My blog is not usually a place for ‘shout-outs’ if you will, but I just wanted to send love, and lots of it, to this guy pictured above, Ed Gleckler. He’s the brother of my roommate, Elizabeth, and he died Saturday of lymphoma, just 23 years old.
I never met the guy, but we accidentally emailed each other a few times. When I sent Elizabeth an email that pretty much read ‘I am so gay for you,’ and it reached him in error, he was a sport.
When Eliz found out he had only two months to live, she had to move out, and I being the weird voyeur that I am began reading his blog. This was a seriously faithful, intelligent, hillarious guy with a fervent belief in God. I have a lot of respect for him and wish him the best. I hope he gets to check his myspace from heaven, as our pages become our tombstones when we die.
People, this is serious. I have recently discovered that fairies are the perfect vehicle for my dramatic whims. I will officially proceed to use them gratutiously in plays. There is lots of room for over-writing, whimsy, and general cuteness. Also, the costumes. I mean, hi.
I measure the success of the fairy character thing I have created by the fact that the girl playing the Fairy in the Bedmaker’s Revenge got an audition for a Fox Sitcom because of it. Holla! (Pronounced ‘(ch)alla.’ Not ‘Hoe-lah.’)
A few weeks ago, it was a Sleep Fairy who never sleeps. This week – as I attempt to write a one act for Flux Theatre Ensemble that must be somehow inspired by the character of Bottom from Midsummer Night’s Dream – the Fairy is obsessed with Celebrities, and just happens to be wry and wise. So there.
So far, she says:
One upon a time, John Stamos terrorized an Australian talk show host. He wasn’t drunk, he was just Really tired.
Famous people don’t love Normal people, they just don’t. Even people pretending to be famous. We watch famous people like toys that might change while we’re sleeping, Their boobs get bigger and smaller and we watch. Has their hair grown? How has it grown since yesterday? Where can I get that salad dressing he uses? I want that hair, I need that car, if I can’t have it, I want death, I want to be buried in my own lack thereof.
When you poke at your face in the mirror, a fairy sits on your shoulder and shakes her head. Your mother cries because she didn’t teach you how to grow up.
When a fairy says good night, a light turns red in Hollywood and a person without a home mulls across the street, dragging a bag of old shoes.
And that, friends, is what parts of it looked like. And yes, I am indeed holding a baby chicken, so take THAT, other people who do not get to hold baby chickens.
There are way more Things, good things, fun things, ironically enjoyable things in Winston-Salem, NC, than I ever imagined. Pictoral evidence to come.
I will only reveal exhibit A right now, which is the fact that I become some sort of flower nymph while there: Carefree, energetic, with an odd desire to stand beneath trees.
Okay, okay. Sometimes, betwixt the dumb things I do for a time, lethargy, and general debauchery, I do a lil writin, here and there. Did that 24 hour play festival last weekend, and I ended up musing about sleep- because lately it’s all i can think about, the frantic getting of it - in a way that I think might be cute or cosmically important, so here I will share.
It’s called the Bedmaker’s Revenge, and involves one Sleepyhead, one Bedmaker, and one Sleepfairy.
Here, the Sleepfairy speaks. Or, at least, it’s pieces of things that she says.
‘How are you? Tired? Oh – You’ll have to excuse me, I’m already in my pajamas.
So Are you tired? I’d like a count, please, how many of you are tired?
Please don’t really raise your hand. Awkward. You’ll make the person next to you feel very uncomfortable, and that person is probably tired.
Speaking of tired, I’m tired, though I have never slept. Is it fun? It looks fun.
Would you like me to put you to sleep? Later.
There was something important I – I was -
(Pause. She thinks and dreams.)
I’m sorry, I had something important to say, but I was thinking of sleep.
So what time is it, anyways? How tired are you, if you could measure it? How many cups of tired?
You’ve had your Coffee, I bet, this morning. And then more coffee, coffee part two, then wine with dinner – your bed is looking pretty good right now, isn’t it? Well – your bed or the bed of your lover – the person you have chosen with which to bed.
By the time you get out of here, the 43 minute commute – by the time you’ve twice fed the whiney cat and taken out all recyclings – the getting of mail and the clipping of fingernails – you’ll get five and half hours of sleep.
Not enough. Didn’t your mother ever teach you?
You have to be at work by nine, which means you’re up by seven, to allow for the hair-scrubbing and face scrubbing to give the ILLUSION of adequate sleep. Then there’s the getting of the egg sandwich after the fiasco in which your metrocard expires and there you find yourself, tired, tired, cussing in front of small children.
And There’s somewhere to be tomorrow night, too. Obligatory. You won’t get a real night’s sleep until Friday, and then if you sleep in Saturday, you’ll have wasted half a free day, and I can tell you’re not the type to waste anything.
Really, the only hope is that you’ve found a proper person to share your bedplace with – a person whose sleep sounds and sleep-moving lovingly juxtapose with your own. That they match.
That’s the only hope, really.
But what if they don’t?There was something important to say, somewhere – there something – I love beds, don’t you? I was saying something.
ONE NIGHT EVERY YEAR, YOU ARE VIOLENTLY AND MALICIOUSLY AND VICIOUSLY ROBBED OF ONE HOUR OF SLEEP.
I’m sorry. It just really pisses me off. It’s not my doing, I promise. It’s got something very complicated to do with gravity or the growing of grass.
I think I was saying – I was going to say something about compatibility, love, sleep numbers, mattress salesmen. Or wine glasses floating on mattresses while old men drop bowling balls to prove a point.
When you sleep, your body is paralyzed so you don’t get up and do what you’re dreaming.
Elephants sleep standing up, I was going to mention that.
If I had a lover, I would make him stare at me until I fell asleep. I would just pretend, though, and then he would fall asleep, and I would watch him do it.
Cruel and unusual. Maybe it’s handed back to us months later, but by then, the tired has already happened, been dragged out over hundreds of days.
And for the following days, we find ourselves discombobulated. Picking fights, Swinging our large bags into innocent strangers.
And by we – I mean you.
One day, I’d like to sleep. That’d be nice.
I think was saying something.
I think I was saying something like- There is the first time you sleep with a person, and the then the first time you Sleep with a person. One is more vulnerable than the other.
I think people are most lovely with their bed hair and broccoli breath. It is like – this is me. This is how I look and smell when you’re not looking.
If you oversleep you lie like a dog and pretend you didn’t. Your forgot your keys or she forgot your keys or something exploded or someone died.
When you wake up, you are a like a baby, clenching your fists and kicking your feet.
I hear that sometimes, you’re so tired, it’s like you’re drunk. You forget what it’s like to not be tired and this becomes a constant feeling of average despair, which feels like life. ‘
There is no such thing as the frequently aforementioned Julien.
She lives solely in my mind.
I’d totally trust her with my Teeth.
Fanbase, one cannot live in a place like the New York and do the playwriting thing without the occasional elbow-brushing with the fame.
Tonight, we Did somethin. A 24 hour play type thing. Last night, tired, I stayed up til 2 writing a play involving a Disgruntled Sleep fairy about being tired. We raised money so that inner-city high school kids could be nerdy and theater-esque like us in a 24 hr. play type way.
Tributes and brushings include:
You were snarky and showed up late with One Guitar and One dog, whom I later pet. Or pat. You spoke of unemployment, and this made me oddly optimistic.
You spoke of your dog on Page Six and wished you were named Zack.
I wish I lived in the Village and got more sleep.
Kudos to both of you, and all of us, who do plays.
I went home last weekend for a reading of my play, and general homeplace revelry. Pictoral highlights include the above picture of my in which I look Asian, that neat scarf and coat that I found at goodwill that I probably shouldn’t wear simultaneously,
the meeting of my Grandma’s Lova – Aaron - who was beyond charming -
the fact that my Grandma my and I matched, and also this dress shirt dress thing I found at Goodwill,
the going to of a dirty bar with Charlotte St. Julien Patton,
and the techno/metal/amazing band in complete superhero attire hat happened to be playing at said bar.
He is risen, indeed!
Easter at the Brunstetter always involves lots of strategically placed bunnies, or ‘bonnies’ as my esteemed mommyperson calls them, while sometimes hopping about like one. (Sometimes, I join in.)
But this year, they are realer than ever. They are fuzzy and disturbingly bunny-like. They leer, as if to say:
He is risen, indeed, and I am very cute, and if you do not pet me right stinking now, I will summon the armageddon. And also maybe chew on your foot.
The bonnies sit atop beds and are nestled into corners! They are perched atop televisions, stuffed into crevices, arranged across mantles! They are everywhere, and they mean Business.
Also, sometimes they are porcelain, which makes them even more cute and emphatic. Grr! Easter!! Grrruff!!
Finally, naturally, there is the Easter Tree.
Suffice it to say, there is no shortage of Easter joy in this house.