Posts by Keith Howard
But Rob? Rob’s earned something special as we near the end of this trip. A poetic salute. An accolade. And this? I’ve written two different versions, each of which fails in different ways. The third version, at the end, is the only one worth a warm pitcher of spit.
I’ve been to a few services. Last night, though. Last night hit different. Usually I check my pockets before I go, but a tiny miracle must’ve crawled out of one. For some time between a few nanoseconds and a lifetime, my brain quit yammering. It sat down, got real quiet behind my face. And in that stillness, I slipped somewhere. Maybe a trance. Maybe a meditation. Maybe a short walk into a parallel dimension. It was so like nothing it was one of the best somethings I’ve ever had. This church is heaven—even if it has no opinion about anything.
Today, our big trip flips. This isn’t just pretty deserts or cold coastlines anymore. This is Africa the way every kid imagines it. Wide-eyed, lions-on-the-savanna Africa. And in some freak stroke of genius (luck, really), we’ve saved the best for last. Cake after dinner. Ice cream, maybe even sprinkles.
O P I N I O N TINY WHITE BOX By Keith Howard Rob was almost killed by an elephant. If
A few nights ago, Rob and I went all out, dropping a chunk of change on a seafood dinner at
In Manchester, every inch of space is spoken for, with billboards and coffee shops clamoring for your attention. Out here, the land is the boss, indifferent to whether you notice or not. It’s in this vastness that you realize being far apart isn’t about miles; it’s about the silence between thoughts, the moment when the world stops spinning long enough for you to catch your breath and feel, really feel, the weight of nothing.
O P I N I O N TINY WHITE BOX By Keith Howard I’m writing this from Windhoek, Namibia, a
This column is my version of hitting rewind, catching you up on what the hell has been happening since I last put pen to paper. Think of it as a crash course in my current reality.
Please excuse the rest of this column. I take pride in my contrarian nature, in my ability to identify clouds on any horizon. Today, though, is not a day for me to be philosophical or intellectual. It’s a day to freaking celebrate!
You haven’t heard from me in a few months. I do hope you enjoyed the respite, because that silence has ended, beginning today with a mea culpa. I apologize to all the InkLink readers who contacted me offering support, to the members of Hope Nation who kept me in their prayers, to the countless folks in the larger recovery community who sent texts and emails of love and support, to my old Army buddy, Ryszard Guziewicz, to the InkLink’s Editor/Publisher/Grand-Poohbah, Carol Robidoux, and to dozens of others. I am sorry. I didn’t respond to many of your inquiries about my health, each sent with love and compassion. It was wrong but necessary to have isolated in a cocoon composed of my wife and daughters, along with a very small group of close friends. Thank you all, and please accept my apology.