body without organs

On the phone to Marianne bemoaning my almost total regression to my self of, say, thirty years ago — to which the colored eggs and cher doll below provide a kind of testament.

Nick tells me it’s just because it’s April and I’m worn out that the last thing I want to think about (much less do) is writing, and that it’s really OK that all I wanna do is wander around looking at stuff and buying Indian jewelry on the net (for a good time check out dmiindia and shopindia for eyefuls of glitter and gorgeousness).

I keep telling myself it’s just a coping strategy.

So I says to Marianne, I says, “I should just go read Foucault. Or better yet Deleuze and Guattari. I mean, what is an egg but a body without organs?”