In honor of the end to Black History Month, I'd like to present my great-grandfather:
Shakespeare Elder Sr.
Born August 24, 1879. Pensacola, Florida.
I didn't know him. But I did know he served in
the Calvary and that he also loved his chickens.

This picture was taken in the East End of Cincinnati. Sometime in the 1950s.

Until next time,

Keith

RED BUTTERFLY

It was a slightly different day. Warm breezes. A blue sky. The occasional chirp of some feisty squirrel searching for an acorn to crack. And the sun. On this day it seemed to smear the brightest sheen across everything green in eye-shot. Even the earthworms seemed to drag themselves onto the cement streets just to get one second of the sun's shinning bounty.

And then it happened: Mister Softee and his truck. Blowing its horn; ringing its bell. Sending children running across their yards for the Orange Push-Up, the three-colored Star Pop, any sugary fix that would rot their teeth, and ultimately send them crashing into diabetic sleep, dry-mouth and all.

Little Ray Smithens wasn't impressed by this slightly different day. And he knew deep in his heart, the three-colored Star Pop could never satisfy the longing that fed on his droopy eyes.

Today was the day when his father was said to return. From where he never knew. The reason he left, Little Ray never asked. All he knew was he and his mother and baby brother lived alone on Stewberry Circle. In a three bedroom ranch-style house with red carpet and a brand-new Amana stove. And on special nights, his mother would tuck he and his brother under the sheets, kiss their foreheads, and promise pancakes for breakfast. And then go into her bedroom and cry.

So although this day was slightly different, it was no different than any other: his father would never show.

But then it happened: as Little Ray sat on the curb and stared at the other children licking fudge bars, his mother appeared at his front door, pointing toward the sky, shouting, "Look, Little Ray, look!" As melancholy as possible for a child, Little Ray turned his head toward the direction of his mother's finger. And there he saw it: high above the trees, millions and millions and millions of red butterflies. So red they looked like flying candy drops. So red they cast a ruby tint across the grass. The other children grew silent; Mister Softee turned off his engine. And Little Ray just stood there. Knees locked; mouth in awe.

He could hear the telephone ringing from his kitchen, but it didn' sway his trance. Suddenly, one of the children called out: "Grab one, Ray, grab one." And he did. He reached his short arm into the air and snagged one by its wing. It fluttered at first. But then seeming to sense a steady hand and a good heart, it just rested on his fingertip. So sweet it looked. One of the other children giggled, "It looks like blood." But Little Ray didn't care. He actually wanted to taste it. To see if it was as red and sweet as it looked. And right as his tongue was about to swoop the quiet red drop into his mouth, his mother swung open the porch door and cried out, "Little Ray, your father. Your father's on the phone!"

Without losing focus, Little Ray's eyes teared up. And the little red butterfly flew away on this slightly different day.

Until next time,

Keith

copyright@2007kja
registered WGA#2344325

The Oscars.

For the first time in many years I was entertained by the Oscar production. It's casualness. Ellen Degeneres. The performance art and Cirque de Soleil quality. It was truly a breath of fresh air!

I'm very excited that Forest Whitaker won for best actor. He has always been one of my favorite actors. His talent and commitment has always been worthy of any praise [BIRD and THE CRYING GAME]. And I look forward to so much more. Hell, I'd love to work with him. Mmm. I WILL work with him. And I got a feeling VERY SOON!

Although I was routing for Rinko Kukuchi or Adriana Barazza for best supporting actress [their work in Babel was real and truthful and captured a heart-breaking humanity], I am happy for Jennifer Hudson. I wish her much success.

But I certainly wanted Pan's Labyrinth to take home BEST FOREIGN FILM. It's my kind of story and filmmaking. I look forward to more of Guillermo del Toro's originality.

Until next time,

Keith

Cincinnati, Ohio. My grandparents backyard in Kennedy Heights. The two models posing? Me and my cousin Connie. [She was actually my mom's first cousin]. Check out my gear. My mom had me rocking the threads back in the serious day.

Imagine sleeping for only five hours the night before because the heat from the radiators is so intense and the snoring from the neighbor above is so intrusive that you nightmare about pitbulls sitting on your feet and making you immobile. And that the pitbull-induced immobility is so horrific it startles you from your slumber and sends you to your living room, red-eyed and hungry for grapes.

Imagine the following night, after a phonecall with your dad about his maternal ancestor hailing from Cameroon, and a brief synop of the State of the Black Union featuring Tavis Smiley on C-Span, you finally fall asleep. But after two hours of pillow bliss, you're awakened by loud knocking from the bedroom heat pipe, and then almost as if swimming in unison, loud knocking from the livingroom heat pipe. Imagine that happening every ten minutes for three hours straight. And when you can't bear one knock more, a chronic snorer from above lets out a growl as if he's in competition with the heat pipes for which sound can aggravate Keith the most and send him screaming from his bed, "I HATE THIS APARTMENT!" The winner? All three!

Imagine the following morning, throwing on some maybe-clean thermals, brushing your teeth and treking it up Dekalb, to have it out with the apartment manager [who never returns your phonecalls. even when you leave a message two months ago begging him to return your phone call]. Imagine as you cross Dekalb and Adelphi, with apartment manager's office in full view, you see a sexy fellow plawright leaving her apartment, and who you speak to, but she ignores you because some people are so self-involved or scared that they don't even recognize you when you've met them twice, been to their apartment, share common friends and told them how much you really enjoyed a production of their play. Imagine having to explain how she would know you, but thinking to yourself "pretty face, ugly soul", and then simply walking away in mid-sentence, because your eye is really on the prize called THESE SUCKERS ARE GOING TO DEAL WITH ME AND MY APARTMENT.

Imagine walking in to the office, explaining to the apartment manager that if the heat pipe knocking doesn't cease; if the boiler below the living room doesn't stop sounding like furniture moving every two minutes; if the front door to the building doesn't stop slamming and disturbing my peace; if they don't get rubber flooring to absorb the clink-clonk of the Nine to Fivers as they gallop from the third floor, hoping to catch the C-Train and get to work time enough to buy a muffin... well. Imagine the building manager telling me there wasn't much he could do about the boiler or the stairs, [or the fumes. i didn't mention a strange fume has invaded my workspace]. Imagine the building manager saying he'll give me a call, and me saying IF THESE MATTERS ARE NOT FIXED SOON, I'M MOVING OUT! Imagine the look of shock on his face that I was actually making demands about my living space and how I expect to live.

Imagine knowing that this apartment is a reflection of how uncertain and outside of myself I was nine months ago. And how I no longer will tolerate mediocrity of any kind [especially for or from myself].

And then imagine how great that feels!

Until next time,

Keith

Even now. As the glaciers melt and the polar bears grasp for that piece of ice floating, slipping beneath the cold salted sea. Even as the rain pours from the clouds in Peoria with relentless volume, and spawns some of the most derelict insects since time began. Even as my cousin keeps his heart steady in search of employment; although corporations are slippery and the workforce appears to be slip-sliding away into the needy hands of India's government...

Even with all of that there's still... LIFE!

Not just for the night. Or the week. Or for a lifetime even. But truly for keeps.

Until next time,

Keith

When I was ten years old my mother packed my suitcases and we flew to New York City for holiday. And during our visit my mother took me to see THE RIVER NIGER, a play on Broadway written by Joseph Walker. It was my first memorable experience with theater and African-Americans, and it was my first contact with this mysterious thing called the river Niger.

By the time I was thirty I was living in New York City, Harlem. Fresh out of grad school, living in a roomy apartment within a building that was populated by friendly drug dealers, rats, mice, a few artists, several Hatian-American families, and over 50 black Africans from Mali. All whose first name seemed to be Amadou. And last named seemed to be Diallo. Which I found out was quite similiar to the common John Smith.

During this time, a young Malian man named Amadou Diallo was shot and murdered in the Bronx. I will never forget the outrage I felt. A young man, living in a foreign place, simply trying to earn financial freedom, but shot down and killed in a case of mistaken identity.

The river Niger runs through Mali.

A few years later, my friend Jimmie was in town from Cleveland and we checked out a revival of the River Niger. A few friends of mine were in the play: Arthur French, Justice Pratt. All I remember of that production was it was extremely hot [no air conditioner], lots of talking audience members, and that I kept repeating to Jimmie my mother had taken me to see this play when I was a little boy. He seemed... half-interested.

The river Niger runs through Mali.

A few years later, I was living in Los Angeles, working as a writer on the CW series GIRLFRIENDS. It was my first year and was desperately jonzing for some creative release. So my friend Nichelle Tramble decided to put together a Book Club. I joined. We read a few books of course and had great discussions, but the interesting thing was one of the members was a executive from Disney Animated Features. This executive wanted to read my plays. I let her. She called me and set up a meeting at Disney Animated to discuss developing an African-centered movie about Sundiata, the founder of the Mali Empire.

The river Niger runs through Mali where Sundiata once ruled.

The meeting went great. They asked me to come back and pitch a movie around Sundiata OR... any African-centered story I felt inspired to write. A week later, I was back at Disney Animated pitching a movie centered on Timbuktu.

Things didn't pan out with the further development of the Mali-centered movie. I'll just say there was some conflicts.

But more importantly a year ago I had my DNA tested to determine the birthplace of my ancient maternal ancestor. The mtdna results arrived and simply said West Africa. Haplogroup L2A. I did a little investigating on this haplogroup and concluded her birthplace was the Angola region of west Africa. Again, it was just a conclusion. Maybe just exhausted fantasy.

Then yesterday. I was reading thru several post re DNA testing and African-Americans on a few genealogy sites. And a great number of posts were referencing a site where you could submit your mtdna mutations and it'll match your mutations with identical mutations in Africa. And THAT will help determine the exact birthplace of your maternal ancestor. After trying to figure out the whereabouts of these mutations on my results, I finally found them. They were a series of numbers and letters that previously made no sense to me. All of this time I was sitting on my own treasure.

I submitted the mutations and the match was... MALI.

Not only was the match MALI, but it gave you an option to check your pedigree [specific names and locations of other people with your identical mutations.] Would you believe two names appeared: FAMISSA SAMAKE from the village of Tinkele, Mali. And Mobobly DIALLO from Tinkele, Mali. These two people are actually ancestors of someone in present-day Mali. And were born in the 1800s.

The village of Tinkele is two hours from Bamako—Mali's capital.

The village of Tinkele sits on the river Niger.

Talk about a serpentine path tracking back to the beginning.

I am pleased I've made this connection. And that I can speak with authority about at least one of my African ancestors. And that makes me very dangerous. :)

Until next time,

Keith

Well... after a week of preparation, warming up, a couple of near-misses, I've finally completed the first TWO episodes of my YOU TUBE series THE LAST DAY OF BOBBY BLUES. Tune in to my channel. Let me know what you think. Enjoy. This is not a disclaimer, but simply the truth: It's still growing.

THE LAST DAYS OF BOBBY BLUE

Best,

Keith

It's been cold. I hate cold. And yeh, when I was nine years old building igloos and chasing snow flakes with my tongue cold was the coolest thing popping. But now that I'm over... 30... lived at least 9 good years [non-consecutively] under the perputual sun of California, cold can kiss my [as my mother sometimes would spell out] A DOUBLE S. Don't get wrong: I appreciate the seasons with the layered styles and warm ciders and that grateful anticipation for spring when all is green and new. But I'm not sure I'm equipped for the cold anymore, and waiting around for spring to break out in its green, well... that's too much waiting.

I'm being sarcastic of course. I do love the winter. I just hate the cold that comes with it.

So last weekend, in attempt to experience some warmth [albeit cultural] I attended a performance of IN THE HEIGHTS. A new musical at 37 Arts that did everything but had me breaking out in my swim trunks. [Yes, it was a bit warm in the theater, too]. But what I mean is this: What a great story. What great music. What a great slice of comtemporary uptown Manhattan Latino culture. And at the helm of such a warm and thrilling evening was Lin-Manuel Miranda. He's actor, songwriter and concept originator. What a talent! It was a thrill to experience and I certainly was warmed up a bit from the cold. In the Heights!

Until next time,

Keith

THE DOOR KNOB

[lights rise on MIKE and REILLY at the front door of an apartment]

MIKE: I'm telling you: if you touch that door knob you will burn your fricking hand.
REILLY: I don't get burned. Things don't burn me.
MIKE: Who are you? Aqua Man? I'm telling you, Reilly: if you touch that knob you're getting second degree burns.
REILLY: And what if I differ that opinion... Mike?
MIKE: There's a fire raging outside of this apartment. People are jumping from their third-story windows. Now is not the time to get intellectual and existential. We need to find another alternative out of here.
REILLY: I say we go through this door.
MIKE: And I say you're one crazy loon. I'm prying the fire-cage from the kitchen window and jumping from there.
REILLY: Chicken.
MIKE: What?
REILLY: You. You're a chicken.
MIKE: Because I don't want to touch a knob that will burn a hole through my flesh to then walk out into a raging fire to die everlasting death?
REILLY: Exactly. Chicken.
MIKE: Frick you!
REILLY: Typical.
MIKE: What's typical? "Fricking you"?
REILLY: An unwillingness to gamble.
MIKE: Hey, next time we trek it up to Atlantic City for a casual game of Black Jack, I'll gamble then. But right now I'm thinking saving my life from fire burns and blackening my lungs from smoke inhalation... well... I think that takes priority.
REILLY: 1983. Prince, the Time and Vanity 6 come to town. You loved Prince. Prince moved you in a cosmic way. You put purple glitter on the cowlicks of you hair. This man at the mall gave us two free tickets and he offered to drive then chaperone us to the concert. You, Mister Mike, was unwilling to sneak out the backdoor and let the man chaperone us.
MIKE: Because we were 9 years old, Reilly. That man was a complete stranger. Two years later he shows up on the six o'clock news because he abducted four little boys, cut off their feet and buried them behind the Dairy Queen.
REILLY: It was a gamble. And you were unwilling.
MIKE: There's a fire outside that door, right?
REILLY: Yep.
MIKE: We could get burned alive, right?
REILLY: Yep.
MIKE: Our only chance of survival is either breaking off that fire-cage and jumping from the kitchen...
REILLY: Or going through this door.

[MIKE grabs the door-knob, winces from the burn, swings open the door and exits. REILLY follows]

REILLY: See, taking a gamble can be a bit painful, but it could very well save your life.
MIKE: [chocking on smoke] Frick you!

[end of play]

copyright 2007@keith josef adkins
WGA Registration#285609E

It's cold this morning. The sky is clear, the sun is high, and it's cold. Interesting enough, I had a great sleep. I actually woke up at 9:30 am. That's a first for me. I'm a crack of dawn, up with the birds, type of guy. Eager to begin productivity; eager to drink my first glass of water and toast a multi-grain waffle.

But this morning I seemed more eager to nestle in the comfort of my bed. Maybe the snorer above fell into his drunken stupor somewhere besides his bedroom; maybe the steady rain that poured yesterday evening for a good hour left some poppy-like sleep dust in the Brooklyn air; maybe my late very cherry chip soy dessert had me cruising from a sugar high in my slumber and I crashed somewhere around dawn between the dream a floating children and women with mammoth-sized afros, and 9:30 was the time my body finally regained its steam. Whatever the culprit: I'm up, rested, and ready to take on the cold streets of New York City.

Today is fish market day.

Until next time,

Keith

I crawl from the comfort of my Serta mattress, stumble through the kitchen and park myself right in front of the bathroom mirror. It's my ritual these days. Eager to see what's transformed in my face through the night. Sometimes it's a small dry patch on my upper cheek, or an ingrown hair digging its way deep within [searching for the treasure of my soul maybe?]. Or sometimes it's one of those brownish moles that my grandfather used to have, and that my cousin Gordon pointed out in one of my uncles in this casual way like seeing mold on bread. Mmph, he murmered as he scanned my uncle's neck, those must hereditary.

But this morning I noticed a different biological intruder: five gray hairs growing aggressively under my chin.

Over the last seven years I've noticed a few gray babies popping up in pubic places. As well as the inside of my nose. Unseen, these things. In a way, doing me the honor of living out my youth, youthfully. But now something's changed. The window period of favoritism has expired. They must dance their dance in full and prideful spectacle. I appreciate their kindness. How they remained a secret for so long. And even though I walk the streets of a large cosmopolitian city fit as a fiddle as my Grandma used to say, these new strangers are unwilling to be strange anymore. Their agenda is clear: if I'm going to walk through life, playing fiddles with thighs hard as stone, I must carry them along with me. Because that's life, I guess. That's growth. That's understanding that everything internal must ultimately have their external dance.

Until next time,

Keith