My Real Identity

I have been above ground for some time now, after a lengthy journey below the surface. I had to come into work and pay the bills, after all. I would like to record my experiences here, but right now I am finding myself on the verge of a new adventure. A large hole has opened up just outside the window of my office. I will include a picture of it later, if I decide to investigate. I feel that I can't afford to travel once more beneath the earth's crust, but on the other hand, can I afford not to?

Oh… another bit if news. I am not really Ray Speen, I have just been using his login name in order to keep this online journal. My real name is Randy Ingersoll.

An Astounding Discovery

I was heading into town on my way to the office, recently, on a sunny Saturday morning, when I noticed a hole in the road that seemed to be widening as I looked on. Some might call it a POT HOLE, but I felt that SINKHOLE did it more justice.

I locked my bike to the nearest condo balcony and inched my way to the edge of this definite traffic hazard. I was thinking of finding some of those orange cones and putting them on the OTHER side of the street, thus directing unsuspecting motorists into the deadly chasm. But I decided against it, thinking, why ruin a perfectly good miracle of nature with man-made garbage?

I was afraid if I left the spot I wouldn't be able to find it again, or might return to find emergency road crews tarring over the hole. There was nothing I could do, then, except make my way down into the pitch black cavern, and feel my way along an underground passageway with nothing to light my way. I had my backpack, but no lighter, no matches, no knife, no nail clippers, no toothpaste, no bottle of water, no deodorant. Why was I carrying my backpack anyway, if I couldn't take anything with me? I had some Altoids and my notebook, and more than one pen, of course.

Cell phones don't work down here, apparently, not that I have one. I've been walking for days, weeks, perhaps months. Without the sun's cycles to guide me, my sleep patterns have become erratic. Or perhaps very regular. I finally have come to a smooth slab of rock next to a small underground stream. There is light from some phosphorescent fungi, and free WIFI. So at least I'm getting this update in before continuing on.

Underground

Residents of my home town may have noticed the nasty smoke rising like an industrial accident from a horrible gap in the earth across from my usual hangout, The Wicked Hop, in the Third Ward area, right by the Public Market, last month. Sure they tried to cover it up with a tent, which only seemed to draw attention to it. Didn't they ever hear of the CIRCUS?

The worst thing about it, however, was the horrible chemical smell, obviously deadly toxic, like a burning pile of cell phones, and I don't need a health department analysis to tell me that. There was one thing to do, as far as I could tell, and that was to venture deep into the sources of the offending material. So I took my flashlight, a quart of Gatorade, and little else, and that's where I've been, I guess. It's hard to tell, because once you get a good lungful of that stuff, you start to remember things that never happened.

Run-ins with the Prophet

I've been seeing Prophet Blackmon regularly at the post office-- he's there nearly every day-- and lately I've been stopping to talk a bit. I first ran into him when he was selling his religious paintings outside of the East Library, and I bought one of his church magazines. He asked me how my health was, and if there was anything wrong with my respiratory system and my knee. I had bronchitis at the time, and a bad knee, so I was impressed. Maybe he could hear the rasp in my voice, and maybe I was limping a bit, though I wasn't aware of either one, but even so, if those were his clues, I was impressed by his powers of perception. But I preferred to believe, right then, that he was a Prophet, as he claimed to be. He offered to help me heal.

I had not thought about him in a few years, so I was glad to see him at the post office. He said that his 86th birthday is coming up in April. Each time I see him he doesn't seem to remember me, but he always seems glad to see me and talk a little-- usually he tells a joke, or some odd story. He mentioned my knee again, and I was wondering if maybe he just has these standard questions, the knee, the chest. I hate to doubt him, but it's the detective in me that makes me want to get to the bottom of things. But then, after, on this day, going on with stories for quite awhile, he asked me about my head, and I told him I do suffer from a lot of headaches. You won't anymore, he assured me.

By this time, anyway, I was ready to believe him completely, because a couple of weeks ago I was talking to him, just briefly, and then as I was about to leave he looked at me as if something suddenly came over him and asked, "Are you a writer?" I said yes, and he seemed pleased, but not at all surprised. I left then on that day, feeling kind of crazy, but also a little guilty, because I could also sense that he knew I wasn't a Christian. But then, if he could tell that, I figured, thinking about it, I'm sure he can also tell that I have respect for him, and his beliefs, and the unknown, and that I'm willing to accept anything, and I will gladly admit that, about this universe we live in, I know absolutely nothing.

How many good Americans does it take to clean up the World?

We had some really nice snow in the past few days, and that's really cheered me up. What's weird about snow, however, in Milwaukee, is that the people here act like it's a terrorist attack or something. They freak out, get up at 5am on Saturday morning and are out running around with pick-up trucks with snowplows, and really loud snow blowers. Any other time you get up on a Saturday morning, it's the quietest time of the week, but when there's a snow it sounds like there's a war going on outside.

Maybe I shouldn’t complain so much, because it's nice for me when the sidewalks are cleared-- it's easy to walk. (Though they aren't ALL cleared.) Plus, it's nice for the older people, and the disabled. But what gets on my nerves is all this gasoline powered equipment to clear the snow, which then adds to the amount of black sludge frozen in the streets, not to mention spewing shit in the air, and all the noise. And the big reason that they are out clearing snow is to clear the ROADS, because people can't go ONE DAY without using their cars. And the few people who DO choose not to drive get their vehicles packed in by snowplows, and ticketed or towed if they're on snow emergency streets.

If it was simply up to the residents to clear the sidewalks in front of their houses, in a house like where I live with seven people, we could conceivably clear the sidewalk with a teaspoon. But on Sunday, I saw a pickup truck with a snowplow DRIVING ON THE SIDEWALK, plowing. I could only think such desperate measures had to do with the urgency of residents to get to church. Or maybe it's the German heritage in Milwaukee. I don't want to pick on ethnic groups, but since I'm more German than anything else, at least I'm acknowledging that I'm a little like this too. My neighbor in Ohio, a German lady, used to freak out about the trees dropping leaves in the fall, like it was someone throwing McDonald’s wrappers in her yard or something. She eventually cut down most of the offending trees.

I heard people referring to the snowstorms as "being hit" like we were being attacked in a military strike. Then they kept talking about "cleaning up" after the big snows. Hey-- it's frozen water! The snow is clean, it's pretty, it's nice, and it's going to melt in no time. It isn't something you have to clean up. After "cleaning up" all of this snow we're left with black sludge everywhere, and no one seems to worry about cleaning up that.

Blue Skies

Blue skies blue skies blue skies blue skies. Blue skies make me want to puke. The sun is out, making a mockery of warmth. The streets are encrusted in salt, or whatever chemical they use to melt ice on the pavement. One interesting thing about a long deep-freeze is you see how much black sludge cars emit from exhaust and off their tires and engines, and along the side of the road where the cars are parked the ice and snow is totally black. Where does this go in warm weather? Into the grass, and into the ground, in the sewers, and into the lake. The lake I was able to swim in when I moved here six years ago, but no longer can.

Maybe I should go back underground. I was much happier there. I wouldn’t have to necessarily find the mysterious tunnel down at the end of the block, or the gold mine, or the passageway to the center of the earth. I could simply head down into the deep tunnel. There is a manhole to it, marked with fluorescent spray-paint over on Kilbourn, I've noticed walking by there. I could hang out down there with "The Family" whose aversion to the sun, while not for the same reason as mine, is no less as strong.

Back on the surface...

I finally, after several months, emerged from the same hole that I disappeared into, several days earlier. I finally, after several days, emerged from the same hole that I disappeared into, several months earlier. Nothing was changed, nothing was the same. Everything was different, nothing was changed. Everything had changed. Nothing was different. All evidence of the men who had dug the hole was gone, including their tents, their trucks, and their warning signs. Even the hole was gone. I mean the one I had gone into was gone. There was a different hole, the one I emerged from, though it was in the same place. I found no gold. All I found was gold. All I found was shit. It wasn't a sewer, it was a mine. It was a mine, it was a sewer. It wasn't a mine, it was my mind. There was nothing there but gold. There was nothing there but shit.

...and this

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