this morning, i felt my daughter kick for the first time. it wasn't the kick i imagine i'll feel in 16 years or so, when she belts a roundhouse to my unshaven chin, but it was a strong kick nonetheless... this is the stuff of life. a life roughed up and walked over; swallowed, tossed aside-- left drying on a beach somewhere- maybe negril back in the early '90's, eating fish stew with the rasta men in the woods on the other side of the road...

a strong woman told me, "real men have daughters..." indeed. the context of the life i've lived shifted in a hard stroke when the word (let alone the kick) officially came down. there are reasons why certain rogues cry at odd moments-- too much booze, too much sentiment, too much art. too much too much... we are the bits of the play we write each day the curtain falls and we keep trying to bring back the magic of opening night.

one of these days, over a good bottle of wine, she'll explain all this to me.