Scrambled Eggs

She made coffee and scrambled eggs.  I lurched about in her living room and pondered her objects, her books.  It is becoming ever more clear to me that a person is all about their objects, not so much about their books.  It is clear, also, or becoming clear, that it is not merely about the objects, but the objects in conjunction with their placement in the living space.

          Hence, I’m lurking about in her living space, reviewing her objects and the placement of her objects while she is in her cooking space making coffee and scrambled eggs and humming a song that we danced to last night, or at least I think we danced to it, or it may have been playing in her sex and sleeping space and we have sexed and slept to it rather than danced to it—it all gets muddled sometimes the next day.

          The scrambled eggs seem to have a hint of Worcester added to them, as, while I lurch in her living space, I can detect the odour of the Worcester emanating from her cooking space and it is a good warm scent that arouses a homebody spirit, a remembrance of grandmother’s kitchen and grandfather’s beer and tomato juice :red Eye” concoction which he loved adding Worcester while sipping at it sitting at the kitchen table.

          Because of this, I experience a moment of happiness, a fit of happiness, if you will, something I equate with Kerouac’s instant alleviation of depression in Big Sur, just a sudden impulse of a smile, for no apparent reason, a scent, a noise, an idea, a memory, and suddenly I am attacked by happiness, smiling for no apparent reason, peaceful in the soul, close to God, embraced by Jesus.  Ah, that it would be a permanent condition