satyapriya

This morning while journaling, prompted by the Star card in the Our Tarot deck(represented by Anne Frank), I came across an old inner critic. See, I thought Gladys, the sour-faced old lady was the only one. She's the one who tells me everything I write is crap. That I should just piss off back into my corner and not even try.
Well, Marquand is closely related, but he's an Art Critic. He looks like Kenneth Williams in his most snobbish Carry On character, his nose high in the air. He stands in front of an incomprehensible modernist painting, praising it to the high heavens. He holds a fine glass of fine wine, and knows everything about wine, and where the glass was made, and can see the meaning of the painting.
And my writing is not Art.
Neither are my pretensions of working class, when I am clearly middle class, with nothing to say.
Oh, the observations that came out on the page. He called me 'dear' in a condescending way.
Three pages of Why I Not An Artist.
So, I guess, along with Gladys, Marquand will now have to have the occasional space on the page, to get his opinions out, heard, acknowledged, so I can move forward with what I'm doing. He's had his outing for the moment.
Perhaps now I can get past my own self to the page.