I am the only offspring of Albert Golden and Wilma (Jones) Golden.  James Lee Carroll, my half brother on my mother's side, drowned when I was only 8 or 9.  Subsequently, Jim wasn't discussed in our household, which explains the lack of a definite date for his demise.  This brief mentioning is quite likely the only public remembrance of Jim ever made.

In what was, in fact, a ludicrous attempt to avoid desegregation, my parents moved "out to the country" in the early 1970's.  While my birth city is Jacksonville, Florida, most of my childhood and adolescence was spent in a small town north and west of Jacksonville, called Callahan. My mother took to calling our 15 acre farm by the nickname of "Booger Bottom", a name which I use to this day to denote not the parcel of land, but the entire area  I grew up in, which is situated on the Florida/Georgia States Boundary.

At age 13, my mom came home from only she knows where she'd been all night, and announced that A) She wanted a divorce, B) She was moving out that very day, and C) I would be staying with my dad.  In her defense, I have to say that my mom never has known exactly what she wanted out of life, and her history since leaving mine has been a thirty year sequence of more of the same.  The last contact I had with her, she was, once again, "happier than she had ever been with Albert", which has always seemed to be her catch-all definition of anything in her personal life.  She probably doesn't agree with this synopsis, but to paraphrase, "If you can't take the heat, you should've stayed out of the kitchen."

My dad, on the other hand, only had one significant relationship after my mom for the rest of his life.  For nearly 20 years, until her death in January 2000, my father enjoyed an on again-off again relationship with Linda (Bishop) Golden.  To his discredit, he never learned that african americans are not the cause of all the world's problems, nor even most of his own.  He never accepted that his only son was not strung out on god knows what drugs, or even completely accepted that he had one.  This is not the place for a long monologue about Albert, and numerous hints and bits are to be found in many of my poems, although the entire story, at this writing, has never been told to anyone, and is currently only known to myself.
For myself, it was all summed up pretty well when, at his funeral, the man who officiated was surprised to find out that Albert had any children at all.

Aside from 3 grades at Henry F. Kite Elementary in jacksonville, all of the other school I atteneded were in Callahan.  These were, Callahan Elementary, Callahan Intermediate, Callahan Jr. High, and West Nassau High School.
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After my brother's death, the Nassau County school system deemed me to be emotionally disturbed, and there followed a few years of "special" classes to help me deal with this non-existent problem.  During that period, said school system also deemed me to be a gifted child, and for 3 years I also attended special classes for this sub-group.
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Let me tell you three quick stories about being emotionally disturbed, You might have children one day who may need your support and protection:  DO NOT LET THESE THINGS HAPPEN!!
The first homosexual encounter of my life was during an "emotionally disturbed" session.  Another, older child in the same session made or found an opportunity to grope and fondle me.  This event was NEVER addressed, and the school never even acknowledged it.  The second homosexual event of my life came in the last year of these sessions, and from a counsellor.  These are words of wisdom and experience, not from someone who read the reports. I was there. The more your child may need help and encouragement, the fewer the number of people you can trust with your child. And the third event occured when a guidance counsellor, upset that I had ridden my bicycle 10+ miles to school, decided to inform my parents that I had done so.  Now, the possibility of parental abuse was well known in my case, but said counsellor, for my own good, drove out to my parents' and even discussed with them my fear of being beaten when they were told of the event.  Of course, with one child already dead, my parents were quick and complicit in denying that any such thing could happen.  PARENTS, IF YOU DO NOT ACCEPT OR APPRECIATE YOUR CHILDREN, GET HELP FOR YOURSELF-- IT ISN'T YOUR CHILD'S FAULT.  After all these years, this sounds like just a bunch of whining, but maybe these few sentences will make a difference to someone, somewhere. There are other tales, but it is not my intention to set myself up for the ignorance of well-wishers and good-doers, so those tales will have to wait for other times, or never at all as some of the cases are certain to be.
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In seventh grade, I began writing as a hobby.  Science fiction and horror short stories, poetry, and a multi-part comedy love story that stretched out in its writings until 1980.  That saga has only a few bits remaining to this day, and none of those have been seen by eyes other than my own in more than 20 years.  It was the story of the school nerd, Oliver B. Wendelmier, and his adventures in love with a lovely cheerleader.  The "B" stands for Brain, a typographical error that ended up on the boy's birth certificate, and followed him onward through life.  For those who haven't figured it out, the word should have been "Brian".  But it isn't the story that is important, it is that the story was my personal testing ground for ways and styles of writing.
The following year, because of my writing, my parents insisted that I take a typing course in school, much to the dismay of school officials.  In that day and time, typing was a skill that was reserved for girls in public schools.  It wasn't until the advent of personal computers several years later that such a course became required for all students.  Needless to say, I endured much ridicule from the other boys at school, however, I have to admit that being the only male student in a class of females was wonderfully fine by me.  To this day, I have a sheet of paper in my box of writings with the signatures of all of the girls in that class, and said class gave me ample opportunity to share my other writings with the girls.  While this seems to be of little importance, it led to other things.
Another development, during this period, was the creation of W.A.R.N., and Columbus World Globe.
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In 1980, two events happened, in regard to my writing.  The first was that I entered one of only two legitimate writing contests I have ever entered.  A poem written a year or two earlier, was modified to fit into the specifications of a writing competition at Jacksonville University.  This resulted in Reality being the first of my poems to ever have its actual date of authorship lost, as the date was changed after the edit.  Another result was that of 300+ entries, my poem was awarded fourth place.  Mike Harris, a fellow classmate, won first.  The second event of the year was when, while getting on the bus one day after school, someone knocked my books out of my hands, and everything I had written up until that point in time went flying in the wind.  I scrambled around trying to collect the papers, which were precious to me, if to no one else, but the bus driver refused to wait for me to chase them all over the campus, and almost everything was completely lost in that one fell swoop.  A similar thing happened again a few years later, but the second time, nothing stopped me from collecting every single piece of paper.
The following year, I submitted a science fiction short story in a writing competition at the University of North Florida.  Originally, the story "The Harry Taylor Nightmare" was awarded 3rd place.  A few months later, the award was upped to 2nd place when the first place winner was found to be a case of plagiarism.  From that time until the present, I have never had any patience for those who would steal the words of others.  If you haven't the ability to write the words for yourself, then have the decency to at least not steal them from someone else.
In 1982, amid protest from my teachers at West Nassau, I took the G.E.D.  Upon notification of passing the test, I formally signed myself out of school.  The details of this story can be found in the true stories section of this website, and I reccomend it as a lesson in beauracracy.

Within months of leaving school, and before I had yet moved out of my father's house, I received a DUI while driving in backwoods Georgia one stormy night.  If you have a Florida license plate, stay out of Nahunta, Georgia.  The law in the town doesn't like you.  On the brighter side, I spent that whole long night playing chess and smoking pot with the other inmates.  One might say that as a deterrent, it sucked.
My first full-time job in my life lasted for barely 3 months.  To my own credit, I was among the last 10 people in a company of over 35 to be laid off.  By that time, the weekly hours had dropped to less than 20 hours, and keeping the job was no longer a serious option anyway.  My mom's second relationship after my father had resulted in her marriage, by that time, and her husband, Mervin, after falsifying a copy of my birth certificate to make it appear that I was 18, secured me a job with the company he worked for.  Of all places, the job was headquartered in Nahunta, Georgia.  I worked for Irby Construction for 3 months there, until the high voltage line was completed.  At that time, I was one of only 50 people selected to work a government contracted line in Boulder, Montana.  I worked in that town for 4 months before being called into the company office one chilly October morning and asked to present my identification.  At that time, and only 3 weeks before my 18th birthday, I was released due to being underage to legally work on a job contracted to the U.S. government.  Of all the jobs I have ever worked, Irby was by and large my favorite.
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The next three years were spent working in various full and part time employment.  Due to my DUI in '82, and subsequently moving to Montana, I had legal obligations which marked me as a wanted man.  For that reason, the period between 1983 and 1986 is a time that I define as the years when I didn't exist.  Marked by low wage jobs and zero-paperwork housing, it is also, in my mind, a successful experiment in staying below the radar of government.  I learned a lot in those years, about the seedier side of life, the law, and those who lead lives of crime.  "Phred", which had come into use as a nickname during the W.A.R.N./Columbus Globe period, became my acknowledged name for a period of time, and only my true friends knew that it was not my real name.
Also during this same period, I procured my first personal computer, a Timex/Sinclair 2068, which I purchased from Doug Cole, and learned to write programs in BASIC, which took away from other writing endeavors for a good portion of the next 10 years.

I met my future ex-wife, Lillian, over dinner dishes at a mutual friend's home one night.  She offered to do the dishes, and I offered to help, and one thing led to another one thing, which led to us sitting on a pier talking romantic stuff under the moonlight.  At first I didn't go home that night, and then later I moved my stuff out to her place near the beach.
Lillian is 10 years older than I, and I think that always bothered her a lot worse than it did me.
She offered me the ability to stay home, raise our son, and write, but I couldn't handle the price of not earning my way to some degree.  Although her occupation paid more than 4 times anything I was doing at the time paid, I wasn't comfortbable not contributing something.  When her application for a nursing license  in Georgia was accepted, I went with her to Atlanta for what was to be a series of 6 month residences which allowed us both to travel the country a bit.  6 months turned into a another 6 months, which in turn became an offer of a fulltime position for her.  We moved around metro Atlanta a couple fo times before purchasing a house in Snellville, but the only country we ever saw after moving to Atlanta was what came in the form of daytrips, and vacations up to her homeland of Indiana.  In the end, we just weren't as compatible as we had thought in the beginning, and there came a time when one of us (me) had to admit it was over.
But our union produceed a few good things for me. 
Bill was born.  He was a wonderful child then, and has grown into a fine young man now.  I haven't talked to him in several years now, as time and distance and an almost insurmountable task of actually getting through to talk with him have slowly carried us further and further from contact.  But that is a story that must wait for him to hear it before it may be told to the world.  In first grade, he was pronounced gifted, and entered into a school program similar, but far superior to the one I had been in so many years earlier.
I also learned about computers.  Between trying to write, caring for the children, and feeling like a general bum, I learned how to program in BASIC and pidgin pascal.  I learned to do various desktop publishing tasks, and sold such jobs to customers I talked to during day to day mingling.  I later learned to build and repair PC's, and then to compose web pages.  My fist solo business venture was a web page design company, and my first customer there was a shop in which I stopped to buy a Christmas gift for Lillian. 
There is much to be told in this period of time.  Other parts of this web site fill in some of the spaces, and still others will, perhaps, be told at some later date(s).  I don't harbor any ill thoughts for her, I only wish we could have been more compatible with one another than we turned out to be.

A friend of mine, Pete Pucci, wanted to start a business doing computer repair and upgrades.  I threw in with him, and a little later, as the internet craze was taking off, we expanded to the sale of videoconferencing equipment for serious business use.  The idea, today, is commonplace, but in 1995 in was a new and daunting world for the average radiologist or lawyer.  I am proud to know that, however small it may have been, I play a part in pointing the internet in the direction it has gone since 1995. 
But because of that venture, I went searching for other ways a connection to the internet might be valuable to a person or company.  The two big search engines at that time were Lycos, and Yahoo, and at that time Yahoo kept a running tally of entries in the system.  I watched that number rise until it passed the 1 million mark, and then pretty much ignored the exponential growth.  But I toyed with the search engines, I experimented with the various applications available for use on the web, I wrote web pages for myself and for others, and I investigated internet relay chat, or IRC.
But IRC caught MY eye, rather than give me fuel to catch someone else's.  I was immediately intrgued by the ability to put on a name, and wander happily among people in corners of the globe.  I pulled on an imaginary pair of polyester slacks, tie-dyed, slicked bak my hair, and took off for a stroll through what I thought of as "virtuality".
A few months later, and the persona of Illusnist was created. 
There is another section on this website which tells that tale for anyone who cares to see it.  For this particular instance, I merely wanted to show how and why "Illusnist" first came to be, from a real world perspective.  For a period of years, though, the nickname appeared often in my verse, and was fleshed out to the point of having virtual memories of long ago places that have no reality outside of chat netwroks.
It was during this time that I had two internet-induced girlfriends.  Stephy's tale can be found on the true stories page, and is encouraged reading for those who are not yet savvy of the strangeness of humanity.  Vivian's tale is much longer, and much happier, and parts are to be found in the pictures and poems on other parts of this site. She taught me other ways to look at things, and I taught her how big the world can be, as well as how small it often seems.

Since Vivian, I seem to have slipped back into a non-existent role.  I no longer view anything as a permanent part of my world, and have grown continually more cynical towards the meanness and treachery to be found in every day life.  My relationships have always tended to last for upwards of 6 months, with the average running at around 1.5 years per relationship.  I have found, though, that the distance between new relationships has grown longer.  I simply don't have the patience or desire for playing the mating game.  If and when a woman I belong together with should come along, I am more than willing to know her, but I have been soured on mingling and mind games and drama and woes, and simply don't put myself into situations which would get me entangled with them.
But to say I am in a non-existent role is accurate, either.  I am avoiding nothing, and hiding from no one.  I simply keep to myself during my personal time more than I once did.  I have lived within 25 yards of where I sit right now for the past 9 years, and expect to be here for at least another 2 or 3. 
I don't have much.  I don't try to have much.  All things come, and all things go, all ways.  I don't accept that life is about earning money to make myself appear to be more valuable because I have thrown away my life to show that I have money.  I work as much as I must, to pay for the things that must be bought, and seriously attempt to avoid much more than that.  I would rather sit on the river bank with a cooler of Coca-cola and a campfire lighting the night than do just about anything else.  I don't want to have the fastest car, biggest house, costliest clothing, fattest wallet, tallest tree, or even the most wonderful words ever written.  I am not in the competition, whatever that contest may be.  I have come to think that greed is something that is missing in my mental framework, because it seems so common in so many of the people that I greet each day.  In any event, I don't suffer from it, which reduces my standing in the eyes of those who do.