NO TITLE.

You guys are OUT THE LOOP. I'll brief you.

Warwick, charming Warwick where I've been staying, hosts this great folk festival every year at the end of July. Quite well known, actually. Vick and I worked up about five songs that we intended to whip out at jam sessions, ultimately in the hopes of impressing many old and woollen-capped gentleman. We did end up going to a jam, but while we had worked up the songs, we had apparently NOT worked up the courage. We sat silently in a corner for over an hour while people around us played and sang. Vicky optimistically decided we were cultivating an aura of mystery. A very drunk little flautist kept unintentionally boxing us out of the circle every time we were about ready to propose a song. As the evening wore on, more and more legitimate musicians started turning up and fewer people were singing. Finally, as it became clear that the jam as we knew and loved it was dying, we asked a nearby banjo player to accompany us in a rendition of Hard Times. No sooner had we opened our mouths than Fluty McGee toddled over and started singing louder than both of us combined. We thought her enthusiasm would encourage everyone to join in, but no. The rest of the circle sat around and watched Vicky and I try to belt our carefully rehearsed harmonies over her drunken warbles, the only discernable words of which were "hard times" (though they rarely coincided with the songwriter's original placement).
We did end up going to the Warwick Folk Club open mic night after the festival had already ended. We played three songs and were the toast of the evening. We were also a good forty years younger than the next youngest person. Everyone thinks we're a sister act!

Spent the last two days in Edinburgh. I sat next to a woman from New Zealand on the bus; she and I got on quite well and ended up hanging out a lot.
Guys, I haven't liked a city so instantaneously since Russia. Edinburgh is beautiful. It actually literally is Hogwarts (J.K. wrote the books overlooking Edinburgh castle and a walking tour took us through a cemetary she visited a bunch, wherein one finds Tom Riddle's grave, except it's spelled "Riddell"). I hope everyone goes at some point. The town was so mellow, so welcoming. Like, if cities were teenage boys, Edinburgh would be that cool punk kid who chain smokes and listens to The Clash but also wears sweaters his grandma knits him (unabashedly) and anually participates in the church Christmas pageant as Joseph. I'd love an excuse to live there for a while.
Cat (my New Zealand bus friend) and I saw several shows at the Fringe - Edinburgh's very famous Fringe Festival was just kicking off when we arrived. I've been to the New York Fringe before, and it's very hit-or-miss, but out of the four shows I saw in my two days, I enjoyed... four.

But, most importantly, The Now. I'm in Liverpool in the coolest hostel ever. It's run by a father-son team, Kevin's Junior and Senior. Kevin Senior is infamous locally for having beaten The Beatles in an audience-judged competition waaaaay way back before Paul grew the mullet. I stumbled in at five a.m. after a garish night train ride... Night trains, sort of like butterscotch toffees, sound more glamorous than they are. Because they AREN'T. I've been Mr. Bean-ing it since London; I bought a tiny, tiny alarm clock that I've been carrying in my purse and setting for ten minutes before my transport leaves, and let me TELL you, that does not make you friends on a night train. But when you DON'T set it, the train conductor yells at you for not getting off the train because you're belligerantly asleep because you're SO TIRED BECAUSE WHY ARE TRAINS WITH BEDS SO EXPENSIVE.

But that's neither here nor there. I'm in the best place ever now, greeted by a cup of coffee and a peanut butter sandwich prepared by Kevin Jr., about to have my first shower since Tuesday... things are great. I'm looking forward to checking out Liverpool.

MORE LATER, LOYAL READERS!

My Love Affair With English Food Culture: By Amalia Mathewson

  I'll start by saying that I don't particularly like traditional English cooking. The veg tend to be overcooked, the desserts a little too sweet, the spices a little too bland. What makes me prefer the English eating experience to an American meal is the description of this limp, often greasy cuisine. I think if we put the adjectival effort into labelling our own food, we'd be much happier in our obesity.

What do I mean? Here, let me give you some examples:

       

 People use the word "gorgeous" to describe things like fries and burgers. It is so appealing. Imagine the difference: 

1. Someone pushes a plate of fried potato wedges towards you and says, "Try these! They're good!" 

You may or may not try the fries. You'll know what to expect.

2. Someone pushes a plate towards you and says, "Try these! They're gorgeous!" 

You will try the fries, thanks. They'll probably taste like any other fry, but you won't care.

Everyone seems so excited when their food or tea is served. They say, "Oooooh, that's lovely!" And it sounds like the food or tea has genuinely surpassed their expectations significantly. Even if I've ordered the same thing they have, it makes me want theirs instead of mine because theirs sounds a lot more fun. 

 I have never particularly enjoyed animal crackers before. Digestive biscuits and rich tea fingers are basically circular animal crackers, and I eat them whenever I can just because it is SO FUN to dunk them in tea. It's like a sport! Will it dissolve before I can get it to my mouth? ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT! 

 And sandwiches! Firstly, saying, "widge" instead of "wich?" Bingo. "Want a sandwidge, love?" YES I DO THANK YOU. Secondly, they're always cut into little sailboat triangles. It is very nice to eat something shaped like a sailboat triangle. Thirdly, they're simple, but so exotic! Cheese and pickle. Cucumber. Rocket and cheddar. Prawn on toast. PRAWN! ON TOAST! Again, this is a food that I usually ignore in the US. Sandwiches... psh. Middle-school shit. But not here! They're posh and portable and moderately yummy! 

  It's not dessert, it's pudding. Pudding is one of my favorite foods, so even though I know that what will be served for "pudding" will almost certainly not be pudding or pudding-like, I get very excited.

 Cakes. Let's talk about cakes. The pluralization of the word "cake" is enough for me, frankly. Cakes and coffee, tea and cakes... I feel free to have as much as I want because it's already assumed that I'll be having more than one of whatever it is. The word "cake," while never unwelcome, has previously conjured up images of large, heavily iced birthday confections slurred with slowly melting vanilla ice cream. It's a once-a-year kind of thing. If someone said, "tea and cake," I would probably pass because I'd be picturing a slightly stale version of the above. But adding that sweet little "s" takes a crusty party food and turns it into a light, airy dessert that can be had not once a year, but once a DAY. No longer is it thick and chocolate-y; now it might be flavored with orange or lavender.

Basically, the whole tradition of evening tea bodes pretty well with me. It's snuggly and pleasant, and it fits the weather. 

But most of all, my love of English food comes down to one glorious word:

Squidgy. 

Just say it out loud, I don't care where you are.

Squidgy. 

Feel that "squ?" S-kh-ww-. It feels like saying a hug. It is the hug of words.

This is used to describe a texture that I honestly haven't found elsewhere. There's a type of fruit bread called Soreen that is the embodiment of squidgy. I don't know if it's sold in the states or not. It must be felt to be understood, so I recommend checking your local grocer. 

I like my surgery like I like my eggs... ovaries-y.

I didn't spend the fourth running drunken through the streets wearing an American flag as a toga. I didn't even make my hosts classic American junk food. Instead, I spent Independence Day completely dependant on Great Britain and her National Health Service.

Sunday, I was admitted into Warwick Hospital's A&E. My body had been giving me warning signs of my impending womby doom as early as Friday, but by Sunday morning, I couldn't stand, sit, OR lie down. The best I could do was crouch in a worshipful pose and crawl from room to room like a lizard. At this point, after deducing that cutting beans from my diet wasn't going to put an end to the pain, I begrudgingly called a cab to take me to the hospital.

Never having been admitted to an American hospital, I can't compare the speed, price, or efficiency of the two health care systems. However, my time in Beaumont Ward brought to light two concrete differences between England's hospital system and all my experiences with medical care in the US. One; tea is administered as strictly as medicine. I was reprimanded for not finishing my tea on not one, not two, not three, but four separate occasions.
Two; awkward British politeness knows no bounds. Originally, I was admitted to the emergency room under the erroneous diagnosis of "bladder infection." This was because, as I crouched in front of the nurses trying to form coherent sentences, one had said, "Oh, love, is there something funny with your bits-and-bobs?" Thinking "bits-and-bobs" meant innards, I nodded feverishly. Apparently, in so nodding, I had just agreed that I was having difficulty urinating because of bacteria. The term "bits-and-bobs" was used to refer to my vagina and uterus by even the senior radiologist, who will enter this story in just a moment.

Since the staff thought I had a bladder infection, I was in the waiting room much longer than I should have been. By the time a doctor saw me, I was a literal hot mess. I stumbled into the cubicle and promptly puked on the floor. After several rounds of vomiting, the very surprised doctor told me he was going to get a specialist. I puked in relief.

I don't remember a lot of what happened next, though I do remember being obnoxious. Eventually, I got morphined and shut up a little. I had all the signs of appendicitis except infection in my blood (or something), and they were just gearing up to remove me old vestigial when one of the two specialists who were assigned to me (must have been a slow night) suggested that it might be an ovarian cyst.

You know how when you watch House, you feel like you're one of the doctors and it's really fun? Not as fun from the patient's perspective.

"Ithinkweshouldrunhertoradiologyandgetanultras..." "WHAAAAT'S HAAAPPENINGGGG. CAN I HAVE MR MORPHNNNN (sob)"

I would much have preferred to be the cool, collected doctor in the sharp pantsuit saying, "This is crazy, House. If it works, you're a genius."

So against EVERYONE'S better judgement, apparently,  because most of the staff thought my appendix was rupturing as they spoke, this one doctor convinced a senior radiology member to stay on his shift a few minutes late and do a quick ultrasound of my belly, just in case it was an ovarian cyst after all. I was whisked away, blubbering and tripping on pain meds. The radiologist was called Dr. Hughes. I heard it, I saw it on his tag, but what came out every time I tried to ask anything about the ultrasound? "EXcuuuse me, Doctor Who, but is that my lungs?" "Doctor Who, is that my kidney?" The staff couldn't stop giggling, which was infuriating and made me cry harder, which made them even more patronizingly tell me that my bits-and-bobs would soon be sorted out.

Thankfully, the other specialist was really kind, and while the rest of the team was busy looking something over, he took a few minutes to explain to me what was happening. A cyst had either formed around or near my right ovary. It had been growing for three to six months, and within the past few days, it had somehow twisted itself around the old eggsac and that's where my pain was coming from.

There was a good chance I would lose my ovary, because they could tell the cyst was pretty big. Mom and Dad were called and the next thing I knew, I was waking up and groggily trying to focus on a picture that was being shoved in my face.
"It was as big as a football! I've never seen one that big before!" The picture is disgusting. The cyst was over six inches and looks like an alien baby turned inside out.

From what I ultimately gathered, my body tried to released an egg which an Indian doctor referred to as "bery, bery stubborn." It clung to my ovary and grew and grew. I like to think it was trying to fertilize itself, the independent bugger. The surgery didn't damage my ovary. Yay?

Here's the weird thing -
You know those moments before sleep where you're not unconscious but you can't quiiiite control your dreams? Well, in the past few weeks, I've imagined myself in a hospital probably six or seven times during these pre-sleeping moments. I mean, I've had the thought before, what if I were in an accident, you know, but I don't remember ever vividly imagining myself in an intensive care ward prior to a month ago. I'd chalked it up to my subconscious processing being in a strange situation, trying to do something I've never done before, but after hearing a BBC 4 broadcast about the connection between nerves in your gut and nerves your brain, I'm wondering if my body knew something was seriously wrong before my mind was willing to accept the news.

Does this mean the end of this summer's show, everyone keeps asking? HELL NO, everyone. The show will be adapted, yes, but keep checking in with us.

Unfortunately, due to completely different but weirdly timed circumstances, our London venue fell through yesterday. So it's just the Warwick show.

I gotta go to bed, y'all. More updates later. I AM NOT UNHAPPY. 2012 BEST HAPPY SUMMER FUN TIME.  Hey, I'll get a cool scar out of the mix, anyway. Which is all a girl can ask for.

Depends on the hawk, depends on the handsaw.

This has been a wonderful week, in terms of both business and adventure.

Last weekend, Vicky and I decided to stay in the midlands again to save money. She suggested we go on a hike. My only real hiking experience being an infamous ascent of Half Dome last summer,  I dug through my gear to find the most comfortable socks, stretchy-but-not-too-stretchy pants, several layers of shirts for those waves of exertion, and band-aids.

I would have done better just to find some rain boots.

Hiking here compares to hiking in the US similarly to how snuggling a medium-sized teddy bear compares to snuggling a n eight-foot tall grizzly.
It didn't rain on us as we traipsed through cow fields and cozy wooded groves, but there were some nasty puddles for which my carefully selected running shoes just weren't equipped. In FACT, what we WENT on is, I believe, commonly referred to as a "stroll."

The following morning and afternoon saw us enjoying one of our many "duvet days," which consist of us, tea, various sundries and savories, and some sort of BBC period drama. The one in reference happened to be Pride and Prejudice, but we have since completed Bleak House and let me say, if you have yet to see it, bump it to the top of your list. I vouch whole-heartedly and so does the small pile of tissues that I blew through in the last two episodes.

But on to our London trip, lest you get the impression that all we do is posh out on the couch (I just made that expression up. Use it at your leisure).

We've been in a frustrating bind for a few months. Since February, we've had a location and performance dates dangling right in front of our faces with us unable to solidify them. The organization we've gone through to get a venue is a truly great NFP program called "somewhereto_" but they're swamped with the Olympics and just general, so although they out-and-out guarantee the venue will host us, conformation of the dates we've proposed keeps getting postponed.

Monday was our chance to see the space and ask any questions, and although we stiiiiiiiiill weren't able to confirm our dates, we did fall in love with the theatre. Honestly, it's more than either of us hoped for. We'd almost decided just to settle for a few shows here in Warwick and scrap the London bit, but seeing this space fired us up again.

Monday night, we stayed with a friend in Greenwich after seeing an angsty, vaguely racist coming-of-age flick for 60+'s called The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. If you feel a terrible urge to share the experience, I recommend going to your nearest Indian eatery and watching locals think they're more civilized than the wait staff. Simultaneously, listen to BBC 4.  That should produce a similar effect.

We spent the first half of the next day exploring Greenwich and its many cheap bookstores and vintage shops. There was a particularly dusty one that had all sorts of hats... I'll take this moment to say that sometimes, in our general youthful merriment, Vicky and I lose track of the volume of our united voices. Though it occasionally makes us friends, it often seems to unnerve people. Luckily, in this instance, we charmed an older gentleman who took to popping out behind shelves with different hats on, where he was received with gales of laughter, especially when he unearthed a red-sequinned showgirl's headdress.

A very embarrassing address mishap (someone had pulled up two pages on her browser and inadvertently google maps'd a random address instead of the theatre she was looking for) found us in the entirely wrong part of London, so we had to go into a library to use the internet. England THROWS library cards at you. They cannot WAIT for you to get library cards. I have three already. They also seem to only hire extremely strange and mystical librarians. My first day here, while I was dragging my jet-lagged carcass around to keep from falling asleep before my train got in, I stopped in a library in Westminster and was greeted by a delightful fellow named Neil that I, a layman in the field of magical woodland folk, easily identified as a bridge troll. In Angel Islington, Vicky and I met yet another enchanted bookkeeper. At first he just seemed like a sweetly nervous man. He had us fill out our card forms and was making small talk when I, off the cuff, referred to Vicky as Allington, which is her surname. We often call each other Mathewson and Allington, so neither of us could figure out why the librarian had stopped short.

"Did you just call her 'Allington?'"
"...Yes..."
"But that's her surname."
"...Yeah..."
"But ANYONE could be Victoria Allington. Anyone off the streets!"
"......"
"They used to ask for more forms of identification!!!"
"........"
"But now they don't!!!!! Do you see????"

The more confused we got, the more worked up he became. Understand, he was by no means angry. In fact, he seemed almost delighted. We had and have absolutely no idea what he was talking about or what brought it on, but we agreed afterwards that it felt like the start of some sort of quest; like he was the gatekeeper of some amazing journey and was about to hand us our faded canvas maps and leather satchels.

Buuuut he didn't. He just gave us library cards which got us refreshed directions to the theatre. Trains. Are. SO expensive. They're four pounds thirty for a ride, which is roughly equivalent to eight dollars. FOR A SINGLE RIDE. ONE WAY. ANYWHERE. COULD BE JUST ONE STOP. Woof.

The reason we'd stayed overnight in London was to see this show, which I mentioned before, called "The Rest Is Silence." It's part of the World Shakespeare Festival and premiered in Brighton, but now it's in London and it'll close in Newcastle. I badly wanted to go because the reviews were good and the press photos looked AMAZING.

The show was an adaptation of Hamlet. Elements of it were really interesting and some even were amazing, but overall it fell a bit short. The production was hailed as "ground-breaking" and "innovative," and the concept truly was, but the actual production was, honestly, a bit boring and timid. I had been geared up for 90 minutes of pretentiously absurd performance art, which I normally hate, so you can imagine my disappointment when after all the pre-show pep talks of, "Try to see THEIR vision, Molly," and, "It's good for you to branch out artistically, Molly, realism isn't the only way," the show was roughly 20% funk and 80% daytime soap. Womp womp.

The last two days, we've had a lot of good progress in rehearsals. I think seeing a mediocre show made us more excited to make the best thing we can. I feel very proud of what we've accomplished so far and what I think we will accomplish. Our reason for creating this particular piece gets more valid to me every day - it's our way of addressing our individual fears, concerns, and hopes of/for where privacy and human identity will go in the course of our lifetimes. (See? The Hamlet didn't need to be pretentiously artsy. I did it for them. Sorry, I really don't mean it in a douchy way. This is a big concern for me right now, especially after the credit card fiasco and recently learning that even this blog, which I THOUGHT was privacy-protected, can come up in a search engine for the whoooole wide web to see).

We're seeing Julius Caesar at the RSC tomorrow night!!

OOOOOOHHHHH. So. I really don't know who my readership here consists of, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and post a link to Vick and my youtube page. Look, you have to use your best judgement. If the very idea of me cross-dressing, parodying Christian folk music/the Irish, or graphically depicting menstruation makes you uncomfortable, I offer this advice: don't follow the link. If you DO and what you see upsets you, don't come back to the page because we'll be posting weirder stuff as the weeks go by.

Also, just for the record, the characters shown here aren't part of our show. These are sample videos for a very small recorded segment; we were hoping they'd inspire our friends to make some similar vids for us to use instead of these, but we've begun to surrender that hope.

http://www.youtube.com/user/musclefleaeffect?feature=results_main

Lay'aaaazzz.

Tree

ONE: Here is our official teaser synopsis!


"Fact: Somewhere in the ocean, there is a whale who swims alone, calling out to others. It cannot be heard by migrating pods because it sings at a frequency several octaves higher than any other known whale. Although never spotted, this whale has been tracked by scientists for twenty years. It has been dubbed, "the loneliest whale in existence." 

In a fictional (but familiar) world, Mister Max, the most successful mogul in the entertainment industry, has captured the whale because of it's beautiful song.

On display 24/7 and forced to perform to a steadily increasing public, "Lolo" the loneliest whale becomes star of "The Binji and Buddy Show," and is evolving into a huge pop culture phenomenon. 

When the story of Lolo's song's origin is revealed, however, Mister Max and his staff are forced to make a very tough decision.

"The Loneliest Whale" is a story of privacy in the modern world, the differences between being "alone" and being "lonely," and the need to be part of a community. The finalized dates and venues will be released shortly, so stay posted!

(Brought to you by Muscleflea)"


TWO: DMITRI KRYMOV IS DIRECTING A PRODUCTION OF MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM FOR THE WORLD SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL. IT WILL BE PERFORMED IN STRATFORD, MERE MILES FROM WHERE I AM. I WILL BE IN THE BIGGEST ATTENDANCE. I'm seriously considering making an "I (heart) Krymov" shirt. I've known about this for a few weeks, but forgot to mention!


Three: Prince Phillip got hospitalized after the Jubilee and apparently several audience members suffered hypothermia. (Sound of crowd going, "oooooooooh...") Jubilee fail, Queen Elizabeth's event organizers. Jubilee fail.

Who needs trains? We've got a friendSHIP. (Cymbal crash... cricket)

So, as frequent readers may have surmised, it's been raining quite a bit. Vicky and I were getting really overwhelmed with working on the show, so we took a longer weekend than normal.

Friday, we spent the day in Leamington. We went to the old pump rooms, which have been turned into art galleries and are very well preserved, and we had some of the famous "healing" mineral water which was running from an old stone fountain. It made my teeth feel weird, but basically tasted like water, which is to say nothing (or everything. ooooommmmm)

Saturday, we went to London. We'd planned to go to Kew Gardens (not totally sure what they are; Vick swears they're amazing) but since it had been raining so much, we thought the British Museum might be a better choice. I didn't absorb very much in the museum. It was actually quite stressful! There are approximately a billion exhibits and we ended up sort of half-assedly rushing through. And then we realized that the whole time we'd been in the museum, the sun had been shining outside. So we promptly exited. My favorite bit, since I know you're dying to hear, was in the Roman invasion section of the Great Britain timeline exhibit (was that confusing? The exhibits are set up chronologically based on geographic area. They also have a little drop-down guide giving you a world context for whatever item you're looking at - "This Egyptian pot was being crafted around the same time Stonehenge was erected. To see more on Stonehenge, visit exhibit 3, room 5." USEFUL, ENGLAND. Well done.) ...I've lost myself with the parenthetical. My favorite bit. Yes. They had found well-preserved letters from, god, must have been 90 A.D. or something, written in Latin. Scholahs (scholars, but read it with a really pompous accent... ssss-kOHluuuuhz) translated them into English.

(To the best of my memory)

"Dearest Brother,
Father has been writing me about the location of the spindle. I have said to him that I do not have knowledge of it, but he will not believe me. Sparitus claims he did not even know the spindle was missing. Please send me four bags of grain so that I can replace it, or Father will continue to write. You owe me four bags anyway from your visit."

"Dear Sister,
I am writing to invite you most humbly to my birthday party, which will be held 11 September. Please respond if you are able to attend."

How humanizing. After 2,000 years, we're still pretty much writing about the same things.

After we left, after we loafed around a park for a while with Vicky reading sections of a cheesy 60's yoga book for housewives ("yoga can help develop your delicate feminine beauty, as well as give you strength to complete those stressful household chores!" -real quote) we met up with one of my best friends from days gone by. All the way back in little Athens, we used to watch Harry Potter and talk about how we'd go to London and Scotland, and it's so fitting that the first time we see each other in four years would be on Oxford Street. Sara's one of those friends - you know the ones - where there isn't the awkward re-get-to-know-you thing. It felt like we'd just seen each other a week ago.

So we left dinner early to catch our train, but hey, guess what? We missed it. Because that's what we do best. We were both a bit, "Whelp, time for the old hair shirt," but it's hard to beat yourself up for too long in a place as cool as London, with sunset as late as it is and the weather so nice. We met some cool girls from Athens, Georgia in the hostel and walked around getting snacks from various convenience stores until we felt sick. And may I say, Cadbury eggs and Ribena, though you'd THINK it wouldn't be, is a delicious combination.

Bop bop, we got back, all was well. Perhaps pockets a little lighter.

Our SHOW, which I've weirdly talked very little about, is taking shape. Vicky's sister found an article over the winter about a whale that sings higher than any other whale and can neither hear, nor be heard by, other whales. It travels alone, and has been dubbed, "The Loneliest Whale."
At first, we were drawn to it because of the romance of being a lone mammal, lost in the ocean. We felt like we, too, were lost in the waves of new technology, new ways to "connect."
The more we thought about it, though, the more we got interested in the glamorizing of... I mean, of a whale. It's "the loneliest." People write poetry about it. A group of deaf Americans suggested that the whale might be deaf, and a mother whose child has autism wrote about why the whale was autistic. People are projecting their problems onto this whale. And no one has ever seen the whale. For all we know, it might NOT be travelling alone. Maybe it's companions are just really quiet.
Anyway, that (and my credit card getting hacked) got us thinking about how even things and people who don't know they're being observed ARE being observed. Privacy in the age of facebook and all that.
We scrapped most of what we were working on before, very willingly, and now have a skeleton of scenes and characters that we'll be fleshing out over the next few weeks. We'd planned a showing on the 30th for friends, but NAH WAY is that gonna happen without us ripping each other's throats out, so it's the shows in August and then hopefully a few fringe festivals next year if we like what we've made.

I'm going to make a quick playlist before rehearsal, and I thiiiink I've exhausted our adventures anyway, so ta ta for the moment.

Love to you from across the blue.

My news update?

ALL IT EVER DOES IS RAIN.