The Assemblagist

In a recent Facebook discussion, the true personality of someone I'd "friended" came to the forefront and it was a scary moment. If you follow me on FB and know to what I refer  [Jan. 21-22 or around thereabouts] this post will not surprise you. If you weren't privy to the conversation, I won't elaborate or copy/paste what occurred here online because the post and ensuing comments are not the focus here. The shock of sudden rancor and discourse -- that's my drama. ... read more

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Dear American Pain Foundation (APF) members, ... read more

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I’ve been in this blog­ging biz for over a decade. Oh, who am I kid­ding? Since 1996, I’ve been adding pages to a site — a new page — every day. Isn’t that tech­ni­cally “blog­ging” but with­out the pro­gram? Con­tinue reading

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Chapter Three

Reba Goes To the Mall in Little Rock, Arkansas. 1979.

"Excuse me, but are you a homemaker?" A woman approaches me from the side. ... read more

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Sanity hint for bloggers: Don't look up your "Last Referrers". It will make you crazy. Thanks to shortstats, I know who you are and I saw what you did. Seems my LR's were megapornstash - related. Gross, yuck. Oh well, however someone got here ... I suppose the important aspect is the visit itself, not the highway route. But that flies against the philosophy of how it is not the destination, it is the journey. Oh wow, this gets more confusing with every word ... if you came here with a pornographic intent, gosh darn gee whiz. Naked art -- not art with naked. ... read more

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I ponder that which surrounds me. Constantly. Relentlessly. I watch myself watching myself. ... read more

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When we moved south to Fort Smith, AR from Glen Ellyn, IL in 1960, my father told me there would be horses in the streets of down­town. I was six years old.

My brain reg­is­tered this off­hand com­ment by visu­al­iz­ing Gun­smoke meets Have Gun Will Travel and wooden side­walks and dusty boots, Pal­adin and Miss Kitty, water­ing troughs, and good guys ver­sus bad guys shoot-​outs on Gar­ri­son Ave. I was par­tially cor­rect. Within two years, I would meet Fes­tus. Con­tinue reading

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Oliver will be Sal­vador Dali and Emmett is Andy Warhol. Both will sport paint splat­tered shirts, carry a paint brush and palette, and a sign on their back. Emmett’s sign? Your Fif­teen Min­utes Are Up, of course. Ollie’s I haven’t decided upon — prob­a­bly some­thing like — I’m not ham­pered by a per­sis­tence of mem­ory.

Man­u­fac­tured cos­tumes at Wal­Mart would run around $50 for the two boys. Insane! So Nana said, in jest, “Bring the boys over here and let them splotch paint all over a cou­ple of my shirts and they can be artists” and then we real­ized this was genius. Pho­tos soon. Con­tinue reading

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