Well, don't look then!

All this thinking about my inner critic has been useful and actually fun -- well, the journal spilling about it has been fun -- but it's gotten me thinking. You know. More like brooding, and I'm real good at that.

I brood after reading certain magazines and blogs, so I've taken something of a hiatus from them. It'd be cool to say it's my principled stand against something or other, but it's not. It's just that I start comparing myself and my work to the published artists, and... well. "Why isn't your art in there?" says that #$%^%$ inner critic.

So don't look, then! Right?

Maybe I need to take a hiatus from communing with my inner critic.

Speaking of inner critics, my friend Sarah and I had a good conversation about comparing our post-pregnancy bodies to what they used to look like. Which prompted this Spilling journal entry:

(I didn't add the word "inedible" to the tanker -- this is what the original looked like in stand-still traffic.)

I do not in any way mean to suggest my discomfort compares to people with serious weight issues or chronic mental health issues. I don't exactly have the right to sing the blues. But my inner critic must be lugging around a fun-house mirror, because he likes to show me the most unflattering view of myself whenever the mood strikes him.

Which is probably why I chose to emphasize the three-quarter circles on the tanker:

... and on the tires...

... and even the brake lights.

Ever heard the Gnarls Barkley song "Crazy" or "Flagpole Sitta" by Harvey Danger? That's kinda what's going on: I'm not sick, but I'm not well, so I might as well sing about it. Got me a good man... whoops, no blues here.