In The Evening Knock Me Down.

Last night Violet wakes up from a nap in the swing while I'm half-watching American Idol. OK...full watching; what's the difference? So, she wakes up and begins the slow ascent into poop cry. It starts low: she is awaken from what must certainly be a precious baby dream. There she is riding a Fluffy Unicorn through a hillside kingdom of dandelions and butterflies when all of the sudden SHAZZZAM! The poor peanut has a damn summer storm go off in her pants. God, the humanity. I picture her there waving at me from her pink cotton saddle; 'Hi Papa..I love You!'...her chubby cheeks puffed with pride; her smile sparkling like broken glass in the sun. Then the joy simply drains from her face and her wave to me collapses. I watch in horror, crippled with helplessness. The Fluffy Unicorn shrivels his nose and gags. I want to reach out to my baby and save her from this swift fall into graceless shame. I want to poop my own pants for her. To somehow show her I love her still....

Whoa.

Actually, Violet woke up with the poop cry, nothing major; her dreams were probably of taking a teeny dump, to be honest. So, I rise up away from my stir-fry on the coffee table: an important 'copter needed at the scene of the crash, and head over to the swing. A few calm words, I rub her marzipan hands, she's mine. The crying slacks off. Half cries turn to tired sighs. And then those turn into sleepy smiles. Lately that's how it mostly goes and its magical. From a quivering Poltergeist baby to this one who sees shining promise in my whispers and touch. I never dreamed it would actually happen, even though everyone said it would.

So, I'm not a complete failure at Daddy-ing. And let me tell you something. I walk tall around here. Sure there's no one here to see it ever. No one to say, "Hey man, I have never seen a man become a daddy so naturally, with such elegance and subtle machismo."

No one to tell me, "Fella...you are really raising that little girl right. Just look at the way you mix her cocktails....shaken, NOT STIRRED. That's how we did it in the forties. In the Great War. For the babies we found in the smoldering villages."

No pats on the back. No doe eyes from hotties-in-the-know who are blown away by my rugged tenderness. So, yeah, no casual sex with strangers.

Nothing. Nada.

So I have to remind myself, as I lift Violet up and carry her back to the changing table, that I am that rare breed. I am the man who loves his daughter enough to spend all day with her. To show her the world. Or the dog park and Sportsman's Warehouse at least. Feed her. Change her. Hold her and love her.

By the time we pull up to the diapers I have once again gotten myself high on my achievements. Whassup Supa Dad, as I glide by the mirror. I am flushed with confidence when I lay my daughter down. I change the old and make it new. The dirty I make clean. The crappy monkey on her back: I slay it with ease and slide its now still body into the Diaper Champ.

Then. I decide to plow on. I will clip her long sharp fingernails for her. I pick up the small clippers specially designed for baby fingers.

A master of the child-rearing universe, I move in to operate.

Snip.

Violet's face explodes. Her cries tell of real hard Old Testament pain.

I crash through the ceiling and slam into the floor. The universe has spoken. Back to Earth...boy.

Fools Part 2.

Below is a piece I wrote yesterday in the throes of a powerhouse dose of venomous cotton field blues. I don't know why it came on like it did, but I did find it strange (and really kind of sweet) that Violet also had one of her worst days in weeks yesterday too. She cried and kicked her legs nearly constantly for at least three hours. Neither one of us could even see straight. I checked the moon charts...93% full. Guess that was enough to makes us both all werewolf and shit. Anyways,the post is an indicator of how often my mind spins well out of control and slams into walls I actually built with my own work. I'm not saying it doesn't indicate some fundamental flaws in my relationship...it obviously does. But, I read it today and fairly fascinated by how different I feel a day later. Today I feel normal, like I normally feel. A little hungry. Very very horny. Maybe a bit too caffeinated. In other words, I feel fine. Yesterday I didn't...

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One of these days when the moon is right in the sky and we're both in an OK mood, me and Monica will probably sit down and talk some shit out. And now that Mothers Day is over I can honestly say it might be that we eventually decide to shitcan the whole deal. She wants me to go sit with her and a marriage counselor but I'm afraid I'm past that now. That was two years ago for me. She laughed at the notion then...said it was stupid. Once, though, I got her to go see my therapist with me in Manhattan. She didn't shut up the whole hour. Then, she said it was weird. Oh well.

More and more I think about what life would be like for me if I moved on; if we moved on. It seems so hard to imagine in a way. One thing I do know is that I would concentrate on being a great dad and nothing else. No more romance, no more dates (I never had any dates in my life anyway...how fucked up is that). Sex: nope. Some things won't be all that different, I guess. I would just have to get adjusted to living in Utah on my own though. That could be tough. I'm here because she's here. And now, Violet's here. In a lot of ways I live in my head though, so in a lot of ways I've never been here at all.

Life in an apartment by myself seems wildly horrific to me. Closed in, just me and my five-thousand acres of nagging depression, some cable tv, cheap carpeting. I don't know. How much do you have to take in this world before you don't want no more? I've been alone so much in my life, even in the midst of so many others. So good at tuning out pain and unpleasantness, I might have tuned out too much too often.

When I met Monica she blew my mind. She wanted the same things as me...to live passionately no matter what the price. But she had a good paying job and I didn't. That might have been my downfall, I guess. By the time I had hit thirty-five I still didn't make 250 bucks a week. I played in a band. I was gone from home so much. After a while it chiseled away at any semblance of pride I might of had. I worked really hard and had little to show for it. I became angry inside. Parts of me fell hard to the roadside all over this land. I left huge wads of my soul in morning truck stops and dimly-lit backstage rooms, blowing across cornfields, drowning in creeks by the exit ramps. When other men were climbing the ladder and saving and thinking of the future...I was smoking a cigarette somewhere out there in the night. Nothing more, nothing less. Maybe I should have done different. Whose to say?

And now, who knows. I feel so many demons circling my roof. I keep waiting for one of them to smash kick through the glass and swoop in to grab me in its filthy talons. To steal me to the dark.

Then what? Then who's gonna be Violet's daddy? Monica would be fine, I know. New dude down the road. Some asshole. But what about me? How could I be the great dad I dream of being from across this shitty town, camped out in some stupid apartment...miles from the only real and decent love I've ever known...my daughter. I would die for her in a second. But, if I live somewhere else how am I gonna know if its time for that?

Anyhow, I ain't there yet so don't start hissing your snake tongues. But I'm driving past the place over and over and over again. Like a freak. And it sucks.

Out In The World.