I have been SUPER EMOTIONALLY INVOLVED in the will they / won’t they of Nick and Jess on New Girl since the pilot, and they FINALLY KISSED, YOU GUYS. In the privacy of my room, I teen girled out and rewinded and rewatched about nine times. It was simultaneously predictable and unexpected, adorable and hot. KEEP KISSING GUYS. YOU MAKE (ME) AMERICA/ AND PROBABLY OTHER COUNTRIES HAPPY.
I saw Local Natives with Jocey last night, and I must say, the most remarkable thing about them is what a fine tuned instrument they are as a group, so well rehearsed that they kind of perform as One. My favorite kind of live music is standardly a group of guys who form a unit, A la Punch Brothers and Pig Pen, and play as one breathing, blue eyed, bearded thing. But also, I’ll take my boyfriend and his banjo over any of them, any day.
Bliss spa is my favorite place to get my hairs ripped out. Wee brownies and cheese and crackers and lemony water while you wait? I MEAN.
I’d say that it’s rare on here that I divulge my inner most thoughts. I share like the atmosphere, or crust, but rarely the inner core. But why have a blog if I don’t occasionally overshare? And so: feelings. Welcome, mother, father and one other person, to my pity party.
Lately, or rather, the last year or so, I’ve been feeling, well, washed up. As a writer of drama plays, or I guess any sort of writer, at some point, you ‘emerge.’ You’re new and exciting and all of the fancy people and places are sniffing around your work, bestowing you with commissions and readings. During this emerging time, you either hit it big, hit it a little bit, or just sort of – fade away. It’s hard not to feel like I didn’t emerge hard enough, or enough at all. I had Off-Broadway productions that were great, but didn’t get enough attention to catapult me into a large and stable career. I had fancy tv and film meetings and opportunities, but my ideas weren’t sharp enough to really land anything. I busted my hoo ha all through my twenties, writing fierce and hard, to earn myself a resting place that I guess I’m now in. I should feel rested, I should relax into this but instead I feel — listless? Uninspired? Mediocre? Like it’s all done? I don’t want it to be done. It doesn’t have to be. But is it truly up to me? It doesn’t feel like it. It Feels like what’s done is done, my voice is my voice, and all I can do is write and hope that someday, something catches on in a big way and finally the New York Times is all, Bekah Brunstetter, it’s time for your feature, and I’m all, meet me at this obscure cafe in Brooklyn where I’ll drink a weird tea and you can take a picture of me by this old bike that’s not mine, and you’ll ask, where did you come from? and I’ll say, with snark and tea, why, The New York Times, I have been here the entire time.
NO SERIOUSLY. LET. ME.
The newly formed playwrights of silverlake, lets call them that, has been a PERFECT excuse to execute a handful of my favorite tasks, including having people over, napkin stacking, baking bread, and putting things in bowls. But really, this blueberry lemon bread might be my greatest accomplishment to date, all plays included.
So I was asked to write a car play for, well, Car Plays, an evening of plays in cars presented in Costa Mesa each year. I really did not know what to expect, but it was basically one of those most invigorating theater experiences I’ve had in a REAL long time. You start with a row of five cars, Parked front to bumper. You and your theater going buddy — preferably someone you’re comfortable enough to be pressed against while a masked actor calls you both ASSHOLES! or dramatically lays himself across you –move from car to car, play to play. You hop in one car – either in the back, the front, one in each, depending on the play – the valets / carhops shut the doors, and — the play begins. Around you, next to you, inbetween you. Awkward high schoolers are trapped in a mini-van on a first date. A chubby teenager tries to skip a cab fare. A mother drops her daughter off at college. And, well, there you are, trapped in this moment with them. Immersive theater tends to make me real hivey, but there was something about this specific experience that made me relax into it completely, and just observe. Cry even. You’re forced to listen closely, a voyeur, buckled in. Car plays should happen everywhere, and all of the time.
Even when us gals aren’t sure what our larger character arcs presently are – when we can’t decide what exactly we’re doing other than waking up every day, doing assigned tasks, then going back to bed, we can always grow out our hair, which provides great purpose. No matter what, it can be the thing we’re constantly doing. It’s a noble task that can be measured and tracked. And then some forgotten Saturday, you find that said hair can now fit into a ponytail, and there is an immense sense of accomplishment that is sadly akin to finishing a book or one’s taxes. EARTH, LOOK WHAT I DID. I GREW OUT MY HAIR. In fact, I am STILL growing it, and will continue to grow it until it’s grown and I, inspired by a twelve year old, cut it all off again. What did you ever do that was so great?
I heard this story the other day about this woman who would find that every now and then, suddenly, her world would shift 90 degrees. It all started at a birthday party when she was 5, and spun around the pin the tail on the donkey: when she removed her blindfold, she had no idea where she was. North had gone east, east had gone south, etc. She felt like a witch and / or freak most of her life, until, thanks to the internet, she was able to find a name for the disorder, and connect with other people who experienced the same thing. Turns out it’s caused by an underdeveloped hippocampus which also causes the endlessly fascinating face blindness. There’s no cure, and she’ll always be this way, but still: finding a NAME for what was afflicting her provided a whole lot of comfort.
Which makes me Couldn’t Help but Wonder: is there a name for how I seem to have practically no long term memory except for tiny images and slices of moments? The other day I tried to remember what I did for my birthdays in high school, like ANY of them, and after much squinting all I could see was a Party City vest stuffed in the back seat of my car; sitting cross legged in the middle of someone’s driveway; glittery eye shadow. I wish there was a name for this other than forgetful avoidance or unable to remember anything ever or not the sharpest crayon in the box. I wish I could just name it, and then have it be fine.
I love Radiolab, for teaching me something new about something each morning. Today I learned the word Defenestrate, which means to toss something out of the window, more specifically luggage, or cats.
This dude Macklemore and his new video glorifying thrift store shopping and the genuine wearing of ones’ grandparents’ clothes.
And I quote:
Brown leather jacket that I found digging
They had a broken keyboard
I bought a broken keyboard
I bought a skeet blanket
then I bought a knee board