To crack the egg…
I am at the shell membrane, in a little pocket of fluid, swimming around, kicking. I want, or maybe I need to reach latebra – but thats an imagined space. I’ve only been as far as the yellow yolk. The ‘I,’ is diffused in the sticky fluid. The yellow yolk seeps into the sac I’m swimming in. I am at work – internet cafe. A little hole/whole has been punched through my chest. This hole is expanding and contracting as I breathe. The fridge here is filled with Cokes and Mount Franklins and sounds as if its powered by a cicada engine. Its sound, the sounds, are all gone when a customer comes to pay.
Why the Egg then? Why not the telephone or something else? It was a spur of a moment thing, a spur of Deleuze maybe. Something to break up, chew away, or stripbare the flaky skin.
In the first diagram we see a modern egg as opposed to the second – primitive, with no ‘concentric, definitively aborified’ centre. (D & G, A Thousand Plateuas, p. 232)
