Memorable incident

At fifty seven there are many years on which to look back upon, so the one memorable incident among thousands to reflect upon isn't too difficult which is why my first drive to Alaska in the middle of a December winter, a month after I was married, the same day my father-in-law died, seems a story worth telling.
It was December of 1974, and we were fully packed in the brand-new 1974 Ford F250 truck with a Max 7 camper top that was loaned to us by a Ford dealer who paid us to drive it to Alaska. The opportunity allowed us to move back to Alaska with all of our wedding gifts while helping the dealership bring one more car up the Alcan Highway to be sold. When we signed the contract in Detroit before our trip, we saw no problem in accomplishing this task; however, although we were shortsighted in perceiving the momentous task of driving 4800 miles in the winter when daylight was scarce and temperatures frigid, nothing could have dampened our expectations more than the two misfortunes we encountered on the first and second day of our glorious trip.
The morning of our departure came. We were excited to be going back to Alaska but also excited about the adventure of what lie before us as we traveled through the Canadian wilderness into Alaska. The truck was packed. As the passenger and second-hand driver, I had prepared my travel car bag full of everything I could possible need. Reading materials, crossword puzzles, a journal and my favorite music to keep me occupied when I was not behind the wheel. We had everything in place including Bubba, a nickname for our cock-a-poo, Pepper, who was situated comfortably in the space immediately behind the passenger seat, and my car, a 1972 Ford Pinto, which was attached by a tow bar to our bumper, behind the truck. To the best of our knowledge, the tow bar was a safe and secure means of towing a vehicle, but for an extra measure of protection a thick rope had been added as a back-up in case of a fundamental flaw in the mechanics of the tow bar. Excited and nervous, we said good-bye to our family and friends.
Glad to be one the road, but sad to be leaving people we knew we would not see for a very long time, we prolonged the moment until we finally left. Once on the road, I began to look at all of my belongings for something interesting to read or do, so I began to read. We were about an hour into the trip when I was startled by the sound of honking horns. Not one horn, not two or three, but the tune of many horns forced the both of us to look into the huge rear view mirrors on the side of the truck. I saw my Pinto suspended from a long rope weaving back and forth across the freeway. All other cars were honking and waving their hands in an effort to attract our attention. Slowly and steadily we finally secured the car off the road and into a relatively abandoned parking lot. The tow bar had bent the bumper and released the Pinto. The safeguard rope had prevented the car from wheeling out-of-control and perhaps hitting another automobile or hurting someone. We knew we were fortunate to have not been in an accident. That night we didn't get too far, and in fact, we made it to Coldwater Michigan,where we spent the night. Thus the first day of the trip was not part of our agenda.
This unfortunate incident forced a change of plans. Rather than having two drivers and one vehicle, we now had two vehicles that needed two drivers, which not only changed the ambiance of the trip, the leisure of reading and relaxing with the occasional company of conversation, but also the finances. We now had to drive separately and spend our money where it had not been designated on gas and car maintenance. I was now the driver of the Pinto. Keeping resolute, we attempted to follow our original plans with a few monetary changes. We left early the next morning in separate vehicles. In the small blue car, I and Bubba followed the F250 onto I94 heading West.
The day was bleak and cold. In fact, the sky was grey with temperatures just below freezing and the snow was blowing just enough to cover the road. The road was slick, so I held the steering wheel tightly with both hands. We had been driving steadily for about two hours when I suddenly felt my finger tips numbing and a general sick feeling of claustrophobia come over me. Maybe it was Pepper was breathing down my neck or the tiredness I felt from starring at the back of the truck for two hours, but whatever the reason. I decided to pass the Ford F250. I surmised that my feelings were directly related to his inability to move quicker through the traffic. I felt bottled in, so I put on my left blinker and moved into the next lane of the freeway. Cars were everywhere, so I knew I had to be careful, but the minute I started to accelerate. I realized the situation was more serious than I had anticipated. The car behind me was riding my bumper, so I pushed firmly down on the gas pedal. I moved along side the F250 until I finally passed it. Our eyes met for a quick second, but in that second I detected panic. With enough distance behind me, I turned on my turn signal to safely move in front of the F250, but unfortunately I hit an icy patch and went sailing across the road. In an instant, my car began to swerve uncontrollably. I was sliding across the expressway as cars behind me, before me, and next to me searched for ways to avoid a collision. Some cars slowed; some cars stopped, and some headed for the cement walls as a means of protection. As for me, I was now heading in the opposite direction--going East on I94 passionately pumping my brakes, but guess who was heading toward me face to face? The Ford F250.
As we hit each other, I remember seeing the look in his eyes as he desperately tried to avoid the impossible. We hit each other just hard enough to push each other to opposite sides of the expressway. Thankfully, no other cars were involved. but the F250's right headlight was smashed and the front bumper dented. The Pinto's right headlight was also smashed along with a huge area of the right bumper. No one was hurt. We starred at each other from across the highway. Meanwhile, commotion unleashed itself. We not only had interrupted traffic just outside Gary Indiana at rush hour on the second day of our trip, but we could no longer drive at night since either of us were missing a headlight. Thus the second day of the trip warranted another change of plans.

Sensation

Life.
Everyone notices it sometime or another.
The moment, the flashing realization, the momentary suspension of time.
When thought ascends comprehension, when humanhood is exposed.
When the gravity of aloneness is the state of truth.
You'd have to. You have to. You have to notice.
If only for a second . . . the transcendation of awareness.
The noise, however, muddles it. Detracts it. Muffles it. Disguises it.
Removes it from the everyday comings and goings.
Numbs it.
Eventually, though, it triumphs.
One mind, one body, one thought.
Into the darkness of the mystery from which no one merges.
Into the shutter of thought. Into the fleeting moment of question.
Into the irreversible knowledge.
Life's wonders. It's ponderings. Its inexplainable jolting halts.

The Alphabet

Words . . .
shout and speak,
sing and suggest,
they reflect and ruminate,
romance and regale,
they meditate and memorize,
they mumble and mortify,
Present . . .
Prolonged . . .
Deafening

Voices . . .
speak at you and to you,
around you and through you,
with you and without you,
among you and about you,
behind you and before you,
be for you and against you,
Upward?
Downward?
Followthroughward?

Words . . .
Shapes + and SiZeS
Sounds #@* and syll'a'bles
Stop.ping and start. . .ing
Sinking ^and surfing <<< >>>>staying (:)
Sailing ~ and sweeping ~
Swaying and semanticizing
Sweet . . .
Sour . . .
Sugary . . .

Words . . .
Poets and prophets,
penpals and protagonoists,
Writers and recorders,
Editors and edifiers,
Capturing, considering, coaxing,
Criticizing, criminalizing, condemning,
Building . . .
Breaking . . .
Boastful . . .

Words . . .
a simple thought,
an emotion,
Gratitude,
the right word, ,
the rime, the rhythm,
the sonorous segregated
Babble .
Chatter . . .
Cackle . . .

Words . . .
renounced, reiterated, recoiled
in stanzas and on shelves,
in volumns of verses of vernacular,
on bookshelves and in bibliographies,
in records and recordings,
on lips and in libraries
on documents and in dialog.
Felt . . .
Heard . . .
Moved. . .

Words . . .
I sit. I write.
A card. A note. A sentiment. An expression.
"Words are all I have?"
Thank you?
From my heart . . . A lump in my throat . . .
Never enough paper or ink . . .
Words . . .
Words . . .
Words . . .

The Separation

Unconscious and conscious breaths. . .
Millions of them, maybe more, maybe less,
Short rhythmic, pulsating motions,
In and out, In and out, In and out . . .
Day in and day out,
Month in and month out,
Year in and year out . . . a lifetime of breaths.

The first breath of life,
Who can remember?
Born by breathing air,
Categorized and shelfed . . . . alive.

A life of breaths
Who can remember?
A continual pattern of barely noticeable puffs,
At breakfasts, luches and dinners,
The public and private,
The happy, the sad.
The good and the bad . . . the breaths of life.
Who can remember?

Born into the world by breathing,
Air, chemicals, filling the lungs with life,
Born into the world by a heartbeat,
Blood, chemicals, filling the veins-the mind and body
The life before the breath,
What is breath?

Born into the world by breath . . .
Born out of this world by breath or lack thereof?
A death by lack of heart or lack of breath?
Breathless, no more breaths, no where, no more air.
Unless . . .

To Torture or not to Torture is Never the Question

Michael Levin in his essay, "The Case for Torture," argues that torture is permissible in extreme cases where human lives are threatened; however, I disagree with Mr. Levin and would argue that his argument is flawed. The very root of his argument is illogical because his logic that torture should be allowed in extreme cases, should even be considered "morally mandatory," when a situation deems torture necessary to save innocent lives, does not address the real issue in the case for condoning torture, which relates not only to opening Pandora's box, but also equating torture with the "possibility" of saving lives.

Levin cannot argue that the case to torture, an issue so disruptive to the core values of the United States and even international law, is as simple an argument as he presents. The United States joined with many other countries at the Geneva Convention, after WWII, for the purpose of signing a declaration that openly states that all nations regardless of opposing doctrines and philosophies, would not only uphold the dignity of life by protecting their enemy's soldiers from inhumane and unjust treatment if imprisoned while at war, but also to universally declare that life, all life, is valuable. The United States took the leadership role in agreeing with nations of the world that the issue of torture, inhumane treatment of a human being, including soldiers of all nations, despite any apparent ongoing conflict, should be protected from barbarism.

I would argue that this declaration should be upheld at any cost. If the United States of America lowers its standards on the dignity of life, the respect for all human life, regardless of the sadistic minds of the criminal, such as in the case of Islamic terrorism, where human life is anything but respected, it has not only lost the war on terrorism because we have become terrorists ourselves, gradually accepting animalistic behavior, behavior never necessary if we draw upon a higher power, which is human intelligence, but also its reputation and integrity as a leader in the "free" world, a world that is becoming increasingly rare, a world that the proponents of terrorism long to eradicate.

Furthermore, I would argue that the very premise of Levin's argument is flawed. How can the united States trade gold for silver? In other words, how can we condone something with such drastic and far-reaching repercussions as torture for the "hope" the prisoner will talk, especially a prisoner who has been trained as a suicide bomber whose goal is death? Cannot the United States of America be more proactive? If the United States advocates torture, as Levin says, with the hope of gathering top-secret information, doesn't this logic merely implicate the United States as stupid? If it cannot stop the war on terror without implementing torture, then it never will. In reality, if it stoops so low as to try to get information from a mere puppet when it should have not only known prior about the plot but should have already stopped it from formulating then something is seriously wrong. It is not seeing the trees form the woods.

Cold

Before I can describe to you what I do on "the coldest day of the year," I must define "cold." Cold is defined by Merriam-Webster as "having or being a temperature that is uncomfortably low for humans," or "marked by the lack of normal human emotion; friendliness or compassion." These two combined definitions accurately describe not only how I felt one very, very cold Christmas morning in 1974 when I woke up in Anchorage, Alaska to find my head frozen to the wall of a friend's guest room, but also about seriousness of life.
Realizing that I was just frozen to the wall and not frozen to death, I grabbed my frozen, cold damp, stiff hair and began pulling it piece by piece away from the hard frozen wall. We had just arrived in Alaska late the previous evening and this "space" was the only option besides sleeping in our car, which wasn't an option at 30` below zero. The room did have a wood-burning stove, but the fire had disappeared in the middle of the night, and all that remained where the fire once roared were cold, dead ashes, so getting dressed in the frigid cold was quite an experience, a very alarming experience. As I attempted to find warmth where no warmth existed, I experienced what an abandoned astronaut might feel like in outerspace without oxygen--every second was piercingly unbearable. We left without making the bed.
Once outside, we began walking to the main road that connects Anchorage to Fairbanks. Our destination was Talkeetna, a small town about 100 miles away. We had to hitch-hike to Talkeetna because the truck we had driven nearly 4000 miles from Michigan to Alaska had to be returned to the car dealer on or before December 24th. This Alaskan dealership had paid us to drive a brand-new F250 Ford from Michigan to Alaska. We had handed-over the keys less than twelve hours before, but little did we imagine that cold Christmas morning, as we headed North to Talkeetna, that we would see more moose than people and even fewer cars on that lonely, two-lane Alaskan highway.
By the time we arrived in Talkeetna, the day had turned to night. We were frozen-solid cold, in spite of our new Alaskan parkas and Sorel boots. The ice had crystallized in our eyes, noses, ears and mouths, and our feet and hands had little feeling of life. When we realized the apparent danger we were in as the day progressed and eventually disappeared, we began flagging down every car as it passed, and they were few and far between. Finally, a kind man took pity on us, trusted his instincts, and drove us 15 miles out-of-his-way to our destination.
During our "thaw," we sipped hot chocolate, sat by the blazing fire and starred numbly at the red-hot embers. Rather distanced from the day's developments, we found words difficult to assemble. The silence, nevertheless, was noticed deeply in our hearts and minds. I knew in that moment that people never intentionally drown to death in pools of water, or, more importantly, never freeze to death by the side of roads, as we had almost done just hours before, they just suddenly find themselves in an unplanned, uncontrollable situation, a dire and pathetic moment where laughter turns to tears, beginnings to ends and life to death.
Every year on December 25Th, I recall that cold Christmas day of 1974 when the deep, dreadful depths of darkness consumed the daylight and all its living creatures. As I ponder the past, I raise a warm glass and sense that impending chill.

Colleen Klaus

Realization

Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I dream. I sleep. I want to stay here forever.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
In the distance, an intruder.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Go away. Leave me alone.
Bam. . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Where was I . . . my comfort disappears.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
The interruption . . . okay!
The disturbance . . . okay!
The distraction . . . okay!
I am awake.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Abruptly awakened.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I look.
I look again.
No one.
I tear open the curtains.
I stare through the shutters.
I strain to see the culprit, the commotion.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
I cannot.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Yet, I know.
An elbow bends and straightens.
An elbow straightens and bends.
A fist tightly clenches the tool that constructs.
Steady. Steady. Steady.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .
Inch by inch, somewhere the shiny, silver nails disappear.
Like my dream.
Bam . . . Bam . . . Bam . . .