The Ballad of Rambling Hazel Eyeball.

I've seen some things.

One sweltering New England afternoon I emerged from crawling through a tunnel of thick vines and mosquitoes and pricker bushes to find what I'd been scratching around for since I'd dabbled in community college free thinking civil disobedience, or weed. Walden Pond. Just shimmering all flat out there in the summer sun like a freshly shot star. It was awesome but would've been more awesome with a Slurpee.

Another time I stood outside the house of Mr. Jerry Lee Lewis in Mississippi and read the graffiti on his low wall. Things like "Jerry Lee is The Devil" and "The Killer Kissed My Grits, Tuscaloosa '66". That wall at Graceland is a child's puffy book by comparison. Jerry Lee never came out to say hey but his dogs were scampering all over. Little pom-pom type dogs. Strange but right.

I've seen flipped cars on highways, lonesome bodies laid out in the tall grass. I've seen bald eagles on power lines. Once in a Lawrence pizza joint I watched for an hour as so many clusters of radiant Kansas women with Norwegian features filed into the place in threes and fours that it seemed comically unsettling, like an SNL skit. Deer doing it: I've seen 'em. Chuck Berry mid-song surrounded by a throng of drunken fans he invited up on stage and he yells out "White Pussy!". I've seen it. Don't believe me, it's cool. I know what I saw.

I've seen small steam rise up through golden leaves from a shot squirrel's slit belly. It did appear that I watched a soul ascending. I've seen grown men fight with the belts they pulled out of their filthy pants; fresh scarlet welts outside the Ladbrokes; half-drunk cans of lager waiting for their masters over against the wall. I've seen gorgeous women slip off their tops under werewolf moonlight. I've seen the inside of apartments I knew I'd never see again. I've seen many coffee cups just once.

Leonardo DiCaprio emerging from a Prius in Midtown Manhattan: I've seen it. A Pennsylvania country sky swarmed with meteors: I've seen it. The box Emily Dickinson hid her poems from the whole world in...seen it. The bloody pillow from under Lincoln's mortally-wounded head...seen it. Long lines of women all calling out to me/TO ME! one crisp autumn Euro afternoon: I've seen it (prostitutes, Hamburg Street/St. Pauli). A rainbow from a freezing morning ferry deck...above the Cliffs of Dover...I've seen it. A loved one's mugshot, an eight pound largemouth slamming a buzzbait, my dog walking into the Manhattan skyline...I've seen it.

It's all been so wonderful. So insane. Our eyes get so used to all of that other stuff, regular everyday stuff. So its even more sweet/bittersweet when the pattern is broken up by some awful or fabulous or strange sight. Even if we only realize it all in retrospect. I think so anyways.

But listen up. I have never seen anything as powerful or crazy as watching my five month old daughter, Violet, nibbling on her own toes or squinting and grunting as she poops. How did this happen? I keep asking myself that. I used to think the things I'd seen were badass things to be seeing. My eyes held secrets I was proud of; a pair of used silver pistols. But they hadn't really even begun to see all that much.

This week I'm seeing a coconut-sized head with MY face on it turn to me on the couch and grin when I blurt out goofy sounds.

And oh-the-happy-face-that-shines when I put her up on my knees while I lean back on the couch and sing...

" Violet's on top of Daddy Mountain
Violet's on top of Daddy Hill
Violet's on top of Daddy Mountain
Whatever Violet wants to get.....she will!"

......a dumb made-up song that makes no sense yet perfect sense.

My daughter looks down at me and those lips begin to rise and those cheeks rustle and then it's on. Her smile rushes into the room and down all over me like a tasty mudslide and I just cannot fucking believe how good all this seeing is getting.

It would take a damn good Virgin Mary in robin droppings on the hood of the Honda to even come close.

Once Around The Block.

We've had so many thunderstorms lately that they've totally lost their romantic summery vibe. Instead they have become these sickly shitting elephants that storm around all drunk on their own fat juice, ruining otherwise perfectly good afternoons for what? For to piss me off, that's what. So yesterday when the sun appeared in the sky after hours of ominous thunderstorm darkness, I grabbed Violet/strapped her to my chest/leashed the dogs and we all went out in the world.

Flower petals dripped. The roads were streaked with silvery wet. Tree barks were grown darker. Max and Milo aimed at puddles and plopped through them. I navigated some alleys, took us past a flock of rose bushes in explosive bloom. Yellows, pinks, whites. I let Violet stick her teeny fingers into a wet red one. She tried to eat the fallen rain, of course.

We walked the walk we walk when we have to. When the rain is too much to go down to Dog Canyon and we have to just stroll around our 'hood instead. Birds had begun to sing again. I told her to listen to their warbles. I can't tell yet whether she really notices bird songs or not. As we passed a stoplight at a busy intersection I noticed a young dude in his Volvo leaning toward his passenger seat so he could view us better, us After Rain People. At first it creeped me out a bit/getting gawked at on our walk. Then it occurred to me that here I am, a grizzly looking bearded paint-splattered pants-wearin' fellow in a camo bandanna lugging around a precious pale bambino in a pink pajamas. AND I have two big black dogs bobbing and weaving out in front of me...both of them hooked up to bright red leashes that they tangle in constantly.

And we're the only ones walking down the street at the tail end of rush hour. So, ok, I could understand this guy and a couple other people staring at us. Smiling. A baby makes people happy. Going home makes people happy. Two dogs with lapping tongues makes people happy. So what if camo bandanna guys by the curb makes people see if they have any extra change in the cupholder. I"M WITH THEM, DICKWEED! THEY'RE STRAPPED TO ME!!! Jeezus.

Twenty minutes later as our Motley Wagon Train pulls up on the house, I notice Monica sitting in the car in the driveway. She is staring at us and even from half a block away I can see she's smiling big.

I puff out my chest and lift Violet high. I yank the leashes to give shock the dogs into cool submission. My wife gets out and starts coming at us.

"I went to tan on my lunch and stopped in here and got freaked out because the stroller is still here, your car is here...", she says as she kisses Violet and stuff.

"We needed to get outside after all the rain," I answer.

"You guys are so cute coming down the street...(looks at Violet) You love that Papa huh?? You love walking with that Papa! (looks at me) She is smiling huge right now."

"You look like George Hamilton," I say. Just for the fuck of it. I am ignored.

"I gotta go....gimme a kiss." She leans in and kisses me. The world stops. That doesn't happen much/ever. I spin kinda. I got kissed. Me. By Monica. On the lips, yo. She seems so casual about it too. What the fuck?

She leaves back to work. We all head in the house. Me, licking my lips. I have been admired on the streets this evening. And kissed on the mouth. I tell Violet we need to be seen in public more. Together.

She cries for her food. I go to get it, no questions asked.

Trout and Root.

Yesterday around ten in the morning. In my right hand I am gripping my fly rod which happens to have a thirteen inch brown trout attached to it out there in the river. With my left hand I am gripping a complex assortment of submerged tree roots beneath the surface of the very cold river. My whole left side is in the water, but I am trying to be casual about it in case any other fisherman have wandered into view. Plus, to be honest, I fall in to the rivers I fish on a fairly regular basis...so this whole scenario is typical for me. Routine. Standard. At least I'm playing a scrappy brown in the midst of all this self-preservation, I tell myself. Ugh.

As the rough spring water rushes into my waders and up my sweatshirt sleeve my thoughts turn to where they always seem to these days. To Violet, my baby. I imagine what it would be like for her to grow up not ever knowing the daddy who loved her so much. Would Monica do a good job at making certain that her daughter knew her Papa was wild about her, that his spirit was everywhere she went...trying to get her little advantages in the world: incorrect change with a couple extra bucks/straight to voice mail for guys trying to call her cell.

My ear touches the river and this is a deep drag of menthol for my skull. The chill is pure wickedness. For a moment I envision a demise that uncomfortable. Fuck that. I lift that watery side of my face a little to make sure this root jumble isn't some goddamn tumbleweed tumbling it's way toward the Pacific. I have never been in the Pacific and this isn't the way that I wanna make that happen. I deserve lotion, a belly full of fresh seafood, an Eastern Euro Speedo to make California quake. Not my pale'd mushy skin'd body all covered in Gore-Tex sliding out into the great Western Sea some spectacular evening months from now, as the sun sinks low on the horizon. Here is a sea lion. Here is a whale. Here is a pickled trout fisherman from deep inland still holding a rod that he has been walking a small fish on for weeks now. Here is a Great White refusing the Sad Soft Giant Sardine that just drifted by him pathetically.

Or will Monica help Violet to grow up loving whatever other man becomes her Dad? If I just slide away here forever, I can't honestly expect my widow not to ever love again. Although I deserve that too. Her body should never be touched again. A Memorial to The Great Love. But, whatever. She'd likely meet some Bradley Cooper fuckface. With money. And a sweet man ass. God, I would throw lightning from on high. Ok, though...to be fair Violet needs a Daddy and if I'm off to the sea it ain't gonna be me.

Now I am sickened by myself. I taste my own bile.

There is NO WAY IN HELL that I am going to succumb to the raging waters. To drift away from the peanut waiting for me in her Jungle Jumper at home. I speak in echos to the Thor who lives in the deep forest in my gut. I wake his sleepy ass. He hollers to me what to do.

Show time.

With my rod hand I set the hook deeper into the fish's steely jaw. I lift hard. He pulls. My side begins to rise.

I'm coming Violet! Daddy's coming home!

With my root hand I push with steam engine rage. The rushing sound of the water fades to silence. The sound of the dive-bombing swallows fades to silence. My desperate grunts fade to silence. There is only my body, a tangle of roots, and a magical trout. I push and begin to move.

At home...in our bed...Bradley Cooper is run through with a spear inside her dreams.

River explodes around me. Mountains rumble. Lush trees twist in an electric wind. Like a furious hound of hell my trout is so incensed by my stinging hook that he pulls me up as I shove off of the roots and find my feet once again.

The cold now hits me, a frozen sledgehammer dipped in ass-kicking pain. But I am alive!

What Stone Age strength, what Super Powers emerged from the mere vision of my Violet on the screen up in my head. I am so buzzed on survival. I now know the feeling of God-Like. The river swirls strong around my legs but it cannot tilt me again. What was only seconds seemed like hours, like days.

I compose myself. Reel in the magic trout, thank him. Pet his head. Release him back to his life. To his Violet.

Soaking wet and cold, I think I should probably get back to the car and the heater. But, I fish on. I justify staying.I have been waiting all week to fish. Violet will have her Daddy back. I fall in the fucking river often. And because whenever I do, it isn't really ever as bad or as exciting or adventurous as it seems. But, whatever.