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...

Poetry Project

I started to try and put some rhyming to this poem and I decided on an ABAB rhyming structure. Then, I have to confess it didn't take me that long, I realized the poem needed a major face-lift, but I had warned about this in the previous post. So, for today, I have just trimmed it up some and posted it on here without bothering to rhyme it, as I might still edit it again tomorrow. However, I don't intend to do more than a couple of more posts on the poem, so I will keep the editing to a minimum and move on to the cool, rhyme part.
Here it is, have fun and I hope you can read my scribbling
.

Poetry

I love poetry; writing it, reading it, others', mine, short, long, etc. I love experiencing a stimulation which leads me to a few verses, which in turn lead to a few more. I, especially, love epics and I'm hoping to write a book length one soon based on some subject or other which has not blessed my cranium with its presence yet. By and by, however, I shall be stimulated and the result, God-willing, shall be worth the wait.
When I write, however, I find that I'm not focused on rhyming and structure. I tend to focus, rather, on the way it flows; on a rhythm in my head. Now, I have attempted to fix a poem and make it rhyme. I started by writing it in my regular way (I haven't edited it either, not sure whether to do it now) and then going over it and arranging or substituting words to make it rhyme.
Here's a scan of it, I will upload the edits as I go finish them. This is very raw, and it will be radically different when it's done. Click on it to expand and read it better.

My Work

Going over some of my work, I have no idea what to think of them. On one hand, I like what I'm reading, but on the other...not quite what I want yet.
I'm submitting some poems to different places tomorrow and more in the coming weeks. I wish there was a pill for motivation, as there is a noticeable difference when I write for the sake of writing and not from inspiration.
Anyways, here's the Kindergarten Kid I used to motivate my students with, I think I need to motivate myself, so I will post it here.
Also, a link for submitting your work, if you weren't aware of it already: http://www.newpages.com/literary/submissions.htm

Books

I have a fever, and the only cure for it is more...books. I have an addiction and a certain high I derive from seeing books around me. In the days when I was the sole occupier of my bed space, I would go to sleep on one side of the queen or king size mattress while the other was occupied with books. Even now I have them piled on the floor beside the bed. There are books in the living room bookshelf, on my desk, in the office bookshelf, and even on the spare bed. I can't say enough about my love for reading, and, at any given moment, I'm usually gliding through five or six books at the same time; and the range of topics nearly outnumber the books themselves.
Every week, I make my way to the neighborhood Salvation Army store to hunt for deals on the books. On Wednesdays, the books are priced half off - unfortunately, I have not been able to squeeze a trip there on this appointed of days- but when I do go, it's not unusual for me to exit the store with five or six books, some as cheap as $0.07 (in other words, 7 cents).
However, I don't just purchase from there because of the price, I do so because I'm, hopefully, helping someone less fortunate somewhere, and some of the selections are by great authors and in good condition. I have bought Kahlil Gibran's Eye of the Prophet, a 1956 copy of The Constitution of the United States, a great thesaurus, and even a book on Rwanda.
The great thing, however, is that the cashiers know me now, and one of them, a sweet, old lady, keeps asking why I can't just come on Wednesdays and get the great deals. Maybe, I might just surprise her and go there tomorrow; in the meantime, I have to find space to store the ones I already have.
~~~Keep reading, folks~~~

Tolerance: Can You Handle It?

Today began different, and I would love to say the birds brought in the rising sun on a different tune, or that I was awakened by that most natural of alarms, the rooster, but I might just attribute it to waking up next to a beautiful lady. Whatever it was, I woke with energy, inexplicable but welcome.
After a quick bowl of cereal, I headed out in my car for a water-side spot where I could read and organize my thoughts in the sanctity of that life-sustaining liquid. I approached a few, took some pictures, and I could not find that haven of recluse. I finally decided to head home and see what little I could accomplish there, since none of the spots I found met my unknown specifics. As I drove back, I passed a pond on the side of the road, but the pond itself was not what drew my interest, for there, on a dike holding back the pond water, stood an old, double-decked birdhouse. Even as I drove by at 50mph, its weather-beaten, peeled white paint and the dried grass poking from a few of the openings caught my eye through the shroud of skeletal twigs. I turned around and parked on the side of the road to get closer for an attempt at capturing its magic through the lens of my old camera. I took some close shots; moved closer and took more; I took shots of it from different heights and angles.
As I was finishing and headed back to the car, the owner of the property came out and yelled asking if he could help me. I went over and could tell he was anxious as to who I was. I introduced myself, told him who I was and what I was doing there. We began talking and he ended up being of much more help than I could have imagined when the morning began. He gave me names of local trees and shrubs. He pointed out the work of the muskrats (of which I saw two gliding and diving in the water) and elaborated the landscaping work he had put in to preserve the pond and swamp around it. One of the most intriguing was the makeshift flowgate to control the water level.
Five hours later we decided to call it a day and I headed home. During those five hours, we talked about patriotism, immigration, Barack Obama, native Americans and their crafts, his carpentry business, our shared appreciation of antiques, history, and a myriad of other topics. He had shown me the renovated inside and basement of his 100-plus year-old former farmhouse. We had even taken down a couple bottles of beer.
In the end, I came to respect Mike and his conservative, far-right views. I can't say that I agree with all of them, but what separates us is not enough to come between a potential friendship. He is a second generation American on his father's side, and a first on his mother's. He works hard as an owner of his carpentry/home remodeling company and it shows in his house, manners, and the calloused, bruised hands. He shares a passion for preserving marriage, or at least working like hell to preserve it, because there should be some weight in the oath that one takes.

His views on children needing strong support and basic morals is one that I share as an educator (yes, I consider myself an educator for life) and I also agreed with him on the point of preserving the values that make America the beacon of democracy. We even agreed that Obama is not the cause of Big Government and that there really is no much difference between the rich republicans and democrats. We also agreed to link up again (our homes are about a mile apart) and get to know each other. I would like to see the pond as the seasons progress and morph one into the next. I know it's not impossible to like and peacefully coexist with those of a differing opinion- I think it's what's called tolerance, if the meaning hasn't changed- and, sometimes, all it takes is an old, out-of-place birdhouse to remind one of that.

Exile Calling Issue 3 Theme

As we get closer to the holiday season, I thought it would be best to look back and give thanks for a wonderful year this has been. I am gearing up the pieces for issue 3 (that's right, issue 3) of Exile Calling and the future gets brighter and brighter as far as work to feature in there and the potential to reach and affect readers all over. The feedback has been great so far, thank you all for supporting me as I climb this literal ladder.
I have decided to make the theme for the upcoming issue Africa to celebrate and give thanks for my homeland. While I might have been born and now live elsewhere, my formative years were spent in Africa and my earliest recollected memories are of walking its dusty streets. I want to show my appreciation for its heroes; to lament its woes; to uphold its virtues, and to proclaim its future.
Now that I know what I want the theme to be, I'm off to polishing the work. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Zen Garden Experiences

I can't say I've learned all I can from my mini zen garden- nor can I say that I haven learned much- but I can say I've learned at least one thing; everything, no matter how small, is there for its own, special purpose. As I was pouring the sand in the wooden tray, I noticed that some of the ivory grains had spilled over the side and, even, on the books and desk. I contemplated just wiping and throwing them away, when it dawned on me that I should keep all parts of the garden (the littlest sand included) together for the special reason they were put together in the first place. What would it be like if I threw away every little grain that spilled on the side? In time, I would lose a significant amount of the sand.
I figured if the garden was to help me relax and meditate through action, the least I owed to it was to keep it together...to regard its every, individual member as important to my wellness. So I carefully, using one tooth of the small rake, pulled them back in with the other sand; I picked up the other ones from the books and the desk with my finger and brushed them off into the tray, too.
It's not only relaxing, but also helps focus my thoughts. As I focus on the work, my mind is deep in uninterrupted thought about something or the other, which helps clear things for me whether it be writing or otherwise.

Creativity, Relaxation, and Meditation

I have found that the process of writing, constantly thinking of ways to arrange words and sentences, takes a toll on me both physically and spiritually. I tend to be drained, and I have come to find ways of refreshing my depleted energy, especially through music and meditating by the lake. Today, I have started a new one: Mini Zen gardening. Yep, a small zen garden complete with rake, rocks, miniature garden houses, sand, garden platform, and a miniature swan. If you know what Farmville on Facebook is, this is a smaller, realer version of it.
I have posted some pictures I just took, and I will post more later after I have worked on it...don't notice the mess on my desk, I'm in the process of clearing it.
Find something relaxing, do it, and, most importantly, enjoy it.

A blessed day, folks...much love.

Exile Calling Issue 2 Released

Issue 2 has been released, folks, with Pt. 2 of Onondaga County's Own Peculiar Salamander's Tales, The Crow poem, excerpt from the play Sankara: My Brother, My Enemy, The Peace Song, and a review of Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance.
If you have received it, I hope you enjoy, if you haven't please send me your e-mail, I won't send it out unless you ask...no spam.
I'm feeling tired, here lately, and I'm wondering whether I need a change of scenery or if it's something else. Hopefully, I'll figure it out soon...thank you all for supporting me, the sky's the limit.