We'll Take It From Here

In less than two weeks, I will run my first New York City Half Marathon. Before October 29th of 2012, this would have been exciting enough alone. However, this race is so much more than just the first time I am running the half in Manhattan.

To me this race is my comeback. It is my comeback from training so hard to run the NYC Marathon. I am not bitter that the 26.2 did not happen. I would have been angry if it was run one week following Superstorm Sandy. The region was hurting so much and there was no way a marathon could be run respectfully through neighborhoods devasted by the winds and water.

I always try and make the run important. I have run for charity and for friends. It takes the run up a notch. It makes you work harder, stick to training and you feel a sense of accomplishment like no other. Seeing a playroom built with funds that you raised is priceless. Having a friend cheer you on while she knows you're running a race for her is something you cannot imagine.

Again, I will run for charity on St. Patrick's Day. Choosing Every Mother Counts has been one of the most rewarding charitites by the sheer fact or appreciation. http://www.crowdrise.com/teamemcnychalf2013/fundraiser/paulacarlson 

Many moms have thanked me for bringing awareness to issues and mortality rates of even women in this country. I was able to run with Christy Turlington, founder of the foundation one cold morning along the west side. She has given so much to this charity and was inspired by her own experiences.

While in my peaceful zen of the chlorinated blue this morning, I was inspired. I had never met Dylan Smith that I know of. He and I shared a love of water, lifeguarding, the Rockaways and helping others. Dylan heroically saved several people the night of Sandy in the Rockaways - using his surfboard and lifeguarding skills to do so. Tragically, he died surfing in Puerto Rico in December. A true hero. http://www.nbcnewyork.com/news/local/Sandy-Surfer-Hero-Dylan-Smith-Drowns-Rincon-Puerto-Rico-Rockaways-Belle-Harbor-184624921.html

So when I run those 13.1 miles in Central Park, through Times Square and down the West Side Highway, I will be running in memory of Dylan Smith.  He is an example that there are still selfless people in this world who just want to do the right thing.

http://vimeo.com/56697261

Ward Six

Written for Moira -- and her escape from the hospital during the initial days of the zombie apocalypse

            It was exactly how I envisioned it would feel if I were Sarah Conner in one of the Terminator movies: explosions, shots ringing out, soldiers, police, confusion, explosions… but this wasn't Terminator-this was a zombie epidemic and I was experiencing it firsthand.
            So, how did we get here? How did two girls from Brooklyn NY end up in this situation? It started out very simple really, two friends on a road trip to see college friends play hockey. Simple right?  We of course were late to the game because Abby forgot to set her alarm clock. In this instance, being late was a good thing. When we pulled up to the arena, we knew something really bad had happened.
            “Whoah, must have been an awesome fight or something.”
            “No, Abby, look, they’re bussing people away.”
            Dozens of buses were lined up outside the area. Ambulances stretched around the parking lot, the red lights creating an eerie sight against the snow.
            “Paula, call Jon. He’s already in there. We need to find out what is happening.”
            I grab my iPhone and try calling. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
            “They must be jamming signals.” I turn off the phone – just to preserve the battery. As we sit and think a BANG BANG startles us. A sheriff bangs again on our jeep with his flashlight. BANG BANG.
            “Move along. You can’t come in.” He has no expression whatsoever. He is neither scared, nor angry. Almost trancelike he tells us again, “Move along.”
            “Move along? Where are we supposed to go?” Abby waits for me to answer.
            “Where everyone else is going,” I say very confidently. Abby gives me the are you freaking kidding me look. “Don’t give me that look. What other options do we have? Jon was in there and now we have to rescue him.” I immediately begin to rustle through my bag.
            “What are you doing?” She moves the car into the lane of traffic all headed in the same direction.
            I pull out a diet coke and some Swedish fish. “Comfort food.”
            “You have an aero bar?” I hand her one and we drive, in a convoy to somewhere.
            “A hospital? Why are we going to the hospital?” Abby slows as a bus honks its horn behind us. People are being herded inside. Helicopters buzz overhead.
            “Are those soldiers?” I begin to doubt my decision to come here, but we need to find Jon. Jon is Abby’s brother. Think think think. “Okay, this is what we are going to do...you are going to tell them we are someone important – doctors, military, undercover –whatever – just don’t deter from the story."
            “Paula, it worked.”
            “Proves that if you say something with confidence, it can help get you anywhere,” we park the jeep to the side of the hospital. We decide on taking only two bags – one with food and one with weapons. Abby grabs a gun she carries when she travels; I grab a tire iron, an ice scraper and a knife I never thought I would have to use. I take out the essentials from my orange brigade go bag we need to travel light on this one I fear.
            We walk towards the soldiers at the front door who guard it against the screaming people being forced to go inside. “CDC.” That is all I say.
            “Head up to ward six, they are waiting for you,” says a soldier who looks like he is twelve.
            “Paula, what are we doing?” I have no idea but I can’t tell her that. We walk past people who look afraid, nurses who are whispering...and Jon.
            “Jon!!!”Abby rushes towards him, only to be met with a stern block.
            “Don’t touch him!” A nurse, wearing a mask gets between us and him. “He’s sick. Meningitis.” Jon is unresponsive and we are shooed away.
            “This isn’t meningitis. My mom is a nurse. We need to find answers.”
            Answers we would not find. We found rooms to hide in for the first three days. We gathered food from the vending machines. More people came in on busses. This was not meningitis. Suits, soldiers, people in hazardous material suits came and went. When it was really quiet, we would hear scream, then usually gunshots.
            Then – the announcement. Complete lockdown. Panic ensued. We really hadn’t ventured outside of our utility closets and bathrooms long enough to get a sense of what was really happening. Now was the time. It seems as if everyone was running around outside, screaming, shouting, banging, crashing.
            “What’s our plan?” Abby opens the bag and takes out her gun.
            “We try and find your brother. We also grab supplies – as much as we can. And then we try and leave this place...Ready?” We stand, hug and take deep breaths before opening the door to the unknown.
            An inhuman sound greats us. Half their face is gone. Abby immediately barfs.
            “Man up, Abby.” I hand her a towel. Not even thinking of running away just yet, a doctor run up to the creature in question and bashes it with a fire extinguisher right in the head.
            “Get out of here while you can....and you can only kill them by piercing the brain...”and then he runs away leaving me and Abby left alone to decipher the message.
            She laughs to herself, “Hey Paula, you ever see Night of the Living Dead?”
            “Are you kidding me? You think...you think they’re zombies?” As if on cue, a nurse and a young patient rush past us.
            She shrieks “Run, zombies!!!! Call Norman the Brigade Commander!! ” They get into an elevator and escape.  Silence envelops us again. Then so does darkness.
            “We follow them.” I grab Abby’s sleeve and pull her with me. “Stairs. Did they go up or down?”
            “Up I think,” says Abby but she doesn’t move very quickly.
            “Abby, I know you’re scared, but we have to find out what is happening and get out to get help....quick get down.” We duck in time before a whole horde of these undead beings move by. Then we hear more screams.
            “Let’s go!” We head towards the stairwell and make our way up where we hear the screams coming from. As we open the door, the screaming stops and the elevator dings as the doors close. In front of us is that poor nurse who led the girl down the hallway. He doesn’t look like he’s sick, but he’s bleeding. I open my bag and take out some caramel corn.
            “What are you going to do with that? And that’s mine anyway,” Abby grabs for the caramel corn but it spills all over the nurse. “We don’t have time, look!” Abby points to the undead that are coming down the hallway. “Let’s go...let’s get the girl!!”
            I hear Motley Crue  “Home Sweet Home “ coming from my bag.
            “I thought you turned your phone off?”
            “I did.” We rush back into the stairwell leaving zombie face alone with some new friends and the rest of Abby’s caramel corn. I read a text from my phone.

Urgent ZSC Warning – Zombie Outbreak

Rescue of Blue Brigade member Moira last

seen St. Vincent’s hospital.

Brigades unite and save our member

I quickly text back to Command

We just saw her – please send back up #OrangeBrigade

            Just as I hit send, the explosions began. Abby and I bolt to the first floor past dead, undead, and a trail of aero bar wrappers.
            “Looks like Willy Wonka was here.”
            SMASH!!! Glass shatters everywhere. And again she runs by us, this time, with an axe.
            “Moira!!!!” She doesn’t stop...she keeps running past us....

Thank You

It fascinates me to go back to my old writings. This was written in 2001, pre-9/11. The world seemed so simple back then.

Bono the singer of U2
George Harrison and his Old Brown Shoe
David the psalm-writer and king
Gordon Sumner only known as Sting
Oscar Wilde creator of Dorian Gray
Blues legend Stevie Ray
Jeff Buckley and his sweetheart the drunk
Johnny Rotten and Iggy Pop godfathers of punk
John Lennon – don’t forget McCartney
Keats, la belle dame sans merci
T-rex and Marc Bolan
Poe, that is, Edgar Allan
Isherwood's Streets of  pre-war Berlin
David Bowie, Starman and the White Duke so Thin
Edward Burns  and the Brothers McMullen
James Joyce and the people of Dublin
The martyr the lark Bobby Sands MP
Management of Grief Bharti Mukherjie
Nelson Mandela and South Africa
The cellist on the streets of Bosnia-Herzegovina
What we talk about when we talk about Raymond Carver
Existentialist Albert Camus the stranger
Georgie Best gone astray
Lemieux and his will to play
Moon shadow Cat Stevens
Stephen King’s Different Seasons
Strange Meeting Wilfred Owen dulce et decorum est
Frank O’Connor’s Nation’s Guest
White rose of Germany Sophie Scholl
Robert Downey Jr needs help not parole
Wim Wenders stay (faraway, so close) to me
Ned Kelly outlaw Aussie
Le roi d’amour Gavin Friday
Dave Matthews what would you say
Cicely’s Chris Steven’s and his record stacks
Monty Python’s lumberjacks
Jim Morrison oh don’t ask why
Mr. Rogers who taught me not to lie
Midnight Oil’s Beds are Burning
Joyce Carol Oates Where Are You Going
Frank Sinatra it was a very good year
Rice’s vampires give me no fear
Stephen the crazy Irishman
Steve Biko and Victor Jara not forgotten
Jimmy and the Metallica shirt
Robert Plant what oh a flirt
Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita
Ken Wark’s book on telesthesia
Calvin and Hobbes political and cartoon
REM’s Man on the Moon
Yeat’s LakeIsleof Innisfree
A sugery hot cup of Lady Grey Tea
Flacco’s burnt offerings
Sandman’s Plesant Ave. meanderings
Frank McCourt and the River Shannon
Mick Collins and Kitty Kiernan
Nevil Shute On the Beach
Names are becoming out of reach
My list will grow I’m sure more or less
Excuse me while I get myself another pint of Guinness

The Piper Is Calling You To Join Him

Your foot pushes the pavement away
The laws of physics you obey
Remember the house on Chocolate Street
You glide along, steadying with your feet
Miss Adams chases you with the meter stick
The board glides along the ramp, ready for a trick
The fire escape and your Metallica shirt
The time you threw our bikes in the dirt
Your hair, gold and tawny, sails behind you
Do you remember our sixth grade science class- - I do
Your knees bend- up the ramp you go
It seems like yesterday I really miss you so 
Airborne you fly
You are silhouetted in the sky
The poem you wrote about the sugar bowl and dad
The Zeppelin poster that made the sister mad
The wheels hit - - repeating again
Some of the games you played - - it was a sin
You build up speed You want to be freed
The wheels approach the edge of the nether
You strangle your arm time and again with a tether Your mother gone - - raised by a man To the edge of the earth you fly - - you can
Your veins are bursting, screaming
Today, yes, I find myself today still dreaming
Your poem comes true
As the wheels touch the blue
Razor steel punctures drawing life
You pierce the clouds - - your soul like a knife
Why as you fall to the ground
Why as your board falls - - to you once bound
The piper's calling you to join him
Just like in the song you sang to me, Jim
Does the stairway still lie in the whispering wind?