bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY

Home again home again, jiggity jog!

March 19th, 2018 by Bekah Brunstetter

I have no idea where that limerick (?) came from, if my mom made it up for all car rides home or if it’s an ancient Irish thing, but I shall use it to announce that I’m working on my new play today at 520 8th avenue — a midtown building stuffed full of rehearsal studios, where I have workshopped and read and staged so many plays I can’t even count them on my hairs. It’s hallways are full of remembories. If you look closely at the Toss your Own Salad station in the Pax Foods below it, you can see translucent young me almost ordering a salad then getting a chicken parm panini instead, then heading outside to smoke and tear apart her play in her head. It’s like I never left because truly, a part of me never did.



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say what hurts

February 21st, 2018 by Bekah Brunstetter

Today, on I’m learning everything I’ve ever needed to know in life from A Chef’s Table: I just watched the episode on Francis Mallman, a  chef who cooks all of his food over Fire on a remote island in Patagonia (which, turns out, is NOT just a brand of luxury action wear for people who rarely go outside.) Watching his episode, I found myself at times annoyed by him,  tho all of the time wanting to eat his food, and ultimately, I was taken by his attitude towards life. These words, in particular (and I’m definitely paraphrasing:)

As you get older, you don’t want to be with people that you don’t want to be around. I had a friend, we were very close. We grew apart. He said to me, Francis, you don’t like me anymore! I said no, it’s just that we have nothing to say to each other. The things you have to say no longer interest me. Our lives are different, now. And I think that is a big part of life, saying the true things, even if they hurt. 

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November 27th, 2016 by Bekah Brunstetter

It’s the timmeeee of yearrrrr

When the world

Falls in love

And I sit on the couch watching Hallmark Christmas movies that are bountiful and limitless and appear to be made for approximately nine dollars a piece, and I judge their predictable plots and cheese covered dialogue and tell myself I’m watching them ironically and shout at my husband THIS IS MY VIDEO GAMES but then quietly sob when the commercials come in which nice people do nice things for strangers, and then the sobbing leads me to wonder, am I a Hallmark Christmas movie writer? IS THAT REALLY WHAT I AM? SHOULD I JUST MAKE THESE FOREVER? AND EVER? AND EVER? AND EVER?

Posted in a lot, arrogant art things, awesome, fancy, generally, ha, hmmmmm, holidays, working, worrying, YAY | No Comments »

Not this, But

May 12th, 2015 by Bekah Brunstetter

1.) I am a thief in the night. And also sometimes the day. I oftentimes steal images from the internets for my blog and do not credit them. I should really stop doing that. This one in particular, I MUST credit. It’s an installation with found objects by Souther Salazar, and I wish I could touch it in person. I found it when looking up idea machines, which leads me to:

2.) I love the idea-making process of Not This, But. I love starting with the worst ideas, bad version of the good idea, circling closer and closer to the right thing, by process of elimination. It is the creative idea equivalent of marking things off a to do list or throwing old weird sweaters in a pile to give away. Logic should be applied to creativity WHENEVER POSSIBLE, so that the creative thing itself can be a beast in a cage.

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Yes, but Why?

May 1st, 2014 by Bekah Brunstetter

But I guess also: why Not?

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December 18th, 2013 by Bekah Brunstetter

Being a member of the Writer’s Guild means health insurance, but also NEVER LEAVING YOUR HOUSE BESIDES WORK BECAUSE WHY WOULD YOU during the months of November and December, because they send you screeners of every movie that’s currently in the theater that you want to see. It’s a huge gift but also distraction but also potential jail time if you are caught loaning out your ‘water marked disk.’ After ten minutes of  ten different screens with threats assuring you that you WILL go to jail were you to loan out your screener, le film begins, reminding you every two minutes that you are not meant to loan out your screener, and there, in the safety of your own living room, eating a humiliating concoction that’s equal parts pasta and parmesan and sriacha, you are transported.

Now I am no film expert and my critique there is fairly limited to Good! and Loud! and Bad! but I will now respond to a few choice screeners with vague phrases and words.

Dallas Buyer’s Club: skinny people are weird. Aids is bad. Oscar bait.

Blue Jasmine: It is possible to feel bad for rich people

American Hustle: Amy Adam’s sideboob

Prisoners: that time when you didn’t know what the movie was about for the first 15 minutes and then you realized what was going to happen, just before it happened, and decided that it was because your dramatists’ brain has matured and you felt quite self-satisfied; whistles.

Lone Survivor: THANK YOU GOD THAT MY BROTHERS ARE STILL ALIVE; too much people falling down hills.

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How to Buy Wine

December 5th, 2013 by Bekah Brunstetter

1.) Find the wine at the store.

2.) Is the wine under $20? Does the wine have screw top?

Y: Buy the wine.

N: Don’t buy the wine. Find wine with screw top. Buy that wine.

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September 30th, 2013 by Bekah Brunstetter

After actively resisting for years, I signed up for Twitter, and I’m already overwhelmed / overthinking / drowning in inadequacy, and I’ve already accidentally tweeted MYSELF. What do I tweet that’s different from what I blog? Should I tweet at other people, retweet their tweets? AM I TRENDING YET?

Posted in arrogant art things, narcissism, whining | No Comments »

Mark Ryden

September 28th, 2013 by Bekah Brunstetter

In an epic / noble / whitepeopleproblems quest for wall art, I recalled the artist I stumbled across a few years back when google image searching Cutie and Bear. PS, if there were a job that was Google Image searching, I should have that job, as I do as as if it were. That is probably actually someone’s real job. Mark Ryden’s paintings are beautiful, funny, odd, haunting, and 90% guaranteed to make you feel like you’re on shrooms, while also inside of a nightmare, while also in the Toys R Us in Time’s Square. I love them, but fear that if I hung one on my wall, I would wake up to a large headed baby simultaneously murdering me and eating a balloon.

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The Boxer

September 12th, 2013 by Bekah Brunstetter

My record player turntable? record player is changing my life / priorities / schedule. All I want to do is lie next to it and listen to music and think both small and large thoughts, mostly to this one Emmylou Harris album I scored for a buck, more specifically, her cover of The Boxer, which has made me fall in love with that song all over again, or maybe for the first time, because I’m not sure if I ever loved it before. My apologies to the record itself,  and any adjoining neighbors for the 700 times I’ve played it so far.  It’s one of those incredible song that manages to sound like itself. Or feel like the story its telling? I don’t know. I have to go listen to it ten more times.

I am just a poor boy , Though my story’s seldom told, I have squandered my resistance For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises

All lies and jests, Still a man hears what he wants to hear And disregards the rest .

When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy In the company of strangers, In the quiet of the railway station running scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters  Where the ragged people go. Looking for the places only they would know.

Asking only workman’s wages, I come looking for a job, But I get no offers, Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue.
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there.

Then I’m laying out my winter clothes And wishing I was gone, Going home Where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me
Bleeding me, going home

In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade, And he carries the reminders Of ev’ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out  In his anger and his shame, “I am leaving, I am leaving,” But the fighter still remains.

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