-> MY GLASS HOUSE
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NEW ORLEANS - 23 July, 2002 - I learned today that Robert Oduol, whose writing appeared in these pages intermittently for almost three years, passed away in a house fire on 7 July in Kenya. Mr. Oduol was only 34 years of age. The message came to me from his fellow Kenyan writer, Binyavanga Wainaina. We both expressed our sadness to Robert's publishers in Africa, after reading the news, in separate e-mails. Binj and I both met Robert Oduol here at the G21. We both admired and respected his well-researched and insightful pieces about life and economics in East Africa. He will be sorely missed.
My regret at not ever having the wherewithal to meet Robert face-to-face is heavy on me as I write this. I never even had a face to place with the name, as Robert was one of those writers who never got around to sending me a .gif or. jpeg of his photo to use. If only ...
Since bringing G21 to the Web in 1996, I have developed a far-flung virtual family that spans five continents. I wish that I could meet them all one day, in person, before another member of our family is lost. But that's a big dream for a poor man.
In a better world, the value of this magazine would produce the means to bring those who labor so hard to create it together, if only once. But that is not to be it seems. The best we can have is virtual communion. We can have the fellowship of writers who enjoy the craft enough to offer our work to the world with little or no compensation - other than your attention and the occasional "Attaboy"s you e-mail us when the spirit moves you.
Sometimes the silence from you is almost deafening. I guess that's why we hang on every small bit of recognition we receive. We even love the brickbats, because being reviled is far preferable to being ignored.
His colleagues in Africa had this to say about Robert Oduol:
For such a dignified, physically imposing man, Robert Oduol had a surprisingly infectious laugh --- "fulsome, uninhibited, high-pitched," as Gitau Warigi describes it --- and an impish sense of humour. "You had to be ready for some poker-faced pranks from time to time if you were his friend," says Warigi."Once he took me for a drink in one of those cosy 'Luo' bars, where a solo musician with a nyatiti was playing traditional tunes. Patrons were free to request a 'personalised' tune from the musician, for a small fee, of course. Some time later, coming back to the table from the loo, I was surprised to hear my name being belted out by the musician. Startled, I looked at Robert, only to find him convulsed with laughter. He had taken advantage of my absence to commission the musician to compose a Luo praise song for me...
"He would often talk of his two sons, Roy and Jeff, and you saw the gleam in his eyes as he spoke of his dreams for them."
Warigi first met Robert in the early 1990s while working for the Weekly Review. "We immediately became fast friends," he recalls, "We linked up again when he joined The EastAfrican, and I advised Mbogo Murage of Sunday Nation, the paper I was writing for, to use his political pieces too. Soon, Robert had made his mark as one of the leading political writers in the Nation Media Group.
"I will miss Robert for many things: his easy-going camaraderie, his mischievous take on people and politicians we found pompous, for his companionship. When I think of that elusive quality called goodness, the name Robert Oduol will always come to mind."
[FROM "ROBERT ODUOL 1968-2002
A Boundless Capacity for Joy:
Fare Thee Well, Gentle Giant" - The EastAfrican, Nation Media Group, Kenya, 15 July, 2002 - Ed.]Sadly, I was never able to send Robert much reader feedback about his incisive articles. You had so little to say about his work, some of the best it's been my privilege to edit and publish. That saddened me, too. Since I could not afford to send him money, after a time, it would have been comforting to at least send him some sign that it was worth it to write here in terms of recognition. My own applause, after all, could too often be seen as purely self-serving; your reader comments would have meant much more.
But now he is gone. His e-mail address goes off my Mailing List to be replaced by a large hole in my heart. Another excellent Black writer speaks with us no more.
Rest in Peace, Robert Oduol.
No publisher wants to write an obit for one of his writers. It brings up too many dismal thoughts. For me, it's a reminder that when I myself go, so does The World's Magazine. There is no one to pick up the torch. Why would anyone want to? This "cathedral of words" I am constructing will be complete simply by dint of my personal finality.I admitted to a friend recently that my model for this effort has always (secretly) been the old Paris Review. In my meagre way, and usually sans cash, I have tried to attract the best new talent I could find and give them all the exposure I could. Sometimes, it's paid off. Sometimes, it was more of a headache than it's been worth.
For the first few years, I was arguably a laissez faire editor, letting the writers have their heads and not attempting to impact their output. I was getting to know the medium, new as it was and I was to it, and trying to find my way to a vision of what this magazine would be. Then I became a dictator.
I started asking for re-writes and setting the standards that obtain today. That meant stepping on a few toes along the way. Sometimes things got rancorous. All-in-all, the result was (I trust) a better publication.
So the thought of G21 ending cannot but make me sad.
But it, like everything else, will end. It ends when I do, it seems.
My best hope is that someone, somewhere, will note the passing of this journal and perhaps have a few nice things to say about its existence and my own efforts at keeping it going over the years. That's a testament that I would like to read, so I'll have to hope that those who believe our souls do not end with our bodies are correct; I have to hope that we carry some cognizance of what follows these vessels to that Other Destination we all share.
As I noted in my previous "Glass House", I've decided that I shan't do anymore headlines here. Last week's was my last one. As this page is the diary of my travails, headlines seem inappropriate.So it's just a straight screed from now on or until I decide to do a more traditional Publisher's Note again. I keep debating that notion with myself.
By the time you read this, I shall most likely be homeless. Those two birds who promised two weeks ago to, respectively, drop me a rope and repay a debt both are not as good as their words, at this writing. At least one of them said he would get something out to me a week ago today. It has not arrived, so I can only assume his concern was not as pressing as my need. I got the sermon, instead.
The woman of the same name, I always expected to be just a little flaky on the follow-through tip. She is the kind of person who has good intentions, but is too scattered to deliver, I suspected. I was right.
The irony is that the former bird was acting out of self-proclaimed charity, while the latter has an obligation. I was there when I was most needed, though I could ill afford to be so. That both should exhibit the same cut of cloth is quite a statement about the nature of promises.
So it is this man's fate to suffer a few more hours. "Torture myself?" I THINK NOT.
I have enough "friends" to inflict the torture for me, whether I need it or not.
24 July, 2002:
The way my body has always handled stress is in the skin. When I was a child, I would break out in hives when faced with stressful situations I felt I couldn't avoid. As an adult, the reaction has localized itself to my fingers. They break out in these hives which fester into blisters until (if I'm lucky) the blisters dry up into scales of flesh that eventually peel off. Very few people notice this reaction of mine because it usually localizes itself, further, to two or three fingers at a time.
When this malady of mine reaches the blister stage, the skin is usually sensitive and painful. The blisters start when I am at the height of my stress. Like now, for instance.
I woke up from one of those serial nightmarish dreams this morning at six a.m. worrying about everything. Money. Where I will sleep after Saturday. My life. Getting a new job. The list is endless. It all seems complicated and overwhelming. I can't sleep.
My fingers fester.
Having your worries localize in your hands is not the greatest thing for a writer.
On the living thang, I've thought blithely that there are a lot of parks in this town and it is summer. Sweltering summer.
My thoughts jump around a lot, from one worry to the next. It's a serial nightmare.
One good bit of news: I have found an Internet café that will allow me free access. I just have to buy a few cups of coffee now and then. And I do favors for them: develop forms, any computer-related chores that might come up. So, at the very least, I don't have to worry about The World's Magazine for a while. I'll be able to stay up on my e-mail.
The queries from writers who harbor the mistaken belief that a Web publication that has been around this long must be profitable roll in every day. My e-mail box is bursting at the seams, even after filtering out the spam. I guess these folks donšt bother to read enough of the site to stumble upon the "Glass House" and discover how pitiable my life actually is. So I type my Standard Response five or ten times a session.
"Unfortunately, as a small, independent Web publication we are not in the position to pay contributors at this time. If you are still interested in submitting your work for consideration ... "
25 July,2002: Two days remain until I shall have to move out of this place I've been "crashing" in the French Quarter. That hangs over me heavily, as that gives me two days to determine where to store most of my belongings and how to manage being a "spirit of the air" again. I'm not sure.
I can leave most of it with Matt or Shawn, I suspect. I'll have to talk to them about that this evening. Then there's the challenge of this laptop. Perhaps I can "park" it at the Internet caf´e;, since I'll mostly be using it there. I think I can work out arrangements for showers a couple of days a week, and have one person or the other take phone messages for me until I can "land" somewhere again.
I hear the loud sucking sound of the Black Hole of New Orleans.
Later, Same Day: This black day, full of worry, ended (I guess it's not over yet, is it?) on a positive note. The Binj, my current star - yes! I've had others - sent me a cash wire from London. This, I figure, to reinforce his contention that I have to keep the G alive, keep soldiering on despite the disaster we call my life.
I may not know ANYTHING else, but I know good writing when I see it.
If I listened to some of my writers, I might even be a decent and encouraging editor. It would be wonderful if I paid as much attention to my own work(s) as I did to those in my care.
So Binj sent me enough cash to bail me out, temporarily. I can buy cigarettes and sandwiches again, at least for two weeks, and do my laundry tomorrow. Just in time to move.
I'll spare you the Horror Story of how I couldn't get to the money for hours because some Western Union clerk didn't know that there was no New Orleans in California. I've been through this malaproping CA for LA before. Ask Terry.
When I first met the only woman I was so in love with that I knew I could do ten years on a natch, I was in my Portuguese samba phase. Gato Barbieri was my hero. She was my surrogate Flora Purim. I've always loved to dance and always dreamed of living in Brazil.But the best city I've in, thus far, is New York. In Manhattan. The HOME I've never had.
26 July, 2002: Barbara and I talked today. She said that the one thing I've been consistent about is that my first priority has always been writing (and writers). So what's new about what I'm thinking now, she wanted to know.
What's new, I said, is that I'm burning with the thought that it should support itself and support me rather than eat me alive.
In case you hadn't noticed, that's what writing has been doing to me.
I have thought about talking to Rudell, my sister(-in-law) who says she understands me. This time, I've thought, I would do so in my serious voice.But even she would only pretend to understand. She has a family where I have my continuing orphanage.
I guess that's all I ask anymore, that people pretend to understand.
Most don't and can't.
Nights go by when all I need is someone to talk with about my sadness. But there is no one there.
I was an unhappy child who grew up to be an unhappy adult.
... Too long ago, too far apart
She couldn't wait another day for
The Captain of The Heart ... -- Double
THINGS I HATE THIS WEEK
1. Poverty.
2. The summer job market in Nawlins.
3. Missing the key to making The World's Magazine my sole pursuit.
Thanks for coming back this week."Work like you don't need the money,
"Love like you've never been hurt,
"Dance like no one is watching..."
Rod
Rod was a columnist for the Andover News Network, where he wrote over two hundred articles on web design and development issues. He was also principal writer and Editor for IT Manager's Journal, where he reviewed technology issues weekly, producing 383 editorials. He became the Managing Editor for Electronic Mail/Newsletter Publications at Andover.net at the end of February, 2000, and left in September of the same year. He was a contributing writer for ACCESS magazine, which appeared both on- and offline for 10 million readers in 100 newspapers like the San Francisco Chronicle, New York Post, Boston Herald, Austin American-Statesman, Denver Post and Orlando Sentinel, among others. Rod was the US reporter for Silicon.com, a division of Network Multimedia Television in London, UK, reaching 3.5 million European readers, until May, 2001.
This year he worked as Assistant to the General Manager of a Big Easy company that does restaurants and nightclubs. (Think: The Boy.) Oh yeah, Rod's had Day Jobs working construction. Mostly renovations of old New Orleans structures, houses and a bar. Sometimes he designs Web sites for other people so that he can get his creative juices flowing the way he can't at a staid publication like this one. And he's been the instructor in Editing for Internet Publications at the Novi Sad School of Journalism in Yugoslavia. Right now he's in the unenviable position of looking for both a job AND a place to live. He is not a happy camper. In his spare time, he chases women. 
Rod lives in New Orleans, Louisiana, right now. He wants out so bad he can taste it. He wants to live somewhere civilized when he grows up. Wish him Luck.
He continues to be committed to integrity, chastity and a dose of humility.
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