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


July 31st, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter
asheville.jpg1. actuated or swayed by emotional or involuntary impulses: an impulsive child.
2. city1_92.jpghaving the power or effect of impelling; characterized by impulsion: impulsive forces.
3. inciting to action: the impulsive effects of a revolutionary idea.images10.jpeg
4. Mechanics. (of forces) acting momentarily; not continuous.

5. See Bekah. Watch her go, destroy and create with little rhyme or reason. Fuck.


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July 30th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

 p1011080.JPG I want to go home. 
Little Brother just got home, kind of sad, kind of drunk. He is Talking about how he’ll miss his good high school friends, then trips over a floor lamp. Then says more about
College, Et al.

Looking at him, He’s no longer small. He’s big. His neck is more like my thigh,
which is big, And his hands are my face, and his ideas are kind of a lot.
I don’t know if I ever really realized that he thought.

Him talking to me is odd. He fumbles for the peanuts in the pantry.
Are we kind of talking right now? I mean, are we communicating?
In high school, He says, like I never went, It’s your last year that you make your best friends, Et al.
Is he really talking to me? Kind of. I guess Beer talks to sisters, Sometimes.
Leaning against the counter, he is huge.

We once shared a small room in our first house and it was not odd. He was small.
But we have never shared a salty cigarette on a drunk beach or bitched, really,
about anything, Together, which is how two people really talk, I think,

or maybe it’s this way? In which Beer talks, sister listens. She might even help him up the stairs, put him in his own bed in his own big room which is significantly larger than the  one they once shared.

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Flat Stanley

July 30th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Fanbase, it is totally possible to mail oneself. With the price of air fare going up, and up: risks of terrorism, death by lightning, and old women smuggling on large blocks of cheese disguised as cheese bombs – who wants to fly even? Stamps are cheap, and envelopes are warm and safe.

Okay. No one ever remembers the story of Flat Stanley, but it has stuck with me since my youth. Flat Stanley flattens himself – somehow – can’t remember – (thoughts?) – and mails himself to a destination. Also, I recall, he flattened – and included in the envelope – a flattened jug of a milk, and one flat tuna salad sandwich.

I strangely always remember the sandwich details of stories. Sometimes, I wish that I had thoughts other than Sandwiches.

Flat Stanley looks like this:


Remember yet? WHY AM I THE ONLY THAT REMEMBERS? Anywhoo, with just a quick googling of this flat little fudger, we find that the legend of flat stanley has indeed found new life. There is now a Country-wide educational program named after it’s papered namesake. It encourages kids to practice their writing and communication skills. They send Sir Flats to other kids all over the country, with letters that probably say things like ‘Hi their. My name is Billy. I lick to right.’

Flat Stanley has even made it to the White House, which looked like this:


Apparently, only the President gets to hold Flat Stanley: which makes the man behind him melancholy and paralyzed with jealousy.

Stanley was also given a stern talking to by Ms. Rice. This sounded something like ‘I will cut you, the doll.’ And it looked like this:


In summation: if the children of our country are believing in/utilizing the creative traveling methods of this heterosexual child paper doll boy, why can’t we all?

Mail yourself to me. I dare you. Don’t forget your flattened grilled cheese with little crackers the size of kitten paws. Also, flattened: arrested development on DVD, an iphone, a friendly puppy, soft bedding, and some skittles.

If you are still confused, perhaps it is because you are a ‘musician,’ in which case, I give you this:


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July 30th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Let this be known: it is hard to apply make up while crying.

One’s face says: Do not put that stuff on me.  I don’t want to look pretty right now. I want to be green and wet. I want to scrunch up like a potato and I want to feel sad.

One’s eyes say: I like they way I’m naturally glistening right now. I like that I am greener, all by myself. I’m taking a quiet, secret bath. Do not put that crap on me. Gratuitious; unnecessary.

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July 29th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Oh, Bacon. Allow me to, ahem, count the ways.


Fried, warm, happy.


Raw; Honest.


Lawyer, statesman, essayist, historian, intellectual reformer, philosopher, and champion of modern science. I like you.


Oddly attractive man person.

I see you, the bacon. And I like what I see.

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July 28th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


Fanbase, we have a serious problem. Ms. Castoria – please hold your tongue. Too many little dead tittens, be they small versions of the twats they might become – is a serious problem. And it’s not just a problem of the sweet lil titten – it’s a problem of the lil pup, too. That’s right. The pup. He looks like this.


Hello, the puppy. That’s right, Ms. Castoria. I go as far as to invoke an image of your actual puppy to appeal for your sympathy for the smallish cat.

It costs anywhere from $290 to $600 bucks to neuter or spay your pet. Holy Geez! This i never knew, being that the one time I had a pet, she was dead within a week (RIP, Sophie. RIP.) But now that I am the official temporary owner of ‘The Baby Kitty,’ whislt his Mommy goes to law school, I find myself with an interest in a little thing I will dub ‘pet journalism.’

An article in today’s Daily News highlights this growing problem. Fixing your pet is so expensive. So once mommy gets knocked up, gives birth, and the offspring are given to the pound (to most likely le die) – usually it just happens again, because Mommy is still fertile. In New York, on average, 55 puppies and kittens are euthanized DAILY by Animal Shelters. Now, Ms. Castoria, you might be thinking: they are probably mangey little fuckers anyways, but: what if: yes, what if: they were CUTE.

See, it’s a problem. Solution: Veternarians are now coming together to try and REDUCE the price of fixing your pet, so pet owners will be more encouraged to do so. Prices through special programs may go as cheap as $38 for a man cat and $72 for a bitch. This will cause less abitrary deaths of little pup’s and tittens, which I am all about.

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being alive

July 28th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


Today’s steps to reminding yourself that you are Alive, and you Like it.


1. Iced Coffee, and how, and lots.
2. A newspaper.
3. An (arbitary) destination
4. Imaginary Money
5. A cellular device containing the cellular numbers of all the people you love.
6. Confused tourists.

Wake up late to the happy sight of the faithful tree outside of your window. Thank God, it’s always there, or where would joy be?

Maybe the joy would be in sleeping late, which is crucial. The kind of sleep where your eyes are forced open at the time you would normally rise for work. Don’t do it. Roll yourself into your soft covers, bun yourself all up like a lil pastrie, and drift back to sleep.

Wake up rested and lazy. Stretch yourself out across the bed and say good morning to your room. Activities within the next (relaxed, mind you) hours can involve home made breakfast sandwiches, kid’s TV with hip-hop cheetos commercials, or a long shower with extra attention given to smelly-good exfoliating: because there is so much time, and living is good.

Iced Coffee, and lots. Fixed however you like. Purchased at boedga of choice, near train. Also, purchase a Daily News, tuck it under your arm. Feel connected with the rest of the world and the things happening in it: be they hillary’s cleavage or helicopters colliding.

Take the train to where. While waiting for said train, notice confused tourists regarding their sweaty maps. Smile at them, ensuring that they will feel comfortable three minutes from now when they work up the balls to ask you a question. Smile again, and help. Feel proud/wonderful/alive that you have information that they need: feel like a good person when you deliver the information with patience and concern. Say you’re welcome.

Wander around. More ice coffee probably needs to happen. Wander towards stores containing dresses you don’t need, but that you feel are crucial in the accentuation of the length of your back. Find the best one.

It’s red with blue flowers, and thin straps that dip down your back and make your shoulders look like princesses. Purchase with imaginary money, because money is for spending, and dresses are a part of being alive, and being alive is good.

Enter a Starbucks. More iced coffee. In the bathroom, after waiting patiently for it, with joy, take off the sweaty shit you put on this morning. Shove into your bag. Put on your new dress, and re-emerge, a more joyful version of yourself.

Wander more. As you wander from place to place, make phone calls to every person you love. Don’t leave messages, because there are no words, really, to express the wonder of being alive – and the need to express this joy and frustration. If you get someone on the phone, stop, and listen. Want more than anything to hear about the specifics of their life. Ask them if they are happy. Say, I am too.

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July 27th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

fruit fiction


They had been together for 93 years. The immobility of their age compelled them to spend much time sitting on the porch, while she admired the age spots on her long legs, and watched him play the ukulele. Their home faced the ocean, faithfully, as their bodies faced each other during sleep.

93 years it had been, and it was still unpredictable. They still managed to say things to each other that they had never said before. He still managed to pull the most wonderful words out his pockets, and throw them at her to see if she would catch them: and she always did. She was never quite sure, though, whether or not these musings were in theory. But most of the time, they were true.

There was the time that he looked at her over his glasses as she removed the remains of his breakfast. He put two fingers on her wrist and said, I’m going to find a big purple parrot and name him Benjamin Franklyn. I’m going to pay him in stale cheezits to tell you you’re beautiful every time you enter the house. She smiled at this, and put this smile in to the dish water. She bit her smile with her lip and marveled, for the eight thousandth time, at the stupidly wonderful things that he said.

But sure enough, two days later, Benjamin became a regular fixture in the house. He brought him in proudly on his arm, and set him on a chair in the kitchen.

Tu es belle, said the parrot. And her lover beamed proudly. He speaks French, too.

So this morning in particular, as he strummed his ukulele and she admired her spots – she was not surprised at all when he said to her, I want to wrestle you in a giant bath of fruit cocktail. She blushed as her old mouth got wet. He nodded to himself, affirming the want of this thought.

Sure enough, the next day, he returned home with five large vats of it. He carried them in, one by one, refusing her help. He placed them in the refrigerator.

Cold would be better.

I completely agree.

They sat at the table, sharing a half-salad sandwich, and waited.

Three hours later they sat in the bathtub, facing each other, laughing like kids. She put her ankles next to his. All four ankles had shrunk with time, but still felt generally the same. There was a familiarity that made her heart surge.

How can it be so wonderful, after all these years still? She thought this to herself. From the kitchen, Benjamin spoke his piece: you’re beautiful. And just when she thought it could never ever get more wonderful, it couldn’t possibly: he laughed and picked a cold piece of peach out of her hair and put it in his mouth.

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A brief tribute to Rennaisance Fairs

July 26th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


Now, I do not mean to hate, judge, mock, or expose. I only mean to investigate and report. Journalistically. That’s right. Pencil skirt, awkwardly plunging neckline. Glasses that slip down my nose. Bic pen in hair. Stuff like that.

practice2.jpg  banquet_dance5.jpg

So, the Renaissance Fair. I know it. You know it. Personally, in my youth, trips were taken with the high school drama club (for which I was ‘historian’) to one of these – um – special – events. I did experience the Rennaissance fair, yes sir. And by ‘experience’ it, I do mean bad renditions of Shakespeare (which is probably the root of why I don’t like the guy. Shh. Secret, a lot.) Trips also included an old favorite, meat-on-a – stick, and I also recall elephant rides, fake swords and the like.

Now -apparently – I missed out. Some high schools boast clubs and societies specifically devoted to the Rennaissance fair. Groups of students pair with teachers (mentors) to explore the joys and tribulations of medieval life.

In said clubs, each student posesses a ‘Mundane Name’ and ‘Persona Name.’ For example, my Mundane name would be Bekah Brunstetter; my Persona name would be ‘Princess Pretty Buttercup Esquire’ or ‘Lady Esther Regina St. Claire.’

I like the idea of this. I hope that in the future, our great great great grandchildren ride around on robot flowers attending fairs where they don’t cosume carbs and play video games. I think paying homage to the past is a good idea. The older I get, the more awesome things that once seemed weird become.

What I’m trying to say is: jousting, I salute you. Pickle selling, woods crafting: Do it. Why the heck not? Boys who at some point in their lives donned tights and chased maidens? Awesome.

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July 26th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

capt26d971fa50a54b0da3487a2ea6d0b862death_cat_rism103.jpgWell, mrow, and then some!

Oscar, the somewhat skittish 2yr old cat, is a resident attraction at a nursing home in Rhode Island.

Though usually unfriendly, a loner, if you will, with few friends on myspace, Oscar can sense death. He is known to curl warmly up to a resident hours before their death, somehow sensing the impending end to their life.

I find this sweet, strange, meow and wonderful.


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