I prefer to eat my eggs with small fork on a small plate, unadorned, except for cheese -- sharp cheddar -- and butter to grease the pan and lend a little of my Grandmother to the taste. They lay each morning crumpled like yellow cotton on a small blue plate, quivering slightly if I don't lay the plate down gently enough on the table. It's a fine thing to stand in a morning kitchen, everyone still asleep, the sizzle of the butter in the black cast iron pan. I've learned that the heat is best turned to medium. Much more and the eggs brown.
It's simple, yes. Yellow, black, sizzling, grandmother. Somewhat evocative. But I'm flawed, often, in the preparation. There should be a pinch of cheese, not a grab; a dollop of butter, not a slathering glob. It is the measuring out of these additives that I work on. Too much and the cheese or butter overwhelms, becomes the dish. Who eats just cheese and butter? More than I realize probably.
Atkins was a prophet of the modern appetite. We must be lean and aggressively seasoned to make up for the loss we endure to achieve the form we envision. To fit our thoughts into those sleek jeans, we must starve. Thoughts become the vehicles they move about on. Thoughts move on words. Cheese and butter is apt description for a great amount of stylistic fiction - for mine, certainly, before the long oblivion. Maybe now too, I don't know.
What has a stronger pull? The desert or the nightclub? In my youth it was certainly the garish lights and heavy rhythms of the club, full of sweat and slick things, tongues, muscles, thoughts too large for my head and words -- words like tirret that are tart on the tongue, others mottled as suggilation, purse-proud and itchy as pulicose, will yelp with joy when fitted before a period. Loosed into a pristine and cultured sentence like a raging nysot upon a football player, those words will watonize a mind and having thus done that, no longer slim nor shady in their use, not hampered with the black chains of iracund editors and readers living in television time, those sentences infused with the large life of big words will camp their hard staves on the white page and call attention to their history, demand an adoration of the wealth of inference and rhythm, cast down the stale syllables of bleached language, cast down the sound-bite mentality that emasculates fictions nowadays, cast it all down, the wobbly structure of the modern tongue that limits consciousness with it's autism, not allowing a mind to bloom among the lonely punctuation and hard ramparts of puritan style -- it's all so American anyway: show me the blood, the cunt, the purely visceral and quickly digested, all of it physical, of course, since thought is dangerous and the cultivation of it with words that force synapses to leap larger divides in their connections is terrorism, really -- cast it all down, as those words are wont to do and call attention to their towering sound and hammer out a rightful place on the page, doli incapax. Ha! Yes, that was my youth.
I tend toward the desert now. At least more than I have. You see that big glob of cheese just above this? That is my struggle. I get lost in there. Where are the damn eggs? Oh yes - there they are: on the small blue plate in front of me, on the thorns of the little fork reaching for my mouth. I scratch sentences in my notebook as I ate this morning, greeted the slow rise of the day with long breaths and yellow eggs.