Some how I became turned around; not lost, but extremely confused. I sat down in the shade of a rock overhang and sipped from my canteen, waiting for the feeling to leave, but it refused.

Above me, circled a murder of crows, crying and calling to each other, also in confusion. Suddenly, they went silent and I looked up to see they’d disappeared.

Seconds after, I heard their resumed cry — only this time they were half a mile north of where they had been. I pulled myself to my feet and began walking in that direction.

It were as if a siren-song called me to move towards the latest position in which the murder circled. I soon forgot about my confusion, instead focusing on the fact that the birds had simply vanished from one point in the sky and reappeared in another.

As I moved closer to the bird’s location, I stopped to look back, a habit I had formed over the years of hiking through the desert, and found myself astonished at the sight of paired Suns. “It’s gotta be an atmospheric phenomenon,” I tried to convince myself.

Turning back to the trail ahead, I realized the crows had again disappeared. This time as I searched the sky above me to the northern horizon, I actually saw them materialize.

At first, I was unable to process what I’d seen, thinking I may have fallen for a trick-of-the-eye due to the distance, but then I heard their terrified shrieking and therefore knew something strange had occurred. I had the overwhelming sense it was something I was not supposed to have seen, mixed with the same overwhelming sense that I needed to pursue the birds and their shifting as I’d come to call it.

With renewed vigor, I scrambled over and between rocks, creating a trail of my own. I needed, as if driven by an unseen force, to see what lay beyond the next set of outcroppings before me.

Fifteen minutes later, provided my pocket watch was still maintaining proper time, I arrived at the top of a craggy precipice overlooking a camping site. The birds, still flying overhead, screamed and shrieked, as every few seconds they seemingly disappeared and returned.

Watching the birds, I looked at my hands, wanting to know if I too were disappearing and returning as they were; I wasn’t. Then I took note of the camping site, the large off-white canvas tent that stood in the near-center, also appearing to flicker from sight and back again.

From it came the crying of a man, suffering greatly, not only in physical pain, but emotional pain. I slowly descended from my rock-bound perch, towards the tent and the excruciating sounds emanating from within the clothe confines.

Surrounding the site were various petroglyphs, Paiute in origin, many looking remarkably ageless and others looking as ancient as others I had seen among the rocks of the high desert. Quietly and carefully, I walked around the back of the tent, where I noticed how old the design appeared.

“Mid-to-late 1800’s?” I questioned my judgment.

Still the awful sound that echoed from the interior urged me to hasten my pace towards the opened flaps of the tent. Much to my surprise, I found a seated man, who repeatedly jumped to his feet and rushed towards the opening, only to snap back into his original position in the rear of the tent.

Over and over, I watched this scene play out – this bearded man, dressed in a dirty-white, shin-length night-shirt, – returning to sitting, to rising, to rushing, screaming all the while. The tent’s interior looked remarkably clean and comfortable, with a carpet covering the sandy ground, a wood framed cot, blankets and a small writing desk with chair.

After observing his agony for about a minute, I realized that he was not of my century, nor did he initially see me standing in front of his open tent. His pained screams caused me to want to reach out to him, to help him, so I drew closer.

That’s when he saw me. His terror-filled eyes blazed into me, as he jumped to his feet and raced towards me, only to disappear and then reappear within the flicker of my eyelid’s movement.

Two more times, this man moved through his personal Hell, before he changed from screaming in eternal agony to broken English. His eye’s darted back and forth as he spoke, “Getz avay…”

He flashed from sight, popping back into view at the back of the tent, “Before it…”

Again, gone, again returned, “…traps you…”

Repeating the same bodily movement, he screamed in German, “…lauf! Jetzt!”

This time, unlike his earlier movements, the man seemed to will himself towards the tent’s opening much more forcefully than he had before. The exaggerated motion caused me to jump backward and tumble-down the embankment.

“Lauf! Gottverdammt…” he shout as I came to rest on my back, spread out like a hawk in flight. I looked up, watching as the murder of crows vanished, still shrieking in terror.

Quickly, I rolled over, scrambled to my feet and up the embankment. The tent, the man, everything had disappeared – not even an imprint the tent remained in the sandy loam of the desert floor.

Heeding his warning, I ran into the crags, from which I first came. My head, though feeling light, refused to allow my legs to stop for even an instant as I raced over rocks, outcroppings and sandy patches of ground towards my truck.

Once at my truck, I climbed behind the steering wheel and fumbling with my keys, finally getting the vehicle started. I sped away and drove to the parking lot of a roadside restaurant, where I finally broke down and cried.

Not only did the stress of the weirdness overpower my emotional sensibilities, but I cried a violent stream of tears for a man, who, trapped in an endless loop of time, had the forethought amid his nightmare, to warn me off his path.

Can you say, “Jus’ like Jim Acosta?” I knew you could!

It’s a rather common occurrence for me — getting placed in ‘FB jail’ from time to time. That’s where I am after opining that CNN’s Jim Acosta physically battered the woman trying to take the White House Press Corps’ microphone away from him upon the direction of President Trump.

In what my wife calls a ‘heated exchange,’ someone demanded in so many words, that I ‘sit down and be quiet,’ that I was being ‘abusive’ towards the woman whose opinion I challenged. My retort was that this is the same thing Trump did to Acosta and yet what they are calling  ‘ a wrong,’ in this case, is like “the pot calling the kettle — and all that.”

Mind you, some of these same people are ones who believed, and possibly still do, that Judge Brett Kavanagh sexually assaulted a number of women even though there was never any corroborating evidence to these claims, and two, maybe three of his accusers have since withdrawn their accusations. The same people who ‘got up in my face’ on FB are also some of the same who are quick to defend Acosta, denying his ‘manhandling of a woman,’ though it can clearly be seen, and is fully documented on video.

Personally, I think these people defending the CNN reporter, see Acosta as being on ‘their side,’ because he too displays an open contempt — if not an outright hatred of President Trump. What an error in judgment on their part, because the only side Acosta is on, is ‘his own.’

Soon after, and I’m only guessing here, I discovered myself blocked from further use of FB because the same person claiming I was ‘abusive,’ reported me, and FB being the politically correct organization that they are, has temporarily banned me from enjoining any further discussions. And no, I’m not angry about this happening as all it comes with the territory.

Like him, hate him…this isn’t about Trump. This is about the overtly hostile media that has plagued him since before he became President and od which costa is a fine example.

Being a member of the WH Press Corps is a privilege and not a right. Acosta has no rights when it comes to being there and that’s all being ‘banned’ means. His right to free speech and free press has not been violated and neither has ours, as there are many more reporters in that pool who will file ‘slanted stories, filled with dark-color’ for the mainstream media to rewrite and take to their readers, listeners and viewers.

Acosta was the instigator, as is his habit. He doesn’t ask questions — he makes accusations and argues. Almost daily, he does it with the press secretary; Wednesday, he did it with the President.

“I want to challenge you,” Acosta began, which is not how you ask a question, after Trump called on him. Trump gave the man an opportunity to act with professional decorum, but instantly knew that wasn’t going to happen, murmuring, “Here we go.”

Of course, the ever combative Acosta didn’t disappoint. He refused to give up the Press Corps’ microphone and kept talking over Trump, who finally pointed at him and said, “That’s enough, that’s enough. Put down the mic.”

When the woman, tasked with taking the mic and handing it to the next reporter Trump called upon, Acosta, using his forearm pushed her forearm downward with enough force as to make her bend forward and let go of the mic she’d been trying to wrestle from his grip. That is not ‘reporting the story, that is becoming the story.’

Personally, I thought when Trump stepped away from the podium, he was going to step down and personally take the mic from Acosta. I think the erstwhile CNN reporter realized this, and flopped his ass right down in his chair, finally surrendering the mic to the intern.

As for his unlawfully touching the WH intern: battery is any unlawful offensive physical contact with another person. That is what Acosta did and I’ll stand by that claim as I watched it several times and from differing angles.

If I were a law enforcement officer, I’d have him in handcuff and sitting in the back of a cruiser already. But he’s part of the ‘Washingtonian elitist establishment,’ and is apparently ‘untouchable,’ (pun intended.)

As for me, I will return to FB soon enough. And soon enough, I’ll find myself booted off again when it comes to sharing my opinion — which I also believe is the truth.

Keep on keeping on — because the good-fight is never lost.

Here’s a compilation of all my thoughts as posted on Facebook throughout the night of the 2018 mid-term elections:

“We need less democracy and more Republic.”

“This nation has slipped so far from the Constitution that it shows on election night.”

“That supposed ‘Red Wave’ has left Nevada drowning in a sea of ‘Blue.’”

“Bread and circuses…so when in Nevada do as California does.”

“Not once has anyone said ‘most qualified’ or ‘Constitutional…’”

“Tomorrow is new day in political gridlock — the likes unseen.”

“The Wednesday after Election Tuesday adds new meaning to ‘Hump Day.’”

“Fifteen of 17 counties in NV, Red. Washoe and Clark, Blue. Rurals have no voice.”

“No cry-ins, no safe spaces, no naked protests, not screaming at the sky…”

“And then suddenly — no more news on the caravans moving north.”

“If you like your Socialism, you can keep your Socialism.”

“Identity politics: ‘youngest,’ ‘gay,’ ‘Black,’ ‘Native American,’ ‘woman,’ ‘first.’”

“Nevada voters elected a state’s Attorney General with a criminal record.”

“On the upside — ‘Judges.’”

“Entire West Coast swept away by a ‘Blue tsunami.’ No life vests available.’

“Nevada elects the dead – both body and soul. Dennis Hof and every Dem.”

“Geography Lesson #1: Nevada is now East Kalifornia.”

“Geography Lesson #2: Oregon is now North Kalifornia.”

“Geography Lesson #3: California is now North Mexico.”

“I can hardly wait for Nevada taxes to increase even more in the next four years.”

“So much for that tsunami.”

And finally, “Facebook wants me to ‘meet’ my newly elected ‘reps.’ Salt in wound.”

My wife is fond of saying, “When you get around to it” or “When I get around to it,” so I made her a ‘Round To-It’ stone. She placed it in her curio cabinet, which I find both cute and precious at the same time as it’s so out of place amid the cut crystal, fine china figurines, and wood music boxes.

A few years back, I took a good friend of mine to the local mall, south of town. She told me that she had to return a pair of jeans because she found them torn and faded.

After she showed me, I tried explaining, “They’re distressed jeans, they’re meant to be like that. Didn’t you look at them before buying them?”

She didn’t answer me about ‘looking before buying.’ Instead, she focused on a single word.

“They’re distressed?” she squeaked. “What about me?”

I tried not to chuckle as I quipped, “You’ve gotta be mortified.”

“Mortified? I’m distressed, not dead!”

When I was 10-years-old, Grandpa Bill took me to my first cattle auction in Ferndale at the Humboldt County Fair Grounds. Shortly afterwards, I gathered a passel of kids from around my grandparent’s neighborhood and held an auction of my own.

“So, who’ll give me fifty cents – fifty-pennies, ten-dimes or two-quarters for Adam?” I cried out.

Nothing but blank stares and crickets. Finally, I pointed at one of the taller boys, “You – do your parents give you an allowance?”

“Yeah,” he answered, “A dollar a week.”

“Great, we have an opening bid of one dollar. Do I hear a buck-twenty-five?” I stuttered, in a poor attempt at imitating the fast-talking auctioneer I’d heard.

By the time I finished, I’d sold my brother for five-dollars and seventy-five cents to the kid’s who lived right across Rohnerville Road from my grandparents. Adam, then went home to collect his few clothes and toys before heading off to his ‘new family,’ and that’s how Grandma found out what I’d done.

“If you’re willing to sell your brother, then you’ll eventually want to sell the rest of us,” Grandpa warned me as he tanned my backside with the tree branch he had me fetch.

He would’ve probably whipped even more, but as he explained to Grandma, “Damn kid said he had no idea he’d get that much money for Adam.”

That evening, they ate at the dining table while I sat in the hallway closet with a TV tray, eating alone. That wasn’t half as hard as having to return the money, the next day, even though I’d warned the crowd several times that ‘all sales were final.’

While still employed at the radio station I had a serious problem with our computers in the newsroom. For some reason, they’d all frozen and no amount of ‘rebooting’ worked to solved the situation.

At 1:36 in the morning, I called our corporate ‘IT Specialist.’

It was obvious he was not happy about having to drag himself from his warm bed and into a heavy snowfall to fix the malfunctioning system. It took him less than 15 minutes to get everything online and operating again.

I thanked him and asked, “So, what was the problem?”

As he pulled his coat on he answered, “It was an ID-ten-T problem.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks again, for fixing it.”

Later, as I wrote an email to the Program and News Directors, letting each know about the problem, I came to realize why I disliked him so much: there, in Ariel font at 12 pica was the word: “ID10T.”

From my notes:  “One day after and during a candle-light vigil, a Las Vegas Metro Police Officer scolded a man suspected of dealing drugs: “Can’t you take one day off?””

It was only day two on the job for Las Vegas Metro Police Officer Brady Cook, “I never imagined the second night would end this way. It all just happened so fast.”

Cook doesn’t know when he was shot.

The rookie officer sustained a four-in-one wound as a bullet ripped through his right arm, into the right side of his chest, grazing his rib cage, before ripping through his skin again. That’s when Cook and his training officer dashed for cover.

From my notes:  “In August the Las Vegas mass murder booked a room at the Blackstone Hotel in Chicago overlooking the park where the Lollapalooza music festival was being held that weekend.”

The Las Vegas country music festival was supposed to be an annual mother-daughter trip for Malinda Baldridge and her daughter Brenna, “Staying at the Mandalay Bay. You know we did the pool, we did the concert, just kind of relaxed and hung out. We ran into two girls that we were with the night before and, like ‘Oh hi, how are you?’ So we stood with them, up against a barricade like we did before.”

And like many others, she thought fire crackers were going off during Jason Aldean’s performance, “Great somebody brought firecrackers, who does that?”

From my notes:  “Two sisters of Marilou Danley say that the Las Vegas murderer sent her away so that he could plan the shooting “without interruptions.””

A Las Vegas taxi driver who drove five passengers to safety the night of the mass shooting is tired of being called a hero. Cori Langdon in line a the Mandalay Bay, waiting to pick up passengers when she heard gunfire.

“There were so many other people who put themselves in harm’s way,” Cori Langdon said. “I just stumbled upon it. I heard what sounded like two pops. I think that’s when he was blowing out the window, but I don’t know. Then it continued and that’s when I turned on the video camera.