Usually, if my state of mind is on the sour side I won't update.  If my mood is rancid I won't sit down to express it because expression of bitterness isn't how I remedy that.  Pain I'll express.  Anger I'll express.  Honest emotions get processed, but what's inside me right now has to be neutralized, the acids need detoxification, and that's not about expression, it's about internal treatment with specific antidotes and the application of binding agents.  It has to do with emotional colloids and suspensions which require time for curing, and only then can they be expressed from the system.  If something really burns, do not induce vomiting.

So I'm writing here to assuage the tiny nag in my head that wants an entry.

I've been in a funk lately, due mostly to an overdose of focus on Amy's disabilities.  It's one of the occupational hazards of being her parent, I suppose, and I've been trying to keep a balance of sanity by spending more time in the darkroom (which, with the new film scanner means less time in the darkroom - figure that out).

Most of the stress is over not having enough time in a day to accomplish the tasks on the Agenda to Fully Functional Adulthood that is laid out for my daughter.  I won't get into specifics here, but the upshot is I'm growing weary of negotiating for her childhood.

I'm not sure if it's irony or a vicious circle or a paradox or what (my head is so spent that I don't even care to figure it out), but focusing on all this stuff hasn't left enough time to do the writing I need to do in order to remain sane/happy and that feeds back into the frustration and, well, you know the drill, and the drill is no fun.  Words just have not been in the picture, and consequently I feel stupider and dull and it shows and that sucks.  Fold in the boilerplate complaints of a stay-at-home dad, hot weather, my insane parents, bugs, and no exercise and you'll maybe catch a whiff of this fine fine recipe for the blahs.  No, not blahs, this is sharper, edgier, more like blecchhs.  Blougghhs.  Phleghhs.  I am in no shape.

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Also, some of the stress was over a party we had for Amy's birthday.  We rented the local arena soccer field last Saturday morning and invited classmates and neighbors and even a few of her therapists for a rousing match followed by Gatorade and cake.  It all went fine, mostly because of Viv's shepherding of the entire affair, although weather had been a concern.  The previous weekend was a scorcher and I feared we'd be inviting a bunch of kids to a heatstroke festival, but the week cooled down to the point of rain the night before the party.  The weather turned out to be perfect for the event, however, and we all had fun.  Once again I was Camera Boy, so while most everyone else was running and playing and sweating I was being one of those dads with lenses.

I guess it's not that the party was stressful, it's just that it was so distracting, or more precisely, I was so distracted.  It was a big attention sucker, which is too bad for me and certainly would've been too bad for Amy if she hadn't been blissfully immersed in the birthday fun-ness of it all.  Amy is such a wonderful kid, and it kills me when I'm not all there for her.

The darkroom work has helped me to remain buoyant, but still, I'm not a very happy man these days.  I'm blaming no one but myself.

Fun read, eh?

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I've been wanting to mention the Olympics, but it's been difficult what with my vomiting over the U.S. jingoism and the malaise from television in general.  I'll get to it later, there's some irony in a story I've got about the '84 Olympics.

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I've also wanted to mention the demise of Archipelago.  I'm not yet fully convinced it's gone.  I think it's just Lucy's version of an April Fool's joke.  Time will tell.

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Okay, I'm going to stop this right now and go play with some pictures.

The tiny nag is happier now (but not much).

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