DIGABLE-POET SPEAKS

2009-12-20T14:18:00.000-08:00

It's Sunday evening in New York City. It's cold and there's, at least, fifteen inches of snow on the ground. Am I angry black man in need of warmth and sun? No! I decided to acquiesce to the forces of nature and shut my mouth, until next week.

It's been a while since I posted anything here at digablepoet speaks. In fact, I'm feeling a little rusty. But I'll be back soon with some fresh flow: a review of the James Cameron's Avatar and my thoughts on media lynching of Tiger Woods.

Keith!

2008-03-19T07:19:00.001-07:00

Hey People.

I'm spending a lot of time over at TheRoot this week.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-03-10T05:22:00.000-07:00

CELEBRATING 100 years!

My father's aunt turns 100 today. Her name is Lillie Mae Ushery. And let me tell you, she is as vibrant and funny and boldly intelligent as she was when I first remember her as a kid.

She was born in Union Point, Georgia. The daughter of Martha Mitchell Jenkins and Allen Jackson. Her mother, Martha, was a twin and the second-to-last daughter born to former slave parents. Lillie Mae and my grandmother Beatrice spent a lot of time with their former slave grandparents and remembered them very well.

When she was only five or six, a black man from a neighboring town was accused of stealing goods from a grocer and was on the run. Several white men decided to scour Union Point for him, knocking on the doors of black residents and demanding to come inside and search for the fugitive. Well, when they arrived at Charlie Jenkins' house, Lillie Mae's 26 year old brother, they were not allowed inside. Charlie would not have it. And that's when things got dangerous. Charlie told the white men they had no right to come inside or to be on his property. They were trespassing. Later that night, a mob of white men returned and hung Charlie from his tree as his young wife and children looked on.

The courage and bravery of her brother runs thick through the Jenkins clan. Martha Mitchell Jenkins, the matriarch, was a bootlegger who later moved to Stone Mountain, Georgia where her independence infuriated and inspired many. Lillie Mae also stands high on bravery. She openly speaks her mind about politics and/or the foolishness of a fool's behavior. And she's always in support of another's desire to be themselves, to live how they wish. Several years ago, she even came to my defense. My father's much-older brother insisted the only way I could become a man was to join the Army [not an uncommon destination for midwesterners], but within seconds Aunt Lillie Mae rose up from her chair and said to my uncle: Why? So he can turn out like you?" And the YOU she stressed carried the weight of a laugh and a dismissal.

There's big celebrations in Cincinnati today for Aunt Lille Mae. So if you have a few seconds, toast Lille Mae Ushery. At 100, she's still thinking strong!

Until next time,

Keith

2008-02-22T08:57:00.001-08:00

Hey People. In case you don't find me here, you can always find me over at TheRoot.

Have a great weekend.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-02-07T10:23:00.000-08:00

Two years ago [on February 1, 2006] I started this blog.

So this week I celebrate Digable-Poet Speaks' SECOND ANNIVERSARY. I'm proud of myself for exploring my voice, passions and confusions with the public. And I SO SO appreciate all of you who have supported me [and those of who you simply pass through every now and then]. If I didn't know you were out there reading I wouldn't have the desire to share. It's all about EXCHANGE in my world. If we don't know how we feel then how can real personal or social progress really happen.

So celebrate with me this week by going out and doing something nice for yourself. Treat yourself well. And don't ever forget how brilliant and provocative and endearing your life should always be.

Happy SECOND-YEAR Anniversary and thanks again for sharing in my exchange.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-31T03:46:00.000-08:00

I thought of my grandfathers today. Clyde Grant Elder Sr and Clarence Adkins. I thought of Clyde driving into the University of Cincinnati every day, enjoying his lucrative job as engineer, or not. Then going home and listening to his Train albums and his Latin music. I thought of Clarence walking a good ten miles from his home on Forest Avenue to his new job at General Electric circa 1942. I guess that trek wasn't too crazy. He was a Georgia man afterall and walking miles to the grocer or school was part of his natural understanding of things.

Clarence died when I was nine and Clyde passed away when I was nineteen. I remember them both. One brown, one very light. One a minister and mysteriously wise, the other-secular and charming. Both had beautiful wives and lots of friends and family who simply adored them. I'm not certain what their dreams were like. I don't even remember their favorite foods [although Clyde loved gumbo and seafood of any kind]. I know one died of bone cancer, the other a massive heart attack. Clarence's wife always seemed honored and pleased whenever asked about her husband. Particularly the time they met on a red-clay road in Georgia. Clyde's wife was not so doting during posthumous discussion of her spouse. Although the tale of kissing my grandfather was often highlighted by her disgust with a nosey aunt.

Whatever they dreamed, who they REALLY loved, what they actually thought I'll never know. I do know their worlds must have appeared wide and unlimited. That anything was possible. And I'm sure they never once imagined their grandson living in New York City, taking a moment to remember that without their choices, however triumphant, however daunting, he'd be able to take bigger steps and think wide as the sky.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-28T10:36:00.001-08:00

So here's the deal: I've been writing this blog for two years. I've explored, experimented, I even broke the shit down occasionally. But last week I got this exciting call from Lynette Clemetson by recommendation of Veronica Chambers and was told The Washington Post and Newsweek Interactive along with Henry Louis Gates was starting a new online magazine, AND they wanted to know if I'd blog for it. A brother most certainly said YES.

So, starting tomorrow, TUESDAY, JANUARY 29 I'll be blogging under the branding ON THE DIG at The Root. It's a new, exciting online mag that focuses on the black experience. But here's the twist: It's going to be smart, provocative and offer tools for genealogy. It may even hurt some folks' feelings.

TheRoot.com

Hit it up and support and just... DO YOU.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-23T10:04:00.000-08:00

I'm not usually a celebrity-chaser or nor do I care about who's who in the latest Hollywood bullshit circus, but certain celebs I feel a kindred bond. Heath Ledger is one of them. He's up there with my adoration of genuine screen artists like Forest Whitaker, Don Cheadle, Cate Blanchett, Sophie Okonedo and Ryan Gosling.

Heath Ledger impressed me with his visceral and vulnerable performance in Monster's Ball; his brave and singular performance in Brokeback Mountain, and his witty exploration in Cassanova. If Heath Ledger was cast in something I knew I would be treated to what makes filmmaking doubly-great -- committed and courageous actors.

Needless to say, the news of his death was simply sad.

But I am so thankful for his work as an artist and his commitment to exploring his humanness. I hope others continue and/or begin to do the same.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-17T04:14:00.000-08:00

Most people don't know this about me: I'm the son of UNION workers from the Midwest. My father was a Teamster. My mother and stepfather were in the Bakery, Confectioney, Tobacco Workers Union, and every year or two, their labor contracts would expire, and there would be much fervor in our home about the increase in hourly wages, better healthcare and safer working environments.

Occasionally, they would strike and hit the picket lines, and for a month or less [or more] my parents' faces would grow serious and my stepfather, in particular, an elected union steward, would grow quiet and calculating as he set out to battle the greedy inhumane evil-makers at Keebler Cookies.

But what I remember most was the thrill in my mother's voice [and sometimes exhaustion] from walking the picket line for a cause that had everything to do with how we survived.

Which slides me into this: As a member of the Writer's Guild, I've been picketing here in NYC and I must confess although the solidarity of weekly picketing is good, the midwestern morale I know so well is lacking.

Yesterday, a few fellow strikers decided to do some union chanting [to boost morale, ours in particular], and as we screamed and rhymed, the other 100 or so Strikers looked on with uninterest as if to say, Chanting at a Picket line? How archaic. How passionate and passe.

It's a strange feeling to be among writers, fighting for the security of our financial and creative futures, and feel disconnected. To get a sense that some members of humanity have been so self-engorged with urban know-it-all, that the sound of a union member chanting receives as much enthusiasm as listening to water drip from ten miles away.

I guess I'm disappointed, but certainly not shocked. I'm living in a city where mindless momentum and navigating gentrification has trumped simple human noise.

Here's to reviving the importance of solidarity as a means to express conviction as opposed to simply posing and participating in a gab fest.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-15T05:03:00.000-08:00

So I wake up this morning and instead of heading straight to email, I decide to take a more useful route and read the New York Times online [i guess its usefulness is all relative]. However, I decide to read and lo and behold there's an article about Wycleaf Jean, 50 Cent, Timberland, and Mary J. Blige being accused of using steroids to maintain their populist popularity. In other words, if they don't look like big black bucks and sturdy wenches white folks -and blacks either- ain't gonna like them [i'm joking of course, but am i?]

Now, I have never been ghettoized in my musical tastes. Meaning I'd seek out Mozez, the Devics, Lizz Wright before I indulge in a Timberland download any day. But I do find these steroid accusations very interesting. I admit I was being a bit cheeky with the big black buck crazy, but I will say this: the idea of these rappers and R&B singers pumping up the muscles to sell music is pretty daunting. Not that I don't understand Black men in this country have been historically dehumanized, targeted for every anti-social, -democratic, criminal goings-on since Plymouth Rock landed on our prostates; and not that it doesn't take a lot of strength to wake up every morning to find the joy of living in a country that is suspect of every move you make, I'm still surprised at the image of a black man, an artist, greasing himself, sort to speak, stepping up onto that auction block [i mean, stage] and selling music.

I'd love to discuss the plantation mentality of the hip-hop music world, but I won't. I'd love to do a survey and ask women [and men] who strokes their libido more - a muscled black or a black man built like a swimmer and who enjoys documentaries that question humanity, but I won't do that either.

However, I will leave myself with this: Drugs have always been quick-fixers. Tylenol, Pepto, crack-cocaine, offering quick relief from undesired pain [albeit emotional or physical]. And I guess steroids function in the same capacity. They're quick-fixing a black rapper's feeling of social inadequacy. Because the bigger the muscles are, the more the world will fall to their feet in awe, the more they'll be loved [and paid].

If the steroid accusations are true, well, that would be sad. 140 years since the Emancipation and black men still feel obligated to grease themselves up, sort to speak, and step up on that stage and sell their goods to the highest and/or horniest bidder.

We still have much work ahead of us.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-14T09:49:00.000-08:00

Today I simply want to say: Meshell Ndegeocello is a musical genius.

I'm convinced of it and want to share that with the Blogosphere.

So click on the following link and enjoy what I consider genius of the highest degree.

CLICK HERE >>>> MESHELL NDEGEOCELLO

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-11T06:14:00.000-08:00

It's eleven days into the New Year and boy what a joyous ride so far.

The first few days of 2008 was spent in Los Angeles where I ate the most amazing food, dined, wined and danced with some of those most interesting, creative, intelligent friends a brother could ever have in this world [and I am truly grateful and charmed]. It's a rare thing in this world, to walk into a room, to walk into a room after spending years dodging the disdain of Midwestern morals and to see arms stretch open wide, smiles curve on lips and told instantly you're missed. It's a rare thing when you know you have people who love, adore and support you and you, undyingly, feel the same for them.

My first few days in 2008 was spent like that and I'm, again, grateful and charmed and inspired.

Upon my return to NYC, I quickly hit the pavement to picket with my fellow WGA Strikers, rehearsed and had a reading of a play that needs a complete revamping, and discovered a new foodie in midtown. Hell's Kitchen. The grilled salmon, pumpkin bread pudding and glass of Rioja had me and my dinner-mate, Judy Tate, licking lips and calling for our mothers. I also spent a good portion of my birthday with my long-time good friend Rashaad Ernesto Green --aspiring filmmaker and artist extraordinaire. I met Rashaad when he was a fresh-faced senior at Dartmouth and now he's a bearded brother on his way to becoming a movie-making genius.

But one joy I must reveal is this: last night on the A-Train I was sitting down with Rashaad, having an impassioned conversation about the sometimes-juvenile and cut-throat climate of the TV and Film industry and then, out of nowhere, this somewhat older black man, scruffy face, possibly drunk or insane, gets up from his seat, walks mid-way toward me and says, Hey, You! [he was talking to me]. I looked up and he says, Yeh, You. And I notice he was giving me the middle finger. Of course I was surprised. I had NO idea who the man was or WHY he had singled out me to inflict his insanity. He then sat back down and kept repeating, You got a big mouth. Faggot. You got a big mouth.

And of course, the train got quiet and of course everyone was looking at me. I was a bit nervous and certainly embarrassed. Why me? But even more importantly, does this dude have a knife or a gun?

So you want to know about the joy in all of this. Well, a year ago I would have told him to shut up. I would have engaged in some dialogue and questioned his cruelty or asked why is that some black men have issue with other black men sitting on a subway and having an articulate conversation that doesn't involve "bitches, niggas, etc".

I certainly felt attacked. That my corduroy jacket, my hipster shoes, my command of both language and content somehow unnerved this insane man and that it was very important to him to show me how much he abhorred someone like me. That everyone should know that an older, albeit insane, black man can walk up to a younger, articulate, non-traditionally dressed black man and offer the middle finger with the kind of conviction that burned the Witches of Salem.

Wow. How unfortunate. But I kept quiet and avoided any possible "real" danger and I'm proud and joyous for my growth.

What a beginning to a New Year.

Until next time,

Keith

2008-01-01T09:52:00.000-08:00

HAPPY 2008!

And may this year bring you continued truth and joy and productivity and EVERYTHING you deserve. WE ALL DESERVE IT!

2007 ended quite in a whirlwind for me. Not only was I picketing the streets of NYC in honor of the WGA Strike, I had dinner with my mother's childhood friend and former neighbor, an artist, who told me my mother was a "bright, very bright" high school student and he was surprised she stayed in Cincinnati and chills ran through my body and reactivated my own personal and professional mission to do all that I want in this world.

Not only was I bed-ridden with a 6-day long flu [which was FEVER crazy], I stopped battling the grey in my goatee, rewrote a play, watched every film in my DVD collection and fell in love with COOLEY HIGH all over again.

Not only did one of my real good friends confess he was going to be a father, I realized there's much more room in my life to be happier and that it's really important to me that I live among a support system who really cares.

Not only did I decide to put myself first in my life, several so-called friends stopped reaching out to me because I stopped putting them first and the miracle is my life is much lighter and the real jewels of my life have emerged and it is grace to truly discover my own power and oh how lovely the day.

Not only does my life continue to ebb and flow and disappoint and surprise, I know it takes every bit of self-worth and ambition and love of my time on this planet to keep plowing and design my future with the divine power I was given at birth.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-12-02T06:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I woke up rather early to work on the last few scenes of my play PITBULLS (formerly Crossing America). I can honestly say I'm almost finished and I'm quite happy with the rewrite. But the point of this point of entry is that I woke up early which usually means I fall asleep early. Well, yesterday, after a day of writing and eating and blustery cold I walked over to the Brooklyn Museum for their monthly First Saturdays--a cultural extravaganza and dance party that has the charm and free-flow you'll only find in Brooklyn. And it's free. But then my good friend Jeremy hit my cell (well, actually his rising-to-stardom girlfriend hit my cell) and invited me to this house party to hear Ledisi perform. Now for those of who you don't know: LEDISI is this organic vocalist from the San Francisco Bay Area who sings with truth and style and neo-soul. She's amazing. Well, Jeremy's girl invited me to hear her in Brooklyn. I was game... until I found out we'd be leaving at 11:30pm. Here lies the quandry. I woke up at 5:30am to write and I was already at the Museum getting sleepy. So... I told Jeremy and his girl Rose to call me when they got in the area (they were driving from Connecticut and was willing to pick me up and drop me off) and that's just what they did. As I was nestled on my sofa watching a Writer's Guild screener of Sean Penn's INTO THE WILD, they called. And I thought about my writing, I thought about the cold outside and I thought about the opportunity to see Ledisi perform live for the very first time... well, I threw on my shoes and vintage sweater and off to Ditmas Boulevard we drove -- which was only ten minutes away.

And when we arrived I discovered, not only was it a house party, it was grand house party. With red carpet leading up the stairs to what look like a mansion. In Brooklyn. A real house. With a sprawling veranda. Think Pasadena. Think Shaker Heights. Think the Ditmas Park area of Flatbush -- I never knew.

Well, we got there too late to hear her perform anything but her encore number. But at least I was invited backstage -- the master bedroom of the master of ceremony, the HOST. And man, talk about impressive. The house was built in 1907. And was the former residence of the Japanese ambassador.

With that said, I so enjoyed Ledisi. Sweet. Sincere. And talented. She departed for D.C. an hour later and we followed. Well, for our departure back to Fort Greene. I got home, got in bed, woke up and guess what? It snowed. Now, that's another story.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-11-17T04:17:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know: I'm a member of the Writers Guild of America and I'M ON STRIKE. Meaning, I should be on the picket lines protesting the greed of our country's entertainment industry. It also means I had to stop discussions and/or rewrites of my screenplay which is due to go into production sometime in early 2008.

However...

I'm in Cincinnati. I've been here for three weeks doing a writing residency at the Taft Museum. There's no where to picket. And of course everyone keeps asking, Are you able to do your playwriting residency with the strike going on? Well... my answer is always simple: Writing theater is not under the uber-umbrella of the Writers Guild. [Although maybe it should].

So... although I plan to hit the pavement upon my return to New York City and/or Los Angeles, I have been doing the best I can here in Cincinnati in support of my fellow writers. At every public library reading, at every high school workshop, even at the highlight reading of my play, [not to mention random phone calls with local relatives and friends], I bombard my listeners with the truth about our fight for New Media respect and compensation.

It may not be picketing in three to four hour intervals on the streets of L.A. or NYC, but it's the best I can do from the Ohio/Kentucky border.

By the way, the Writers Guild and the Alliance of Motion Pictiure and Television Producers resume talks on Monday, November 26. Wish us the best!

Until next time,

Keith

2007-11-08T03:40:00.000-08:00

An interesting thing happened a few days ago. I was giving a playwriting workshop for high school students. Students who live predominately within the city-limits of an educationally bankrupt city. My strategy was to read a monologue from my play PATRON SAINT OF PLANTS. A play about George Washington Carver. In the monologue, George, defends his right to live in this world to an opposing, jealous co-worker. I then asked the students to write a short monologue where they defend their right to live in this world to an opposing imaginary foe.

Well...

Most of the students dived in willingly. Except for one. A young woman. 17 years old. And who refused to take off her coat, even after being asked FIVE times.

The young woman was sitting there without pencil or paper. And talking. I walked over to her to ask if everything was okay. She mumbled, "I ain't writing nothing." So always-positive Keith asked: 'Is there something wrong with your hand?' And then it happened. Some devious light bulb clicked on in her head. And she smiled and said, "Yeh. By the way there is something wrong with my hand." She then pulled down the sleeve of her coat to reveal a penny-sized lump on her wrist. Her smile grew even more devilish. She asked, "Do you see it? Do you see it?" And I certainly saw it. The button-sized growth that has probably been there since birth. But what I also saw was her middle finger. Erect and profane. Directed at me. She didn't lower her hand at all. She kept the middle finger pointing and all the while asking, "Do you see it? Do you see it?"

So I took a breath. Scanned the faces of her table-mates and their approving giggles. Then I looked back at her and said as calculating and weighted as possible, 'That's really unfortunate. Your behavior is really unfortunate.' Her eyes spread wide with mischief. Sort of like the Grinch. And with her middle-finger still pointing, she laughed: "Oh, you think I'm giving you the finger? Oh, he thinks I'm giving him the finger." She laughed so more until her teacher walked over and pulled her insubordination and distruption out of the room.

I was hurt a little. Not my feelings. As a former teacher, I've certainly had teenages attempt a lot more demeaning things to me. But I was hurt by this young woman's willing nuisance. Her thrill of terrorizing someone who's offering creative space, and her complete avoidance of her own personal and educational neglect.

She is certainly not a pioneer in the the world of insubordination and thin self-esteem, but the unfortunate thing is others congratulate this behavior. They actually consider someone who's unwilling to face themselves and learn to empower a radical, a leader. And that truly concerns me.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-10-25T15:01:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago two of my favorite women were visiting NYC from California. Tracey and Aida. [And yes, I dragged them over to Brooklyn as well]. I showed Tracey the peace of Prospect Park, had lunch at this amazing Japanese-Peruvian restaurant in Park Slope where I ordered a red snapper dish in an orange-cilantro sauce and I nearly flipped through the glass window because that dish was THAT good. I ordered another.

From there, I escorted Tracey down to Fifth Avenue in Park Slope where we excitedly ventured into The Chocolate Room. Now this sugar foodie is the best kept secret in the world. It's a chocolate bar/cafe where all things are chocolate. From the sorbert to the brownies to the beer to the wine. Not to mention all the varied ice cream and cookie variations.

Needless to say, after biting into the chocolate sundae and sipping on her chocolate port Tracey literally swung her head back against the wall and found herself wedged between Seventh Heaven and Orgasmic Euphoria. Yes, the Chocolate Room has THAT kind of affect.

But the aforementioned was not the highlight. It was Kara Walker. Artist. Extraordinaire.

At 1pm the following day Aida called and said they were heading over to the Whitney Museum to check out the Kara Walker exhibit and to meet them there in an hour. I did.

I knew nothing much about Kara Walker. Except that she worked in silhouettes. And was young. Earned the MacArthur Genius Award a few years ago and was of African-descent.

I walked into the exhibit and there in sprawling grandeur was a mammouth-sized depiction of what I believed to be antebellum life on a southern plantation. The enslaved and their enslavers going about their day. You know, typical slave life. I walked out of that room to another, thinking, mmm... so this is just another tame, sanitized depiction of slaves in America. Then something caught my eye: one of the silhouettes: a southern belle kissing a gentleman caller was disjointed. Meaning, their was ANOTHER pair of legs under the wide dress of the southern belle. The barefoot legs of a slave. And I thought: wait a minute, is that a depiction of some raunchy sex taboo in slave land? And yes it was. And I just started laughing. At the devilish audacity, at the courage, and the humanity. At the underbelly of historical accuracy.

Oh yeh. I liked.

If you're in NYC, check out Kara Walkers exhibition. Very very interesting stuff.

The Chocolate Room in Brooklyn's not that bad either.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-10-12T14:37:00.000-07:00

Interesting week.

Asa Coon went on a rampage at a Cleveland School revealing that blacks are still viewed as expendable in the psyches of the insane. And also revealing, vis a vis television interviews of the survivors, the public education system is failing many urban black youth. And their parents seem either aloof or blind to the horror.

On the west coast. A good good friend was pulled over by the Los Angeles police department. He was driving within the speed limit, taking a friend home, driving a sports car. And black. The police pulled him over. Asked where he was going. Where he was coming from. Wouldn't tell him the reason they stopped him. And after my friend insisted they were simply stopping him because he was black and then refused to answer any of their questions, they got nasty. After my friend finally relinquished his license, the cops left and came back and told him it was illegal for him to drive with an exhaust that was not manufactured with the car. My friend, who knows many things, ignored the insidiousness of the officer's excuse, retrieved the license, gave them a last piece of radical mind and moved on.

Part two. My friend called the police headquarters and filed a police profiling complaint. They took his name, number and address. A few days later he was busy hosting relatives from out of town and honoring Ramandan [although secular, he was raised in the Nation of Islam and Ramadan is the one thing he holds close to his heart]. Well, one night after 9pm his phone was ringing off the hook. He wasn't answering. At midnite, a call came in from the front security desk of his building. He and his guests were sleep. At 12:30am heavy knocking at his front door interrupted his sleep. Heavy pounding actually. His family became nervous. The pounding finally stopped. My friend thought it was some random ex who was acting out. Well, the next day, he checked his voicemail and it was the police. Checking up on the profiling complaint.

My friend immediately called the headquaters and complained. One, about the inappropriateness of the time of the calls and the uninvited visit to his apartment after midnite without announcing who they were. The headquarters told him, Yeh, we can get a bit ruthless when it comes to profiling complaints. We take them very seriously. [They're exact words.] Feeling a bit harrassed, my friend told headquarters that he wanted to drop the complaint and didn't want to have anything else to do with them again. The headquarters told him he COULDN'T drop the complaint. That he HAD to come down to headquarters and go through a 30 minute interview. And that was that.

Needless to say, my friend is a bit concerned [and so are his family and friends]... he has sought legal counsel.

Last but not least, I've surrendered to the unrelenting gray hairs in my goatee.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-10-02T05:42:00.000-07:00

ANOTHER BURST OF CREATIVITY

[Roll with me one more time, but please read the previous post before this one]

Pierre was looking for love. That's why he left that town. His mother knew it. She never said it out-loud, but she knew her son. How he lingered at that door after company left, hoping they'd go home and long for intense human interaction as much as he did. Or how whenever it snowed he go back and forth from the radio to the front window. Excited by the possibility of stranded motorists who would relinquish their everyday guardednes and allow a complete stranger to pull them from the shoulder of the road, then walk off into the blinding white forever. Or how whenever he met a new friend, he'd offer his undivided attention so much so it unnerved the recepient who would back away and eventually never show their face again. He acted like friendship, human bonding, was the sole reason man was dropped to earth. Yeh... his mother knew. And she also knew he was in for a complete surprise. Because nobody, not nobody, was interested in love like that. Sexual love maybe. Aggressive lust and psychopathetic orgasms. Romantic love even. As long as the object of desire was close to what society deemed perfection or tradition. Or even friendly love. The kind of love you get in church on Sunday afternoons. Cloaked in scripture and witnessed just once a week. But real love. The kind Pierre left his town for. Love shaped by soulful expression and intellectual curiosity. Love defined by its lack of boundary. Its willingness to embrace the inadequacies and perfections of somebody without the impulse to spit them to the floor. Real love. Ordained by something the Universe conceived. Where the soul and the sex and the mind and the heart look for ways to bring meaning and depth to any interaction, any day of the week. It's highly likely Pierre didn't know any of this, or the consequences and truths that sit at its center. All he knew is that once he found it, he'd look for ink or lead and sketch it on paper.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-09-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

A BURST OF CREATIVITY.

[Just roll with me]

Pierre didn't know why his mother named him that. He was born in a southern Ohio town. Population 522. The only exotic thing the town offered was blueberry ice cream during its annual town fair. Other than that, all was mundane. But Pierre was the other exotic exception. And he certainly hated the burden of such an out-of-the-way name. No, he was not part French, like Mrs Steath asked one Easter near the ladies' restroom the time she was unable to hold her bladder. And nor was he a Haitain refugee from Detroit, like his grandfather's girlfriend asked the day before she drank a bottle of Vodka and then jumped, nude, into the Miami River and drowned. He was just Pierre. Long-legged, sad eyes and a head shape that would inspire the muses of Rembrandt and Bearden. He was certainly odd. No doubt about that. His clothes were either too big or too small and never coordinated. He had a tendancy to let his hair go uncombed for more that a week. And on some instances, he walked the banks of the Miami with a sketching pad but no ink or lead for sketching. So when he disappeared without warning that autumn day, folks just thought he went off to Paris or some carnvial, to be among his own oddly-named oddities. Well, his mother and father didn't think that. They were concerned. Oh, he had spent the night alone, camping in the backyard on many occassion, but his mother was never worried. Pierre loved his solitude and there was nothing wrong with that. So on the second day, when Pierre still hadn't turned the knob and walked through the back door, hair uncombed, clothes mis-matching, his mother broke down. She dropped the plate of French Fries she was eating and broke down near the refrigerator door. Tears dripping all over the salty potatoes. When his father walked in and saw her there, he didn't reach down like you expect fathers or husbands to do, no, he reached over to the phone and dialed 911. And said this: "Operator, my son Pierre is missing. And my wife believes he's dead."

The police scoured the countryside for six weeks looking for Pierre or his remains. A woman from Zainesville drove her Cadillac for two hours just to visit Pierre's mother at her job and inform her she had a dream and in the dream Pierre had turned into a Praying Manthis and was most likely somewhere in their backyard. Pierre's mother ignored the woman and went back to the assembly line before her supervisor docked her pay. But later that night, after her husband was alseep, his snoring so loud it woke the poodle, she crept outside, and looked among the Gardenias for him, calling: "Pierre. Pierre."

Pierre was never found. Nor any of his remains.

But to my surprise, I saw him. Just last week. Walking through a Brooklyn park, holding a sketch pad without ink or lead for sketching... and boy, was he smiling.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-09-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

Jena 6.

Speak out against the DISPARITY within our country's judicial system.

Speak out against white students hanging nooses from trees in Louisiana.

Speak out against local officials punishing black youth and not being able to find ONE shred of legal support to admonish ALL forms of racism.

Speak out against people still believing that to do ANYTHING that rings of murdering black youth [whether in fun or not; whether from whites or not] is intolerable and institutionally out of the question.

Stand up for inspiring our black youth.
Speak out against black people accepting mediocrity as excellence.
Stand up for the importance of education.
Speak out against black mothers degrading and dehumanzing their three year old sons in the streets.

Stand up for the empowerment of black youth so that not just thousands of people gather in Jena to protest, but the entire community of black youth across this nation. Who have the ability to be so empowered that as soon as the nooses dropped from the branches, millions of them would have traveled from every corner of every town and said...

WE WILL NOT TOLERATE MEDIOCRITY FROM OURSELVES; AND WE WILL CERTAINLY NOT ALLOW AN ACT OF DEHUMANIZING DIRECTED AT OUR PEOPLE.

And that... that communal outpour from our black youth would be strong enough to pull back the ocean and send it crashing onto the shores of injustice, drowning all things [anti-youth, anti-black] for ever.

Stand up!!!

Until next time,

Keith

2007-09-04T06:16:00.000-07:00

SUMMER IN NYC!!!

Me and some Writer and Lover of Writer Folks.

[Don't hate. Writers need Love, too]

First Pic: Tillmans Lounge. My great friend Walton Muyumba. Writer, Professor and a Brother who can rock some Moves.

Second Pic: Tillmans Lounge. Keith and Somi. Somi is this beautiful, smart and amazing singer. She stirs.

Third Pic: 230 Fifth Avenue Roof Lounge. Me, Somi, Walton, Trei and Trei's friend [the clean head guy in black shirt]. Taking a moment.

2007-09-02T16:44:00.000-07:00

Family Reunions

Several years ago, when I was in my twenties and living in the Bay Area of California, my father called me to tell the news.
He and his mother and her sister Lillie Mae attended the funeral of their half brother in Cincinnati. A half-brother they never knew or saw. He was born in Georgia, like them. He had migrated to Cincinnati, unbeknownst to them. And he had fathered children and grandchildren, like them [well, in their case, mothered]. But they never laid eyes on him until then.

But the interesting part of the news was my father ran into the Jacksons at the funeral. The Jacksons were a family that lived across the street from us in the Village of Woodlawn. They were an interesting family. Good looking, quick-tempered and obviously mixed with Native American [they even had a wolf who they called WOLF as a pet]. Most of the Jackson children were a few years older than me, but one summer one of their nieces moved in with them, we called her Bee-Bee, and she and I quickly bonded. Like me, she was another artist in the making. She sang in her basement.

Anyway, my father saw the Jacksons at the funeral and wanted to know why they were there. They told him because their father had died. The man in the casket was their father. My dad couldn't believe it. He then told them that the man in the casket was his mother's brother.

All of those years living in the Village of Woodlawn, population 2000. 15 miles north of Cincinnati; 30 miles south of Dayton, and we're living, playing and knowing our very own relatives and didn't even know.

Cut to: I'm 22 or so, living in New York City and I'm watching videos and a video comes on called Last Time, featuring Theresa King aka Bee-Bee. I almost flipped through the roof of my very small apartment in Hell's Kitchen. At the time I didn't know Bee-Bee's mom and my dad were first cousins, but she was still a homegirl from Woodlawn and I was so proud.

And then one day, a few years later, I was living in Oakland, California and I saw Bee-Bee walking down 14th Street and boy, what a reunion. We were living in the same city, we were cousins and we we artists. She longer went by Bee-Bee. She was then Theresa King. And her album was called Broken Puzzle.

A few days ago, I was on the phone talking to my good friend Hakeem in California and he was reminiscing about the great female balladeers of the 80s and he mentioned Theresa. He apparently was in love with her. Well, she and Sherrelle.

We both went online and found her video and a myspace page. And then reveled for a good 30 minutes in her self-taught angelic voice.

I haven't seen or spoken to Theresa King aka Bee-Bee since the early 90s, but I hope she's in the Bay Area still singing.

Until next time,

Keith

Enjoy the Memory.

My Cousin Theresa King's MySpace Page

2007-08-17T06:45:00.001-07:00

Horton and Who-Ville.

For some reason I woke up this morning thinking about Horton of Doctor Seuss-land and how he was the only one who could hear the people of Who-Ville screaming beneath the dust speck, WE ARE HERE. WE ARE HERE. WE ARE HERE!!!

Maybe Horton was the first real humanitarian I ever experienced. The first real reflection of myself. Ridiculed, ostracisized for wanting to exert imagination within a powerless community, but still determined to put his life on the line and insist that every experience and every person [even if they live within a dust speck] deserves to be heard. Deserves to have a life.

Share the memory of Horton and his Dust Speck.

Until next time,

Keith

p.s. As I was searching for a link to the classic Horton, I discovered there's a movie with Jim Carrey coming out in March 2008. I think there must be some universal need for Horton and his persistence.
HORTON HEARS A WHO, THE MOVIE

2007-08-03T11:37:00.000-07:00

It's an interesting thing.

To walk through a city like New York City with its luxury condos and hipster eateries and spend fifty dollars on grilled seabass and a glass or two of a Gruner Veltliner and then flirt with the server who's really doing their job so they can buy headshots and eventually move out to L.A. where creative types can make the real money.

It's interesting when you can pat yourself on the back for how fit you are and how much water you drink in one given day, and then turn up your nose to pork-eaters or cigarette smokers who certainly don't eat as well as you. It's even more interesting to know you're a bit of food snob and dare I say an irritating one and you're kind of okay with that.

It's an interesting thing to know you've been college educated and carved out a decent professional life for yourself and that you can't imagine if you had actually stayed on the outskirts of a midwestern town and married some girlfriend from high school who always seemed more interested in your best friend, the star running back. Whose friendship you thought you needed so much, it borderlined on obsessive, and made your mother question your self-esteem.

It's interesting that a parade of thoughts can go marching through your conscience as you ride the A Train back to Brooklyn. Thoughts like, Did you spend too much at Whole Foods? Are you having enough sex? Will you ever take the gamble and challenge yourself to a real-deal relationship? And why in hell are you still fascinated by your 80 year old cousin at the family reunion who remarked about another cousin's dictator-like behavior when all she's trying to do is live in a democracy?

It's interesting that when you walk down your block in Brooklyn and a black man calls another black man a no good motherfucking nigga and you actually think this is temporary. Their powerlessness is temporary. That they will not pass on this language of degradation to generations to come. It will disappear. Some grand thing will drop from the sky and wipe clean the slate.

It's interesting that while you're walking down the block, it rains so hard, the streets flood in minutes and you look up at a shivering black bird perched in a tree, looking down at you like, This is serious. Wait until there's no more rain at all.

It's interesting that you are alive and you breathe and feel and want the best for yourself and the surroundings you live in, and that you understand that everything in this life is about choice. That one can choose whatever life they want; they should just know you have to be willing to fight hard for that choice. It's really that simple.

It's interesting. I've spun a complete circle around myself in this blog. And you trusted me enough to circle with me.

Interesting.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-07-29T05:53:00.000-07:00

A good friend from L.A. called me yesterday railing about TWO CAN PLAY THAT GAME with Vivevca Fox and Morris Chestnut. He said it was "atrocious". [His word]. He said it was "everything tragic and self congratulatory and base and cynical and VILE." [His words, again]. He then jokingly said, "Keith, what are we going to do about YOUR people.

Well! The brother had a lot of his mind.

Last night. At around 10:30. A very large SUV pulled up in front of the brownstone across the street. And out poured at least twelve people. All African-American [or Carribean-American]. Let's just say they were all of African descent. And as they poured out of the SUV, music blarred from their speakers. Not the blare that happens when you're traveling and you have music pumping to complement your mundane and/or pointed conversations, but this was a blare that would wake the dead who would rise up from their graves in a Queens cemetary and come to Brooklyn to beat your ass. IT WAS THAT LOUD. After ten minutes of this, a woman who I believed was the grandmother, came charging from her house screaming for them to turn it down. The three 20-something young women who danced near the stoop, blonde wigs swinging, continued dancing. The elderly woman, the grandmother, at least 75 years old, was ignored by all. She then opened the door of the SUV and DEMANDED for them to turn down the music ASAP. It went off. With reluctance.

But as soon as the grandmother walked away, one of the blonde young women screamed for a seven year old boy to turn it back up. And he did. And it blarred. And they danced as they swung glow sticks in the air.

I think the picture I'm painting is clear. The reason why I'm painting the picture may not be.

I'll explain.

I do not associate the behavior of others with my own behavior. I do not believe black people are monolithic in cultural, social or educational perspectives. The TWO CAN PLAY THAT GAMERS is not my experience. The young folks blasting music against their grandmother's wishes on a quiet block of tax payers is not my experience.

However, I did grow up on the outskirts of a mid-sized midwestern city. I did grow up near two horse farms, a mall, a lake, streams, creeks, General Electric and a cow pasture called Trillium Trails. I attended Mass every Sunday, and when we attended my father's church, I'd sit and listen to the minister preach his fire and brimstone sermon.

My mother encouraged intellectual and creative conversation, but she did not tolerate insubordination. [There was a period in my teen years where everything she said unnerved me and I was quick to let her know]. I played tennis, golf. I roller-skated, swam and ran on my high school track and field team. I loved flag-football; although basketball held an air of "black boy grooming" that sent red flags all up and down my soul.

I am a product of a few different migrations within the black community. My father's family came to Ohio in the 1940s; my mother's family were in Ohio and Kentucky as early as the 1700s. My maternal grandfather's family came to Ohio in the 1920s [not for work, but for the Veterans' Hospital that offered the best care for World War I vets, which included my granddad's uncles, Lennis and Arthur.

I'm simply saying: for people of color [people of African descent] to be lumped into the same general conversation about black people... To pretend to understand black poverty, or black wealth, or black single parenthood, or black folks who refuse to eat pork.... is unfair and ridiculous.

What ties black folks together in the New World is that we all had ancestors who were brought across the Middle Passage against their will. But our experiences since then are vast and wide and complex and distinct and individual and regional and cultural and religious and just plain human.

It's certainly a struggle and a challenge to live in this world as a person of African descent and demand your complex humanity, but it's a challenge I obviously signed up for when I stepped foot through my mother's birth canal and sat up in the world.

Black folks are just not black folks. Black folks are human beings with varied experiences and many different ways to interpret these experiences.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-07-19T06:46:00.000-07:00

What an amazing two weeks!

On the first of the month I moved from my apartment in Fort Greene [thin walls, slamming doors, issues with the snorer] to another apartment in Fort Greene. It has certainly been a full year of transition and reshaping for me, but I feel like I found my NYC apartment for now. [Not the house I'm seeking, but a decent spot to lay my head, do my work and get away from it all].

A few days after I moved, two good friends invited me to Los Angeles for the Fourth festivities. I swam, I sunned, I hung out with some of favorite people in the world and I slept. For some odd reason, I couldn't snap out of this lethargy. I was yawning way past noon. Maybe it was the smog, or the record-breaking heat; maybe it was a need for much-needed rest creeping up on me, maybe somebody was dropping sedatives in the drinking water. Whatever it was I was one yawning brother. [For my L.A. friends I wasn't able to see... I'll be back soon.]

I also made a great connection with a film company and wishing for continued growth and work with them. I even had a chance to holiday in San Diego with a my long-time Hortense. And I must say she was full of light and love and focus... I was so proud and happy for her. She is one LIGHTED SOUL.

When I returned to NYC, I hooked up with another long-time friend Karla Brundage. She was in town on book tour for her poetry collection SWALLOWING WATERMELON. I've known Karla since my early neo-soul bohemian performance poetry days in San Francisco. Karla lived directly across the street from me in Oakland, and when I started teaching Fourth grade she gave me her car. It was a broke down mess of a car, but Karla gave it to me and I was grateful. It kept me mobile for many a day.

On Friday of last week, Karla was reading her poetry at the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe [the legendary] and she asked yours truly to share the mic. I read, for the first time, a long excerpt from my short story JESUS AND THE WHITE CAMARO. I was excited and honored and inspired and the audience really seemed to love it. Thank you, Karla. Your poetry was pouring sensuality and honestly all up in the place!

A day later, I was in Memphis, Tennessee attending the annual ADKINS-PEEKS family reunion. My dad's people. It was such a great time. We had this amazing tour guide who navigated us through Memphis' rich black history and never held back the truth behind the truth of how daunting life was for many poorer blacks in that area prior to Dr. Martin Luther King.

I certainly slept for a good two days upon my return to NYC, but it was such a great time to travel and create and gain knowledge.

Oh, I almost forgot. Upon landing at Newark International Airport from Memphis, I quickly hurried for a 1pm rehearsal of a short play by Amy Evans at the Culture Project. Along with a few other amazing young actors and directed amazingly by Daniella Topol, we rocked the house in a play examining the silence of women in Darfur. You have to catch me on the street to get the 411 on the explosive symposium following the play.

An amazing two weeks!

My favorite quote from Memphis: I was swimming in the pool at the La Quinta Inn. Simple swimming. Underwater, floating on my back, several dives under the water. Well, this 11 year old boy paddles over to me and says to his cousins, "Look, y'all, he's swimming on top of the water. [then to me] "How did you learn to swim like that? You went to school for swimming, didn't you?"

Until next time,

Keith

2007-07-06T12:10:00.000-07:00

Tyler Perry and his Art of Pain.

I must admit: I have never been a Perry advocate. I find his plays and movies trite and thin, archaic and blatantly buffonish. And I've been overly concerned about a certain sector of the black community who finds his "art" interesting, moral, funny and a reflection of the modern black experience.

A few years ago I saw a Perry play [on DVD] for the first time and I was impressed by his comic talent and timing. But I found his subject matter and structure to be a world foreign to my experience as a man of color raised in a working-class suburb of a Midwestern city with Catholic roots.

A friend of mine recently made an interesting comment about Perry. She said it was like being fed shit. Like the powers that be decided black folks will eat anything [watch anything]. She said it was reminiscent of the black community being fed the part of the pig that nobody wanted.

I agree.

I certainly don't think Perry should be removed from the world of entertainment. His right as a capitalist to make money off of the blind and misinformed consumer is his constitutional right as an American citizen. His mansion and 100-episode deal with TBS are prime examples of him taking advantage of that right.

However, like any other capitalist [disgusing themselves as moral or righteous or a cultural custodian] Perry is not immune to resistance or criticism, hell, even cultural assasination.

As an artist and entertainer, I am very interested in pushing the buttons of society and asking society to rethink its values and traditions and be willing to make change in order to make a healthier world. And the idealist and romantic in me continues to hope that society wants that for itself, and that it's willing to do whatever it takes to ensure a better place for all. And if that requies them to look at something like Tyler Perry Inc [or Disney, or the American theater] and challenge it and criticize it, so be it.

We should all be invested in creating a more profound and truthful world, by any means.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-07-03T06:06:00.001-07:00

SEEDS PLANTED

My father was born in Stone Mountain, Georgia. A small town [now suburb] a few miles north of Atlanta.

He lived there until he was four, in a brown house in the middle of town, with a vegetable garden in the rear yard. He lived with his mother and an infant brother. I'm not certain, but I believe his mother's mother lived in that house as well, or very close by, and she boot-legged for a living. So says my father. Meaning she was one of those smart-thinking women who braved cut-throats and drunks and southern racist police who showed up at her front door [or back] for a bottle or two of top-rate liquor at a low-rate price.

My father's father, not yet a minister, was out in the world, sharecropping and job-searching, until he finally landed a decent-paying job hundreds of miles north at General Electric in Cincinnati. Soon after he sent for his wife and two small sons and they all lived together in Cincinnati in a very large two-family house he purchased himself. Several years later, their adult son, twelve years my father's senior, joined them.

My grandmother was a handsome woman. Bright brownish red skin with freckles [a characteristic often found in the remote corners of Georgia]. A very stylish woman, my grandmother also had particular impulses. She didn't eat red clay like her southern relatives, but preferred white clay. She said it was sweeter. She didn't like the dark and certainly didn't like ghosts. Her sister once told me about the time they were still living in Crawfordville, Georgia, and my grandmother was spending the night in the house of her sister's mother-in-law [a woman born during slavery and a mother of 19]. The house was once occupied by slave owners and some 50 years later it was allegedly occupied by their ghosts. One of whom had a thing for bouncing balls and opening bolt-locked doors. On this night, my grandmother, her sister, and I believe a cousin, was sleeping in the bed behind a locked door [a large dresser had been placed in front of the door, you know, in case the ghost got cocky and started opening doors during the night]. No sooner than the lights went out, the sound of balls bouncing could be heard til the wee hours of the morning, and by daylight, when all had awakened, the door was opened, but the dresser had not moved. My grandmother apparently screamed til lunch.

My grandmother was also a professional chef. Her specialty: southern cuisine. And I mean, if her food wasn't falling off the bone, or melting in your mouth, it had you dreaming about it, thousands of miles away. She put her heart and soul and art into her cooking, and when you tasted it you knew you were experiencing the work of a master.

I don't know much more about my grandmother before my recognition of her adult presence in my child's world. But I knew she had a playful sense of humor, she was welcoming, warm, and sometimes a sharp turn in her voice's tembor suggested at one time she didn't tolerate any foolishness, and that she had witnessed things in her life that could turn any soul cold.

My grandfather I knew very little. The fourth of thirteen children. He was a tall man who sat in a white reclining chair where whenever he saw me he playfully screamed, "Keith!" and scared me so much I clung to my mother's leg and started crying. He died of bone cancer when I was nine and I remember very disntinctly the sermon the Sunday following the funeral where a relative stood in the pulpit and talked about the dream my grandfather had a few weeks before his passing: His entire body had been engulfed by a white umbrella.

My father's cousin once said my grandfather was a gentle man. All-knowing, wise and the shoulder for many to cry away their tribulations. A "real" person who never judged others, and could find light in the darkest soul. She said she missed him deeply.

For so long I never saw the connection to my father's kin. Except for my darker complexion, and a few freckles on my hands, I believed for so long that the only thing connecting me with my father's people was my last name.

But here I am. Some thirty years into a recognizable journey and finally I see it. The love of cooking, my joy/fear thing with ghosts, my impulse toward a non-judgmental life... it all feels very interwoven, very deep below the molecular. Some kind of seed was planted and it continues to grow.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-06-23T13:32:00.000-07:00

CYCLES

My mother grew up relatively poor on the East End of Cincinnati.

Her father was an extremely handsome man with lots of promise. He worked as an engineer at the University of Cincinnati, but wasted each of his lofty paychecks on whiskey, women and dance. He was quite a charismatic man. College material, Creole origins, and a mysterious love of trains.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was a product of an educated family with an abundance of high achievers. Although her momentum was derailed when she was forced to drop out of school in the eight grade to tend her sickly mother. Her paternal grandmother was college-educated and a schoolteacher. Her grandfather was a descendent of blacks who hadn't tasted slavery since the mid-17th century, and even then it was described as indenturement. Her father and his brother both attended Walden University [present-day Tennessee State]. Her father worked briefly for the Kentucky governor, and his brother became a doctor. Proud AMEs with political standing and a social strategy to marry light but never white.

My grandmother's father, however, married an orphan who suffered from depression, strokes and numerous miscarriages. "She was mean", my mother said in the one time she mentioned her. "Mean, little and very light." But her husband lived life fully. He was often described as jolly, charming and who would recite poetry every morning if he wasn't at a baseball game. However his life didn't unfold like his doctor-brother, or even his younger brothers, who were classically-trained pianists. A die-hard Cincinnati Reds fan, he eventually worked as the infamous ice and coal man for Cincinnati's "colored" community to support his ailing wife. A few years ago, one of my grandmother's cousins from Minnesota, the wife of a botanist, told me she remembered my great-grandfather, how lovely and smart he was; but how unfortunate it was that the Catholic church almost took away his children. I was shocked by this news. And too afraid to ask the impetus behind such scandal, afraid of being looked upon as pathetic by educated relatives who were already suspect of my not-light-enough skin. So I kept my mouth closed as my heart bled for my grandmother's father.

I can't help but to think about the cycles in my family. People with lots of promise, falling short. The patterns of attraction. My grandmother married a man much like her father. Charismatic, full of promise, but curtailed by some mundane or tragic obstacle. A few cousins also fit the bill. And a few aunts seemed to have been seduced by the magic of an uncle or two, and ultimately left in confusion, and vice-versa. Even me, drawn to the illuminating power of another, feeding off their potential, but often disappointed that the potential has nothing to do with the actual.

Some of my intellectual-artist friends like to talk about the economic and social woes within the black community. But I often like to humanize my people. Sometimes it's good to break cycles... in order to peel back the gunk and look the truth in the face. What you'll discover is that nothing is random.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-06-19T13:03:00.001-07:00

Life has been good. I've been doing a little bit of traveling, WRITING, just signed the long-awaited contract for my screenplay, and I'm moving again. Yeh, don't ask for the details. Let me just say, Life is short and one should live how they like, where they like without an alcoholic asshole snoring and spitting all night long in such a high volume you wake up out of your sleep to scream SHUT UP, but then realize he's not your big brother in the other bed thirty years ago, he's actually in the apartment upstairs!

Until next time,

Keith

2007-06-06T04:48:00.001-07:00

For those of you who know me know that I was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio. For those of you who know anything about Cincinnati, Ohio know that it sits on the far eastern edge of the Bible Belt [what I sometimes call Born Again Christian-dom]. For those of you who've spent more than two hours with me know that I had a scalding, unsavory experience growing up among relatives who believed Christ's Return was far more urgent than a grandmother's double by-pass, or a child's dream to be a writer.

Which slips me into this: I saw an amazing play-slash-performance piece entitled HORIZON. It just opened at the New York Theater Workshop, and I must admit, it's one of the most savory experiences I've had in the theater in quite some time.

Rinde Eckert is the mind and soul behind this piece, and if you're anything like me—seeking to reclaim the identity that Christian relatives took away, you'll enjoy this theatrical meditation on the meaning of sin, guilt, close-mindedness, and why we humans spend much more time suppressing our humanity and then literally stomping out other's desire to be human... than actually just living in the world.

HORIZON by Rinde Eckert. Go see it.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-05-23T05:16:00.002-07:00

Yesterday I was in line at Whole Foods on 14th Street and I forced myself to look closely at the business of downtown living. Most of the patrons were 20-30-40-something white types, some smug about their choice in high-brow grocery shopping, others just hungry for some roasted chicken and in a hurry to hit the park across the street and read a novel.

Then there were the workers—the cashiers, the guys down in the seafood unit. Most of them were black, West Indian descent and American, the others were Latin—predominately of Caribbean descent. And unlike the patrons, these workers were much younger. Eighteen, twenty maybe. A few pushing twenty-one.

At first I was angered, all of these young minds of color, their lives shaped by the high-brow needs of white types. Then I got angry at them. Why didn't the pay closer attention in high school, why did they spend more time dismissing the idea of education and embracing socializing and its inevitable slow-burn. Then I thought is this what they wanted. To graduate from high school and become cashiers at Whole Foods. And then I thought about some of their peers who attended the same school, shared notes in the same pre-calculus course, but went on to graduate and now exploring the ivy-coated quads of Penn State, or even the neighboring NYU.

Then I calmed down, tossed aside my judgments, and thought clearly that something is certainly wrong. With our nation. With our public school system. With unresolved emotional scarring in the older generation that is now handicapping this generation. Something. I don't know. Sure, we can easily say racism or classism are the evil-doers, but it's not enough to point out the culprit/s. The culprit has been obvious for centuries. But what can be done to change the course of direction for these young minds defaulting into servitude for the urban bourgeoisie.

I say we start with the schools. And this is not to blame the teachers, etc, but to simply point out that something new needs to be implemented. Something that will encourage and challenge these young people to place education as a priority, no matter what emotional, personal or economical obstacle falls in their path. Something must be implemented that seriously addresses the importance of education to the emotional and social survival of the young "colored" mind.

And as I was taking my receipt from the cashier, with her blue eye-shadow and coarse black curls, I wondered if the only true change can come from revolution. Like in the children of Soweto. Self-righteous and bloody. I don't know. Something.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-05-16T14:53:00.000-07:00

For the last week I've been finishing up on my second short story. And although I'm in the middle of doing some last minute touches on the story as I type this I just wanted to say: Last night I went to a reading of a new play by Marcus Gardley. I had only heard about this man. That he was a poet and a nice person. But last night I heard his work and I was extremely excited and moved and inspired. His work is rich and historic and personal and lush and sexual and criminal and religious and inventive. His work is what makes theater and literature so important and so urgent. If you're ever out in the world and you hear of this writer, SUPPORT HIM.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-05-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

My good friend [and novelist] Nichelle Tramble emailed me yesterday to say: UPDATE YOUR BLOG! And when Nichelle Tramble comments on something it means to take note and take action.

So, here's the deal: Lately I've been writing like a mad man. I've written my first offical short story in over 15 years. And I'm in the middle of another one. I haven't been so excited by writing in a very long time. Which is why I haven't been blogging lately. Most of my creative energy is being dumped into the short stories. And the two plays I'm rewriting.

And the Tribeca Film Festival. I've attended two films so far. Descent with Rosario Dawson [about a college co-ed who's date-raped and the spirals down to nothing, well not before seeking revenge], and The Bubble [an alternative love story set in present day Tel Aviv between a Palestinian and an Israeli.

And last night I saw this amazing AMAZING amazing AMAZING play/musical called PASSING STRANGE. It's written by this triply-amazing musician/writer named Stew. With Colman Domingo, Eisa Davis, Daniel Breaker. PASSING STRANGE follows the life of one middle-class black kid who opposes the traditions of the black middle class and black iconography, and travels to Europe to carve out his own unique identity. It was really wonderful. It's so rare to see a play [or movie] that explores the lives of African Americans who live alternative lifestyles. So rare. And I'm so grateful for this beautiful play.

If you're in NYC, check it out. NOW! But for now listen to one of those songs: LOVE LIKE THAT

Until next time,

Keith

2007-04-18T06:17:00.000-07:00

"How could this happen? Who would do this?"

There is no excuse for tragedy. What happened at Virginia Tech is simply devastating. The lost of lives. Family and friends forced to face their loss. Death can certainly be heart-wrenching for many it leaves in its wake. And then to die, by the hand of some stranger, without forewarning, the body bullied into trauma before taking its last breath, is truly an unfortunate way to leave this life.

But I'm inclined to say this: America can not continue to live under the fantasy that bad things can never happen to them. Because bad things will happen. And for our country's top news anchors to moan the mantra, "How could this happen? Who would do this?" is a bit unrealistic. And dare I say, archaic.

We are living in a time where even the weather is showing its unpredictable fury; where our young men are being sent to the Middle East, some returning home dismembered, or dead. We are living in a world where AIDS is killing continents; where urban warfare is destroying the lives of the poor or black, or poor and black; where oil may not be the endangered specie, but water. We are sharing space on this earth with dictators, global economies that profit from misogyny and violence. Where mental health issues are so apparent, we've had to find new distractions to avoid dealing with them. And the kicker is: because of the internet and streaming video and the globalization of the world, we all can read, see, hear about every nook and crannie from Madagascar to Java to Blacksburg, Virginia, whenever we want.

How could this happen? Who would do this?

I can't imagine what those Virginia Tech students are experiencing. Their families. The administration and the faculty. I've certainly lost friends and family to death. Sometimes because of old age, sometimes early age. Drugs, alcohol, suicide, murder, and the biggest killer: stress. But I've never lost anyone to grand-scale rampage. And I wish the faces of Virginia Tech every bit of strength to endure the aftermath of this thing. Because I've learned, with death, one needs endurance more than anything. Not prayer to wish it away, but endurance to navigate the reality of life.

Which brings me to this: Cho Seung-Hui. The media has posted his plays; they've called him mentally ill and creepy. I even heard a woman on CNN tag his writing as immoral and then connected that with his alleged repressed same-sex desires. He was even deemed anti-religion and anti-rich, in other words, Anti-American.

What happens when a young boy from South Korea arrives in this country, without language or cultural skill to help him through the rough-terrain of Americanizing the Foreigner? What happens when this boy quickly learns that there's a certain aesthetic and image that's rewarded in this country, and if you don't fit the bill you may not reap the benefits of friendship or inclusion? What happens when there's not enough self-esteem to pull him through those initial bumps of his Americanizing? [Not to mention what's going on at home with his family]. What happens when he walks through campus, shares a suite with five others, obviously disturbed, obviously lonely, and no one notices? No one seems to care? No one is equipped to hear the cry for help? When there is no protocol for seriously saving his life before he takes the lives of 32 others?

Two of his suitemates called the police. Nikki Giovanni questioned his meanness and informed the administration; the administration informed the counseling sector who said there was no protocol for something as urgent as a budding homicial, suicidal mind.

Wow.

I guess it IS a very interesting question. How could this happen? Who would do this?

Until next time,

Keith

2007-04-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I saw an amazing film—KILLER OF SHEEP by Charles Burnett.

I've been a deep-rocked fan of Burnett since seeing TO SLEEP WITH ANGER. His simplicity, magic, his willingness to probe deep into the black emotional sea called life touched me in a way that was reminiscent of Toni Morrison's fiction. But this feat, this jewel called KILLER OF SHEEP was something different. Allegedly Burnett's first film, KILLER OF SHEEP is so full of visual texture and emotional width and depth that at times I ached. Not from the painful beauty of the film—its poetry and structured rawness—but from wishing everything in life was like this. At times so brilliant it made you cry; at times so mundane it made you wonder if you were really living.

What a film. What a piece of art. I am now, and forever... a deep-rocked lover of all films by Charles Burnett.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-03-29T06:37:00.000-07:00

KEITH JOSEF ADKINS
presents

TELLING TALES - 3 DAYS OF PLAYS

Location: PRODUCER'S CLUB - ROYAL THEATER
358 WEST 44TH STREET, NEW YORK, NY
When: Thursday, March 29 thru Saturday March 31, 8:00pm

Thursday, March 29 -- THE PATRON SAINT OF PEANUTS [reading]
directed by Keith Josef Adkins
featuring Sam Gates, Alex Alioto, Kim Sykes, Frank Harts, Jenne Vath, Sturgis Warner and Spencer Barros

George Washington Carver was a world-reknown botanist. But little is known about Carver's turbulent beginnings, his life as a painter, and his on-again off-again love affair with the infamous Tuskegee University.

Friday, March 30 -- THE GLOBAL WARMING PLAYS [stagings]
directed by Kaipo Schwab, Tony Glazer and Keith Josef Adkins
featuring April Yvette Thompson, Ron Simons, Myra Lucretia Taylor, Bob Lavelle, Warner Miller, Jenne Vath and Kaipo Schwab.

The Global Warming Plays feature three short one acts that comically and/or seriously explore glacier melts, the extinction of Alaskan Spruce Trees, and the arrival of the 2012 Winter Solstice.

Saturday, March 31 -- SALT ON SUGAR HILL [reading]
directed by Liesl Tommy
featuring Nathan Hinton, John Douglas Thompson, April Yvette Thompson and Benton Greene

Dexter lives a simple life as a community doctor in Harlem, but when his father's moneyed interests become dangerously immoral, Dexter must decide to remain loyal to his family or finally face his families' dark past.

All events begin at 8 pm.
All events are free, but I'm accepting $10 donations.
And there will be no reservations. So get there on time. [No late seating]

2007-03-22T03:17:00.000-07:00

Late Night Lounging in the Bastille.

Dancing in Paris on New Year's Eve.

2007-03-19T04:43:00.000-07:00

You know what's interesting?

When you work very hard at self-value and self-driven accomplishment; when you do everything in your daily power to overcome doubt and self-imposed fear; when you realize that your very soul, your very earthly presence relies on how far you step into your light and sincerely realize you belong there, and then, a bolt of vicious lightening from what looked like a friendly cloud comes crashing down to split you in half, hoping to scatter your valued pieces among the ruins of unsatisfied lives.

I'm talking about other people's attempt to shoot you down off of your well-earned cloud. How they literally laugh at your pursuits; fold their arms in defense when you speak your name out-loud. How, for whatever calculated reason, they rather pull apart every vertebrae and artery that encases your soul.

In my lifetime, I've embraced many who fit this profile. The kind of person who you meet, and instinctively you feel compromised by them, daggers even, but you brefriend them anyway because you're lonely, or conditioned in a culture to accept insanity as institution. Or maybe, you're a sucker for charm. Or you've dedicated your life to finding pure friendship, that in your heart, you know it exists somewhere deep, and maybe even in them. Or you hope it's just a phase they're going through—the viciousness—and they don't really mean to show happy teeth but cruel eyes when you tell them you've just sold a screenplay, or commissioned to write a stage play, or that you're just happy.

You know what's interesting?

When you tally up enough self-worth to sincerely realize those people are in your way. And the light that you so deserve to step into, has been darkened by their conditional friendship. And you realize you don't have the time anymore to dance in half-light just to keep them happy in the dark. That you finally have yourself, and that true friendship doesn't feel so... conditional.

Oh yeh, thank the Stars for YOU.

By the way, check out this new group I discovered. Tresspassers William. They move me.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-03-16T06:03:00.000-07:00

Woodlawn, Ohio.

I grew up in Woodlawn. Contrary to unpopular belief, it is not a city. It is not a town. It's a village. Nestled deep in the forest on the outskirts of Cincinnati. Locust trees, Maple trees, Crabapple and Walnut, all dot the hilly terrain from the lake on its western edge to the railroad tracks to the east, to the wide sweep of cow pasture that now shares its acreage with a Kroger strip mall and a clunk of condominums simply called The Commons.

Most of the people there are working class. Truckers, factory workers, car salesmen, school teachers, ministers, supervising cashiers, and lots and lots of children. Rough-kneed children who's idea of play is tipping cows, catching lightening bugs and terrorizing other children who, for an example, earned an A on their spelling test.

On cold days, Woodlawn exists in this perputual gloom. Gray skies hover above snow-laden streets, polluted by bright yellow dog urine and black ice from somebody's Oldsmobile. The trees are without the plume of their leaves and the dry bark of the Maples shiver in the air. Small birds of every kind bounce from limb to limb—a dance of frostbite maybe, one can never be sure. Sometimes your mother will warm up some milk on the stove and tease you away from the window with the thrill of hot chocolate in a mug. And more often than not, a snow storm will dump inch upon inch and you and your mother worry a little about your father somewhere on a highway, delivering frozen foods, from a Kroger truck.

On warm days, Woodlawn spins in greens and reds and Robin egg blues. The sky is so clear and the air so clean, even the mailman is whistling. If you're lucky, your bike survived winter's rust and you pop a wheelie three or four times up and down your culdesac as others watch in envy. And even though on the fifth wheelie you fall backwards and cut a hole on your hand, well... that's okay. Because the baseball game is in an hour, and though you're probably the worst player on the team, all is good once the team treks it over to Dairy Queen for vanilla ice cream on waffer cones.

Woodlawn, Ohio. Where parents divorce and children graduate in the top twenty percent of their class. Where the Army recruits some of Ohio's most promising no-nonsense boys ever. Where girls leave their mother's backporches and travel to Atlanta and become pediatricians and wives, or lesbians. Where on some nights you can smell the sweet stench from the whiskey distillery two miles away and your mother closes all of the windows because she says the smell makes her sick, and your father comes home from his 14-hour day and you all sit down for a Sloppy Joe dinner, and talk about laying down tar on the driveway, a note from school about someone talking too much, and whether Saturday should be spent cutting the hedges. And even now, thirty years later, hundreds of miles away, you remember the gloom and the spin of Woodlawn and you smile. You smile wide.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-03-13T06:45:00.000-07:00

Last night I saw LIFE SUPPORT featuring Queen Latifah and Wendell Pierce. Wow. I kept repeating to myself: this is good. this is so real. she [Latifah] is so good.

Life Support centers around a HIV-positive woman struggling to rebalance her new inspired life and the drug life she's left behind. It's difficult for her because she's hurt so many people during her drug years, and they're having a hard time forgiving her [particularly her teen daughter] for the betrayal and abandonment.

This film touched me in so many ways: specifcially my own experience with a formerly-addicted sibling.

The performances were understated and full of breath and just plain good. Nelson George did an amazing job directing this film. In my opinion, this film deserves much praise, and it certainly establishes Queen Latifah as a true artist. She delivers.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-03-10T04:54:00.000-08:00

It's Saturday. Cloudy. With an expected temperature of 50. Anything's better than last weekend: when it was 60 on Saturday afternoon and 9 degrees Monday night. Anything, ANYTHING is better than that lunacy. I need consistency. But wait a minute, hold my horses! With all of the chaos in the world, haven't I been learning that you can't expect consistency from politics, weather, hell, OTHER PEOPLE, ever. That the only consistency I can truly rely on is my own. That the focus should always be on balancing moi. And if the other elements within the universe decide to show some consistency within their own circle of reality... good for those elements! Hallelujah, amen.

Yes, I'm feeling... good. Relaxed. I completed another short play last night for my upcoming theater festival—and the actor read it and was very satisfied. I've got to say, I'm feeling prolific. Productive. Now don't let me get too cocky. I have another short play to finish, a short story to write, and a whole lot of films to watch in prep for this screenplay I'm about to embark on. I'll leave the cocky alone until I successfully [and not sloppily] complete those tasks. For now, I'll settle for... enthusiastic. I"m enthusiastic about my day to day. Yeh, I like that.

By the way: Check out this new artist I've been digging. SKYE [formerly of Morcheeba]. She moves me.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-03-06T04:33:00.000-08:00

What a week!

After finally completing a major writing deadline for the Alliance Theater, and completing a substational rewrite of another new play and reading it at the Public Theater yesterday afternoon, I'm feeling good and revived and EXHAUSTED.

But I have no complaints. I actually treated myself to a glass of 2002 Tulocay Pinot Noir and a full hour of Heroes. It was well-earned.

Now I'm ready to organize my KEITH JOSEF ADKINS' theater festival. Scheduled March 29, 30 and 31. Yes, yours truly will be presenting the works of yours truly for three great nights in New York City. Stay tuned for further details.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-02-28T07:45:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-27T06:12:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-26T07:23:00.001-08:00

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

2007-02-25T05:20:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-23T09:21:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-22T05:21:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-19T07:53:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-17T20:14:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-15T07:27:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-04T05:12:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-03T06:58:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-02T05:15:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-31T07:21:00.001-08:00

In 1984, shortly after my grandfather died, my grandmother emerged into the light. Not that she was ever in the dark. She had always been lively and funny and beautiful, but before my grandfather's death she lived in his shadow. The woman married to the man with enough charisma to burn a hole in heaven. If he wasn't donned in Cuban hats or Mexican sobreros dancing the Cha-Cha, he was listening to Latin jazz or train albums. He often spoke fondly of his mixed-race heritage; of the gumbo of his Florida origins; of fishing in the Gulf of Mexico. He was a smart man, so said my mother, and easily Morehouse and/or Harvard material.

But when my grandfather died, suddenly my grandmother was front and center.

And boy what a treasure unlocked!

There's not enough time in this blog to unravel and disclose my grandmother. But I will say this: I think of her often lately. Her spirited laughter, her timeless beauty, her adoration for her poetry-reciting, charming dancer of a father. I know my grandmother was a different being when she was simply mother to her children. And whatever twists and turns that marked their hearts and minds, she only surrounded me with her wisdom and humor and seamless way she playfully endured diabetes, heart disease and cataracts.

I think of her often lately because I'm no longer in the center of the median. The scale has tipped on one end and now I'm one of those who teeters on the wise side of experience. I'm not lucky enough to have an abundance of senior citizens in my life. My mother, two of her three brothers, grand-aunts and -uncles, all gone before 50 or 60. My mother's youngest sibling, Roger, nearly 62, is considered our family's patriarch. A spirited, youthful uncle who will forever be deemed as "the boy who drilled the hole in the toilet". [that's for another blog]

My grandmother... who once sat on the wise side of the median; who laughed so hard at times she'd fall off her seat and go plop to the floor; who painfully buried her 24 year old daughter after a life bout with sickle-cell; who once admitted her Aunt Helen was a "nosy something" as she peaked from the window in 1933 as Grandma smooched my then thin blue-eyed grandfather; who once had a deep love for picture shows and cold glasses of beer that made her ears turn red. Yes, this grandmother I look to for strength.

But the one thing Grandma said that sticks to my soul more than anything was never to talk back to my mother. She'd say, "'Cause you only get one."

She was right. You only get one. But there's also another "only one" you get: a human being who passes through your life cloaked as a Grandma who finally emerges from the shadow of her husband and demonstrates that no matter how much your world gets reckless, there's always room, much room, for living.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-01-08T16:57:00.000-08:00

I saw an amazing film today. An absolutely mesmerizing, tragic and amazing fairy tale called PAN'S LABYRINTH by Guillermo del Toro.

It's set in Spain during the year 1944. There's war and violence and magic and the poor against the rich. And nestled tightly at its center is this amazing fairy tale that prompts a young girl to risk all that she knows to unveil a horrible yet spellbinding truth.

I left the theater the way I love to leave the theater—full of emotion and thought; touched.

See it if you can.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-01-08T08:49:00.000-08:00

My European jet-lag has been quite troublesome. I fall asleep at 7:30 pm, wake up at 10 pm, fall back asleep at 4am, then up by 5am. Needless to say, I'm still not sure whether I'm dreaming or sleep-walking.

Which is why I called 911 on Saturday morning.

I had stumbled up from sleep at 5 am. All was quiet excpet for the ocassional knock from the fridge and the papery breeze of my expensive paper shades. I walked into the living room and clicked on the boob-tube, hoping to catch some early morning indie with take-you-away foreign lingo and much-warranted sex.

That's when I first heard the murmering from the apartment above. I was surprised by its volume, not by the disturbance. See, nearly every night I'm awakened by my upstair's neighbor's repulsive snoring. Actually, he's not really the upstairs neighbor, he's the tenant that lives NEXT to my upstairs neighbor—his snoring is that loud. And every night he snores and I feel violated and frustrated and then I attempt to fall back to sleep.

But this murmering was not snoring. It was banging. Bodies being pushed and shoved. The voice of woman asking for the snorer to quiet down; the snorer telling the woman to shut the hell up and if she doesn't get off his back he's going to knock her... Then there was more shouting and cursing. A body falling to the floor. Two bodies falling into a wall. The snorer screaming, You bit me. I can't believe you bit me. Nobody has ever bit me as long as I've been alive. That's when I yelled: SHUT THE FUCK UP! And the pusher/slash/snorer quickly yelled back: You shut the fuck up!

And that's when I dialed 911.

The old Keith would have waited around to see if things quieted down; found something else to distract me, blah blah. But this new Keith didn't give a black bone. I dialed 911, told dispatch that a man was beating up his wife, and the NYPD arrived in less than 5 minutes.

I eagerly listened to their hallway convo through my front door. And of course all was denied. A misunderstanding I heard the police say. Sorry for your troubles. Granted, I didn't believe the snorer and his wife were killing each other, but I have no tolerance for people who think it's okay to share their drunken chaos with anyone within a two-floor radius, at 5:30 am. Especially with the rent I'm paying. Especially after I've traveled to Europe and back and can't sleep a wink.

I know I'm the only true gentrifier in the building with my high-end rent, dishwasher and brand-new shirt from the stores of Paris and, honestly, I don't care. If my gentrifier status gets the police here in 5 minutes to shut down the loud snorer and his enabler wife... so be it. So be it!

Until next time,

Keith

2007-01-06T02:32:00.000-08:00

London. Classic 1000 year-old architecture, self-contained citizens, gloomy skies. And practical yet stylish fashion. London's a city that reeks a bit of arrogance and an one-time dominion over the New World [next to Spain], but it's a city that I truly enjoyed.

London. Tower Bridge over the Thames River.

London. Big Ben and House of Lords.

London. Buckingham Palace.

Until next time,

Keith

2007-01-05T09:12:00.000-08:00

I'm back from Europe! And although I have many things to say about that experience, I simply want to post a few photos.
But I will leave you with this: Never have I experienced a city where the quality of life is institution. People live; people enjoy. Of course every city has its problems and politics, but for the first time in my life I felt like I was in the WORLD.

Paris. Pont du Arcole [bridge]. Seines River.

Paris. Hotel de Ville.

Paris. Musee du Louvre [Pyramid].

Until next time,

Keith

2006-12-29T17:13:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-28T16:03:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-26T02:43:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-22T06:06:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-20T20:27:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-14T06:48:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-12T14:45:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-10T19:23:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-09T09:34:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

Over the last few months I haven't blogged a thing. It wasn't anything personal against my readers. I simply had nothing to say. I was at a crossroads. A transition. Nothing too serious like an illness or alien kidnapping, but I was simply at a loss for words. Or the words I was accustomed to using wasn't working anymore. How I was accustomed to feeling or thinking or living wasn't doing the trick. So I decided to take a hiatus from all that was me and look deeper, assess a bit more critically.

Painful? Yes. Necessary? Oh, you wouldn't believe.

The results I refuse to share. One, because it ain't over. Two, because like life it's personal. But I will say this: I am not quite who I thought I was, or who I will be, or who I am. I am now an enigma of my very own self. Out here in this world searching for a place to fit; searching for something to say about it all. I've never been so... uncertain in my life. Uncertain about war, the weather, God, family, love, sex, friendship, money, career, personal philosophy, and more importantly human interaction. But I am certain that I exist and that this world is my experience and my voice [if i allow myself to truly speak] is certainly my testament.

It must go noted that I owe a great deal of my passion for self-awareness to music, to film and to friends and family who believe in the wealth of their own destiny. Someone I met recently said, "Keith, you're a bit New Agey." At first I fumed at that accusation. But then I took a breath and claimed what was true. In so many words, I am.

So... if you have a glass of wine, or water, or flavored decaffeinated tea, lift your glass or your cup and toast to giving TESTAMENT to your very own life. You never really know how long you'll have it.

This blog entry is dedicated to my uncle, ROBERT CLINTON ADKINS. I didn't know you well. Hell, I didn't let you know me. But thank you for lliving your life with courage.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-08-21T10:41:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I saw an amazing film entitled QUINCEANERA. A new film by Richard Glatzer and Wash Westmoreland. It was a story about a Latino family in Los Angeles and how a teen pregnancy, a gay cousin and gentrification breaks them in half and mends them together. It's a wonderful testament to the importance of human bonding; how love is never packaged the way we wish; and the heartbreaking tragedy of losing the place called home.

I was a little about this film at first. I knew the two filmmakers were not Latino, and nor were they from the Barrio of Los Angeles, but they seduced me quite nicely with their integrity and truth.

Check it out.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-08-18T15:28:00.000-07:00

A lot of time has passed since my move from California to Brooklyn, and I must admit... it's been a bit more difficult than I expected. After five years and having space and time to expand my person, to discover and like new and hidden things about myself, after five years of having access to great, healthy and clean food 24-7, of having a group of friends who believe in inventing and exploring new ways to experience one self, it is HARD to return to the most wonderful city in the world.

Very hard.

I love NYC. It is... absolutely thrilling and stimulating and maddening and deafening [and i mean that literally and figuratively]. I love the constant mobility here. I love the theater and the theater artists and the theater participants. I love the films and the film artists and the film goers. I love discovering new and trendy eateries and lounges in and around 7th and 10th Avenues in Manhattan, and Smith Street in Brooklyn.

But what I miss most is... me. Somewhere in this transition into a more creative and intellectual stimulation I've lost me. Not me and my beliefs or convictions or self-awareness. That is in tact and quite thrilling. But I've lost the me who deeply needs space and sky and mountain and ocean and desert. And I miss him.

It's a crazy time for the world. And for me. Navigating one's life can be the most frigthening and bountiful gifts humans can ever receive.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-08-14T15:38:00.000-07:00

My three-week rewrite marathon has finally come to a close. Whew! Two plays have been rewritten and repolished and revamped and all I'm interested in now is a production or something damn-near close to a production. I tell you, writing plays can be a very vacuumed experience: all your heart and intellect and hopefully your truth is laid out in 70 pages plus yet... that doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean theaters will like it. It doesn't mean it's going to Broadway [hell, off-off Broadway ain't guaranteed either]. It's just you and your ideas and emotions on 70 pages. You alone with your computer for five hours a day for a year [or two, or ten] and no promise that anyone will read it [and in most cases it will just sit on the shelf of some theater and collect dust and most likely be thrown away in five years.] And that can be quite a scary, lonely, frustrating way to exist. And although my plays were express-mailed to my agent and a couple of American theaters [which makes me one of the lucky ones], I still go on with my life with the full adult understanding that nothing may ever happen to these plays and I must live with that.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-07-24T12:06:00.000-07:00

It was 130 degrees YESTERDAY in Santa Clarita, California.

That's Los Angeles. Antelope Valley. Magic Mountain Amusement Park and vicinity. I have friends who live there.

Yes, I'm alarmed, but again not surprised. And I got a extra feeling this won't be the last time for such monstrous heat.

I suggest folks to start getting disaster kits: water, batteries, flashlight, cash, radio, canned foods and can opener and your favorite bottle of wine. I'm not talking doomsday here, but it's pretty clear it's a time of consequence and transition. Better safe than sorry. And for you Cali folk [or anybody else experiencing 110 degree plus temperatures], a bottle of water and canned goods will come in handy if you're driving in heat like that and you car goes beserk and leaves you stranded.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-07-22T20:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon. Thursday. At about five p.m. A severe thunderstorm came rolling through the Fort Green vicinity and let me say this: NEVER IN MY LIFE have I EVER experienced a storm like that. And I'm originally from the Midwest with tornadoes and thunder and floods every spring, but THIS was different. I was nervous. I was speechless. I locked myself in the bathroom, kneeled on the floor and just waited and hoped and thought: WHAT IS GOING ON? I felt endangered. The lightening was INTENSE. Extremely intense. I could hear the voltage. I could hear it hitting nearby buildings [including mine that resulted in a bright red glow somewhere outside my kitchen window. And the thunder: it was explosive. It sounded like a nuclear war. IT WAS NO JOKE. It was APOCALYPTIC.

Three weeks ago, my dad called and said a storm had passed through Cincinnati that shook the house. He said, NEVER in his life had he experienced a storm like that. And at that time I remember thinking if my dad is commenting on a storm's intensity then it must have been rare and wild. Then just last week, my agent Steve Simons from Los Angeles called me for some normal update and within his brief conversation told me he was in NYC for a play and got caught in the most violent storm he ever experienced. [And he said he was raised on the East Coast and he doesn't remember anything as violent as that]. A few years ago, one of my aunts said there was no global warning [or a hole in the ozone]. She said it was the devil and Jesus was the only true answer to fight the falsity of global warming. And I remember thinking: Oh, people are so disconected from the earth. And that's going to be their downfall when Greenland starts melting and the polar beers start drowning and when one of the most violent storms in the history of NYC sends a neo-bohemian brother to the bathroom in refuge.

All I have to say is: LIVE, LOVE and don't be surprised by anything. It was a 120 degrees in South Dakota last week; and 112 in St. Louis a few days ago... Don't be alarmed; just PREPARE and go see INCONVENIENT TRUTH.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-07-20T04:18:00.000-07:00

In the last few weeks I've been overwhelmed with living and not able to subscribe to the scribbing of my day to day. It was hot. For a good week. A few days it reached 100 degrees and one day I saw lightening touch down less than 60 feet away. Oh, then I moved, to Fort Greene, BROOKLYN. My new apartment is much much better. I feel like I have an apartment as opposed as living in the basement of somebody's home like some second-cousin in transition between jobs or wives or a pack of Winstons. However, I have discovered I have the most recently renovated apartment in the 8-unit building [and the nicest] and I'm not sure how well that sits with the tenants who've been eager to tell me they've been living here since 1983 and that Zipper or Bipper Revels or some such mystery man lived in my apartment for a "long time" and of course I quickly just removed myself from the insanity by a gentle "Well, it's nice to meet you."

Fort Greene is cool. The convenience and trees are heaven-sent. However, it's becoming quite a haven for happy 9 to 5 hetero-couples and mothers with high-end strollers. Gone are the days of the bohemian hippy artist [neo-soul or indie blonde] amock in Fort Greene. Things are becoming very resolved and nicely packaged in the latest Abercrombie and/or Essence flavor. Which is all good, but it doesn't ring of progressiveness and open-mindedness. Dare I say things feel a bit "hip yet conservative".

Until next time,

Keith

2006-07-04T05:45:00.000-07:00

What do you do about RACIAL RESPONSIBILITY?

Yesterday afternoon I hooked up with my really good friend Said. We met at the arch of Washington Square Park, we walked over to the West Village for a dish of Penne with broccoli and zucchini at this Italian foodie on the corner of Carmine near 6th Avenue, we walked back to Washington Square Park and sat among the squirrels and the students and the perverts and the insane woman who was wiping mustard on the trees and who had a whistle that would put a Yankees referee to shame.

And we talked about race. Well, race and responsibility. Well, I talked and he listened.

A few weeks ago a fellow writer, black, was explaining the reasons why theaters won't produce plays written in a certain black aesthetic; he was explaining the only plays that theaters are willing to produce are plays that have white characters, or gay characters, or self-deprecating black characters. And I listened for about three seconds and then I said this: Why do people have such a hard time dealing with black people as human beings? The operative word being "BEING". Which, in my opinion, means alive and active. Why do people have such a hard time allowing black people to show vulnerability, to be sexual in any capacity, to question religion, to hate their parents, to love their pets, to want to travel to somewhere besides Africa? Why is black defined as simply a state of being that only and ALWAYS acknowledges social and political marginalization and the history of slavery as the source of eternal victimization? And if for whatever reason one decides to drift away from that acknowledgment and decide to what... question their grandfather's parenting, decide to read something other than Malcolm X, then their black card is revoked.

I don't disagree that a lot of theaters find that musicals and plays with music are bigger money-makers than plays that examine the complexity of present-day human life within the wide range of blackness. There is much truth to that. But to question the authenticity of blackness because one courageously explores the horrors of emotional abuse, their love of the Brady Bunch and Lost In Space, or even their perverse adoration of President Bush... is, in my opinion, unfortunate. And to use a word my mother often used, "stifling".

I told the fellow writer that I'm far more interested in writing from the truth of how I've lived and been shaped by all things, and that I hope the audience, no matter what race, will find comfort in my consciousness and go home and ponder the wide truth about who and why they are what they are.

Said listened and thankfully understood my point of view as we stood on the corner of University and 14th Street saying our goodbyes.

See, I was not raised to define blackness as the limit to which I can live my life. On the contrary, my mother raised me to define blackness as the great launching pad to spring forth from and embrace and battle ALL that's within this world!

Until next time,

Keith

2006-07-03T06:30:00.000-07:00

A CULTURE OF COMPLAINT

A few days ago I was sitting with friends [old and new] at Pequeno—a trendy little Mexican foodie in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. We had just returned from Queens where Body and Soul put on their annual outdoor House Party. Lots of people, lots of House Music, lots of sweat and chests and legs and piercings and girls throwing beers into guy's faces. I had a good time, but my friends didn't. They complained and complained. About the dated music, about the heat, about the skinny guy dancing alone in the pool of water; about the long line to buy drinks; about the homogenized crowd with blue-streaked hair.

So we left.

When we arrived at Pequeno, all was cool... That is until we were asked to wait for ten minutes until a outdoor table became available. But when the table became available, a party of four sat there. We, of course, immediately walked over to them with an "Excuse us, this is our table." They immediately and apologetically removed themselves, but my three friends found this to be a good enough reason to complain. About the heat, about white privilege; about the invisibility of blackness, about how Brooklyn's changing, etc.

After we sat down and ordered our soft tacos and chicken tostados, the complaining kicked up again: Halle Berry's lack of talent; Gabrielle Union's all-American smile; Maxwell's new found gayness; DeAngelo's bloated face and his "mediocre" voice; and Al Gore's Inconvenient Truth—one of my friends said she heard it was like a lecture. AND THAT'S WHEN I SAID: My God, it's a film about the implosion of our planet. How else can you convey the information that the planet is falling apart, SING AND DANCE IT?

I hate complainingng. It sucks energy from your brain and body. And in my opinion [I used to be a bit of complainer up until I realized that I was complaining in order to avoid dealing with my own truth and baggage], complaining is useless. It's a projection of one's own unresolved life. Because if you don't like ANYTHING then you got yourself a problem that the venom you have for the Truth about Global Warming or Gabrielle Union's smile will never be able to fix.

Complaining is the song of the victimized. And I swear, I hear this song waaaaaay too much!

My suggestion: Challenge yourself to be honest about who and why and where you are in the world. And like my good friend Hortense says, "STOP COMPLAINING AND PUT INTO ACTION THE IDEALS AND DREAMS YOU WISH TO LIVE BY."

Until next time,

Keith

2006-06-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

Oh man, it's been waaaay too long since I last posted. It's been a CRAZY few weeks. And here's the litany:

I spent a week up a Vassar workshopping my new play Crossing America with the New York Theater Workshop. Which was intense and wonderful and challenging and rewarding. And now I have a stronger play that still needs some more work, but it's in a very good place. I also was able to hang with my good friend Alex Thomas who was there at Vassar as artist-in-residence. Alex, who now lives in London, presented a new piece he's writing about Blacks in Germany during the Nazi regime. His play is about a black German who befriends a African-American jazz musician living abroad in Berlin. And how their lives unfold during a horrific time in our world history. Amazing piece and I am so thrilled to have heard it read. I also saw some great excerpts from the Mitu Theater Group... these folks are the real thing. The kind of stuff I like: dark, poetic, haunting, fresh, sexual, probing into religion and gender and God, and very very quirky. A brother is thrilled about Mitu.

Onward to the Hip Hop Theater Festival. Which was a lot of fun. Jimmie and Regan, the actors in my play Hollis Mugley's Only Wish, were great. And I believe the audience enjoyed the play. Those actors worked hard and Obie-Winner Robert O'Hara even stepped in and helped shape the staging so that shit would pop! And I believe it did.

Onward to my Brooklyn apartment: It's beautiful, it's quiet, it's damp, there's not enough room for my furntiture, the staircase is so old that when my landlord comes and goes it sounds like the ceiling's crashng down on my head. And that's some uncool stuff. Oh, and there's a mosquito infestation in the entrance of my apartment so I've had to buy a UNMOSQUITO machine because, yes, those babies have found a way into the damp apartment... OH, whenever it rains, and it has been raining A LOT [FOLKS, PLEASE GO AND SEE INCONVENIENT TRUTH. THE FILM ABOUT GLOBAL WARMING. IT'S A MUST]... and so whenever it rains, which is a lot, the back terrace floods and it's only a matter of time before we get one of those 7 inchers like D.C. got yesterday within 24 hours and the water comes rolling into my kitchen. Needless to say, I'm moving by August 1.

Onward to the Allliance Theater in Atlanta, Georgia. I'm here now. Workshopping my newer brand new play with the lovely folks down here. I'm being treated SO well. Celise Kalke, my good friend and amazing dramaturg/Director of Play Development at the Alliance, told me the Alliance was my home. And I tell you, it's what makes a playwright feel good.

Well.. I'll have more time to fill in the details of my journeys once I'm finished here in Altanta. I'll be back in Brooklyn on Saturday.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-06-14T12:36:00.000-07:00

It's Wednesday and I'm here at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York. I'll be here until Tuesday with the New York Theater Workshop workshopping my new play Crossing America under the wonderful direction of Liesl Tommy.

I'm surrounded by trees among trees, groundhogs and their pups, and lots of food that's ripping up my insides... but I'll survive because it's about the art and not a nice grilled piece of salmon and a plate of steamed veggies... no, it's about art, and conversation and uplifting community through storytelling even though if I see one more quiche pie made with ham and cheese I'm gonna explode. LOL.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-06-11T17:00:00.000-07:00

Whew! What a week!

I made my deadline! Actually, I asked for two more days to turn in the draft of the script and the kind folks obliged. So for now, I'm all about R and R. Well, until Tuesday morning when I leave for Vassar College for a one-week writing residency and a workshop of a new play. But for the next two days it's all about me, my sandals, my sunglasses and some cool spot to chill in Fort Greene, or Williamsburg.

Being back in New York City has been mind-blowing. Not only has it gotten younger and whiter and cleaner, but there are more high-rise condo towers than I can count. Donald Trump has a luxury condo tower going up at Central Park North [formerly known as 110th Street for those die-hard Harlemites]. And bicycles. There are bicycles everywhere you wink. Which is great for me 'cause I love bike riding. It's a matter of life and death. Like it's mandatory I drink water; it's also mandatory I ride my bike. But... this time around in good ole NYC most of the bike riders are riding ANTIQUE BIKES. I'm talking the kind of bikes folks rode in the 60s and 50s. With baskets. And these bicyclers are riding in Jimmy Choos and the best in men's Italian and... flip flops. The thing to do in NYC is to ride antique bicycles in the lastest and trendiest [and sometimes most expensive] footwear.

Wow.

And as I walking up Gates Avenue in my beautifully tree-lined neighborhood of Clinton Hills I couldn't help to hope that one day soon NYC will be much like Amsterdam, a city that transports itself on bikes.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-06-03T21:45:00.000-07:00

I've been BUSY. Between transitioning back into New York City, working on a writing deadline with a June 7 due date and trying to figure out if my landlord walking like an elephant over my head is something I should tolerate, I've had little time to blog.

I won't stay long, but I will fill you in on a few things. My very good friend and fellow playwright DIANA SON has written a wonderful new play called SATELLITES currently playing at the Public Theater. Diana invited me to the final dress rehearsal and it looks great. I really appreciate Diana. Not only does she write these economically yet impacting plays, she also ALWAYS writes plays that feature multi-ethnic casts and storylines. And that's just not my kudos, many actors say the same thing about her work.

In SATELLITES, Diana has probed into the world of gentrification in Brooklyn and race and expectation and loyalty and alliance and a new baby that seems to throw everything and -one into a tailspin. Check it out!

My play HOLLIS MUGLEY'S ONLY WISH will be produced at the HIP HOP THEATER FESTIVAL on Wednesday June 21 in NYC. If you're in town, check it out. It stars my good friend Jimmie Woody and is minimally directed by Obie Winner Robert O'Hara.

Well, that's all for now. I need to get some more writing done before I fall deep into a comfy sleep.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-28T07:22:00.000-07:00

Nilaja Sun is a major talent!

Nilaja Sun is a New York City-based actress and writer who I met 7 years ago. But my fortune shined when she was cast in my play ON THE HILLS OF BLACK AMERICA. She then was splendid, wonderful, quirky, playful and a pleasure. Nilaja is one of those theater artists who's completely committed to her craft: she embraces language with a vengeance; she impeccably transforms into characters with astonishing compassion; and she prefers socio-politically charged projects that will hopefully inspire mankind to evolve into humans.

And last night I saw Nilaja perform her solo piece NO CHILD... A piece inspired by her work as a teaching artist in the New York Public School system. A piece about a teaching artist who's thrown into one of the notoriously worst classrooms in the Bronx and how she transforms a group of "hopeless" teens into an inspired group of thespians performing Our Country's Good.

Nilaja's performances of each character was pitch-perfect, exciting, thrilling and MUST-SEE.
Her work sings with truth, honesty and leaves you with the question: Why does our education system continue to fail our poorer children?

NO CHILD...by Nilaja Sun
Directed by Hal Brooks
Beckett Theatre @ Theatre Row Theatres
410 West 42nd Street [btwn 9 and 10 Avenues]
To make reservations
Walk-Up Box Office: 410 West 42nd Street (7 days/week, 12-8pm)
By phone: 212-279-4200 (7 days/week, 12-8pm)
By the web: www.ticketcentral.com

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

A humid day in Brooklyn. A busy day in Brooklyn. I actually stayed in Brooklyn ALL DAY. I'm saying I didn't go over to Manhattan at all. And that's crazy. Laundromat: Brooklyn. Home Depot: Brooklyn. Target: Brooklyn.

Kindness: Brooklyn.

A young boy, maybe 5, was riding his bike and as I was approaching the intersection of Fulton and Vanderbilt weighed down by my twin-size Aerobed, he slowed down so he wouldn't run into me. I smiled. He said I'm sorry, in a very small voice but who was quite aware of the sancity of boundaries. And my heart dropped. So I said, No problem. And I kept on walking. But as I walked I wished this: for the 5 year old boy to grow into a young man who still believes in the sacredness of space; who earns his degree from Morehouse or Yale, or even Iowa State; who buys his father his favorite cologne on his birthday; who purchases a brownstone in Clinton Hill and uses the equity to buy ANOTHER brownstone in Bed-Stuy; who takes his date to see his favorite foreign film then walks home in the rain day-dreaming about places like Tibet, France, the moon orbiting Pluto; who kneels every night and thanks the Stars for BREATH and healthy intestinal flora; who avoids bullets and jail and victimization and nay-sayers and women who hate men who love plants and men who hate men who think universal thoughts; who stands up for justice and against mindless war; who teaches another boy to ride his bike and to remember to have sanctity for other's people's boundaries.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-25T08:11:00.000-07:00

I've finally made my move to Brooklyn, New York!

And I must admit it has been a whirlwind of transition and adjustment. Yes, I needed to leave the lethargy-friendly skies of Los Angeles. Yes, I needed to continue a journey that's pillowed in creative inspiration and intellectual stimulation. Yes, I had done all the growing I could do out there in the desert and I don't regret one moment of it. Yes, Yes, Yes. But I didn't realize I'd miss that GREAT people I met in Los Angeles. And there were some notables: Reggie, Charles, Karin, Broaddus, Cesar, Regina... [and to be 2 hours away from Hortense, damn what a treat]. But I didn't realize that time wouldn't permit to say my big goodbyes before catching the 6:30 am Delta flight from LAX to JFK. And that's a bit disheartening. But... I'll return for business and/or pleasure [probably in the next few weeks] and I'm certain I'll see more of those notables now than I did when I actually lived five minutes away. But that's life and I'm sentimental. And if I didn't have a detachable leg that I can pull off to beat my own ass into a reality-check, I could easily become a puddle of boo-hoo on a daily. So like my fictional Uncle James-Jimmy says, "Thank God for detachable legs!"

Interesting note: Upon my return to NYC, literally that same day, my friend and actress-supertalent Donna Duplaniter had a birthday dinner. And who was in attendance you ask? All ex-Angelinos with testimonies to share. It was a nice way to christen this new leg of my journey.

I tell you, loving yourself enough to keep discovering yourself is such the grace, such the Gift.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-18T13:47:00.000-07:00

The word is out: Network Television has selected its Fall Line-Up. And I have to extend a congrats to my folks over at Girlfriends [my former DAY JOB]... GIRLFRIENDS was picked up for a SEVENTH SEASON, and its spin-off THE GAME was the ONLY sitcom added to the CW's inaugural television season.

Check out the NETWORK SCHEDULE.

Okay... now it's back to packing boxes. I'm moving on Sunday.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-15T13:53:00.001-07:00

On MAY 26, 2006 something happens.

THE MUTANTS RETURN!!!

Yes, I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio. The youngest of three. I loved Drive-Ins and French Fries from Burger King, but little that you know I'm also a MUTANT—artist, visionary, bohemian, free spirit, non-traditionalist, at times completely disgusted with boundaries, and with the electrifying power to transform my internal and external life.

On May 26 the "HUMANS" will attempt to destroy us with a CURE.
Come out from your homes and support our fight to LIVE!

X-Men: THE LAST STAND

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-12T20:35:00.000-07:00

This is what's interesting: Yesterday the results of my mtdna test arrived. Meaning the discovery of who my mother's mother's mother's mother's mother was... well, at least the earliest recorded mother in the Americas. And she was from AFRICA. West Africa to be exact. She belonged to what genetic scientists describe as Haplogroup L2. Apparently the majority of African Americans mtdna's are marked with L2. Which means most African Americans descend from the same group of people and region in Africa. And according to my results there's a young man in West Africa who shares a similiar genetic ancestry code on his mtdna as me. I'm thinking Nigeria. Maybe Angola.

Needless to say I'm pleased. And surprisingly a bit emotional.

The oldest documented mother in this particular mtdna genealogy [the maternal mother's mother line] was a woman named Mahala Woods. The first and mulatto wife of the Reverend Dave Woods. Mother of Carolyn and Margaret. She was born circa 1818 near Frankfort, Kentucky. Her parents were both born in Virginia. Maybe it was Mahala's mother who traveled from Africa. Or her grandmother. Or her great-great grandmother. Maybe if she was lucky, Mahala was told about the young girl who at 13, maybe 15, was kidnapped and taken across the Atlantic in a slave ship destined for an unknown land, with unknown faces, a mother and father nowhere to be found. No one who when they saw her would know her name, the rocks she liked to throw, the songs she used to fall asleep to, the river she and her brother used to fish from. And if Mahala was lucky, she cried for this young person. She spent one minute of one day and gave honor to her and her loss and her unrelenting experience alone. And prayed that she found someone [not necessarily the father of her certain daughter], but someone who embraced her melancholy, who held her tight when the stars became so bright they blinded her into unearthly restlessness. Who found a place right behind her ear that when tickled made her at least smile, and softened the blinding ache for her home across the sea.

If Mahala wasn't lucky enough to do this, then I will. I will give one moment of my life and honor this young person who's turbulent yet endured life ultimately unfolded into me.

To my mother's mother's mother's mother's earliest recorded MOTHER... I honor you.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-10T09:06:00.000-07:00

A few months ago my friend Reggie called and expressed high enthusiasm about a documentary called African American Lives which featured Dr. Henry Louis Gates exploring the genealogy of Oprah Winfrey, Chris Tucker, Quincy Jones, etc. And being the genealogist that I am, I TIVO-ed it.

When I sat down and listened to Henry Louis Gates explore his family history as well as the other "celebs", I was overwhelmed with excitement. I am a genealogist [not professionally, but my craft is sharp] and I could easily give up all that I'm doing and just explore family histories. I'm quite fascinated by African American genealogy, not just because I'm African-American, but because I believe we should all know who were are. Most of the citizens of this world know their origins, their forefathers and -mothers, and most folks have pride [or hate] for their documented heritage stretching beyond the Atlantic and Pacific, but African-Americans' history allegedly begins here in the States. The day they landed on these shores, destined to become enslaved or indentured or free by certificate but shackled by color. But we are so much more than that. Slavery in the Americas is only a part of our experience on the globe. And 200 years from now [if the globe is still what it is today—although I don't think it will, but anyway]... 200 years from now if the globe is still what it is today our testament as African-Americans will be larger and slavery will be only a chapter in our experience [a thoroughly examined chapter in a book that begins with Lucy, the first recorded human being, to the ambitious Abubakar the Second who sent sailors across the Atlantic guided by the trade winds to discover "other life" to the Jones Family and their urgent exodus into Ohio due to unmerciful racist laws of early 19th century Carolina to Michael Jordan to the first leader of the newly-colonized Mars].

It's important the history of African-Americans be given the dimension it deserves. Which is why I decided to get my DNA tested, determine the percentage of my ancestry, find out who was forever linked to my Y-Chromosome and my MTdna. I want to know WHAT I am.

Over the weekend the results arrived: a white man from the British Isles is linked to my Y-Chromosome. I'm about 78 percent sub-saharan African; about 19 percent European; and about 3 percent Native American. Give or take a few. I'm not surprised by these results. I'm clearly of African-descent [by way of experience as well as other contributes: lips, color, hair, ETC]; the European is evident in my mother's people with their hazel-blue that and sandy-red this and pale-white legs "that need some sun". But the Native American element is a complete mystery. My grandmother's family has long rumored to be part Jewish but maybe the Jewish-looking folk were actually Native. My grandfather's mother once told me her father was half Cherokee; her 100 year old sister later denied any Indian blood and said their father was half White. My father's 98 year old aunt claims her grandfather, Henry Clay Adkins, was the Indian. But I had to inform her that the white man from the British Isles linked on the Adkins' male Y-Chromosome was the father of my father's father father father, good ole Henry Clay.

Fascinating.

But then came dinner last night with Aida and Tracey where I was thrown into a tailspin. Aida suggested something mind-altering: the British man linked on my Y-Chromosome could have be a rapist. A rapist? Of course. I know my mother's family had a history of white women and black men unions circa 1800s, but in eastern Georgia, where the Adkins originated, enslaved men and women were worked to death, literally. Well... rape would have be standard in that kind of ruthless environment [forced or expected].

Then I thought of this: No matter how we evolve, us Adkins men, where we go, the children we sire, the books we read, the spiritual journeys we take, a white British man who could have been a rapist is forever-linked to our DNA, and that's deep.

I'm still expecting the results from my mother's line. The originial mother of my mother's mother mother mother, etc.
I hope it's an African woman. So I can at least know what region of Africa some of my ancestors lived and loved. Not only will that specify my ancestry, it will also make for some damn good conversation.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-03T11:54:00.000-07:00

It is simple. Breathing. Just an inhale then an exhale then a repeat of that pattern for a very long time. 80 years if you're lucky. 100 years if you're graced. I breathe often. This wasn't always the case. Plenty of day I died. Not physically of course. And not dead really. But more like disappeared, spiritually. Yes. Plenty of day I disappeared. On the subway, surrounded by the many faces, the many voices, and me, quiet, inhaled without exhale. Hoping to go unnoticed. Unjudged. Unquestioned. A few years ago [actually more like seven years ago] I figured out the impetus for those spiritual disappearances. For the days at Robert E. Lucas Intermediate School knowing that three to the third power plus four equals thirty one, but unwilling to share it with the teacher who kept looking my way, the students who seemed to dare me to be smarter than them. Yes. Seven years ago I figured out the impetus for those spiritual disappearances. And suddenly it all became clear.

It's not easy being from the Midwest. Yes, the skies can explode above you in deep melancholy gray or unfold into bird egg blue. And the forsythias and the crabapple blossoms and the barking dogs and the shimmering green of Locust Trees. That all can be quite satisfactory. Even chasing down Black Racer snakes with German-Catholic whiteboys who bathe only once a week can be apple of your pie for a good summer or two. But it is still not easy being from the Midwest. Parents who argue about layoffs and women who won't cook. Relatives who rather quote scripture than hold your hand. Brothers whose only alternative to death in a factory is serving four years in the army. Mothers who point their sons toward the sky against the wishes of a "crabs in a barrel" community.

Well... somewhere in there I learned to stop breathing. To spiritually disappear. Why? I think it's obvious: to avoid the crossfire; to fight off Christian possession; to figure out a plan of how to get to the sky and never look back.

And seven years ago, while riding the A Train uptown to Harlem I found myself inhaled without exhale. Stomach tight. Throat tight. Hands stiff. Unwilling, so unwilling to exhale. And for one minute I thought I was dead. And then realized, just in that split second, I wasn't in the Midwest anymore; there was no direct crossfire; that I had found the sky.

I guess what I'm saying is this: Often we wear armor to protect the one thing we know is special within us... our self-love. And sometimes it takes us a while to realize that the war has ended and it's high time you celebrate in the sky!

Until next time,

Keith

2006-05-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

Friday night I met some friends in Hollywood for drinks [meaning a glass of Pinot Noir for me. Two, if I'm feeling dangerous].

All was well. All was good. Until the bar/lounge closed and so did a few others in the area and the police were everywhere and black folks were everywhere and a friend of mine was walking down the street and a car pulled up.

The driver of the car waved at my friend. [Or at least made a waving motion with his hand]. My friend, a bit tipsy, thought the driver knew him so he walked over to the driver's window who immediately rolled down the window. When the driver rolled down his window, my friend reached his hand toward the driver in order to Brotha-shake him. The driver rolled up the window on my friend's hand who of course said Fuck You to the driver. The driver jumped out of the car and so did his three other friends. Ready to fight. Ready to project their insecurity and rage onto another brother.

After a few minutes of screaming, pulling people away, of "ignore them" and fuck yous, and one of the brothers reaching for the imaginary gun in his imaginary holster, things calmed down. The driver and his friends jumped back into their car with the last words of: Next time I wave for you to walk you better walk by, my niggah. My friend turned around to continue the fight, but I pushed him forward. And he kept walking.

I couldn't believe it. A misunderstanding. One brother thinking another was waving in affinity and brotherly recogntion; the other was simply waving to allow his fellow brother to walk. Letting his fellow brother know he would not be cruel and drive out before him. But then things turned ugly. Both felt insulted. And the same black males were ready to fight, suggesting they would shoot.

I don't have much to say but this: Why are we so quick to destroy each other?

Until next time,

Keith

2006-04-28T05:09:00.000-07:00

The Wyoming Chronicles Continue.
[See Tuesday and Wednesday posts]

On October 3 Lola woke up and decided she wanted to drive to Fort Collins, Colorado. The home of Colorado State University and a thirty mile drive south through snow-capped mountains and breathtaking mesas. Lola [and her friend visiting from Long Island] gathered a few traveling goodies: water, cookies, chips, broccoli tips, and then we all marched toward the Volvo, anxious to spend the day in the excitedly more diverse town of Fort Collins.

As we drove thru downtown Laramie toward the highway I noticed what seemed like half of the town scurrying in and out of Walmart and the nearby grocery store. I pointed it out to Lola [I was driving, she was busy being chauffeured.] Lola looked over at the could-be mayhem and then back toward her Long Island visitor and continued her convo about married men and the troubles they find.

The drive down to Fort Collins was spectacular. Mountains on both sides of the state highway. Hawks, deer and I believe we even saw an elk and an eagle.

Once we arrived into Fort Collins we could feel we were shining. Vegan restaurants, a bookstore with an African-American section. Black students who were NOT athletes. [Out of the 106 African American students at the University of Wyoming, both undergrad and grad, 98 were athletes. There were 10, 000 students altogether.] After finding easy parking for the Volvo, we hit the streets of Fort Collins. We were exhaling. We were smiling. We were near some BLACK FOLK... well, kinda. We quickly found a great little restaurant that catered to meat-free needs and supplied my favorite: water, no ice.

Once the food arrived we got comfy and urban. We discussed the presence of blackness in white academia, Lola's experiences with insane artists from San Francisco, her accusations that Toni Morrison stole her ideas from the works of Henry Dumas [I disagreed], Ishmael Reed's anglophilia [I didn't know the man so I didn't care], the mouth-dropping classicness of Lena Horne and her biggest muse: John Coltrane, oh, and course, her loving daughter at UCLA. After Lola exhausted us with her never-ending life, we left and headed toward a Native American store where we perused in silence for over an hour. It started to rain. I had my eye on some moccasins. It started to rain. Lola sat in a corner, skimming through Black Elk Speaks. It started to rain. The friend from Long Island was trying to find some knickknacks to purchase for her two children at home alone with her momentarily estranged husband [they were going through some things].

It started to rain.

And the cashier behind the counter announced that for anyone driving back up the pass they should leave because it was expected to snow. When we asked about those traveling back to Laramie, the cashier looked at our out-of-town faces and said: You didn't hear? Laramie is expecting a blizzard. You guys need to get out of here.

We were in the Volvo on US Hwy 287 within ten minutes.

As I drove, Lola was certain all would be fine. It was only raining. I explained that rain turns to snow in the mountains and I that I've never driven through snow in the mountains during a could-be blizzard. She said this: Toughen up, don't get soft on me.

We drove. It rained. And then... it started snowing. And snowing. And getting windy. And snowing harder and harder and windier and windier until I could not see out the front windshield. We were driving through a blizzard on October 3.

Needless to say, I was scared out of my wits. The snow started to blow horizontally which was causing my vision to be challenged. Not to mention I had to pull the car over a few times to wipe the snow off the windshield [the wipers were also of no use]. The danger of that was you couldn't see anything out on that highway, so any minute a truck or a car could have bulldozed right into us. The danger of that was it was extremely cold. The danger of that was I could have rung Lola's neck, period.

After pounds of snow, after literally being run off the road by a Mac Truck, we finally made it back to Laramie. It took two hours. And even though Laramie had "been spared" [there was six inches of snow instead of the expected two feet, we were at our wit's end. And classic Lola said something quite classic. "We should have stayed in Fort Collins. But next time we travel Keith, I need you to check the weather forecast. You need to cover all bases."

Until next time,

Keith

2006-04-26T15:01:00.000-07:00

I found an apartment. Brooklyn. Clinton Hill/Fort Greene area. Nice. The garden apartment of an amazing brownstone. And check this out: it has a working fireplace!

2006-04-26T03:24:00.000-07:00

The Wyoming Chronicles Continue.
[See YESTERDAY'S POST]

One morning Lola woke up and said her friend aka numerologist aka attorney called and told her to look out for danger at her front door. So interesting enough during breakfast a bizarre man was walking down the street, picking up garbage cans and throwing them. He walked by our house but since there was no garbage cans in view he kept walking. Lola saw this as the "danger at her front door". Within minutes she had gulped her last bit of eggs, swallowed some OJ and announced she was riding down to Denver [she had no intentions to be ambushed by that garbage-throwing racist neo-Nazi. Her words, not mine]. In other words, she left me there to battle the danger of my own. And if I had checked my assistant handbook I would have noted that on page 44C it reads clearly: During neo-Nazi racists garbage attacks, assistants must be willing to be hung, whipped or left to flush the toilet. [Homegirl left in such a hurry she forgot to flush her shit. Literally.]

So there I was. All alone in Laramie, Wyoming while Lola was living it up in the City of Denver. Which was fine. Time away from Lola was beyond a much-needed luxury. In that week alone, she had accused me of drinking her buttermilk, misplacing the galleys from her editor, and of screwing up an important interview with Essence [they called 30 minutes earlier than scheduled and Lola-girl was in one of her "I'm not going to answer you Keith when you call my name because I told you 9am thru 10am was Lola-time" moods].

Luckily, a few hours after Lola left for Denver, a student I met on campus called and I was able to blow off some steam. The student was African-American, female, and a Cheyenne, Wyoming native. She also called while I was cooking some buttermilk catfish [Lola was off the bean in many a way, but she could hook up this fried catfish that was battered in buttermilk and that would resurrect your grandmomma's favorite uncle Earl].

So... as the oil was heating up on the burner and I was complaining to the Cheyenne-native how "Lola woke me up at 7am to take out the trash... " smoke started to spill into the living room from the kitchen. I told my girl to hold on for a sec. I ran into the kitchen, the pan of oil was SMOKING bad. And numbskull Keith the Assistant throws water into the oil and YES, that was crazy, and YES, a fire jumped out of that pan, up and across the ceiling, and by the time [cause I was running], by the time I got to the kitchen door to escape and swung the door open, that cold air hit that fire and out it went. Just like that. Talk about scared. Talk about your 25 years on earth flashing in front of you, talk about the mystery of saving grace. Man! I was one scared and fluttered brother.

After I looked around and made sure I wasn't dead, I could hear the faint scream of somebody on the phone, screaming my name over and over. The Cheyenne-native was at her wit's end. She said all she could hear was the sudden roar of fire and one big scream. I assured her that she heard right: there was a fire and that was me screaming.

The fire didn't seem to burn anything. But it did leave a smoky-smell and a kitchen ceiling singed in black. I got to scrubbing. I opened every window and door in the house. And I got to scrubbing. I burned incense and sprayed Lysol. And I got to scrubbing. And after three hours of scrubbing, freezing from the cold blowing thru the windows, more scrubbing and boiling a pot of water spiked with cinnamon [cinnamon will cut thru any order], I sat down and waited for Lola to come home.
There was still a thin diluted presence of black on the walls and the house still reeked of burned oil and smoke, but there was nothing more I could do, but wait for Lola to come home and evoke my assistant license.

She finally arrived. With bags of goodies [for herself]. And, of course, she wasn't speaking. Well, until she walked into the kitchen and asked it I had been cooking. I said Yes, but that I burned her famous catfish. She grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, walked to her room, closed the door and locked it.

I thought later that maybe her numerologist slash friend slash attorney was right. Danger did arrive at her front door. It was called a oil fire in the kitchen. And her self-indulgent ass was too self-indulged to notice.

Lucky me.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-04-25T07:46:00.000-07:00

I'm still in NYC. And after several days looking for an apartment, hanging out with my people, seeing a Broadway play featuring a friend and amazing-actress Saidah Ekulona and an interesting film that blasted one of my favorite music groups, Blonde Redhead, at the ending credits, I'm fitting in some time to blog.

On Sunday evening I was having steamed soy with Amaretto flavor with my boy Said. We were nestled tight at this outdoor cafe called Cafe Orlin on 2nd Avenue and 9th Streets. I don't know how I began talking about this. I'm not sure if it was Said's recounting of how his 15 year old nephew asked his father "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't smoke marijuana." His father, Said's brother, replied, "You're not gonna get any out of me." Or maybe when I ordered my steamed soy with Amaretto flavor, the waitress brought me steamed soy with real Amaretto and I got a bit tipsy... whatever is was, I told Said about my experience with Lola.

Lola Tilson was a novelist and a woman and 43 years old when I was around 25. Lola was invited to the University of Wyoming in Laramie as a writer-in-residence for one full semester, to sort of fill in the void that Terry McMillan left after spending a few years there. No, I never met Terry, but her reputation preceded her from the halls of the English Department to the night clubs of Denver [75 miles south]. And when I say reputation, I don't mean she was restructuring a latent-racist English Department so its students are fed not only the likes of Faulkner and Joyce but also Rudulfo Anaya, Henry Dumas, and of course Lola Tilson.

Lola Tilson wasn't actually her REAL NAME. I'm withholding that. A brother's got to protect himself.

Lola and I's connection happened after a semester in her creative writing class at San Francisco State University. Lola took a liking to my uncombed hair and crystal-rubbed underarms, [and my young maleness] and invited me to the University of Wyoming as her assistant with a promise of graduate status in the English Department. I accepted. [A young brother was all about adventure.]

Lola was an artist. An eccentric artist. Being an artist, too, I tend to be eccentric-friendly. Although I'm not a believer in artist equals Crazy. In other words, the cutting off of ears, and temper tantrums when your water ain't room temp is not how I roll.

Lola was demanding. Not only did I buy the groceries, gas her Volvo, do research for her new novel, co-teach a Literature course [which meant I was teaching it. She never showed for class], I also answered the phone, booked interviews, checked her numerology chart, scouted for possible Nazi racist in the Wyoming landscape [and for Black cowboys], and occasionally would read her daily erotica [that was her way of trying to mack].

But it was her Short Story Writing course where the shit hit the fan.

Toward the end of the semester, all eleven students [including me] were to hand over their short stories for assessment. Lola graded each and every one, thoroughly [she had a gift for creative assessment]. After she completed my assessment, she called me into her office [which she always kept locked, with a stone set behind the door, in case a stranger, LIKE ME, would get the impulse to go in there and steal her newest novel and make it my own. NOT!]

Anyway, Lola showed me my story which earned an A+ with red comments of praise everywhere. Her instructions were clear: since you're gonna make copies of each story so we can discuss them in class, I don't want the other students to see that I've given you such high marks so I need you to go through your story and white out 80 percent of my comments and give yourself an A-, then make copies, that way the other students won't think I'm given you favoritism.

And like a good assistant, I did it.

Then it happened: while I was handing out my story for the class to read and discuss a student noticed that some comments were whited out AND that "somebody" had erased my plus from my "A" and inserted a minus. I was busted. Lola never looked up from the desk. And when a few other students joined in and started expressing the "oddness" of the white outs, Lola walked out of the room, leaving me to discuss my story alone.

After the other students were dispersed, I found Lola sitting in her Volvo. I opened the passenger door. We drove five minutes in silence and THEN she spoke: "You deliberately made me look bad in front of my students! I told you to be careful with the white out. Now I could lose my job at this white motherfuckin school! Why would you do that, Keith?! I've been tolerating you for a while now. You're incompetent and negligent. Get out. " [Trust me, I was apologizing and defending throughout her tirade] "Get out of my car." Now I explained we were 10 minutes away from the house and that it was FIVE BELOW ZERO, but she didn't care. My instructions were clear: Get out of my Volvo!

I got out. And froze my ass off.

By the time I arrived home, Lola had vacated and left a note that she was driving to Denver for some time alone. And if any of the students called and inquired about her sudden exit from class earlier, tell them she was feeling nauseous.

The following morning she returned and didn't speak to me for THREE days.

I seldom think about that incident in Wyoming. I usually reminisce about the Rocky Mountains and the Aspens and the trip to Boulder, Colorado to hear Ivan Van Sertima speak. But Lola... I seldom think of.

I guess I'll have to continue my Wyoming Chronicles.

Let's see, maybe the one where I set the kitchen on fire... or no, the one where we got caught in a killer blizzard.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-04-20T04:57:00.000-07:00

I'm up early. Doing some last minute washing, cleaning and writing before my flight to NYC at 8 am. It's been a good minute since I've posted. And here's my reasoning: I have two major writing deadlines I'm trying to manage and trust me that requires plenty of focus and creative flow. And I've been a little bit preoccupied about escaping the sunny lethargy of southern Cali and returning home to the hodge-podge excitement of the homogenizing NYC.

Good news updates: my short film Invisible Scream will screen at the Reel Black Film Festival at Stanford University next month, and my play Wilberforce will be presented by Ploughshares Theater Company of Detroit at the Michigan New Works Festival in June. If you're in either or place, check me [or them] out.

Safe travels.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-04-13T23:56:00.000-07:00

I was just preparing to go to bed and there was a news update about a major tornado ripping through Iowa City, Iowa, home to my alma mater, the University of Iowa. I have a few GREAT friends in Iowa City and eastern Iowa. Please send them your well-wishes and positive vibes and thoughts of endurance. Tornadoes are no joke. And as you can see the past few years twisters have been getting stronger and more numerous. And if anyone doubts that global warming is not at work on our planet... I have this to say: Get real!

I'll keep you posted.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-04-11T07:02:00.000-07:00

Last week I was sitting in my favorite NYC restaurant, Quantum Leap. A sanctuary of clean, organic and unbelievably tasty vegetarain food [and salmon] nestled in the heart of the Village, right smack dab next to the New York University. Now the thing about Quantum Leap is that it's mainly patronized by make-up free, leather-free, perfume-free, Village Voice-reading youngins with a leaning toward regularity and a complete disgust for red meats [dead or alive].

Enter: An obese woman doned in make up and what smelled undeniably like Macy's top of the line perfume [and I'm pretty sure NOT cruelty-free]. And when I say "obese", I mean it was very difficult for her to squeeze through the front door.
And she let everyone in the restaurant know with loud yelps of discomfort and struggle.

And of course the waiter seated her next to me. My mouth full of mixed-berry tofu pie and loving every morsel, but Miss Macy's saw my savoring and actually gave me the most disgusted, nauseated look I've ever seen in my natural born life. The way she looked at me I thought I had made a mistake and was actually gnawing on the head of a rat.

Well, she was finally seated, and it literally took two minutes to sit her butt down. Not because of her weight, but because she literally looked around her seat for... roaches, crumbs, another person, something. Whatever it was she was not going to relax until she found it. And she did. And I still have no idea what it was.

But I do know she needed assitance from the Waiter to order. Not only had she never been to a "place like this", but she was in a hurry and needed something on a plate and her face within ten minutes [her words, not mine]. The waiter suggested the Macro Platter [a vareity of tasty steamed... before the waiter could finish his pitch, she yelled out for all to hear: Oh, please, that sounds DISGUSTING!] I looked at her, the waiter looked at me and I then looked at the waiter and we both found ourselves being LOOKED at by HER. Her response: "Are you two going to give goo-goo eyes all day or you going to bring me this grilled salmon in peanut sauce, heavy on the peanut sauce."

After a moment of reveling in my own self-ordained pompous good eater versus bad eater crap, I thought: Wow. Where did this woman come from? With her perfume and make up and frustrations. I thought: maybe she stumbled upon this place during her lunch hour because there was not enough to time to make it uptown to her favorite Italian eatery, or maybe during a dinner with friends the week before a friend suggested this place to help curve her hyper-tension issues, or maybe her physician told her she better 86 the meats and potatoes or she literally may not live until Easter. Whatever the reason, she pulled out the latest John Grisham novel and waited for her grilled salmon, daring anyone to look her way, daring anyone to make her feel unwelcomed. So I smiled, and of course she DID NOT smile back.

Exit: A brother like me gathering my things to vacate this newly uncomfortable environment. But during my escape, the obese woman looked at me, her face smothered in "Why is he leaving? Was it something I did?" I love a contradicted woman.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I'm often fascinated by the torrid journey one must take toward over well-being. There's nothing easy about choosing life. And this woman was a classic example. I only wish I had the stamina to endure the torridness of each and every journey, but life is short and a brother got his own life to choose. So good luck and good eating!
I just hope next time she doesn't feel the need to share her stress all over my mixed-berry tofu pie.

Until next time,

Keith

2006-04-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

I'm finally back from NYC. And I must say, I was dreading the return to the land of perpetual sun and endorphines.
The decision has been made: I'm moving back to NYC in the next eight weeks. No joke. Oh, and I'm moving to Brooklyn.
Yes it snowed and rained and the wind blew and it was cold and also warm and the black population is vanishing in Manhattan. [I would walk for BLOCKS and see NOT ONE face engineered with the seeds of the African diaspora]. And yes, that disturbs me and concerns me and saddens me. And the city has become a lot more polished and corporate, but as long as I'm nestled deep in Brooklyn, embraced by its weak yet steady diversity and its cultural and artistic energy I will be fine and inspired and ready for war, whatever this globe deems necessary for me to fight for my right to be ALIVE and participate in this thing called LIVING. But it is in NYC where I NEED to be. WANT to be. WILL BE.