i won't be your yoko ono

I never gave it another thought I realised... That day that - I must have been green in the face with hangover - I met an aging and sick, but suprisingly vital and extremely savvy, private school bred mama's boy - an artist, a cameraman, a perv - an ex-something-something-something or other...

Mark Kalev Kostabi for a friend, a TV show on Manhattan Neighbourhood Network, an art show opening in Soho. Soon. .
A dick, a rebel, just an old fart. I got to like him a lot.

He said he heard the shots from 72st West to 89st East where he was standing. It had echoed across Central Park. He said they all stopped for a moment - looked up to carry on. Not realising they had just heard John Lennon being shot to death. A history in the making.

He's seen Yoko often. On the street, she lives two blocks down. He says she looks tiny.

chicken shit

Identity crisis. And guilt. Guilt. GUILT.
For every single little thing I do or do not do.

S t o p!!

For leaving.
Remorse pouring out of every single pore of my body.
My MFA, my dear life,
I have a career that I so carefully planned and worked for.
Whatever happened to I always know.
My choices. Probably never right.
Or almost never right. Or mostly right. Or whatever...

I don't know. Sometimes I do things and expect no consequences.
There's always something, they always come.
Consequences.
I've been offered fruits I don't really desire.

The truth is.
That.
I'm.
A chicken.
Shit.