Poem: Ode to the New Year

Ode to the New Year

Here’s to the sound of popping bottles

And loud intoxication.

Here’s to kisses and laughter

And tears and wailing.

Here’s a toast to all that can be hoped,

And to naïve blindness.

Here’s to the fathers and mothers

Whose prayers a stork might answer.

Here’s to the unlovable,

May your heart be nurtured.

Here’s to the sinner,

A clean slate to flout.

Here’s to the hops and barley

And all the other good things.

Here’s to you and me,

May we be more than we are slated to become.

"SAKABAKA"

New Poem: Grateful Profession

I wrote this poem a few days ago and it's dedicated to my former co-workers at the International Community School in Decatur, Georgia. I had lots of fun there and I miss it greatly. Here's to those brave souls that give so much of themselves so the future is a little brighter for some child.

 Grateful Profession

Sing a hmyn to joy,
Let its course weave through
Lips as airy an autumn breath.
Hail the brave
And their work
As shining souls skimp, elated
Through halls devoid of character
but filled with grateful shrills.
Leave the hive
and prepare honey
for them that seek the journey forward
with hopes of setting hearts free
in a world criminally discriminant.
My hat I tip
For unabashed love
of years of nurture bearing meager wealth
but great personal reward
to them that make children laugh in life.


This is the first draft, I will edit it and figure out what to do with it later, but I wanted to include it here for reasons listed above. The title "Grateful Profession" does not match, but that's all I can come up with at the moment.
Enjoy and visit the school website for more info here.

A Poem::: A Reign of Joy

I started Exile Calling in hopes of eliminating posting my work on this site or on Facebook, but I have so much material now that if I keep releasing one poem of mine in the monthly Exile Calling, I would go years before I would run out. The good news, however, is that I'm compiling a list of poems chronicling my journey in exile. So far, I have selected 32 of which I'm very confident and have edited a few time already- at least for most of them.
In the meantime, here's one I came up with and hope you like. It will not make it into this particular compilation, but I will need to edit it a few times before I can think of doing anything with it.

A Reign of Joy

From the wispiest breath

Is born the gayest of laughter

When the brightest light

Of an ebony sky is borne

By a dejected firefly.

A lover’s caress bears

To fruition the skipping of a heart

Tender and longing for a return

On its investment of kind.

The laughter and light;

The breath and the fiery fly;

The lovers and the night: All

Join in harmony as joy

Reigns for a moment in time.

A Christmas Reunion

Usually, there is nothing for me to be excited about at Christmas. I have no kids, wife, or much of an extensive family to gather, celebrate, and get excited about the gifts under the tree. This year, however, Christmas can’t get here fast enough, and that’s because I’m getting the greatest gift anyone could give me: my mom.

My story begins in the former Soviet Union with the meeting, and falling in love, of a Rwandan student and a Russian woman. He was the son of a pastor, she was the daughter of a KGB officer. He believed in God and she did not. However, they both shared a spirit of independence and persistence.

Her father kept her under house arrest for six months to keep them apart, but they still managed to see each other during that time. My father was threatened physically, but my grandparents also saw their careers’ demise in their daughter’s involvement with a foreign, black person from a non-communist country.

My grandfather died a few months after my mother told him of her plans to marry my father, and she was blamed for his death by family, friends, and associates. Her mother told the director of the prison where she worked that she had no daughter, and refused transportation that he had offered to take her to my parents’ wedding.

Five months after I was born, my father’s student visa expired and he elected to go back to his native Rwanda, find a good job, and send for my mother, who still had a year left to finish her studies.

Twenty six years have passed since, and they never saw each other again. My father took me because he didn’t want his son growing up in an overtly racist society. They communicated for a while, but soon their communications were being intercepted. He thought she had left him, and she thought he had found another woman. Her friends, remembering my father, told her he had forgotten her with his drinking and womanizing.

Years passed, war came to Rwanda and I was separated from my father, too. I was eleven years old when I left my father and set off on a flight that has taken me through four African countries and the U.S. I have not seen my father since, but I’ve always hoped to see him again sometime.

A few months ago I received a message through an online social website about a woman looking for her son, and asking if I knew a man by my father’s name from Rwanda and who left the Soviet Union in 1983 with his son. I was dumbfounded. Everything was a haze for the next few days. I had so many questions, and she had so many tears. We tried to talk by phone but she was overwhelmed by emotions. We decided to chat online, instead.

She told me everything from the very beginning. About how they met, how they fell in love, and the hurdles they endured. She told me everything between then and now. About the death of both her brother and mother, and her mother’s prediction, before she passed away in January 2009, that we would meet again soon. My mother stressed her mother’s love for me, and I had no doubts about that.

She had already made plans to come see her friend in Los Angeles, but we agreed she would come to visit me in Upstate New York and her friend in L.A. would come here, too.

Meeting my mother is much more than knowing the story of what happened, however, it is about knowing where I come from and how that is manifested in my behavior. I learned things I had not bothered to find out in the past, such as my blood type and the fact that I’m anemic, which explains my constant tiredness. I learned my mother was as much a nomad as I was, constantly moving from place to place (I have lived in 14 residences, 8 cities, and 4 States in my 10 years in America). I also saw the similarities in the way we sometimes tilted our heads while posing for pictures.

But I also learned that I had a lot in common with my grandfather than I thought I never knew who he was or what he did until a year ago, but my interests were etched in his DNA. She also told me about my Ukrainian, Moldovan, and Polish roots. Facts I couldn’t have known otherwise.

All those years of not knowing and fear of asking seem so far away, their memory slowly fading with time, but they help enhance the feelings currently inundating my heart. Now I know I have a mother who’s always looked for me; who’s always loved me. I believe that’s what Christmas is about- an undying love- and I plan to give my thanks for all this year has brought for me- including my first Christmas with my mom.

A Charlie Brown Christmas

Some of you will remember the purchase of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree and the ensuing idea of creating the house, Snoopy, and Charlie Brown from a pile of styrofoam I had hanging around from all the items we ordered after we moved here. I didn't want to waste the styrofoam and, being an artist, I figured I could do something nice from it. If you don't remember the article, here it is.

The Kernel
I considered this to be the hardest of the three, so I began with it. At first, I wanted to glue different smaller pieces of styrofoam together, but the glue ate away at the styrofoam and didn't bind anything.

However, I figured I could use twigs to bind the two...and it worked.

I went away from putting together a bunch of small pieces of styrofoam and settled on using four larger pieces for walls; two large triangular ones for the roof support, and two large ones for the roof. I cut out the space for the door and put them together using twigs.

I wasn't worried too much by the ragged edges as the bright lights and decorations would take the attention away from that later on.

Next, I actually used tape to hold the pieces closer together as I planned to put the exhibit outside, and it had to weather the wind gusts common to the area.

I drew the lines across and wrote Snoopy at the front. I really didn't intend to keep the lines straight either...the decorations would take away from that.

Here's a video of the finished kernel.

Snoopy

The next in line to be created was Snoopy. I selected a large piece of styrofoam to draw him and then cut him out.











Charlie Brown

I wanted to make him taller than Snoopy, but it wouldn't have worked because I had drawn Snoopy about as high as the styrofoam piece was--which was the same height as the one I drew Charlie Brown on. So, I added an extra piece for his head, and a sm
aller piece for the tip of his cap.

















I put them together with twigs and reinforced them with tape.
The end result of the cutouts were like this.

The final exhibit through my patio window looks like this:

I would like to put them outside, but it's too windy and they are too flimsy...I have to figure out a way to make them stay, then maybe I will put them outside.




It was fun making this project, and I'm glad I got to put to use the styrofoam that would have been otherwise thrown away...I still have a lot left over, but I hope I have minimized the senseless waste of our resources...I hope I can come up with some other project so I don't have to waste these...makes me feel bad.
Merry Christmas, folks, and I wish you the best in the coming year.

A Charlie Brown Christmas::: Update

I talked about creating a Charlie Brown Christmas exhibit for this holiday and now I'm almost done. I really just started a few days ago- true to my procrastinating soul- but I should be done later on today (Sunday evening). Here is the article I wrote before.
Now here are a couple of videos on the update.



The next one is the latest.



I will post finished product later on.
And here is the finished cutouts to show size.

Charlie Brown is about 5'4 and Snoopy is half that or so.

Christmas: Redemption from Exile

I have announced plans to invite other writers in exile to contribute to both the blog and the Exile Calling journal. I will include a poem in the February issue from a mystery writer (he/she will be revealed, of course) and today I'm including a piece from another writer here on the blog.
I hope you enjoy, and thanks for visiting.

YOUR WORTH!

By Edna Nakalungi

“ 'Tis the season…”what happens when you hear those words?
For some it's a reminder that their loved ones' may measure their worth according to the presents they will give them come Christmas
Others are reminded that the year is coming to a close and begin to measure their own worth according to the accomplishments they have achieved during the past year
Yet others deem themselves not worth much as they take note of how they failed to even fulfill their new year's resolutions within weeks of making them
What of those who measure their worth by what others think of them?

If we fall into any of those categories then we are missing the real reason for the season
A little play called "All On A Christmas Day" presented as part of The Living Christmas Tree brought this point home for me
(http://www.livingtree2008.com/drama.html)
In it, we follow the life of a man who, like many of us, strived to leave his mark on this world so that his life would have been one of value
At least that is how he saw it
His desire to do something that would forever leave his name indelibly printed in others' minds as a Hollywood star or a war hero was great
Needless to say he failed miserably at these attempts and was not content settling for being a husband and father;  and hence abandoned his family in pursuit of this elusive dream

Decades later we find that this man is still just "Rufus" and no one is asking for his autograph
The only one who thinks of him as a hero of sorts as he sits helpless suffering the debilitating effects of a stroke is his great grand-daughter
Ironically Rufus was born on Christmas Day
After years of striving to do something with his life that would make him think of himself as someone of worth we in the audience come to the realization that Rufus would have lived a much more fulfilled life if he had realized that to God he was worth everything
It made many of us think like Rufus

This Christmas (and every day), let us all remember that our value lies not in such things but in the fact that we

have a HERO to emulate by our loving service to others, not expecting accolades or our name in lights 

This Christmas (and every day), let us spend time worshipping and praising God for the gift of His only begotten

Son who died so we could live;  who came down so we could rise up;  who became a Servant so we could be called

children of a King.

This Christmas (and every day), let us celebrate the One who was exiled in human flesh so we could be set free

from the bondage of sin

For God loved us that He sent His only begotten Son that all who believe in Him may not perish but have eternal

 life. (John 3:16)

'Tis the season to celebrate the beginning of our redemption story.  Merry and blessed Christmas everyone to you and yours and may you always remember what you and others are truly worth!

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART SLEEPS

I have been asked, even by family, what it is I left in Africa for me to always think about. What could be so overwhelmingly enthralling that I wouldn't focus on getting a good job here in the States and just living a long life of luxury here in exile?
I have given this question more thought than people realize, and I have come to the conclusion that my heart, simply, is not here. I am here physically, but, spiritually, I'm sailing the vast savannah, scaling the beautiful peaks, and flowing with the majestic rivers. My heart's feet beat down on the dirt paths well-etched on the fibers of my mind, pounding on the compressed memories, each one reminding me of a giggle or tear of long ago.
The Africa I knew as a child was a paradise. It was charming but it's belly rumbled with overflowing venin. I can't claim it as the land of my birth, but it raised and nurtured me the way my birthplace would have done had it had the opportunity to. As it was in my personal life with my mother birthing me and not being able to raise me, so it was with the land. Africa, which had given its blood to me through my father, took care of me the best way it could.
It showed me its beauty and its ugliness; its charm and its repulsiveness; its head and tail. It bestowed upon me the ability to see beauty in all its ways. To see order in chaos. I learned to expect reward or chastisement with every action. All this was engraved on the walls of my heart.
Today, should you ask me what I like most about Africa, I wouldn't tell you that it's landscapes, nature, or even people; but rather the idea...its essence. Africa is an Idea that beckons, challenges, and brutalizes should you not be up to the challenge. It requires nothing short of a selflessness and humility that is often touted by foreign religions. It's a feeling that all will be alright even if you are not physically present to see it all well-aligned.
That is the hope that drives many in exile whose hearts, like mine, simply have not left that beautiful landmass. Soon, I hope to visit the land of my mother - the land whose ears felt the feeble first wails of my bewildered soul- but, even that, will not change the love I feel for my mother Africa. Every night, my heart leaves my body and sails on the night breath to the land of my ancestors to sleep and renew for the rigors of the next day.
That is why I say home is where the heart sleeps. Africa is where my heart sleeps. Africa is my home.

Humorous Tombstones

I haven't posted anything for a few days, now, as I have been busy with house cleaning and we had a visitor over the weekend. I rediscovered the joy of playing monopoly, but, unfortunately, I kept getting in financial trouble...much like my personal life. Anyways, I've had an article I wrote about culture, and another one about how special this Christmas is for me, but I was going through my old photographs and editing them with a new software I just downloaded when I saw some pictures of the fake cemetery at Stone Mountain Park in Stone Mountain, Ga.
I found them amusing, so much so that I decided I would share them with you...I will put up the culture one later and the Christmas piece sometime next week.

Jackson's Funeral Parlor

The Epithet reads: Jackson's Funeral Parlor. Open year round for your convenience.
In other words, they will be there when you need them...they couldn't make it any easier for the departed than that.

Georgia Native

They forgot Georgia Lynched!!! jk, I love Georgia.










Lead Hunter

Shouldn't have checked your guns before you went into that saloon, buddy...tough luck!!!








SURPRISE!!!!
Can you find a better example of an ambush???










Unbelievable

Well, you shouldn't have cried wolf all those other times.









Totally Gone

Aptly named.










Name is Everything

Lester's brother...true to his name even in death. You have to give it to their father, an insightful man.









Consequences

I'm tempted to go Tiger Woods on this one, but I will restrain myself...I don't know whether to feel bad for Pa or not...you decide.









Private's

Poor fella...I have a feeling he was prone to peeling potatoes!!!
















Shelled by God

At least you're in a better place!!!










I hope you enjoyed them as much as I did...and if you are able to, visit Stone Mountain Park. I used to go and take my boys when I lived down there, and I will go soon as I visit Atlanta again. The park has a thousand and one things you can enjoy by yourself,or with friends or family.

Identity

It's hard for someone in exile to find a category in which to place himself. Many times, the exile wants to distance himself from his past, its pains, and its baggage, yet is unwilling to fully embrace the present, whether or not it welcomes him or not. Exile is a dubious place to be. No matter how accepted you might be, those open arms can be withdrawn at any time, leaving you friendless in a hostile land. So, for the exile, life, dreams, possibilities, and future are all constantly weighed against the approval, or disapproval, of their new communities as well as their old.
I have found it is even more precarious as a writer. I have to determine who to hawk my writings to. Who do I target? My people? My adopted brothers and sisters? Do I classify my work as Black or White? Does "American Literature" describe it? Do I have to write in my native language in order to be perceived as a Rwandan writer?
I write my stories and the people here say it's too African, while the Africans say it's not African enough. I am told I speak with a foreign accent by both sides. Not American enough, and too American. I try to diffuse the sentiment; to make them understand how it is to be in exile; to see the lens through which I am forced to view life.
So, I write a short story about a teacher- an African teacher- who came to America and focused on his work. He is an exile, haunted by past memories, yet trudging on forward at his task. He is successful and doesn't burden the system that has opened its doors to him. He shares the pains of both lands. He shares their identity. He is born and groomed in Africa, but he achieves his success and dies in America. Well, the story is written through his eyes, so he is not dead yet- but will be soon.
I want the story to appeal to both groups, but it does to none. It might lie in the story itself not having the qualities of a good story that I addressed in an earlier post, but I am wondering if it might not be a detachment of sorts by an audience unable to relate to the protagonist.
That's a poor example, besides the story just came out yesterday and only a handful of people have seen it, let alone commented on it. My poor mother thought it was true and almost had a heart attack - she should have read from the beginning where it clearly stated the subject's age as seventy-three. There have also been many exiles who write stories about it and who have garnered a lot of support, so it's not impossible to accomplish, but it's a lot harder than I previously thought.
I am up to the challenge, though, and I am working hard to project my experiences the way they impacted me. God-willing, I will accomplish that to the enjoyment of many...myself include.

Fanaticism

Growing up, I remember crowding the radio as a soccer match was narrated through its lone speaker. My grandmother would sit in a chair, away from the radio which perched on the mantle above the fireplace, listening and cheering, though not as anxious as I, for her team. I don't recall exactly which team won when, but I figure they broke even over time. I was young but I could have gave my right thumb for my team to win...okay, maybe not my left thumb, but definitely my cherished bagel. What baffles me now, however, is that I liked the team because it was my father's favorite team and, I think, I did it to make him happy. To emulate the man I wanted to please and in whom I wanted to place my loyalties.
What's also interesting is that this kind of ignorant fanaticism spans many areas of life, even turning docile churchgoers into semi fire-breathing dragons (or dragos) at the slight perception of slight against their religious beliefs. My focus is not on religious fanaticism, however, but rather on the literary kind.
I profess, without misgivings, to be afflicted by this impediment. There are authors whose work I can't help but adulate in the most impudent of manners. Writers like Edgar Alan Poe, Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Mark Twain, Chinua Achebe, Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, Dan Fulani and Zane Gray. These are not the only writers whose skill I admire, but I noted these for a reason. They are the ones that nurtured my love to read and write in its infancy.
I first attended school in the English language in Zimbabwe. I was a raw, 11-year old Rwandan refugee in a foreign land doing his best to fit into his new community. Ever since I crossed into Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) and saw a fly, I had come to realize that amahanga (foreign lands) were the same as Rwanda. For some strange reason, I had previously thought garbage and flies were only found in Rwanda, as amahanga was "paradise." What these authors did for me was to bring amahanga into visions of my mind. Visions that I could understand and relate to. I could see poor Oliver Twist enduring chaos with an impressive will to survive; to see Matigari and imagine myself in his situation, trying to bring unity among my people; to see the American West through eyes as adoring as the heart that created that rugged landscape. These authors, as I was learning the new language, taught me the art of storytelling- weaving emotions, disguised as people, through a vast array of situations that, in the end, alter those emotions to a desired mold. I was mesmerized.
It's only fair, however, to point out that there are other authors I read, as I was a voracious reader, and I want to thank them for the path on which they placed my feet. Nearly every English teacher I've had has always encouraged me to write, so I would like to thank them, too. I would love to thank the writers, teachers, family, friends, colleagues, and strangers that have seen a promising flame in my work and goaded me on. I, also, hope one day I will instill a certain sense of fanaticism in a young reader as those before me have done. At least, this type of fanaticism injures no one...I hope.

Sakabaka: What's in a name

Today, the third issue of Exile Calling has been released and, in addition to the other works included in there, there is the announcement that I have chosen "Sakabaka" as my nom de plume. Traditionally, we Rwandans have carried only one name, but the Belgian colonizers forced people to adapt "Christian" or "civilized" first names to be baptized. Our names, however, always had meaning.
My last name, MUTABAZI, was inherited from my father, who received it from his parents for a purpose. The story goes as such: My grandparents' firstborn was a girl, followed by a boy. The third was a girl, and the girls teased the boy and he felt overpowered. When my grandmother was pregnant for the forth time, my uncle (the second born) went to the hospital carrying flowers for the sibling he hoped was a boy. Unfortunately for him, the child was a girl and it's only fair to say he was crushed, but he, nonetheless, gave his newest sister the flowers.
From then on, he prayed for a boy. A few years later, my father was born and my uncle named him Samuel, "Asked of God." My grandparents, however, called him Mutabazi "savior or helper" because he had come to save his brother from the girls.
Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, I was born in a society where people take their fathers' last names. I love my name and it means a lot, both to me and in meaning: Edouard "Guardian" Samuilovich "Son of the one asked of God" Mutabazi "Savior". So, I'm a guardian savior who is the son of the one asked of God. I wouldn't call it bad.
But, I want a name that I feel represents me. Sakabaka is a raptor bird found in Rwanda. We feared it as children growing up, but we were always amazed to see it soaring in the skies above, relaxed and, seemingly, exuding  confidence. Sakabaka, folklore has it, also knows everything. You ask it whatever you want and it will give you an answer. I don't claim to have all the answers, but I have many that I haven't been asked yet. I would love to point out that, although we do have them in Rwanda, this was not picked because it is our clan or lineage totem.
There's much I still need to learn about my culture and I hope to be able to compose works in Kinyarwanda soon, or, at least, have mine translated. I would love my people to read my work. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my work and the messages it carries.

***I have come to find out that the proper English name of sakabaka is "black kite."

A coupon for a free book

As a thank you to people that visit this site, I have decided to offer my short play, Nogood, Nowhere: A Play, on smashwords.com and even generated a coupon code to use to read it for FREE. This is a limited time offering and I hope you like it. It's an e-book, but you can get it for your Kindle, as a PDF, or in different formats.
If you like it, please check back for the release of Where Flies Flock, due out in February 2010.
Visit here and enter this code when you purchase it(not case sensitive): GC73Z.
Also, the December issue of Exile Calling comes out tomorrow, be on the lookout for it.
Thank you, I hope you love it, and keep visiting.

A Good Storyteller, I Am Not

I have come to conclude, after much contemplation, that I am not a good storyteller. Yes, I do write and, yes, you might find some of what I write interesting, but that, I must confess, does not establish my mastery of storytelling. I have my reasons for saying so, and it is not, as might be thought by some, a concoction to entice you to ready my work, but rather an admission from one who has failed to attain that which his profession most demands.
See, a good storyteller will invite you into his world and have you make it yours as well. He, or she, will dazzle you with mirages, fooling you into springing them to life. The effects are amazing; your palms and pits drool, your heart palpitates, your eyelids omit their purpose, and your over-excited mind has to be calmed of its anxiety to know what the next letter, word, or page will unveil. That is a good storyteller.
I, on the other hand, will tell a singular story in a singular manner with neither straying into the forays of welcoming nor those of accommodating. They are from a single viewpoint; with myself as the principle subject and the narrator, a fact dearly despised by my friend and author, Rob. I must admit that it hobbles my ability to totally project others' feelings and secrets, but it also enables me to palpate the inner-most of my muses, and bring them out for the world to weigh. My loves, hates, fears and ambitions are laid bare for the reader to witness and judge accordingly.
All in all, I admit I do lack possession of what it is that would make me a good storyteller, but the thought of ceding my place as a simple storyteller is one which I have no notion entertaining. So, be vigilant of a story by me and, should you happen to come across one, enjoy it keeping in mind that it is NOT by a good storyteller.

Staying Focused

I don't know why I feel as if I can accomplish more tasks simultaneously than an eight-armed superman, but it might lie in the youth that still sizzles in my veins. My head is about to explode thinking about the promises I've made, the obligations I have to fulfill, and the dreams I hope to accomplish. I have to admit I have a hard time saying no, but I also know that I can accomplish a lot of things if I can learn to allocate time to tasks in a much more disciplined manner. I waste a lot of time, and the bad thing about that is that once you lose it it never comes back, so I am constantly in this cycle of highs (when I accomplish something) and lows (when I waste time and do nothing).

Next Monday will see the release of the third issue of the Exile Calling journal, which has seen readership steadily increase, and I hope to take a few days after that getting a few contacts together to help get some of my articles published some time next year. I also have to keep up with the numerous forums I belong to online in order to connect with readers and other authors...it's a way for me to win their minds and affections before I swoop in for their purses...I kid , I kid...Anyways, add in the fact that I have to cook at home and you see that I need at least 6 or 7 more hours in a day to the allocated 24. I made the deal to cook while my girlfriend cleans, so I brought that last one upon myself.
Anyways, I am trying hard to keep things in order and stave off the madness I feel rushing to devour and feast upon this hapless creature that is me. I will not let it, however, as I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I'm about to employ one of them right now...the impregnable nap.
Thank you for coming, and I encourage all of you struggling with balancing the date book to find a few tricks to help you right the ship and keep going to reach the next port in time. Best of luck and keep writing!!!

ps. I just like the photo I took and thought I'd post it here even though it has nothing to do with the post. Enjoy both!!!

Kanyana: A poem

My previous post addressed the subject of writer's block and what I do when I've been blessed by such an abomination, as folks in my profession doubtlessly regard it. I mentioned that I switch to poetry and hope something comes from it. Well, today brought me a few things: cold weather, sunny skies, life, and, you guessed it, writer's block. Being a seasoned pro at this, I quickly focused on poetry and I started writing whatever idea came to mind. To build upon yesterday's topic, I figured I would post a poem that I just wrote out of my encounter with that bitterest of enemies of writers renowned. Here it is, titled Kanyana in my native Kinyarwanda and addressing the 1994 genocide. I will most definitely edit it as this is the rough draft, but I still hope you enjoy.

Kanyana***

Rivers empty tears

No longer choked by ignorance

Reigning rampant across the land.

Kanyana stands on the bank

Searching for her family

Amid the flotilla of emptied shells

Cruising at the speed of the current.

Her cheeks are devoid of tear tracks,

Her calf eyes dehydrated by sorrow.

Life, like the river, moves past her

To empty into a distant memory

As heartless as the hate

That orphaned her so early in years.

Her little soul unable to understand

Or bear the pain tearing at her heart

Shudders and flees her weakened corps.

The little body rolls towards the brown liquid

Where it might find its parents in time.

Her spirit remains rooted at that final spot

Unable to flee from her vigilance post.

In time a blue rose sprouts forth

From the spot between two ancient

Tiny footprints. Kanyana’s sorrow

Manifested for theworld

To see and never forget.

Edouard S. Mutabazi

December 2, 2009

1^st Draft

***Kanyana means little heifer. In Rwanda, calves are highly prized and a symbol of wealth.

To Write or Not To Write...That Shouldn't Be The Question

Often, I feel like I'm writing to a deaf world. I sit and pour whatever flows from within onto a screen and put it up for the world to judge. Sometimes, it feels as if the world has already left and I'm the only one remaining in the vicinity of my story. I'm sure this happens to a lot of writers, especially beginners, such as I, who have to prove themselves as legit. I have no problem with making the rounds of submissions and playing the waiting game...I've become a pro at that. I, also, have no problem observing and learning from other readers and writers I interact with daily.
What I have a problem with is the gray expanse of time when mind and fingers refuse to plot together to make letters appear on my notebook screen. I huff and puff but I feel like I've encountered the brick house of the literary world. During a time such as this, you can find me sullen as a desert slug, frustrated by circumstances I feel are beyond my reproach, at the mercy of a power higher than I- a muse as inconsiderate as wedding-day rain showers.
I, however, refuse to be fooled by the perceived absence of my muse. To write or not to write is never an entertained dilemma in my realm. I find it easy to start one or more poems to see what kind of creativity they might awaken, and this usually works to unclog ideas that had been previously stuck.
So, if you find yourself facing the proverbial writer's block, switch to poems and see what that might do for you. I find that poetry usually flows out of me easier than short stories or plays, so that might be the same for you, too.
If you have something else that works for you in such instances, please share. Thanks.

Exile Calling

We are one quick week away from the release of the Exile Calling third issue and I figured I'd post a past issue for some of you who have not received it. If it seems interesting, you can subscribe and will get a new issue every first Monday of the month.

Exile Calling Vol. 1 Issue 1

Shameless Self-Promotion

What is shameless self-promotion? What can you do to make sure it doesn't get out of line? Many in the US are aware of the balloon boy incident and the uproar when it was revealed the parents had staged the whole thing for publicity for a possible TV show. There is also the instance of the White House party crashers. Both of these illustrate what can go wrong when people are focused on promoting themselves that they disregard laws, but is it possible to promote yourself without coming off as desperate and "shameless?"
As a new author, I want people to know about my work; to read and, hopefully, love my work. There are several ways I've gone about trying to make sure people are aware of what I write; I have posted my work on Facebook, started this blog, offered my blog through amazon.com and its Kindle readers, joined the a number of writers groups on Facebook, participate on amazon.com forums, started the Exile Calling journal, and others. I am promoting myself in all of these, but am I doing it shamelessly?
In all honesty, I can admit to being shameless: I have no shame in what I do. It's my livelihood. Something that I hope will ensure regular meals and a stable abode...doesn't have to be a castle, but I don't see why it should be a cardboard box, either. I write without shame because it is through writing that I get to experience the world...it comes alive when I write and I strive to paint it through words. But, we all know that's not what they mean when they say "shameless self-promotion."
It is when one becomes more obsessed with and focused on the promotion than on what is being promoted. When you disregard etiquette rules of a group, society, or community in order to be seen or heard. This kind of self-promotion is what irks many (myself included) and leads to such legal problems as the two cases mentioned at the beginning.
What do you consider to be shameless self-promotion? Would saying "check out my funny blog or book" be shameless? What if I posted it in dozens of online forums without regard to their focus???

Thanksgiving

Well, while some of you indulged (excessively, if I might add) on the gobbling creatures, yours truly decided to go on a much more traveled mooing and clucking path. I figured it would be less time and more meat for the three of us (my girlfriend, her brother, and I) to consume and chase with the drinks. Her brother's plane landed at 6pm, a full hour before the time we had calculated (a breakdown in communication somewhere), so we drove the 20-minute one-way ride to get him. On the way, we noticed it had started drizzling, but I didn't think it would affect the grilling outside.
By the time we returned, the drizzle had increased and I still hadn't lighted up the charcoal. I started it before it became worse but had to move it on the porch before the coals were ready, or they would have been extinguished by the now pouring rain. Luckily, they didn't melt or disfigure the sidings.
When they became ready, I put on the marinaded chicken. Now, I am an artist; whatever I do whether it's writing, drawing, cooking, cleaning (sometimes), or driving, I aim to do it with a certain creativity that alleviates the mundaneness allocated to that particular task. So, when I grill I make sure all the things are done in a certain Eddie way that's creative and unique in one or more ways.
This chicken sizzled and wafted to the nostrils, making the mouth water, which led to a grumbling stomach, which, in turn, led to a lot of attention going unpaid.
While the chicken razzled and dazzled on the grill, I set to prepare some sauce for the brochettes (kebabs) and to put the brochettes, onions, and peppers on the skewers.
By this time a few beers had been downed and the atmosphere was becoming merrier than at Christmastime. I turned the chickens to ensure even cooking, peeled the potatoes and put them on the stove, finished the skewers, put a chuck roast on the stove (another specialty of mine), and made sure the sauce was turning out alright. I was busier than a bee in the springtime, an ant in autumn, and a bear's snoring in the winter. Things might be turning out all right after all, or so I thought.
I went out and divined the chicken to be ready. I removed the thighs and set them on the table. Those things looked and smelled scrumptious. We dug in but, for a few of them, the inside was uncooked. We picked a few that seemed ready and set to work. Meanwhile, the brochettes were on the grill.
Something made me go to the office room to look at the computer and that took my attention from the grill. When I finally remembered I found some of the brochettes were literally on fire. I salvaged what could be and we set off to eat as most of the other dishes were ready too.
I must say it turned out well, although I felt bad for Nadia's brother who hasn't tasted my great brochettes before. I will try to make good ones for him before he leaves, but, in the meantime, we have the left overs for today...and that includes the drinks...Eat, drink, and give thanks, my friends.

Amazon Kindle Program

I know, I know, I know...I had said I wouldn't be on here until the turkey (or turkeys, give or take a few) had been digested, but I just found a great service and I couldn't keep it to myself.
Kindle Publishing by Amazon. This is a blogging program where you can sign up for your blog to be downloaded by mobile users and the best part is...are you ready???...you get paid for it.
I figured why not sign up for it and tell more people about it. The subscription price per blog is set by Amazon at either $1.99 or $0.99, it's determined for you. You also have to set up a different account from your regular Amazon account and set up your information including payment info (bank account). Preferred payment form is electronic as there is a steep charge for written checks.
Anyways, if you are ready go to: http://kindlepublishing.amazon.com and get started.
Enjoy and happy gobbling!!!

Thanksgiving

We are in the midst of celebrating our first Thanksgiving in Upstate New York and we are more involved with shredding and emptying the still-packed boxes than with preparing the meal for tomorrow. It will be exciting, though, we will have a visitor: Nadia's brother, Willy. Yes, there will be eating, drinking, and, unfortunately, laziness. I don't think I will be able to write a word until next week.
But, there is a lot I have to be thankful this year. This was a rebirth year for me in many ways and I thank God for all the blessings and opportunities that have come my way.
I hope this has been a gracious year for all of you and may the blessings keep pouring in.
Enjoy, share some experience for which you are thankful, and see you after the turkey has been digested.
Peace!!!

A Charlie Brown Christmas???

I have absolutely no idea what a Charlie Brown Christmas is, although I do harbor my own suspicions, but I could not resist picking up a Charlie Brown Christmas tree at the store when I saw it. I'm sure most of us have seen the program A Charlie Brown Christmas, so you remember the story of the Christmas tree and Charlie Brown's misgivings about the holiday, which he sees as too commercialized.
Anyways, I picked up the tree and took it home, where I was told by my girlfriend that I had been ripped off. "That tree is not worth seven cents, let alone seven dollars," I was subjected to hearing quite a few times. I said I couldn't pass it and I'm sure I would do something about. Then an idea came to me. I have been keeping the Styrofoam packing material from when we bought our furniture a few months ago because I wanted to create something with them. Until recently, however, I had not been inspired enough to create something, so it was all lying in the laundry room waiting patiently for my brain to come up with a use for them.
Now I know what I want to do with it...create Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and Snoopy's famous kernel...all out of styrofoam.
I hope to finish it in a few weeks, and I will post the final pics on here...in the meantime, enjoy the pic of the Christmas tree.

Play to Novel

I consider myself a writer; not just a poet, novelist, lyricist, playwright, or anything else. Simply a writer. I dabble into all of them; I enjoy creating them all; and I don't claim to be the only one doing that. I am all, but not exclusively limited to one.
Recently, after struggling with writer's block and other excuses we give names to for laziness, I decided to write a novel based on my first play, Where Flies Flock, and not just create a new work wrapped around the play's shell (think book-to-movie), but use the same dialogue and scenes from the book. While doing this, I noticed that I had actually written the play like a dialogue novel - a novel in play-mode, if you understand what I'm saying.
Here's a raw excerpt from the beginning of the novel:

The sun beamed down mercilessly above the man tilling the brown earth. He had awakened before the sun had broken through the eastern horizon and ate his usual morning meal of sorghum porridge and imvage before everyone else in his household, except his wife, had aroused for the day. The first rays of the rising sun had found him meandering up the hill on a path invisible to all but his experienced feet. He had arrived at the untilled ground and began work without bothering to remove the myriad of ibishokoro and other grass that had attached themselves to his tattered pants. Instead, he rolled them up to just below his knees, grabbed his hoe, and selected a place next to where he had left off the previous day, and began plowing.

Now Yohanna began to feel a pang in his belly and knew it was nearing time for his midday repose. He made a mental note of a spot twenty steps ahead of him where he wanted to reach before he rested. He removed his safari-style hat and, with it, wiped the sweat from his gnarled brow. He readjusted it on his head, greased his palms with a spit missile, and returned to upturning the land.

Fifteen minutes later, he had reached his goal and added another five or so steps. He headed for the shade of a nearby group of eucalyptus tree and leaned against one. Yohanna removed his hat and held it crumpled in his left hand. With his right hand, he reached for his water jug, removed the lid, and took a few swallows. He had to be careful to leave some for his meal and the rest of the day. He put the jug on the ground, made sure it was on even setting, and put the lid back on.

He turned towards the crumpled hat. It had been given to him by Belgian missionaries many years ago that it still surprised him the thing had lasted this long. He unfurled it and looked at the words that had been stitched in so many years ago. The stitching had made it possible for them to escape the many washings they had been subjected to in the twenty-odd years. He remembered the missionary telling him the hat had been bought in America on an excursion to a church meeting there. The words “Don’t Worry: Be Happy” meant not to worry about anything, but always to keep smiling. Or so he was told. Unfortunately, the happy face that had been on there had not been lucky enough to be stitched on and it had been washed off. Yohanna unconsciously put his right index finger on the spot where he remembered the smiling face to be. The material was soft now, not to the point where it was brittle to the touch, but he imagined it wasn’t going to be long before it reached that point.

He tried to think of the missionary’s name, but it failed him. He remembered the man befriending him because of his hard work on the mission’s farm. School had never impressed Yohanna much, but he enjoyed Agronomy because of the opportunity to showcase the skills his father had passed onto him. Whether it was tending to the young sprouts, watering the mature vegetables, or herding the cattle, Yohanna always exuded a certain quality of hard work that failed other students and most staff. This allowed his missionary teachers to overlook his poor marks in other areas, as they envisioned a farming career for him, and who, after all, needs arithmetic in farming? The missionary had been a teacher at the school but Yohanna could not recall the subject he taught. He just remembered that he had been given the hat to shield him from the hot sun he was usually under while working at the farm. The story had been an extra, but Yohanna took it to heart and used to walk the school grounds with a smile planted on his face. The hat was removed from his constantly shaven head only when he entered a building, bathed, or went to sleep. 

Lots editing will need to be done, but this is where I'm going with it...I have a few pages done, will be done when it's ready...be on the lookout.

What I write

I have had a few new followers, people that, supposedly, follow what I write on here and will get crucial insider information about me and my work -on top of other little perks, don't ask me what they are now, though- so I want to go over what it is I write and who I am. I have covered this in my previous post (http://exilewriter.blogspot.com/2009/08/who-am-i-and-what-am-i-currently.html), but I feel the need to say it again because I doubt people have gone back and read the very first post I posted on here. If you have, big ups to you.
I aim to write on three main subjects: 1. Life and its meaning. 2. exile 3. Nature. I explore these subjects through, not only my writing, but also photography. I'm an avid amateur photographer and you can see some of my pics on here or on Facebook. I love being surrounded by nature; understanding that all things have a purpose to which they strain to attain, and an end that is as much about life as is the beginning. I love, especially, water. Anything to do with water moves my spirits in ways I don't even fully comprehend, although it might have something to do with the fact that I'm a Pisces, but who knows.

Currently, I'm working on so many projects that I wouldn't have enough space to list them on here, but the good news is that I have a monthly journal I publish every first Monday of the month and I fill it with as much of my work as I possibly can. It's titled Exile Calling and the third issue is coming out December 7th. If you haven't signed up for it, you can subscribe either through the button at the top right of the page, or you can send me an email. I charge $15 per 12 issues, but I think that's small change to you bigwigs; besides, I have to eat somehow. So far, the circulation is around 25 people and I hope it will grow into three figures by the summer. I, also, hope to begin featuring work of other exiles in future issues.
Well, now you know what I do, but if you've read this far, maybe you deserve knowing who I am. My name is Edouard Samuilovich Mutabazi...some call me Ed, Eddy, Eddie, Edick, J, Kunta, Mr. Ed, Mr. Eddie and, believe it or not, sweetie, baby, and a few other fluffy names...yep, true story.
Now you know all there is to know about me, why don't you tell me about yourself.

A Writer's Reflection

Writers, generally, are fond of highlighting the glories and shortfalls of other professions, but I find myself, usually without much exertion of effort on my behalf, writing about my profession in a manner with neither veneration nor morosity, but rather with a certain detachment that seeks to showcase my perception of life from my own point of view. It might lie in the fact that most, if not all, in my wonderful line of work come upon incessant periods devoid of motivation lifting neither pen nor paper; stretches of time when the very meaning of existence floats out of reach of any comprehensible universe and they are forced to look at others' lives for something to give their time purpose.

It was during one of these devilsend (as I figure it to be the opposite of godsend) times that I decided to explore the woods by my apartment. In the summer, when I moved here, the foliage clung tightly to each other as the undergrowth raced upwards, fed by rain as abundant as was in the days of that great patriarch Noah, to mingle with the branches of the trees towering above them. I, in my infinite ignorance of the fact then, concluded that there was little of interest beyond the ragged edge, but that changed with the coming of autumn and the withering of the once-lush weeds.

Soon after the leaves put up their yearly color-morphing show, they fell and left a void where an impenetrable wall of green had once stood. What fascinated me more, however, was that there seemed to be a path leading further into the woods; this path beckoned, teasing me to follow it to see where the rabbit hole leads to. The urge being greater than the natural resistance afforded me by the benevolent creator, I put on my jacket and boots and followed the cleared path into the leaf-carpeted belly of the woods.

Fear set in with apprehension and a certain degree of senselessness that I couldn’t explain. I followed the wide path for about one hundred yards; observing the woods with fixed intensity, tensing at the slightest rustle of the fallen leaves. I stopped, now and then, to take photographs of trees or discarded material that managed to wrestle my attention from my canopy of fear.  There was an old, rusted iron bucket and a steel peg, still attached to a limp cable, which rattled its complaint at my attempts to dislodge it. There, also, was a smooth, mauve rubber ball still in decent condition, but I was hampered from taking it by a protective garb of twigs that had gathered themselves around it.

The greatest article of importance, however, lay at the edge of the woods; where the trees stop and the shrubbery continues as if unaware of their companions’ halt. There, on the path with its rear on woods side of the path and its fore in the clearing, was an old dump truck, its front wheels collapsed as if knelt in never-ending prayer, and its canary paint still alive despite invading swathes of brown rust. I took pictures of the discarded mammoth, wondering why it had been necessary to abandon it there.

I climbed on its muzzle and stood watching the descending countryside before me. I could see the land rolling and heaving into the far horizon, the sea of treetops at times broken by a building or steel tower on a distant hilltop. I looked over the truck again, noticing the high weeds growing in its massive bed, which still containing its last load, deemed worthless as the bearer on whose back it now waited out its eternal rest, and the iced-over pond on its roof, with its organisms busily milling about on its visible bottom.  I took in as much of the truck as I could and it started me on a path of thought I dreaded to tread.

I began to think about the truck, its purpose, its demise, and its neglect; having served its purpose, it was now time to fade out of existence. I looked at the leaves on the floor, the weathered weeds, and the rotting, fallen tree limbs. They all, at one time, had been vibrant, alive and serving a purpose at which, I assume with measured certainty, they had been good. I, too, was the same as the death of autumn surrounding in as much as I would be here for a season and then fade off to make way for a newer generation. My earlier reprehension of the woods –my fear –fled the more I thought about the lessons the old dumper had brought to my attention.

I offered a prayer for the woods, the leaves, the truck, and the souls whose feet had trod that area eons before, and those that would eons after me. I offered condolences to the leaves for stepping on them; that was the way of life, and I, also, would one day be laid in the soil, feed the earth, and be tramped upon by nature. Yes, that was the way of life – to live out one’s purpose, then make way for a future that was, in every way, greater and equal to us. That purpose, in my case, was to be a mirror for the world; to have it see itself as it is, with all its blemishes as much as its beauty.

I walked back home deep in thought and lacking in fear as one can be without having breathed his last. I passed the spot of the twine-protected ball and its defenses did not seem impregnable as they had before, but I had no intention of disturbing its repose. The rusty bucked and the peg and its cable were also left in their peace.  Things were a little clearer for me now and I had found the inspiration I had hoped to when I set off for my promenade, but it also came with a bonus lesson of life.

As I cleared the woods into the trimmed grass on my apartment’s grounds, I turned back towards the hibernating woods, whispered my thanks again, and let my eyes swim over the area that had terrified me before. Humbled and grateful, I covered the few yards to my door, entered and began to write. This is what I wrote.

Poetry Project:::Last Entry

Okay, I know we've all been waiting for this project to be over so I can move on to talking about more meaningful things like...well, drinking hot chocolate at noon, or something like that. For the final edit, I changed just a few things; I removed the previous first line and began with the second line and added a new third line - not really a new line as it was in some of the previous edits.
So, here it is, I hope you enjoyed the process of trying to establish some type of rhyming sequence in my poem, and keep coming back to see what is going on. The doodling helps me focus, so you will see it on a lot of the materials I scan.

Almost Done:::Poetry Project

I didn't want to spend days posting on the progress of the rhyming project, so I decided to go through it a few times and post something close to the finished product. I just remembered reading, years ago, about the process and progress of Beethoven writing his famous Symphony No. 9; how the finished work was noticeably different from the first draft. I am not saying I'm in the same class as Beethoven, but I think the process for all artists is the same.
Anyways, back to me and my attempt to rhyme my poem. I will post my thought process, then put up an image to show what I did.

Step 1 (not really step 1, but we have to start somewhere)

I decided to rewrite the poem from a different angle, but I decided against it as this is just a project poem and I don't want to spend a lot of time on it. It would have set us back to square 1.
I thought it was necessary for me to outline what I want to show through the poem: Me, the brook, its story, me not understanding the story, and ending on hope for understanding it in the future. 

 

Step 2

I try to rewrite it using the sequence I had established in the previous step. However, I switched and wrote from the point of view of me understanding its story and the underlying message that comes with it. I want to show that all things are one, from the lofty heights of the mountains, to the valleys, to the oceans

Step 3

That radical change brought a lot of confusion from me, but, as often is the case, through that tangling of nerves and words, burst through what I wanted to do with the poem - like the sun's rays breaking through overcast heavens. I moved towards the idea of me "seeing" the path of its travels from the mountains to the ocean, while still unable to comprehend the story. So I was able to see it without understanding it and hoping that I will with the next trickle of the feeble sike. 

Step 4

This is the last step for today's post, but the project is not done yet; I will post the last one tomorrow.
Here, everything came together and I was able to see the poem a little more polished in terms of rhyming. I ditched the ABAB structure and moved towards ABACDC (I have it marked at the end of the lines).
The top part of the page is the raw writing, and the bottom is the easier to read handwriting with a little sketch I did about the scene.

I hope you were able to read the chicken handwriting (my apologies to the chickens worldwide) and understand the processes I went through. I will post the last version tomorrow, and, remember, this is a project poem and poetry is my weakness, so go easy on me...Thanks for your time and keep writing...