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

Why you Should not Pierce Yourself

July 26th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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Seriously, what? This was an article suggestion on a bloggy I blog for. Julien, let’s have a moment about this. Here we go.

High School Angst and a burning desire to be different, I believe, and perhaps a little boredom, compelled my friends and I to pierce each other’s ears in the bathroom. We would grab a stud, a nail file, and head to the little girl’s room during lunch, our hearts racing. It was definitely the thrill of being bad. Also, this was 1998, when delicately lining little hoops all the way the heck up your ears was a definite must. It was our way of expressing our selves, our way of saying Look at me. It was similar to writing on walls, and cussing excessively.

We were not yet 18, and our parents would not consent to this self-mutilation (or decoration, as we saw it) so we were compelled to take things into our own hands. Julien would sharpen the earring with the file as I stood shivering, heart pounding, wondering if someone would walk in. Then, she would shove it through. I would bleed, yes, but what a rush. This happened some four times.

My ears now, 9 years later, upon close inspection, are strange because of these thrilling bathroom events. I haven’t worn earrings in anything but my first holes in years. The third holes are too close to the second holes, the fourth holes have developed that knotty tissue behind it that is unappealing and strange. I like that idea that they just remind me of where I’ve been, and how far I’ve come. They are nostalgic scars.

But in summation: piercing yourself: BAD IDEA. There is a reason that professionals are trained to do it. There is a right way to piece the skin, a safe way to do it. Especially when you are dealing with cartilidge, which is hard to puncture.

Once I turned 18, I went moderately nuts, and expressed myself with tongue, noses and belly piercings. As complicated, painful and wonderful as all of these experiences were: I would not have had it any other way than under the care of some nice guy who I know is in control: in a sterile, soothing environment.

As great as it is to decorate your person, it is not worth permanently scarring your body for the thrill of the public school bathroom pierce. Seriously – don’t do it.

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snails without homes

July 25th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

I call this icky, gratutious nighttime fuction. What? fiction.

So:

She had spent the majority of her life patiently waiting for someone to fall in love with her. She may have looked something like this: photo-45.jpg

But not as cute. But she didn’t want it to be any sort of love, no sir. Not a love of convenience, colored with conversations about effects of the heavy rain. Not the sort of love where the lover took off running with the love, and forgot her all together. She wanted to be loved for the things that she made.

And what she made were small replicas of flowers out of un-flowerish things. The daffodil was molded from a piece of burrito-ed tin foil and looked real as day. The nosegay was arranged with old dryer lint, and plumped by her ambitious fingers. The roses were crafted out of market bags and carefully dried with glue, sometimes creased by her late-night tears. The violets were made of worn pieces of someone’s favorite sweater.

She was damn mildly good at what she did. Respected, even. There were some better than her, but she was better than some, and this was the reason she could get up in the morning. Each day she set up her table and arranged the flowers like a quaint village of her thoughts. Wonderbread daisies bordered the table while the lollipop Lillies huddled in front. People passed by, and she waited.

As the occasional passer-by stopped to finger one of her thoughts, she would try and re-think it: that Carnation was two weeks ago, a Wednesday. I was feeling stuck. Why can’t a carnation be blue? Why must we always do the same sad thing, over and over? This Carnation will be blue, and like it.

The passer-by would put the thing down, smiling the uncomfortable side grin of a person Not Wishing to Part with their Money; or hand her two dollars, wet from their pocket. The person would then take the precious thing to a place where it would probably be flippantly consumed by someone’s dog or child.

So she waited and starred at her creations, counting the reasons that someone could one day fall in love her. They ranged from the freckle on her lower back to the maddening power of her blueberry pancakes, even when burnt. The way she tended to dance around in her underwear when no one was watching, releasing all the joy she had collected in the past nine days back into the universe.
It was the one moment when she forgot she was waiting. There was the silliest goddamn itch in the world and it was happening all over her ankle; she was bent down to scratch it. Her face was like a cherub at summer camp, scrunched and half-smiling and frustrated.

When she finally looked over, he had finished setting his table up. He was grand, but like a giant little boy who’d popped his last water balloon. This blue balloon was in fact most likely the same color of his eyes.

Little did they know that they both felt slightly homeless; like they had no place to put their shoes.

He sat patiently behind his table, waiting for someone to fall in love with him. He was more forward than she. He smiled at the passer-by’s, scooting forward his home-made sign, sharpied, FREE YOUR MIND.

From next door, she quietly admired his table for it’s gaul, audacity and charm. It was neatly, conspicuously arranged with food items in uncommon containers. The waffles sat tiredly in shoes. The hot dogs in tube socks. The marmalade in tin buckets. The ham in a sleeping blender. The nuts perched dilligently in a winter glove.

Her heart surge slightly as she noticed each item and she put one finger to the corner of her mouth to chew it. Then, a customer.

What the heck is this?

Um – it’s a flower. It’s a Chrysanthemum, actually.

What the hell is it made out of?

Peanut Butter.

The customer re-placed her be-labored thought, the labor of her fingers back onto the table and hurried off to where. She scooted it three inches back to the left, dancing with the Real Butter- buttercup, where it belonged. And when she looked up – he was looking.

He stood up from his table and walked towards hers. This was bold, and both knew it. She put her hands between her knees, pressing her skirt down, hunching her shoulders, hoping that in some world, with some sort of God, this was somewhat adorable and noteworthy. Her heart raced. Is it you? She quickly began to name their children after flowers.

He stood in front of her table. With two perfect fingers (she decided) he picked up the tulip she had made from her favorite shoelaces, the last time she felt nostalgic, which was always. He smiled at it, and then at all of her creations, and then at her.

I like this, he said.

She didn’t know what else to say except is it you? So she said it. He nodded. They pushed their tables together.

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aquarium etiquette

July 24th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Ladies and Gentlemen: Aquatic Journalism.

At the Aquarium, certain rules of etiquette are observed. Please pay attention.

DO make friends with the jellyfish. They are as colorful and as friendly and gay as Christopher St. They look like this:

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Do NOT get trapped INSIDE the jelly fish tank. On NO! Je Stuck!

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Do make sure pictures of said jelly fish are taken with iphone. Smile, the jelly fish.

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DO take pictures of fat little penguins. Be sure to say things like hey look! It’s a penguin and what’s up, the little penguin? 

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DO force your partner to take pictures of you next to the Large Sleeping Fish taking a much deserved nap. Do NOT have secret thoughts about deep frying him and dipping him garlic buttter.

Mmmm.

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Do, DEFINITELY DO form an artistic liasion with the Octupus who is lurking in its cave. Say hello, the octopus. I think we should collaborate, artistically. You’re pretty. 

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Finally, DO make friends with Myrtle, the 565 lb 70 year old sea turtle. She wants to be your friend. However, she does NOT want you to attempt to jump on her back and ride her around like an aquatic horse. So do not do that. For sure.

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Boston, expanded upon

July 23rd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

So, this weekend, Steve and I ventured to Boston for a reading of my new play, Space, through Boston Theatre Work’s Unbound festival of New Plays. They look like this: btw_logo.jpg

Yeah. They are a great theater who hosted a reading of Green last year as well. Also, we just wanted an excuse to get out of the City, shack up in a hotel, hang out, and eat ridiculous amounts of food: which believe you me: we did.

It began with a Bus Ride that was supposed to be a mere 4 hours – but traffic caused it to be 6 and a half – which landed us there moments before I was supposed to be at the theater. Our pre-bus optimism looked something like this:

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And then, on the bus ride, I ravaged Steve in a rousing game of scrabble, obtaining my highest score ever of 335. (He then, of course, ravaged me after. In scrabble, that is.) The board looked like this:

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Bus scrabble at it’s best. The reading that evening went swimmingly. Good staging, good actors. I have never heard the full-length version of Space outloud before, so it was really enlightening – this audience was rotfl, if you will – where Sunday’s audience was a little more pensive and like, disturbed. Both readings were followed suite with awkward talk backs with the audience and me.

So re: Boston: yay. Like new york: urban, yay, but just – CLEANER. FRESHER. Even the subways. p1010019.JPG More pleasant, generally. Not to mention, Boston Commons, which is like Central park but less homeless and illegal sex, and more – like – ice cream and children. Oh. And statues. p1010014.JPG

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also, je sleep.

July 23rd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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le dammit

July 23rd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Fiction; Romance. Inspired by overheard , found Words, and assorted sentiments.

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He called her Le Dammit, because he could find no other name to fit her.

His words sat patiently in his head, a diverse group of ancey children on a field trip. ‘With Reckless Abandon’ held hands tight with ‘Fortitude.’ ‘Pretty’ and ‘Lacivious’ sat together, sharing a half-salad sandwich. ‘Dammit’ stepped forward, having been lost in the back, reserved for quiet moments of frustration, longing and joy. He chose this name for her, because it felt purple, like the air around his fingers when he held the phone, tight, wondering what her knees were doing exactly, miles away: whether they were smiling, together, or spread.

Purple? She asked. Really?

Shut up, le Dammit, he said, sweet and coy. The way I feel about you is fucking purple. He stepped in a puddle as he walked, not knowing where he was going, or how the hell he was going to get there.

I like it, she said, and when she did, she sounded to him like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Little did he know that she sounded exactly like wonderfully nostalgic cereal because at that moment – exactly – she was patiently selecting a name for Him: running through her words to find one that matched her longing, which was pale blue: like water and cartoon stars.

I think there comes a time when people must pair off, she said. He nodded, yes, assuming that by this point in time, she could feel it when he moved his body in affirmation. She continued.

Yeah – I think there comes a time people must find themselves lugging luggage through airports, wearing the same sandals, snuggling to thunderstorms, travelling, following, throwing food. It’s like – wherever they are going – they sure are really going there together. Even their pair luggage loves each other. 

He digested her sentiments. It was at this exact moment that his umbrella died.

Where are you headed, anyways? she asked.

I don’t know, he said. He studied his unfamiliar surroundings, peering through the purple. I think I’m suddenly walking towards you somehow. 

They smiled a simultaneous smile, and then there was a pause.  The fuzz of the phone wrapped their lips in blankets as they listened to the sound of the other breathing as they walked. This pause gave birth to their first child, who grew up ambitiously to start gardens where people gave each other names like ‘le dammit’ and umbrellas never die.

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boston

July 22nd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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I went. It happened. Beautiful. Details to come on assorted events, octopi, and delectable boston eats tommorrow when I regain brains.

Buses. Ew.

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brief lesbians in amsterdam

July 19th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

fiction

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I decide to share a joint with Kate Winslet whose name was really Sharna, a woman who worked in London but did not know anyone stuck in the UnderGround when it exploded.

We meet naturally, like the last two of an extinct race, being the only two people by ourselves in
the dark cave of the place. What unfolded there after, in just one night, was the best Date ever.
I realized this when we finally found the falafel and sat down in the middle of the street to eat it,
too drunk and too stoned and too Amsterdam to know any better.

My date with Kate Winslet ended with a non-kiss. We both went home to call our boyfriends
and to ponder the strange magnetic prettiness of our new friend; and to fall asleep, stoned,
next to a clear images of each other’s faces.

Also:

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Stoned Girls in Amsterdam/ I’m Coming

White girls from All Over America are heading Here to sit by the window in coffee shops,
focusing on the flowers, and to drink espresso and have whole milk and smoke thick joints and
wait for everything not there to be illuminated.

They are burning their throats. By the end of the next day, it feels like they have been
going down on burning buildings for the past 6 hours. They are having strange thoughts and writing about it. They are feeling talentless.

They are shopping. They are eating falafel. They are Getting Lost.
They are considering walking over to see the place where Anne Frank got her first period.
They are wishing it would get dark, sooner.
They are looking at doughnuts like soulmates.
They are sad and stoned.
They are waiting for everything not there to be illuminated.

And re: Boys there:

5 young men from 5 different countries all the speak the international language of pot.
They are gathered around the full lip end of a bar in a coffee shop; this one smells like wood,
(Some don’t.)
It’s right by the water. This is how they all met; being in this place.

Having nothing better to do, they exchange stories of hazy recollected nights
with assorted young ladies of the Red Light District.

(Whores.)

Some like it rough and slap you around. Some keep their shoes on. (Some don’t.)

The 5 young men are speaking the international language of  Women They’ve Fucked,
and as they do, all lines ever drawn creating countries fade into the smoke
that curls out of their mouths like words.

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Get it, Betty!

July 19th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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My obsession confirmed and validated!

Ugly Betty has been nominated for an Emmy for best Comedy.

Obsessively watch episodes Here.

I Fing Love this show in a very sad and specific way!

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Wow/Narcissism

July 19th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

And this is a little thing I like to call ‘celebrity gossip.’

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Elaborated Here.

Jon Bon Jovi protesteth much the use of something SIMILIAR to his name, ‘Mijovi,’ for a new coffee-based energy drink. The Bon Bon ‘s civil representative sent a letter to Marcos Carrington, owner of the new line of beverage, who press materials and bottles read: ‘itsmienergy. itsmijovi. itsmilife.’

And I mean, EVERYBODY knows the infamous rock JBJ ballad, ‘It’s my life.’ Duh, Mr. Carrington. What’s up now.

But Carrington insists that mijovi is actually named after his girlfriend, Jovia – and that in fact – unlike MOST things in the world – has nothing to do with Jon Bon Jovi.

Nothing to do with with Jon Bon Jovi? Seriously, Carrington. We are meant to believe this? Even the trees have to do with Jon Bon Jovi. Pretty much most things do.

So for my next trick, I will sue TriBeca for its obvious infiltration of my ‘monicker.’ I will always wage a war against the use of the words ‘Back up,’ which, when said really fast, just sound too much like ME.

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