts, which are large, were purchased in the 90's and also happen to be plaid; but of a different variety than the aforementioned pants.

Lessee, I'm working on a installation for Leipzig, but the wardrobe I'm making is frustrating me. To find the line between deliberately crappy and accidentally crappy is hard. Like finding the appropriate tone of jibing with your close friends.
statement: "Nice shirt Ali, you look like a pirate."
rebuttal: "I despise your outlook on life and have slept with both your siblings."

Berlin is good and alive, yesterday I slipped on a half-eaten apple and some youths called me a "schlampe."

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Subj: Bail me out.
My enchantment with the drooping ornamentation, hilariously undersized doors and naked piping of Cold War housing has ended. It has given way to disgust and anger about my lack of hot water, my flickering electricity and the equally mysterious substances that my studio shower drain emits. Oh shower drain, why do you have to communicate with me in garbled dirtspeak, when we both know your job is just to swallow my junk. Miss Soggynist.

Oh, that big landmass across the sea, where people are fatter, aspirin is cheaper and they have fantastical drying machines that whirl and spin like the palpitations of a young lioness' heart.

*Anyway, I am really frustrated on a number of levels, most of them being shower-related.

In happier news, I spent the weekend enjoying some of Berlin's performing arts action. I attended Nicky's dance performance entitled "cuppachar" and went to see Lucia's friend Randy Twigg Perform at Lovelight. Both were fun, although the latter ended with my desertion in the rain in Friedrichshain. Ugh. Cold water hearts me.

Sunday, May 03, 2009

Omg, I have been updating my website for like 9 hours straight. I h8 stuff like that.
*Re:"omg" & "h8": I've found that more and more, my writing sounds like that of a misanthropic 16 year old girl. Which, perhaps is what I am inside. So I am going to embrace younger, angstier Ali, who pierced the belly buttons of her friends and threw a rollerblade at her sister's head.

*My Swiss studiomate cooked a dinner of lamb heart the other day and I ate it! Oh forlorn lamb of god, how your pulsing little instrument has fortified me in my physical quest to be more like a Anthony Hopkins in his greatest movie role to date. It was, by the way, delicious. Stop judging
*I saw a lot of art openings over the past couple of weeks, Carsten Holler, Simon Starling, Amy Sillman, Thorsten Brinkman etc, etc. I must, however, comment on the WORST SHOW I HAVE EVER SEEN. Thank you Katharina Grosse, you are so terrible. She constructed (or rather, had fabricated) giant amorphous glory holes and covered them with her signature cliched-tired--borrowed from E. Murray-on-the-rag-barf-paintings. I walked out of her artist talk. What you may have been feeling when I said that I ate a lamb heart; that is how I feel about Ms. Grosse and her work.
*A gallery in Leipzig asked the Extraraum folks and myself to redo our Liste installation there, which should be fun. I also have another exciting show possibility, that I excited about.
*My German still sucks.
*Although only half done, please to check out my website.
*I have a beer belly, but getting rid of it involves drinking less beer, a compromise of catastrophic proportions in the hinterland.
*2 people close to me have had a shoe intervention with me, explaining that functionality does not have to come at the price of aesthetics. I thought I was in the land of non-judgemental sensible shoepeople (hellooooo, birkenstocks?) but apparently I was mistaken.