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Inside Mike’s brain. Take a tour. (Blog edition).

Note: This published Monday Jan. 6 on AL.com. Here’s the top of the story and a link to the full length version:

This is an opinion column by Mike Oliver who writes about living with Lewy body dementia.

Come on in.

Welcome.

Welcome to my brain.

The brain is the big boss. This is where it begins — and possibly ends.

I have a brain. (Thank God I was in the right line for that).

But I am not my brain.

Sure, my brain is the Bill Gates of my operation on Earth. But Gates has many thousands who make up Microsoft. Of course it’s all directed and put in play by Gates. When my stomach hurts my brain tells me. But my stomach almost simultaneously mobilizes the forces to find whatever distresses it and help with a fix. The brain keeps the light on while the body parts do their job.

The brain is me but not me only. It’s the conductor of a million symphonies as my body comes together in symbiotic synchronicity. Harmony.

But not always, and certainly not forever. My brain is broken now.

It’s leaking Lewy bodies.

And depending on the source, one lives an average of 4 to 9 years after diagnosis. I was diagnosed, first with Parkinson’s and later Lewy body dementia in 2016. In an internal battle, proteins are killing my brain cells by the 10′s of millions. Near the end, autonomic will not be automatic.

So, welcome to my brain. Let’s have a little fun. (That’s my new motto).

Full story here.

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His and Hurricanes, Pt. 9

SCENE: Courtroom  222  in a massive underground city beneath the dead city of Orlando. The new city was called Boybando. No  one knows why. It is still the year 2525,

Burnees stood tall before the judge. She knew he would order her killed so she thought she might as well have some fun. You know that kind of fun that makes the target explode.

JUDGE: Burnees Firesky, how do you plead to these charges?

BURNEES: Which charges?

JUDGE: These charges you have been brought up on — corrupting God-fearing people, blasphemy. sedition and 10 charges of antagonistication

‘BURNEES: I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t recognize your jurisdiction o’er me. Your jurisdiction needs some consultation,

JUDGE: What are you saying?

BURNEES: I am reminded of the words of Prosby who said it so profoundly:
Gonna dig ya on a scoobydoo. Gonna gitcha on’a scubadie
Ooh boog-a-boo you. You ooh boog-a-boo you, little boy
Get hip to the consultation of the boolawee.

JUDGE: See Ms. Firesky this is just the kind of thing that has gotten you into so much trouble. And don’t ever say ‘boolawee’ in my court again.

BURNEES:: You say that because you are not hip to the consultation of the boolawwee.

JUDGE: Out of order. Now Ms,Firesky you now have 11 charges of antagonistication. I sentence you to be hung, no, nailed to a tree, a tall tree, with rusty nails. What do you have to say for yourself?

BURNEES: Well, in the words of Akfak: “He who seeks does not find, but he who does not seek will be found.”

The Judge started to talk but Burnees continued. “But she who seeks will find and she who does not seek will not be found.:

Again the judge , very confused now, tried again but Burnees continued louder. “And she who seeks sea shells by the seashore will sell sea shells by the seashore but how many sea shells fetched from the sea shore will she sell?

Miles away, both vertically and horizontally, Prosby shifted from shadow to shadow on his way to the Alexander Springs portal. He may die trying but he was on his way to rescue Burnees.

TO BE CONTINUED …

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His and Hurricanes (Pt. 8 in a serial story)

“Stop there,” muscle head said.

He had a gun Prosby noticed, a Walter PP, pretty bad-ass pistol.

Prosby didn’t realize he said that out loud.

“I’ll show you how it works and fired a shot that whizzed by Prosby’s right ear.

“Now go ahead, piss and let’s go.”

Prosby turned to a tree. He took his time.

“Hey come on,” muscle head said. “Nobody takes this long.”

“I have a UTI,” Prosby said, confusing meathead.

And that’s when meathead made a meathead mistake.

He grabbed Prosby by the arm to turn him around and Prosby instantly had his hand on the gun, Using two hands with  lightning speed, Prosby snapped it upward, the sound of the gunshot straight up into the sky almost overpowered the sound of muscle brain’s wrist snapping like a rubbery chicken bone. Almost simultaneously, Prosby smashed the nose with his elbow and kneed him in the groin.

That was too easy, Prosby thought, putting the pistol in his waistband. Yes it  was too easy.

The other Dani Boy, the 6-foot-7-inch Gladiator reject and part-time driver, had Prosby in a crushing bear hug from behind.

Prosby managed to grab the Gladiator’s pinkies and snap them like wishbones while simultaneously stomping on his attacker’s foot.

“I love you too but not in the mood tonight,” Prosby  said, grabbing a handful of his Thor-like yellow hair and bringing down his head  to meet Prosby’ crunching knee lift to the face.

“Night-night,” Prosby said.

The  fight moves were courtesy of an ancient but little know self defense art said to have emanated out  of a game called basketball.

The defensive fight moves are called OMH, which no one can remember the meaning. It came from Alabama as basketball games became more and more violent. A tribe of older men needed a way to protect themselves, using techniques of basketball, like the Elbow Bash, the Wrist Snap, the Ankle Breaker, the Eye Gouge and the Rock Pick. These ancient techniques can be traced back to a day called Madness when tribes from near and far came to battle and ‘no blood, no foul’ became its creed.’

Now was time for Prosby to run. Dani would be coming and she will not be happy with her boys’ work. Now in a Level 2 Air Zone, gas masks were unnecessary in this part of Florida. But he took Gladiator’s anyway, and hung it with his own on a hip pack designed just for that.

He heard Dani’s voice calling out for her boys as he began to move lightly, quickly and decisively under the cover of the woods and darkness.

…..To Be Continued

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Hisicanes and hurricanes (Pt. 7)

[Scene Part 7. Prosby still trying to figure out why he is being kidnapped, looks for an escape from the crazy psychopathic Dani and two of her muscle heads.]

It was midnight in Bithlo. Prosby had been tied up, mask on, in the back of a pick-up truck since they left the Panhandle town of Dothan.

Dothan was relatively safe. Bithlo was not.

But because the ocean had covered 70 percent of Florida over the past few hundred years, the only way to get to Orlando was through Bithlo.

Prosby banged his head on the rear view glass to try and get Dani’s attention. She wasn’t driving, one of her steroid enhanced men was at the wheel. He looked about 6’7” and a chiseled 250 pounds. Another one, was quite a bit shorter but probably heavier. As one North American comic put it years ago: His muscles had muscles.

Prosby shook his head. How did this happen?

And then there was Burnees. They were friends in childhood, lovers thereafter. Then their world changed. Hell, everybody’s world changed.

Larger hisicanes and hurricanes, tornadoes with winds off the charts, and the rains that never stopped — except when they stopped… they really stopped.

Last time he saw her, Prosby and Burnees were broke in an ever-disappearing Baton Rouge. They hopped aboard an 18-wheeler and headed west, singing, playing harmonica. Last time he saw her was in California, some godforsaken town. Lodi, maybe? Prosby’s memory was failing him.

He was officially diagnosed years ago, with the little known brain disease called the Woolies, a condition named after Dr. Chapo Wulu, believed caused by radiation exposure. The radiation cultivated killer proteins nicknamed Memory Monsters. Prosby was in early stages but he knew someday his memory would be wiped. On days like this, maybe that’s a good thing.

Salinas! The memory though a late arrival decided to visit. That’s right. Beach town probably underwater now. He remembered that he and Burnees had such great expectations.

But she walked away. ..Anyway.

He never saw her again. He had heard the rumors though. That she was working for the Guardians or hiding from the Guardians. He was glad to hear she was still living nonetheless. He wondered what the witchy woman Dani wanted.

Prosby was snapped out of his reverie by the short muscle head standing over him as the truck came to a stop.

“Hey Popeye,” Prosby said to the man glaring at him. “Gonna whip up some spinach omelettes for us?”

“Shut up unless you want me bounce your head on the street,” said square-muscle.

“Good one, muscle head,” Prosb y said, actually impressed with bicep-boy’s ability to string words together into a sentence.

“Whasssup!” Dani said smiling, emerging from the passenger side, raising her hands and dancing. You two boys introducing yourselves? Big meathead stayed in the driver’s seat looking straight ahead.

Prosby suspected Dani was on cocaine, pharmaceutical.

“I gotta take a leak,” Prosby said.

“Aww nature calls,” Dani said. “You know I may be calling too, soon. As they say, let nature take it’s course.”

She flicked her head to square peg indicating for him to take Prosby for a short walk.

“Stay with him,” she said. “Don’t try anything Prosby, he has orders to kill if you run and he has killed lots of running people.”

“And Prosby, even if you do run and escape the killing machine that is my man here, you’ll be running in Bithlo. The twitching freaks and their dog hybrids will kill you and cut you up for dinner in quick time”

To be continued ...

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His and Hurricanes of the future (Part 6)

(Continued …)

SCENE: Back of truck leaving warehouse. Prosby about to find they want him to bring them the love of his life, the long-missing Burnees.

Ghosts. They were out in force tonight. You can see them out of the corner of your eye. Electric flashes, low glows and aural deceptions. Faces. Lots of faces.

Prosby knew he should have gone to the Underground sooner then he did. And stopping in that old tavern wasn’t the brightest thing he’s done either.

The trouble was and still is getting access to the Underground, a system of caves and tunnels all over the world providing shelter and comfortable living now that the Surface was hostile to living things.

But first he had to get away from these threatening people. 

Dani, the woman with the jumpsuit came in. She and Prosby talked. She flirted unabashedly. Prosby knew she’d just as soon kill him with a quick jab in the eye with one of her 8-inch silver plated ice picks. Each had different handles, polished mahogany, ivory and bone.

Prosby knew this because she carried what looked to be about eight of these shiny weapons in a sort-of holster around her hips.

Seeing him eye the silver picks, she deftly, before he could move, held one up to the corner of his eye.

“I could pop your eye out like a cherry,” she said, smiling slightly. “Put it on top of a milkshake.”

She moved the pick around his eye over his nose and onto his lips.

Prosby did not flinch or move. He figured he’d lose an eye in the deal, but would choke her out before she could pull the pick out of his eye. Prosby had formal training from the best. He was very good with his hands.

“I can also enter your brain through the roof of your mouth. She tapped his teeth twice before holstering and walking away.

Dani led a gang that smuggled in high grade pharmaceuticals for illicit use. Stuff like prescription opioid pills, liquid morphine, amphetamines and various psychedelics.

Most of that stuff was impossible to make in the Underground because however hostile the Surface had become, it still contained the ancient laboratories where the drugs could be made in volumee.

Dani, told Prosby the Guardians were honing in on their business and had killed several of Dani’s Men — the name she gave her organization. Not a shy woman.

The Guardians, a quasi governmental agency charged with keeping the peace and knocking down any insurrections, was by default, the acting city government. They were officially investigating the Bang (the night the world shook).

Florida was one major entry point, to the Underground. But you had to know which of the hundreds of freshwater springs, which bubbled up into surface pools, provided the doorway.

There were several doorways to the Underground at the bottom of Florida’s freshwater springs. Prosby had been headed to Orlando where there were said to be multiple doorways.

But there were also 100s of DIzz Robots, animatronic, killers created by the Creekers, a band of approximately 4,000 people, ancestors of the security, police and fire district that gained power and wealth through their takeover of a massive amusement park several hundred years ago. From its origins,the park was a worldwide destination for families and children. It later slid into a major casino and gambling operation bringing in the attendant leeches of drugs, sex for sale and corruption. The Creekers, who already had legislative autonomy from oversight, seized and maintained control with their Dizz robots, which once were used to educate children about USA and world history.

Abraham Lincoln alone is said to have killed more than a 100 people trying to get to the Underground. The Lincoln Dizz bot is said to recite the “Gettysburg Address” as it kills its victim.

The Creekers held an unholy alliance with the Guardians whose DC-based organization was essentially the US government. The Creekers lived in the ruins of the vast 40-square https://myvinylcountdown.com/his-and-hurricanes-a-serial-story/mile amusement park.

From Dani, Prosby picked up that they were going to Orlando. He had to make a move. As dangerous as it was he needed to make it to Bithlo, which was near Orlando and where Prosby knew someone who might be of help.

(To be continued … )

For Previous Installments of His and Hurricanes

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Hurricanes and hisicanes of the future (Pt. 4)

( … continued)

SCENE: Warehouse near End of the Line Tavern.

Prosby rubbed his head, wincing at the  pain from the  wound on the side of his head.

He  was cold on the concrete slab floor. He wasn’t restrained.

“Again Mr. Prosby, may I offer you some water, or perhaps something stronger?”

The woman appeared to be in her 40s, wearing some kind of one-piece zip-up suit with lettering on the right side of her chest, like something an auto mechanic might wear. Only it was bright neon blue.

The lights greatly enhanced his headache and he tried to stand up. He fell to a knee, inviting laughter from the woman and others he could not see.

“What do you want?” he asked,  giving up on trying to stand.

:Well,  Mr. Prosby, the question is ‘What do you want? Actually and more precisely, the question is: Do you want to live or die.”

“We all die some time,” He snapped back quickly, with sarcasm.

‘You’re death will be sooner than the natural world would give you and, trust me, it will be much much more painful,’ The woman in the jumpsuit continued. “And I will personally see to that.’

“You see, Mr. Prosby, our deal comes with an expiration date. It’s not a pay as you go sort of thing. If you don’t accomplish this task, and bring us what we seek, by that certain date, you will expire.

His mouth moved to answer but he couldn’t hear a word he said because of the deafening metal machine music.

To be continued …

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Little things lead to something bigger (blog version)

Mike Oliver writes frequently about life and health issues and his diagnosis of a fatal brain disease, Lewy body dementia, on AL.com and his blog, www.myvinylcountdown.com
It’s the little things for which I’m thankful.
It’s the little things that bring joy to life on this spinning sphere of mud, rock, and water.
I’m thankful for the red Maple leaf that spins to the ground like a ballerina.
A quiet lake with the sun powering through the clouds. I am thankful.
I am thankful for small observations that invite a deeper reality. Living in the world is both illusory and concrete, full of heartache and pain. From the head, the heart and the soul.
A roaring ocean with storm clouds gathering at dawn like hungry white wolves.
I’m thankful for the moments that defy life’s suffering. Roller coasters, trampolines and front porch swings.
Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams and fairy tales.
Handpicked blackberries in a cobbler, hot with a scoop of fast melting vanilla ice cream.
An after dinner Thanksgiving walk. Holding hands.
The rust-colored poodle who thinks he’s golden, running the house like a greyhound after being let in from the cold.
Lightning and thunder and the inherited primal fear of it, a tiny injection of prehistoric adrenaline.
Understanding that disappointment is a manipulative device with a pinch of well meaning, but misplaced, love.
Yellow and red leaves of autumn like stained glass in November’s leaning light.
Pancakes and maple syrup, carb loading on a cold day.
A sincere compliment that makes you smile and stumble.
Hot yoga, frozen yogurt and boiled peanuts.
Sonny and Cher singing I got you, babe.
My 20-something daughter saying ‘I know this song.’
I am thankful for the little things.
They add up.
To a bigger thing.
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Hurricanes and hisicanes of the future (Pt. 3)

(continued … )

(Scene: Dark warehouse near End of the Line Tavern in the  year 2525)

A spike of cold air pushed through in that two seconds it took for the door to close. It’s already turned cold. Usually a bad sign. Means another cycle will start. Just hope it’s a small one spinning this time.

Tornadoes and Hurricanes have become more and more like the same thing, the bigger and more widespread they become.

Prosby  saw the shadows, slipping to the corners. Rats?  Birds? Ghosts?

The darkness was virtually absolute, few had working power in this part of the US, even when there wasn’t a storm. The stars popped out of their sockets. The skies’eyes.

Prosby never saw it, didn’t remember it. The blow to the temple.

Prosby remembered the cold before the pain, perhaps a good sign. He remember the voice. It was like a child’s.

“How are you Mr. Prosby? Can I get you something to drink?”ed

{To Be Continued … }

Go here for 2 and here for 1.

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His and Hurricanes in the future (Part. 2)

 …continued

(Scene is End of the Line Tavern in the year 2525)

 Old Timer: “People say it’s climate warming or global changing or some shit like that. Ha. They been having them for years. The one in 2511 is legend.”

Of course Prosby knew the 2511 storm. Everyone with a well-made Walkie Talkie knows that one. Cat 5 with sustained winds of 220 mph. Turned St. Petersburg  into Florida’s Venice.

Forty-foot storm surge dug its own canals.

Old Timer: “Glad I wasn’t down there at the time. You know 678 people died.”

Both men knew that much of Florida is underwater now. There is some dry land in Bithlo, but then you gotta live in Bithlo.

Lightning storms and meth heads made it difficult to venture out in that area of Florida anyway. Refugees from the now underwater Daytona Beach came to occupy Bithlo bringing more drugs upon drugs.

Prosby looked for the bartender, sat in silence for a while and then asked a question of the Old Timer.

“What is it then that storms coming out of nature keep getting bigger and bigger. If not climate change, what is it? God trying to kill us or trying to scare the hell out of us?”

“Don’t be skeered,” Old Timer said. “Just watch the spirals.”

Unconsciously Prosby put my hand on my gas mask, a high end military grade CBRN. Most folks wore them outside and lived in highly filtered airtight homes or apartments. If you didn’t wear one outside, it would only take a month or so before you were coughing up blood.

“Spirals? You mean these hisicanes and hurricanes?”

“No, something bigger,” he said, strapping on his pistol as he made a move for the door.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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His and hurricanes in the future

Part 1

It is the year 2525, and a storm described as ‘apocalyptic’ is barreling down on Florida and Alabama’s Gulf Coast.

The TV reporters hyperventilate and exaggerate their inability to stand in a stiff breeze.

But this is a big one. The biggest they say since the National Weather Service upped the gender equality correctness by calling the boy’ hurricanes, ‘hisicanes.’

This is Hisicane Donald.

Millions of Americans stared, transfixed by the spiral on TV screens.

Counterclockwise swirling. Hypnotizing.

It looked like the cosmic spiral of our galaxy.

Everybody asked: When is landfall? Where is landfall? When is that TV reporter going to be conked in head by a wind-driven coconut?

Hisicane Donald’s path had been surprisingly fast moving.

And it is upon us now.

Some people had chosen to flee, pack up the car and head out. Others chose to stay, shoring up their houses with boards and their doors and yards with sandbags.

And some, hesitated, caught up in staring at the spiral and wondering if it is really worth running from or should they just ‘hunker down.’

This is historic. Never been seen before, the TV blared.

“This your first ‘herckun?’ Old timer nursing a 16-oz PBR asks.

Prosby had just walked in and sat down at the End of the Line Tavern.

“Oh no, no,’ Prosby said.

To Be Continued …