Palm Greens Cafe (2)

I am the only one in the restaurant. They are about to close but I decide to begin writing anyway, will move to the curb outside to finish if need be. I ramble, fill a page with snippets. I become aware of my big loud critic. She is hovering next to the tall marble table, leaning over my notebook. "You've written a whole damn page, and you've said nothing. Nothing." She shakes her head, moves her heavy glasses back on her nose with a rough shove. She looks as though she smells dead fish, an old corpse. "This is crap. Your first try at writing about one of your new things and already it's a complete failure." She sighs, glares at me through the heavy lenses. "You are a complete failure." Ah! Why would I ever want to be so mean to myself? And why is it so striking in this act of art I feel so strongly about? I didn't do this to myself when I worked on my first new thing, when I restored my old blue angel. I didn't criticize my crummy paint job, didn't mock myself for making wild kinked paper hair, didn't sneer when I tried to glue it on her scraggy bald wooden head. Even when I painted Liquitex on the hair and it went limp, lost much of its wonderful kink, I didn't say, "Oh, great. Now you've really fucked it up." Instead, I adjusted to the less kinked hair, reveled later in the way the Liquitex stiffened it as it dried, leant it strength. I was patient about the smudges I kept making with the paint, red blotches on the brown, gold smears on the red. I just kept painting over them, layer upon layer, cleaning it up the best I could. I was happy every step of the way, admired the deep shiny red, the metallic gold, loved the process of working on art little by little, watching the life of it unfold. The process was the pleasure, the end product sheer joy.

Why am I so much harsher with myself about my writing? How can I learn to enjoy the process, embrace the messy sentences, trust in the unfolding? I pray for this, for learning to find pleasure in writing bad first drafts, knowing I get endless chances to clean up the smudges, choose the better word, be happy with the less kinked hair because it brings the character a new kind of strength, because she only comes to life in a process that isn't controlled, isn't contained, is far from perfect. I want to learn how to have fun with each piece of this puzzle. And look---I have 51 more blog entries this year to practice on, counting this one. That was my intention, to learn more about my writing, but I balk at it being hard, at not being happy with it. I know the critic isn't done with me, don't expect her not to snarl at me as I go on. But I'm going to remind myself of my angel and try to embrace the thumbprint I accidentally put on the back of my paper, honor the red smear across the first few words on the page. I am going to see if I can't tease my critic, cajole her, get her to giggle. Right now, for instance, she is telling me I have not said one damn thing about the Palm Greens Cafe except that I am the only customer there. "Great advertisement for the place," she sneers. "Way to go, Riba."

I snort. I can't help it. (I tend to snort when I laugh.) But it's okay because I'm still the only person here. When I walked in there were several tables full, mostly twos, not couples, leaning toward the center of their tables, concentrating, the room buzzing. There was no one there who wasn't engaged. That alone was impressive to me. I've watched too many people share a meal without speaking, stiff with tension or limp with nothing to say. This place fed me even before I read the menu. I felt at home right away, and I was struck by that, by how long it had been since I felt that way out in the world. I felt like I was among my kind, and I decided this place felt like the quintessential Palm Springs. This is the Palm Springs I imagined. This is my Palm Springs. It's not Sebastopol. It's not funky or elegant but something else, something in between, like me. It makes me want to cry now sitting here. I didn't know how much I needed this, a place out in the world where I could feel at home. I'd taken it for granted for years; it was everywhere. I'd all but given it up living in another country, but glimpsed it still in a handful of places even there. My isolation was obvious in Mexico; I stood out like neon. But here I don't stand out in such a stark way. Still, I haven't felt like I really fit anywhere until now.

Here I get to feel at home, and it's walking distance, along the creek path, such a gift. My gazpacho today was lovely, the grilled tofu wrap both pretty and savory, the creamy ginger miso dipping sauce divine. And when I asked the man from the kitchen for more sauce, he was dear to me, brought it to me in such a sweet way. He made me feel met. Here I am in this Palm Springs almost-vegetarian cafe that feels in deep visceral ways like my kind of place, whose workers meet me in a real way, and again I want to cry, feel blessed, grateful, shed grief I didn't know I carried. "I'll be back soon," I say. Everyone is smiling, nodding, glad. It stays with me on the walk home, the creek and the mountains my companions, my hunger sated, my heart full. My critic has fallen asleep, head nodding near my notebook where I'd nestled it in my cloth bag for the walk home. I think maybe I can hear her snoring. I grin, sigh, keep walking. "I'll be back soon," I whisper.