Oddness surrounds me.

Tuesday, I smiled at a woman as I drove by her while she waited at the bus stop.

She picked up a stone from a nearby rock bed and hurled it at me and my truck but missed.

Thursday, she waved while offering me a big grin.

Last Friday, I was delivering newspapers and picking up the money from places where our publication is for sale. Because of this, I get all sorts of coins.

In this case, I thought I had a Canadian penny, so I put it in my shirt pocket. My wife separates them when she counts the pennies because US banks do not accept them.

I collect them, other foreign coins, Sacagaweas, and wheat pennies.

Once home, I found it to be a Lincoln head penny I’d never seen before. A 2009 copperhead embossment with Lincoln’s childhood cabin on the reverse.

As I said, I’d never seen one, despite collecting pennies and searching each for wheat sheaves. I do this because not long ago, I found a 1919-S.

I even told my wife that I had never seen one before. She told me that she hadn’t either, even though she had 30 years of counting pennies as a sandwich shop manager.

Then yesterday, we received an ad for a complete set of four 2009 Lincoln head pennies, the only year issued. Thirteen years and suddenly twice in a week.

All I can think is that reality bubbles must have collided about 11:30 a.m., November 4th, changing mine.

My Cousin Elmo says, “It’s the day after the election and we’re left with the feeling that we’re sitting in divorce court waiting to find out who gets custody of us.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “Odd that an argument between two vegans is still called a beef.”

We had crossed the Wild Jubilee Refuge hundreds of times, chasing horses, donkeys, and mules, mending fence lines, and simply exploring, but it was the first either of us had seen the rock wall.

“What the hell?” Sally asked.

It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer.

We parked the truck, got out, and went to have a closer look at it. We agreed we were looking at what might be an old sheep fence.

The thing was at least six-feet high and so long that neither of us could see the far end of the structure. We were standing at the northernmost point of the wall, so we had that going for us.

“How long do you think it is?” Sally asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “But I think we should find out.”

“Okay,” Sally said. “You walk on that side, and I’ll walk on this side, and we’ll meet at the other end.”

It took about an hour to reach the end. However, when I stepped around the corner, I found myself standing near the truck from where I had started.

Half a minute later, Sally came around the corner. She looked as puzzled as I felt.

“How did that…?” she started to ask.

“Hell if I know,” I interrupted. “I think we should try it again, only this time you start on that side and I’ll walk on this side.”

Another hour passed, and again I rounded the corner, not only to find the truck where it had been all afternoon but Sally, too. We stood there, perplexed and with nothing to say.

“We have enough time to do it once more,” I said.

Sally sighed, “Okay.”

The results were the same.

“What do you think is happening?” I asked.

“You’re either dreaming and I’m in it or vice versa,” she said.

“Well, I’m thouroughly spooked and think we ought to get out of here before it gets dark,” I said.

Neither of us spoke as she drove back to headquarters.

That night, after getting home, I researched stone and rock walls and fences and found nothing to explain what we had witnessed earlier that day. Finally, I switched off the computer and headed for bed, where I dreamed of walking around that stone wall.

That morning, I grabbed my camera and headed back to the refuge. Sally was waiting, a cup of coffee in her hand and another on the hood of her truck.

Together, we drove back to the rock wall but could not find it. We knew we were in the right spot because I found my wild rag tied to a bush where I had left it the night before.

“What the hell?” Sally asked.

It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. Besides, I had none.

pirouetting cavort
golden leaves dance about me
our soles wearing out

For the legacy media: no one has denied the fact that an election took place, so to call people ‘election deniers’ is a mistruth. Instead, 83 percent of Americans polled by Gallup in May think our election system is suspect, so ‘fair-election skeptic’ is far closer to the truth.

The truth. You ought to try it sometime.

Studying everything I could get my hands on has led me to believe the ‘red wave’ that rural Nevada expects may not happen. Rural, in this case, is the media label given to every county in the state that is not Washoe or Clark Counties.

In other words, the legacy media believes people who live in these outlier counties are hicks, rubes, and know-nothings. But this is an aside and not the main subject.

The ‘red wave’ might not happen because of an algorithm shared by Washoe and Clark counties and embedded in voting machines. While not connected to the Internet or routers, they are programmed to tabulate ballots using the same algorithm.

These three images are from a lawsuit filed by Nevada Gubernatorial candidate Joey Gilbert, challenging the outcome of the June primary, in August. They show the algorithm in its entirety, and unless one is good at mathematical computation, which I am not, it is impossible to understand.

This final calculation is the easiest to break down. Here, read it for yourself:

Gilbert lost the court challenge as District Court Judge William Wilson decided not to accept the plaintiff’s experts. So, if the algorithm is still shared, it is easy to see that the election can, and most like will be rigged for whatever the desired outcome.

My Cousin Elmo says, “I can’t wait to set my clocks back so I can get an extra hour of unable to sleep.”

Barbie never liked being told what to do. By the time she was in high school, she had become openly rebellious toward authority.

Along with her challenging nature, Barbie also tended to be a bit of a wallflower. She had little use for socializing and the other silly things teenagers did.

One afternoon, the Home Economics teacher chastised Barbie for refusing to engage with her classmates: “If you ever expect to succeed in life, you need to learn how to be a social butterfly!”

Barbie laughed, then showed her true self by sprouting batwings and flying out the open window.