Paris. Wow. I must say, after five hours of this city I can easily say it is truly spectacular. Cold as hell, but absolutely a true city. The French language is a bit intimidating, but I'm loving it. Paris pulsates with lives lived and cherished and taken seriously.

But this blog isn't really about Paris. It's about the Polish dental assistant in London. I've been thinking about her a lot since I received the root canal therapy. I've been thinking about her dark hair, her thin frame, her smile. And her natural compassion. While the dentist was sticking four needles into my gum, she held my hand. A simple gesture. But rare nevertheless. I was squirming and whimpering and suddenly out of nowhere, a calm warm hand slipped between my spasmic one and offered me comfort. I will never forget her. I thank her. The Polish girl with the compassionate hand.

Back to Paris.

Until next time,

Keith

I'm still in London. I did the whole Picadilly Circus route and Big Ben and the National Gallery and the emergency dental clinic. Yes, I said dental clinic. What I have NOT mentioned is my back tooth has been aching since my arrival from NYC. It was a small ache for the first two days. Tolerable. Forgetable even. But yesterday it ached SO horribly. I mean, excruciating pain. So... last night Alex and Elke took me to a 24-hour dental clinic. And after a semi-long wait and x-rays, the dentist informed me my nerve was exposed and infected. And to confirm his findings he stuck a pin into that tooth, hit the nerve, and this man yelled! It was THE most painful thing I've ever felt. THE. They had to do emergency root canal therapy. I survived. I'm much much better. Although when I return to the States I'll have to see my dentist and have him check out the roots. Well, at least in four weeks. After that I'm told the root canal will get ugly again. And I'm here to tell you, that is one feeling I never want to endure again.

Anyway... I'm off to Paris tomorrow.

Until next time,

Keith

Happy New Year!!!

I'm in London. London, England. It's damp, it's chilly. But it's great. I'm hanging out with my friend Alex Thomas and his wife Elke. Besides from the amazing hospitality, this great city with its architecture and wondrous diversity, and Elke's spectacular meals, Alex and I have been working hard. Check out the links below to see our work!

Watch them in order.

Kamau Kambon Message to Exterminate All Whites

Keith and Alex's Response to Kamau Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Until next time,

Keith in London

Hey People.
The following is a letter I wrote to the Editor of Esquire Magazine.
It's a response to John Ridley's December 2006 article MANIFESTO OF ASCENDANCY FOR THE MODERN AMERICAN NIGGER.

John Ridley: Screenwriter for THREE KINGS, UNDERCOVER BROTHER. He also wrote BARBERSHOP THE SERIES on Showtime.

Read the Article.

John Ridley's rant about the unwillingness of poorer Blacks he deems as “Niggers” to succeed is a sad state of affairs. I certainly believe there should be a serious national discussion about poorer blacks in this country. And I certainly believe many of our inner-cities where poorer blacks live are suffering from black on black violence, a disregard for mediocre [if not bankrupt] public education, and a high-rate of teen pregnancy. But it is a stale mind that can only view these conditions as an eyesore. As a constant stab in the side of so-called accomplished blacks like Condi, Powell and Ridley. It's a cowardly man who blames a marginalized people [descended of kidnapped then dehumanized Africans] for their complete unwillingness to take advantage of all that our Civil Rights fore-parents laid out. [Ridley’s suggestion, not mine].

Where is Ridley's compassion? He is artist, is he not? Where is his understanding that some poorer blacks have a difficult time because they have darker skin; that they must constantly compete for social and financial recognition with lighter-skinned blacks or so-called more Anglo-looking or –behaving blacks. Look at Hollywood, Mister Ridley. Look at Hollywood.

Or what about that some black boys are targeted as children to fail. That at seven or nine years old they are policed, or harassed by teachers. And by the time they're twelve they are so traumatized by this consistent dehumanizing they give up hope and trust nothing or no one. I taught fourth-grade in California, I’ve seen it.

What about a group of people dealing with historical trauma and not having the skills,or resources to help overcome a society that views them as an eyesore, or an economic strain, or a means to entertain via athletics and broad comedy. It's one thing to point out the accomplishments of Condi and Powell as a way to separate the person from the crimes? I wasn’t sure of Ridley’s point here. But, hell, I come from accomplished people. My great-uncles were some of the first black students to study classical piano at Cincinnati's Conservatory of Music. My cousin was once president of Norfolk State University. My family are descendents of one of the few free families of color in the state of Kentucky prior to 1820. Teachers, barbers and musicians decades before Emancipation. Some even owned slaves that were NOT their family members. We are a people of many accomplishments and demons long before post-Civil Rights. And to give a litany of Condi and Powell's accomplishments just adds to a list already in existence: Booker T. Washington, Harriet E. Wilson, P.B.S Pinchback, etc.

I think Ridley misses the point of his own point. Is it a question that so-called “niggers” are willing participants in their own destruction? Maybe. Are so-called successful “blacks” deserving of praise even if they’re helping to ruin American democracy? Maybe. But what is clear is that all African-Americans are descended from an enslaved experience and most of us carry a legacy of trauma that we may or may not be aware of [including Ridley]. And that as long as we blame one for the other’s difficulty in being viewed as “presentable” to “The Man”, we will always be viewed as crabs in the barrel.

Yes, there are many problems in our society, and the economic and social conditions of poorer blacks is just one of them. But to suggest that poorer blacks are simply “niggers” with an unwillingness or an impulse to succeed in this country is one of the most elitist notions I’ve heard since Cosby and his rant about poorer blacks and their “creative” names.

Until next time,

Keith

One thing.

I finished the rewrite of my play.

The first big step in my journey toward personal and professional simplicity. Over the years I've spent a lot of time making things difficult and complicated. And in the end, it's only left me frustrated and lost. I was one of those guys who actually thought simple was synonymous with dumb. But I tell you, finding simplicity is just as hard. If not harder.

I celebrated with a late lunch at my favorite foodie Quantum Leap. The salmon chowder was amazing. From there I had dinner with my playwright-friend Judy Tate at 44 & 10 in Hell's Kitchen. It's a cool, somewhat pricey spot on 10th Avenue and 44th Street that has amazing service. I had the crisp seabass in a mussel saffron sauce. Judy had the black grouper. We sat there smacking each other most of the evening. I like 44 and 10. There was a bartender working last week named Tyler who still has me spinning about using mathematics to navigate life: something about numbers and the more yeses you say to life ultimately your life with produce a yes... something like that. I have to go back when he's working again. I was on my second glass of Pinot Noir so maybe my info intake may be a bit... weak.

Until next time,

Keith

In the last few weeks I've been desperately trying to complete the rewrite of a new play. I have the momentum. I have the focus. I even have the ending. But my apartment and all of its routine distractions [email, UPS man, my loud neighbor and his snoring hung-over mornings] hasn't been feeling like a safe haven. The cafe is a bit distracting with all of its eye candy and flirting [I'm talking about me, not the innocent eye candy]. The library... well... stalking is not my idea of literary oblivion. So... yesterday morning I recalled how much work I accomplish on cross country flights and long train rides. It's something about the time constraint and the destination and the corner seat by the window that proves to be a haven for productivity. So I decided to take a train to... Boston. Business class, of course. And four glorious hours of solitude. No distractions. Just amazing landscape. By the way, northern Connecticut and Massachusetts are warmly breathtaking. Full of bogs and forests and marshes. Small towns still drifting in early American simplicity. If I had a cup of warm apple cider... Wow.

Needless to say, it was the best short-term writer's residency I have ever experienced.

I think I'll try it again. Next time... somewhere into Pennsylvania.

Until next time,

Keith

NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY CHRONICLES

In an attempt to spice things up with my writing routine I seldom take excursions to cafes to write. When the music is on and that cup of vanilla soy has been steamed to perfection... writing in cafes can be perfectly bohemian.

But then there are those days when I need to spice up the spice-up. Like last week for an example. I deserted my usual Brooklyn hangout and I walked around midtown Manhattan searching for the right spot to lay down the paper and get to scribing. But I couldn't find anything. Then I thought about my good friend Said who often treks it over to the Public Library to write. So... that's what I did. On the third floor of the NY Public Library. It was quiet and perfect. I wrote for hours.

Then comes yesterday. I took the Q Train to 42nd Street and Bryant Park, walked one long block to the library and discovered it was closed. Damn! My muses were waiting for me up on the third floor and I couldn't get in. I asked a security officer what was up with the CLOSED library. He told me, "It's Monday, brother. It's always closed on Monday." I felt and looked like a fool. But he then pointed me across the street to the other library which is opened Monday thru Saturday.

So there I went. Across the street, up the elevator, to the third floor.

I found a perfect spot at a table near the back. And I was ready to get down with the get down... that is... until I spotted a 55ish year old Black man with spectacles smiling at me. Like he was happy I had arrived. Like he hadn't had his meds for the day. I decided to position myself behind a person in front of me so I could ignore him. And I did.

Until I heard this severe coughing. I looked up and yes, there he was still smiling and no longer coughing. I retreated back to writing. Ten minutes later I heard someone reading aloud. Something about Nixon or Jefferson. I looked up. The 55ish man had repositioned himself. He was now standing near a bookcase in complete view of me. Reading aloud. And smiling at me. I retreated back to my writing. A bit uncomfortable, but still focused.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw him kicking his leg in the air. What the fuck! He was kicking and still reading Nixon. I tried very hard not to get aggravated. Because although I was in a public space, a bruh needed his privacy. So I breathed and thought about the characters in my play and I was able to keep the aggravation at bay and went back to writing.

Then he started reading louder. And I thought is this fool is really directing all of this at me, and why? But since I've been working hard on not tackling other people's problems, I simply packed my writing into my backpack and moved to the other side of the floor. Which was at least 100 feet away.

Finally. I'm relaxed.

But no sooner than I could put pen to paper, here he comes. Attempting to quickly dodge down a row of books. But I spotted him. And he spotted me. This time I didn't turn away. I kept looking. Hoping to project some serious "I will kick a hole in your head, you cock-eyed son of a--!" energy. And the more I projected, the closer he got. He was literally walking toward me. And as he approached my table, I looked him dead in the eyes with my fists balled and everything. What did he do? Drop his head and acquiesced. Punk!

I turned around to see if I scared him off. I didn't see him. He was gone! Yes!!! Who was this crazy kook? Anyway. Now I could relax and get back to writing.

Ten minutes later...

He was standing 20 feet away from me. At the copy machine. I didn't notice him at first because I was busy writing [the reason why I came to the library in the first place]. But then I heard this copy machine noise and the crumbling of lots of paper. And the coughing. His ass was back. As if to say: I'm not scared of nobody and I will spook you because that's what I do.

After a few minutes of contemplating whether to notify the library security, I grabbed my things and jumped in the first elevator that opened.

He won. The 55ish black man succeeded at disrupting and spooking the young black writer with focus out the wazoo.
And maybe that was his plan afterall: to chase away the light that challenged his darkness; to stop any young black man from achieving his goal. Little that he knew... I took the goal back to Brooklyn.

Crazy world.

Until next time,

Keith

APOCALYPTO the MOVIE.

A friend of mine called me today at 1pm to invite me to a 4:15 showing of Mel Gibson's Apocalypto on 42nd Street. He asked if I was interested. I told him, yes. I was curious. Curious about Mel's take on pre-colonial Classic Mayan culture. I mean, what could a 21th century white man from Australia by way of Peekskill, New York know about Classic mesoamerican culture.

Well... Visually it was stunning. It's true what the critics say. Mel Gibson is a cinematic storyteller. It's the stories I don't like.

After two hours of savage murder, heart eating, throat cutting, testicle swallowing, raping, stabbing... I thought I would have to be carried off to the emergency room for trauma. The film was violent. And I kept thinking: Were the Mayans THIS brutal? But according to the Classic Mesoamerican experts... they were. They sacrificed children [so did the Jews of the bible]; they cut out the hearts of enemies [so did the Romans]. They also had an amazing agricultural system. They excelled in mathematical understanding and spiritual philosophy. The had the ONLY fully developed written language of the pre-Columbian Americas. They were a super kingdom for over a thousand of years, and in the end the Mayan kingdom dissolved. But in Mel Gibson's movie, all the Mayans did was kill and rape and behead and enslave... in technicolor.

But when I thought the movie couldn't get any crazier... it does. During a hyper intense scene where the protagonist is running for his life, a ship of Spanish conquistadors arrive on the beach with a life-size cross. To save Mayan civilization from its pagan, murderous ways?

I was appalled! Not because in Mel's delusional world the conquistadors arrive 300 years too early. [We'll talk about historical accuracy at another time]. But because that image of the cross and the conquistadors arriving right when the protagonist was about to be brutally murdered by his murdering Mayan enemies, was a clear message from Mel Gibson. The message? The Mayans were savages who killed and thieved each other until the Spanish with their Christianity arrived to save the day. Because, hey, it was obvious they needed salvation, right? The witchery and idol worship and greed was simply demonic. Let's face it: What all peoples of color have ever needed was some European colonist to pick up their dirty heathen pieces and offer a good dose of Christianity to save their pagan, savage little hearts. I don't think so!

Apocalypto was visually stunning and full of adrenaline. But was also the most expensive piece of Christian propaganda I have seen in quite some time. [Except for Gibson's Passion of Christ].

Until next time,

Keith

Michael Richards Racist Tirade.

My mother didn't allow the use of the term "nigger" in our home. Not as a term of endearment; not a brother to brother recognition; and not to describe a person in that playful yet indignant way that some older blacks from the South enjoy.

It was forbidden. And the few times "nigger" crept under our front door, it was immediately reprimanded, or shunned.

I heard the term "nigger" used a lot in my lifetime. I've heard it mostly from family and friends who are African-American.

My father's mother once described her absentee father as a "no good red nigga". Recently, my oldest brother was reminiscing about our maternal grandfather and in reverence said, "that nigga made me weak". My cousin was once described her hyper-gifted, super creative 8 year old daughter as "that little nigga". Once, after returning home from living in San Francisco, wearing second-hand jeans, uncombed hair and spouting literary philosophies of Audre Lorde and Henry Dumas, a childhood friend said to me, "don't' come in here acting like you're all of that. you know you're still nothing but a nigga from Cincinnati." I can even recall as child, growing up on the wooded outskirts of Cincinnati, cows mooing in the distance, crabapples blooming into pink perfection, and the word "nigger" flying from the mouths of children as often as summer rain.

The term "nigger" was used to help dehumanize the perfect humanity of African people in the New World. Somewhere after the fall of indentured servitude and the expansion of black slavery, the "term" nigger took flight and has yet to land or crash or dissolve. African people were called and described as "niggers" so often that they began to believe it was what they were. They were no longer allowed to be Mandinka or Fulani or half Ashanti and half Cherokee, or part English and mostly Ibo, they were simply described as "Niggers". A group of people described as inferior in mind and spirit and living without a recognizable culture.

And now we have this: young and old African-Americans using the term "nigger" as often as they drink water. And it is in my opinion that by using that term is a recognition and acceptance of our inferiority. An inferiority placed on us to keep us dehumazined and controlled. It is an acceptance that no matter how gifted or loved or complicated or spiritual or accomplished, we will always be "niggers"... to each other.

But there is hope: African-Americans must pull the term "Nigger" from our historical closets, place it in the middle of the floor and really look at. Pick it apart. Ask it what it means; what it wants. Show it to everyone you know. Put it in their faces. Make them smell it, taste it. Tell it's a violation against humanity. An imperialistic attack. An invasion.

If African-American people begin to do that, then maybe we can reclaim how we see ourselves. We can define ourselves.
And if someone like Michael Richards steps out on a limb and spouts racist epithets, he'll get a little more than a hand-slapping.

Until next time,

Keith