IT'S BEEN UP AND DOWN THE COUNTRY ROADS , IT'S BROUGHT A TEAR AND A SMILE , IT'S SEEN IT'S SHARE OF DREAMS AND HOPES AND NEVER WENT OUT OF STYLE

               Once , many years ago , it seemed that there were far too many strings , each too tightly strung and too close together and each hiding the secret tones that it held so tightly to it's vest.  In time , as such secrets were dug out into the light and wrested away forever , now mine to keep. Just six, that is all that there had ever been . I still found secrets even many years later , in the days when I knew everything.

           The ridged feel of wound metal , of smooth , cool , thin , stretched wire. The resonant warmth of nylon waiting for trained hands to form the voice of the player's soul .

        Cheap , modified instruments , sitting on the dirty sidewalk amid the butts and bottlecaps , pouring everything into a shaky acoustic box for pocket change but a smile or a nod , a clap or the jingle in a pants pocket is the pay cheque .

         Until a time when the sidewalk is a dirty , smoky club in a number of different places . Standing on a cheap ,  wooden stage with drunks in front of you and blaring amplifier behind , the trained fingers no longer serve masters long dead , now one master only rules , the compositions are simpler , the slight nylon vibration replaced by the deep , throaty growl of a Les Paul . Power reigns here and the pay is meager . adulation in it's least degree is the benefit.

        Attitude , the hunger to live the life of a star , to be what drove you on for so long . the clothes and the swagger , the hair too long and the leash on self control too loose with pockets like a pharmacy .  A life in power chords .

          In a moment all of those years crouched on the bedside , fearing a professor's frustration , a sidewalk cop's disdain , a bar manager's theft or an evening partner's addiction , all disappear , all for nothing . , the fingers were stilled and are still.

         The soul however has not given up on reaching out and has substituted string for keyboard keys words for chords.

Once again so very many strings , mysteries and hidden notes

      Only the soul lies quiet...

THE BLIND MEN SHOUT LET THE CREATURES OUT

               Moments before waking this morning I was far away from my warm bed . I was packed like a sardine in the tight , narrow tail gunner's nest of a large bomber , my legs too near to a heater without enough room to move away . The upper half of my torso was cold , numbed in the big , round bubble , my view was of the hand grips of the big machine gun .

              My only communication was through the crackling of my headphones , apparently we were somewhere deep behind enemy lines , the lines that generals and other officers saw on maps so clearly defined were blurred and hard to discern from way up here . Our large , explosive payload was putting a strain upon the  big propellers , the usual deep drone of the engines was up a tone or two . A burst of crackling static and the shutting down of the little overhead light makes me grasp the gun grips , my eyes frantically searching the skies , and then " There " I yell to nobody . Like flies they zip past the big , clear nosecone , most too quick to track , flickering fire dances from their wings as they swoop toward larger prey .

                I feel the impacts first , angry bullets whizzing through the thin skin of the bomber, none finding the explosive cargo . My legs finally have a relief from the too close heater as freezing wind screams in ... I struggle toward wakefulness feeling the icy cold on my legs , a freezing pain gnawing at the affected one and the last clear image before I revert to an old man needing to pee , is of a fighter streaking toward my bubble wing guns blazing , the big , double barrelled armament bucking hard and fast in my hands . I squeeze the triggers hard enough to hurt my fingers , trying to will more rounds out of the seaming barrels that way . As I shuffle through the dark room , trying not to step on the cat and wake my love , I step quietly into the washroom an old fella with very cold legs . I share this to explain my dear fellow survivors how it is that I learn from my brain even as I sleep . My right side worked hard all day the day before , my calf on that side burns a bit while my ever present nerves make the affected side feel cold . I leaned too hard on my cane all day and it's feel is like that of a pistol grip , my right wrist aches .  See ya in the skies Phil .

BETWEEN THE SALT WATER AND THE SEA STRAND

                   
                   Of the things either lost by me or stolen from me depending upon which me you ask , what has been the hardest to adjust to has been the music . A pain that is deeper and more chokingly silencing and that turns and twists the guts like a deer caught in barbed wire , the more that I fight it the more the ache fills my senses , the more that I grieve for the one thing that kills my pain .

                    The hours that were spent , hunched over an old guitar , ruining record albums by playing the same select parts over and over again , agonizing over the sounds I heard , frustrated at the ease and perfect grace of those magical fingers and the slow , clumsiness of my own .

                  All of my time was spent trying to live up to what I was supposed to be so that I could sit on that bed , that irritating , beautiful piece of wood digging grooves into my flesh hour after hour . Eventually it crept in secretly and without fanfare , my fingers caught on , they copied those notes in an awkward panicky way and then it happened. Though the spell remained it was one now of appreciation rather than envy . Success fuelled my enthusiasm and with practice came speed and with speed I felt my own cocky ease .

                Song after song , situation through experience , triumph after trampling I got better... and then , one fateful night , it was gone , the hours , the yearning and learning , the need and the speed was stolen , taking with it half of me including my left arm . So I sat for an eternity in a cold prison staring through the window bars for any sign of the man who had vanished until I heard the sound , the brilliant musical sound of the key to me prison , opening the lock and releasing thoughts of possibility again , an angel held the key and in my daze she said
               " Please , play my harp ."

AND IT'S GETTING HARDER EVERY DAY FOR ME

         I knew a guy once , no genius but a hard worker . Never had he grown beyond that childhood veil of immortality , he ignored the doctors and their pills, brushed away his poor wife's fears and he quieted both his own worries , pain and fears with too much alcohol

             One night , while he slept a thief crept in , no not the usual kind, this intruder slunk through vein and artery until it reached the guy's brain at a juicy spot called the basal ganglia. The saboteur cranked open the closed valves as he closed up the open , he flipped switches on and off and sent all of the body's system alarms , waking the guy up.

                Still half asleep the guy sat up , something was wrong ! Slowly , as his body awoke with him , the fellow had an odd sensation , a tingly still-asleep sort of feeling in his left arm. The arm felt numb as well  " AAAWWWW CRAP ! " he thought , he knew what a numb left arm could mean for an older , overweight , man with diabetes and high blood pressure . He paced around back and forth until he ignored his company cel phone ringing with another , high stress , no thanks problem and h went upstairs to tell his wife that he needed to get to the hospital .

                    They caught a cab and walked into the E.R. together and then among the bustling staff and beeping machines and being loaded into a helicopter destined for another city , the guy was pushed out of himself by the terrorist in his brain . Parts of him , traces if you will still remained lodged into place but the essence of the man that he was had been replaced with a copy , one yet to be imprinted with his speech and mannerisms .  The differences were not noticed though because in the confusion the interloper named 'the Stroke ' had caused , the entire left half of the body refused to function any more . As the guy rejoined the conscious he did so adjusting , to his broken body his broken brain and broken identity . An imposter housed in the original .

FROZEN SOUL , FROZEN DOWN TO THE CORE

                Now , I am a Canadian and that means that I have either all rights to complain about the cold or that I have no right at all , never the less , I will most likely apologize for complaining anyway . I have never really liked the cold very much , as a result of my heritage , I understand it's necessity and I accept it's place in the cycles of my life . I dress warm , in layers and I know how to walk on ice , in true Canadian fashion , if and when I do fall on ice , it is unlikely that I will spill either coffee or beer when I do .

             In 2014 when my life was diverted into Strokeland , I found that not only are the nights here cold , Winter finds us everywhere , and stroke cold is worse thanm regular cold , It intensifies , it plays puppeteer with affected limbs , sends nerve impulses rocketing like high - speed trains , too fast for the tracks in our brains . The frigid demons twist at our anxieties , it nudges panic ever closer to the edge of reason and muscles to the painful point of nearly breaking .

              Turning up the heat helps nothing , icy tendrils creep off from the frosty buildup on windows , drafts , the envelope of fresh on a visitor's coat .  The saddest method of all is the suggestion made by a weatherman on T.V. , a glimpse of falling snow beyond the window glass . It is our thoughts , we know the feeling of cold , carry it's memory with us . Our own brain can make us shiver on a sunny beach , can make our fingers numb with a whisper to our nervous system . All that we know , the trial , the error , our learned behaviours and responses , our experience , these things are yours , are in our war chests...but the brain keeps a chest of it's own filled with our same weapons , for it knows our defences so very well .

                    I know all of this , have learned it the way that I learn most things " Looked easy , wasn't and it hurt over a stupid long time " I understand how my brain is working counter to what I believe that I want , my eyes are open , inward and out .
" BUT I AM STILL COLD DAMMIT ! "

           Canadian SOCIAL CONVENTION DICTATES THAT I APOLOGIZE AT THIS POINT , in case any are offended and someone out there probably is .  You can put on a sweater or crank up the heat if you want to my dear fellow survivors but the real thermostat that needs some calibration is the one in the asttic .                        Bundle up folks it's a cold one out there . Phil .

               

THE OTHER NIGHT I LAID SLEEPING AND I WOKE FROM A TERRIBLE DREAM

                 This is a story about Ricky.  Ricky works in a place where everyone works in teams , to work alone is too problematic and now , with his partner off sick , Ricky has to try and get the job done , he has bills to pay . There is lifting to be done and the only way for one to do what two once did is to use his body to help balance the weight , painful but effective .

                  There are more intricate tasks as well , One partner need only hold steady a machine piece while the other feeds in another , it is frustrating work to do alone , without a steadying grip .  There are seals to be opened , broken by the combined torque of two working teammates , work that is unnecessarily difficult for only one .

                  This all makes for monotonous , long days for Ricky , Every aspect of his routine has changed and he had become something different , like a weight lifter without a spotter , a surgeon with failing eyes . In his memory there lived the knowledge of so many tasks being mastered  as they were achieved .

                    It was into this foggy confusion that Ricky learned that there would not be a sunny day when his team was suddenly whole again , it would not be quick . Ricky was told that he would be getting a trainee , one unfamiliar with the work ,  that he must train and if he were patient , mold into a fitting team member .

                   When it came to be time to meet , it became apparent that the new guy was clumsy , was essentially useless , this was going to take a long , long time . Larry , the trainee , was certainly strong enough but should the lifting be any more complicated than straight up and down ,  say , placing the object on a higher level of to one side , suddenly Larry was confused and muddled .  When it came time to hold tight a component for more intricate work , Larry was able to grip competently but seemed unable to hold it at the right angle for Ricky to do the fine work .

                   Torque , Larry would grip , nod that he had his part ready but when Ricky twisted it was with absolutely no resistance . Over a very long time , Larry got stronger and though it strained him greatly , he could apply some torque , could turn the pieces so that they could mesh together properly .  People praised Ricky for his patience and hard work over the very long training time . I wonder myself sometimes if Ricky even truly remembers what the symbiotic work of a full team felt like , if he was now working to a different form of that original .

                " Who cares , as long as it works right ? " Ricky would answer .


CAST  of STORY :

Ricky -  Phil's right hand

Larry -  Phil's affected left hand

As the Tasks - lifting a laundry basket ,  zipping up a zipper , opening a jar or a tube of toothpaste .

Written and narrated by - Some Hack .

AND IT SEEMS TO ME THAT YOU'VE SEEN TOO MUCH IN TOO FEW YEARS

              Nerves , I have had episodes of my life with too few and too much of them but over the past few they are like an enemy to me , an adversary , though one that teaches as it plots .

             Cold days are the worst , they awaken the beast and I become acutely aware of each and every feeling on my affected side . I feel the nerve impulses rocketing up and down my body , they shock the limbs that have felt so little for too long and they pound against the walls of my brain , no longer welcome in their former home .

             The brain however , is quite aware that it's former child is knocking at the door . The frustration of one million pieces of information , that which the brain craves and requires , assault it's defenses so continuously is painful , on too many levels . The old grey matter is subjected , post - stroke to an obscene amount of unfamiliar pain . Emotional pain , nerve pain and even the raw and devastating pain of the amputation of identity . This exists , I was robbed of the man that I once was , an imperfect individual certainly but one that I had known since birth , had grown up with and I possessed no power over this degrading insult , the pain that it causes is as deep and haunting as any that I have ever known and there is nothing but an invisible , unseen entity to blame .

              I have no nefarious figure to hate , no evil villain to plan against , no masked assailants to get all Helsinki over , confusion and fear are a form of pain too for just the right brain , one that knows so intimately what scares and terrifies , which buttons to push .

                One constant remains though my dear fellow survivors and that is that I do what it is that we all do , I survive . Getting through this fog of change and the unexpected is our thing and if we are fortunate , we learn from it , from the effect upon our bodies , our minds and then , should this same mix of challenges mount once more against us , it will not find a surprised and unsuspecting adversary cowering in it's path but a force that is prepared for it's best .

                   This brain of yours has been a mystery , especially lately but it has been with us for as long as we remember and that memory is knowledge and knowledge is power in this fight . Learn from it and use all that you learn , see you on the battlefield  Phil .

           

ONE OF THESE DAYS , i'M GONNA CHANGE MY EVIL WAYS

          Strokeland the sun is always just a little hotter here , the nights colder . I find myself imagining that it was all a vast sea bed once , the air carries it's salt into every pore , cakes me with it for we , the air and I , are all that moves here. Oh there is movement from the peripherie , it can be heard , a subtle skittery sound when a focussed eye turns their way .

          The living are the agressors hereabouts , the plants the skittering , rodent-like insects are horned and cruelly barbed . I have no idea if I am as well , I am changed tha much is clear but in appearance ?  I only know that I am feeling , not for the first time , like prey .

        On my first full day here I found a thin , bark I guess it was upon which an unsteady hand had scratched the small dried up scroll hund from a clawed branch .

     " They feed on me at night . It makes the Bloodwinds burn my flesh and sting my eyes , tell Em I tried but it don't ever end ." It was rolled up and in my bag still , I had no idea who this Em might be but I did feel a debt to my fellow traveller that I could not put word to . I needed to find something more soon , I needed to eat and water .  There had been a puddle , or some sort of seep from below a ways back but in there had been what looked like a cross between a rat and a lobster , bloated and floating so I'd passed by .

              My side , the left one was getting heavier now , the limbs losing strength and any use at all , I was managing a dragging , shuffle at best . I wanted to scram at the desolation all around me but what ? I'd no memory of the how or why of my being deposited in this Hell ," Jeezus , for all I know I might be Em " I laugh.

THEN THE LIGHT BEGINS TO SHINE , AND I HEAR THOSE ANCIENT LULLABIES

             There is an aspect of recovery and of post stroke life that is often a contentious one for many survivors , and that is FAMILY .  Now I know that we do not emerge from our travels in strokeland unscathed and I know that others do not always understand the storms in our heads . They do exist though , in our heads , our hearts , our memories and even if they are not physically with us and Bob is being an ass or Joe just expects you to be just like you were before your world turned upside down , the part of you that connected you to them still connects you...no matter which is being an ass them or you .

             There is and always will be that you who strives to be what your family needs and expects you to be , to live up to your expectation , to your responsibility . I struggled to become the patriarch of a family from a wheelchair , from a more broken mindset than I realized , I was not being asked for help in moving in my children's first home repairs . I was unable to do repairs in my own home , to cut my own grass or shovel my own driveway , to change even a lightbulb . My self esteem and my vision of where I stood , or sat in the scheme of things was altered greatly .

             As Christmas approaches , my advice to my wonderful wife , to spend less time working to make things perfect and spend time instead within the familial embrace , hits me pretty close to home . I should spend less time in my own little world , less time on what I cannot do , less on how I feel .

            Bask in it my dear fellow survivors , let down your defences and notice others , feel the closeness , feel  grandchildren on your knee and relive the memories that even something like a stroke could not steal , take advantage of  the custom and sentiment of the season and put down the weight of your world for one day , consider it a start . Do not expect change of others if you are unwilling to change yourself .

           I wish you all Happy and Peaceful  holidays this too we shall survive  Phil.