AfricanKelli

What I’m listening to at my desk… while plotting away:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPublishedPlaylist?id=224354

What I wish I was able to enter, but I don’t have any short fiction published:

www.bellwetherprize.org

~Africankelli

Past the sprawling taupe housing developments in
Peoria and Avondale, beyond the Palo Verde Nuclear Power Plant – with its ominous gray steam cloud hanging overhead — on the other side of Tonopah but not quite to Blythe, sits Quartzsite, Arizona. In the summer, this tiny highway town is nothing more than two gas stations and a Dairy Queen. The desert is brown and rolling and the mountains in the distance are a cliché purple. An elusive oasis gathers a few miles ahead on the dark, hot asphalt.

In the winter, say the last weekend of January, Quartzsite is the third largest city in Arizona. Its population increases by nearly 100,000 as the white RVs bear down on the barren desert floor. Little people with white hair and white skin and white socks and white shoes emerge. They park. They camp. They fly kites, put out lawn furniture and set up home for the next few months until the snow melts wherever their permanent home awaits.

Driving down I10 this weekend, I came over a slight ridge and looked down on to a sea of recreational vehicles. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. It reminded me of refugee camps, the way they were huddled together in odd patterns — far too close for comfort. There were seniors hang gliding over the campers and others advertising for Sunday church services in their area. I couldn’t resist the urge to stop and ask what was happening.

Had I come upon a pre-Coachella fest? Was there a concert in town? Had Burning Man changed their fall schedule?

“No, them snowbirds,” the toothy teenage boy behind the Circle K counter told me. “You shuld see this place in summer. Ain’t no one ‘ere.”

Huh. This is what they mean by the migration patterns of snowbirds. I didn’t know they drove and camped. I thought they all lived in Leisure World of Mesa. Guess not.

In The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck is describing the migration of Okies across the west toward California. It made me think about this road in the 1930s.

“The cars of the migrant people crawled out of the side roads onto the great cross-country highway, and then took the migrant way to the West. In the daylight they scuttled like bugs to the westward; and as the dark caught them, they clustered like bugs near to shelter and to water. And because they were lonely and perplexed, because they had all come from a place of sadness and worry and defeat, and because they were all going to a new mysterious place, they huddled together’ they talked together’ they shared their lives, their food, and the things they hoped for in the new country. Thus I might be that one family camped near a spring, and another camped for the spring and for company, and a third because two families had pioneered the place and found it good. And when the sun went down, perhaps twenty families and twenty cars were there.”

~AK

Treading on Fug Waters…

I am not attempting to take anything away from the geniuses known as Heather and Jessica, but Oh. My. Lord. Stylists everywhere are shrieking over the choices made for the recent premiere of “The Wedding Date.”

Debra Messing is either:

1.      Pregnant again

2.      Blind

3.      A flamenco dancer in her free time

4.      Or, all of the above. 
 

And when your new husband has been recently arrested for beating your ass, you should perhaps provide him with a comb before going out in public together. What is going on with Josh Brolin’s hair? And what happened to beautiful
Diane Lane? She looks tired.

~Ak

Meet two trains of thought:

The Wants — overly friendly, designer-loving, rush inducing (devil)

and The Needs — practical, thrifty and budget conscious. (angel)

Devil: Buy new clothes! Treat yourself to Nordies! 

Angel: You just paid off your credit card. Focus, Kelli. I SAID FOCUS!

The Wants and the Needs are in major debate today. I’ve gone two weeks without shopping (pathetic, I realize) and I am hurting for a few new spring tops. And of course, new shoes. And a new handbag to match the shoes. Yes, the ridiculousness continues.

I have my eye on these:

1. On sale!
2. So, so cute with a teal T-shirt and jeans for the golf course
3. Simply lovely in every way.
4. I’ll take the model’s beautiful hair while I’m at it.
5. And seriously, such a deal.

I’ll stop there. I think the Wants are taking over my brain and I haven’t even shown you this yet!

~Africankelli 

In an attempt to meet my 2005 resolutions, I’ve been making weekly “goals to accomplish” lists. I write it at work Monday, take it home and tape it to my bathroom mirror and scratch items off as I go.

It is Wednesday, at the week’s list included 20 items. Here’s what’s left:

·        Set up interviews for health articles:

         Laser technologies in dermatology;

         Alcohol: the pros and cons of use

·        Write 10 new pages of “the book”

·        Eat fruit/vegetable with every meal

·        Read 100 pages of The Grapes of Wrath

·        Write copy for state health job

·        Make revised story budget for freelance writing job

·        Bake cookies, buy wine and pack for La Quinta

·        Send Andy and Jess a “congrats on the new house” card.

Woo hoo! I already have the other 11 tasks done. Yay!

~Africankelli

   P.S. If you want to be interviewed for those articles, let me know. They are doozies.         

I read The Random Muse this morning with green envy. She has an agent. Why don’t I have an agent? I’ve been told countless times that comparing yourself to others will get you no where. Well, how wrong they are! It got me here — in a state of sheer, agonizing jealousy! (So take that. So much for your “enlightenment” now, eh?)

I’ve been stalled on “the book” for a bit. It seems that other fun projects find their way into my free-time slots and eat up every second by providing sheer enjoyment and utter distraction from 2005 goal #1: finish “the book.”

I joined a writing group and attended the first meeting. I’ve declined for the second. Part of me sincerely wants input on the book and the other part wants everyone to leave me alone — no really, way far away alone — so I can concentrate and get some of these characters out of my head and into my laptop. Another part of me doesn’t want to spend the time reviewing other’s work when I should be focusing on the development of my own.  

And then I thought, well, why not post the first chapter on the website and see what your readers think? It isn’t a terrible idea, but it isn’t the next step toward finishing this giant and finding my very own agent. Plus, the nastier side of my ego is a touch concerned that perhaps the first chapter would be stolen if I place it online. Could you imagine the horror of standing in a local bookstore, reading the first few pages of many new paperbacks and finding your own words published by someone else? That vision is unrealistic in so many ways, but let me consider it for the moment.

So, here is my decision. If you’d like to read my first chapter and people describe you as kind, pleasant and thoughtful, in lieu of harsh, forward, brash and negative, shoot me a line: africankelli@gmail.com Otherwise, I’ll be here, plugging away toward the day when I announce on my very own site that – Ha! Ha! – I have an agent. (Suckers.)

~Africankelli

Two years ago, when the stars aligned, the salt-rimmed margarita glasses clinked and the hip-swaying 90 pop music blared, I met Rob. He was more drunk than I have yet to see him today. He was out with a gaggle of his friends to celebrate the Phoenix Open when they converged on a nearby bar to drink Kettle One and tonics and, why of course, pick up babes.

My gaggle of friends was out celebrating a girlfriend’s birthday. (Happy 26^th Birthday, Kace!) A girl from our group knew a guy from theirs. The two combined and after going back to his place and singing around a campfire for three hours, we exchanged phone numbers. (Thank you, Carl, our cupid, for insisting we do so.) That sounds way more Brady Bunch than it was, but it is indeed what happened. There was another set of girls we didn’t know who also ended up by the fire. They stayed and are still talked about. Thankfully, we left.

I will always remember that evening as the night Tony decided to pull out his acoustic guitar and Rob grabbed bongos. (Bongos?) They were carefully butchering DMB, and we didn’t mind until Tony decided to sing. The nickname “Tone-Deaf Tony” was born. Nonetheless, it was a lot of fun. So fun, in fact, that we returned the next night to a different bar, found the same group and ended up around the same campfire until
3 a.m. again.

I remind Rob regularly of that second night; he spent the majority of the evening scamming my friends for my information. He acted ridiculously, and I loved every second of it. I, in turn, tried to make friends with his very rambunctious, very promiscuous group of boys who were salivating at anything in heels. (It took a year until I could see they were more than this. They are actually a pretty nice group of guys.)

A year of Rob living and Europe and me planted in Phoenix passed. At times, it was miserable. At other times, we were lying on the beach in the Bahamas making each other laugh to tears. We’ve maneuvered a smart car with the steering wheel on the right through the back farm roads of Ireland, while carefully sipping Red Bull. We’ve fought messily in public and private. We’ve made out in public and private. It’s been a happy, while bumpy road.

But God, I love this man. He’s taught me countless lessons and makes me strive to be a better person daily. I am my happiest when we are together.

Happy Anniversary, Honey. I love you.

~Africankelli

It is Sunday morning and I’m sipping a Diet Coke and contemplating a bath before I head out to my local bakery for a bagel and of course, another Diet Coke. I’m still a bit sleepy and I’m groggy, but I am thankful to not be hung-over as many of my girlfriends must be this morning. We had lots of fun partying last night — you should see the remnant white wine bottles in my recycling bin. I hope everyone made it home safely from the bar. I was in bed, sound asleep by midnight. How else could I get nine hours of sleep and still be productive today? Come on, People! There are bagels to be eaten! I have things to do.

My favorite Sunday morning tradition is to eat way too many complex carbohydrates (see above) and read The New York Times. I love the fashion pages, the wedding section and most of all, The Magazine. The writing is sharp and it gives me a more metropolitan view of what is happening in our country. Fashion in
Phoenix? PUH-LEEEZ.

This morning, I read the details of “The Donald’s” nuptials. I heard yesterday that they spent $43,000 on filet mignon. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall. But even through the 90 yards of silk, the towering bouquets and the swath of children from previous marriages, I cannot be wooed to think that this isn’t a sign of immanent financial danger.

I am not a pessimist, but I always have had the nagging feeling that Americans should really, really appreciate the lives we live. Something tells me that it may not always be this way. Perhaps that something is my grandmother who lived through the brutal depression and can still tell terrifying stories of the meals, the poverty and the suffering she witnessed. The woman still saves every plastic container (think margarine) just in case. (You know, in case the economy falls to pieces and Tupperware may save our family.)

I think Donald Trump is in many ways like the publisher in “The Fountain Head.” He is not Howard Roark. He is not honorable. He is not trustworthy. He is rich.

And just when you think your world can’t come crashing down and your security blanket is keeping you tucked in tightly, things change.

There shouldn’t be world where $5 million is coolly spent on a wedding – a wedding in which the groom is marrying a woman 22 years his junior – a groom who is marrying for the third time – a wedding that is celebrated. This shouldn’t occur in the same world where people still starve. Less than a thousand miles from Mar-A-Lago, Haitians grind through daily life in abject poverty. It doesn’t make sense.  It makes me think were headed for the reality check our grandchildren will blog about.

~Africankelli

Good luck today, Rob!

“President Bush pledged to seek ‘freedom in all the world’ as the surest path to peace in an era of terrorism across the globe.”

     -NY Times