“Suffer fools gladly.”

 

I’ve stopped giving myself the allowance of a thick skin regarding certain traits and behavior. I will and do believe there is a business for my art and whatever that capacity turns out to be, that is the one that will work.

I have picked my lane, it’s the one I drive down now. The pieces are falling together, I am not looking to hustle a deal to make a movie or a documentary. Would I love to? Yes, absolutely but that is not my driving force. My driving force is to develop an under appreciated skill that for the most part is newly discovered  to me and run with it.

 

I’m excited to see where this natural organic talent takes me. I get to practice theatre and TV, both behind the scenes and on center stage. I love each one very much but they are so individual like your own children.

 

The core is writing, it all steams and starts from that, the rest follows. I am much less tolerant, which for me is a tremendously positive step in the right direction towards my inner evolution. It was this ridiculous tolerance I had to, “suffer fools gladly,” that stalled my natural growth. I was not aware of my disposition towards this behavior for most of my life thus far. Even though I have heard the cliché many times and knew what it softly meant. Now there is an emphatic feeling that crashes over me when faced by fools with every discomfort you can imagine. It’s as if I am being pulled under by a nautical force. I find I’m panicked, struggling with all the effort of knowing it’s probably my last. Only to rise above out of my buoyant coffin and gasp for life. It’s unlikely I will want to relive that experience anytime soon.

 

So finally I can truly know and say, I will no longer, “suffer fools gladly.”

 

-Amber Keys

 

 

Judy Keys

An Artist Unsung

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4_-69Rz-cg

Pastry Nation

 

 

Pastry Nation

 

I don’t know why I’m surprised, each day that I hear someone say;

“I’m sorry I forgot that day.”

As if that day just disappeared.

“Look there goes Tuesday; it just leaped off the calendar,

 Like some crazy salamander.”

I guess we don’t have to keep our appointments today.

 

Did you hear? Tuesday has disappeared.

 

We can just sit around in our dressing gown,

Eat cereal,

Watch cartoons

 And

 Drink beer.

 

“Welcome to flaky town USA.”

 

Why is it alright, to say, “Okay, you can count on me tonight?”

Or

“I’ll be there, that day.”

When all along, you have no intention, no inclination of ever showing up.

Not even the aspiration of conjuring up some story to say.

No, it’s expected; Almost elected.

 

As if we voted these flakes into office one day.

Well I didn’t vote. Where is my say?

Welcome to flaky town, USA.

I know I don’t sound like a local to this town.

But I am a native, I just went away.

When I came back, something went off track,

  I could feel something off that day.

The more I looked around,

I saw and heard my town,

 Being run down,

More and more each day.

 

 Is it because of the flakes and their flaky pastry behavior out here?

Where did they come from? Who let them in?

 

Make sure we close the door,

Don’t let in anymore.

Get some vegetables in around here.

 

 What happened out here? Will it happen to me?

Or

Is it just being aware of your inoculation?

From becoming Mayor,

Of a pastry nation

Called
Flaky Town USA.

 

Well I’m not giving up.

I like pastry just as much as the next lot. But who wants a pie with nothing inside?

It just seems a waist of everyone’s time. Especially mine.

If all those with sustenance stop accepting this flaky insolence,

Then there will be no mistake.

Don’t take credit from flakes.

 

There is nothing wrong with a flaky pastry from time to time.

 But you have to admit. Whenever a pie is eaten, even if it’s all gone, it’s always the Meat that goes first.

You don’t care about the flakes left behind on your plate.

 You know why?

Because flakes can be jerks!

Recipe to Stone Soup Show

What’s in Stone Soup Show?

January 9, 2014 by Amber Keys

This article by Peter McAlevey, written nearly four years ago on January 5^th, 2010, while an exciting read; is somewhat inaccurate. The Laurel Canyon mansion Mr. McAlevey alludes to was rented by George Harrison not Paul McCartney (wrong Beatle). Also, it was originally rented for the purpose to help that “stunningly beautiful ex-model” Judy Keys (Debin-Keys not Deben-Keys as written in his article) and her three-year-old daughter, Amber Keys.

George had respectful thoughts towards the better part of the Keys family at the time. Amber’s father, Bobby Keys, was still in a post-coital heroin fog (aka the late 60s/early 70s form of la petite mort) with Bianca Jagger’s best friend, French model/actress Nathalie Delon; the estranged wife of French movie star Alain Delon, aka the French Brad Pitt of the 60s.

Morality and family aside (like those two aspects of life ever got in the way of a good rock moment) even Bobby’s best friend Keith Richards didn’t think it was such a hot idea at the time considering the very real danger surrounding his buddy’s new infatuation.

Read the last part of that sentence again. KEITH RICHARDS pondering whether or not something…ANYTHING…is a good idea is akin to Idi Amin stroking his chin reflectively with one hand while patting his chest with the other wondering “Maybe I should lighten up a little.”

Judy and Amber returned from New York with George & Pattie Harrison back to Ascot, England. There they sought refuge in the family cottage which Bobby had originally rented from John and Yoko Lennon.

George and his new female protégé Judy performed one of several songs they practiced and worked on at the Ascot cottage. Originally written by Judy Keys, the song George chose to debut was called, “I May Look Like a Lady.” The venue chosen to perform it at for the first time you ask? Just the afterparty for that little event known as The Concert for Bangladesh.

Keith Moon gave Judy a standing ovation after it was over. Keith might have also thought Judy was a bottle of Jack Daniels before he smashed up Mike Gibbins’ drum kit later that night/morning. Keith did have a propensity for drums spontaneously combusting.

Amber Keys, the owner to the copyrights and original recordings of Judy & George’s entire catalog of songs, has been keeping busy for the last two years.

Following her mother’s shadowy death in December 2011, Amber has been preserving a library’s worth of hysterical, tragic and outrageously entertaining stories from the rock icons of the 60s and 70s. Some of the stories come from artists who are no longer with us but are preserved on digital recordings discovered by Amber.

Amber Keys has created an episodic Reality Rocudrama©documentary series called “Surviving the Artists.” Produced by her company, “Stone Soup Show,” Amber is armed with only a laptop, a digital handheld HD Sony camera, her late mother’s Mustang and a ferocious spirit as she reconnects with her long lost rock ‘n’ roll family.

You know, just another big-budget production with an army of one behind it. Well into the fourth episode of the series, Amber’s hope is to open lines of communication for artists worldwide as well as to revive these lost and unearthed treasures in order to preserve some of the most historical moments in music history.

Her first point of interest is the man who helped establish, along with a few others, the “Mad” in “Mad Dogs & Englishmen,” longtime “Rolling Stones” sax player and intermittent father Bobby Keys. It would turn out to be the hardest interview so far in the process. This is just one of many reputable and infamous names that Amber has interviewed in her journey to date.

However you perceive or sneer at the unlikely ingredients, they work symmetrically to form an intoxicating platform for the treasure trove of vintage films, audio recordings and long-lost interviews.

Many stories, like the one Mr. Mc Alevey talks about with slight inaccuracies, will all be elaborated on with precise details, audio testimonials and cataloged events.

 

 

SKY

DOUBLE CLICK ON PICTURE TO READ POEM

SKY

A poem inspired by my mum Judy Keys and dedicated to my Godmother Rita Coolidge.

I wrote Sky on December 18th 2013. I just talked to my father for his birthday. I had hoped for a more loving conversation. The one person in the planet I could talk to about my father was  no longer on the planet.

Uncertain, nervous and distraught. I found myself racing through the valley in what was once my mother’s mustang. I was stopped by a traffic light when I was forced to look up at the sky. In what felt like an overwhelming moment of loneliness, my vision was suddenly engulfed by colors of transcending blues.

This is my first poem,

I hope you enjoy it.

Amber

Written December 18th 2013
SKY
The fickle blue sky seems larger today with its pillowing white.

The sky seems larger today with its fickle blue,

Transcending from dark to light.

It seems larger today, all dressed up in its soft blanket of white. I see the majestic pillowing as it dances and skips through the sky.

 I see you, my fickle blue, transcending from deep dark to powder light.

The sky seems larger today as I stare up, peering through.

I’m trying to get a glimpse, maybe I’ll see her, maybe she’s there.

If it’s true.

The sky seems larger today with so many different blues.

 It’s a little overwhelming to me.

Maybe,

If I reach my arms up as high as I might.

I’ll struggle and stretch, I’ll never give up.

I’ll keep reaching, higher and higher.

Perhaps I’ll feel a tug.

Why can’t I see her? Where did she go?

This fickle blue sky with its selfish curtain of white.

It’s making it so hard. I can’t see her. It’s too bright.

This is NOT fair, NO, this is not right!

Is she up there, can see me?

If I took a plane, flew over the mountains, beyond the light and far above the blue.

Would she be waiting? Could that be true?

If only I could see her, make sure she’s alright.

Let her know what had happened and why

I had to travel beyond the light.

I would hold her and hug her, I would talk of my flight.

I would tell her all that has happened and all that might.

I would never want to leave her.

But she would say no and we would

fight……

I would beg and plead,

“Please don’t make me go.”

But in my heart I would know.

She would win, I would lose.

She would say,

 “Don’t be sad, I’m always with you,
please don’t miss your flight.”

With my head hung low, I would acknowledge of course.
Of course, she is right.
She would lift my long face up with both her hands and say,
“I love you my darling, it really is okay.”

I would pretend to smile and slowly get back on my flight.
At least I would have seen her, said goodbye, kissed her goodnight.
Then I would be okay
and everything would be all right.

That would be all I would need.
I could heal with just that one night.

I would be fine to travel back.
Through the deep blue.

 Far away beyond the light.
Eventually landing beneath the blanket of white.

I see you,
my fickle blue,
transcending from deep dark to powder light.

You seem,

 Smaller to me today.

You can’t fool me, all dressed up in your soft elegant blanket of pillowing white.

I’ll keep watching.

I’ll be fine.

I’ll wait patiently.

Until,
my flight time…

Inspired by my mum Judy and dedicated to my Godmother Rita.