"None of us are Free"

That's Solomon Burke, singing in the dark in my studio.

And then he says "One of us are chained."

If one of us is chained, none of us are free.

It's more than a provocative thing to crow about, on a darker blues compilation I recently discovered. The world is getting very small. I share thoughts, perceptions and jokes with people thousands of miles away. My night is their morning, and we laugh as one. There is something really comforting about this. I may walk alone, pulling my scarf close to my throat on strange sidewalks - - but I am surrounded by people that care.

I recently threw a golden ruble into the street. It had rested in my left pocket for almost eight years. It was supposed to bring me luck, and I protected it religiously. I did let anyone touch it. In truth, I do not think it brought me anything but heartache and false hope. One night a few weeks ago, I passed some street musicians and randomly decided to give them a handful of the lucky money from my left pocket. The sheepish, mumbling fellows dropped their guitars and chased me down the passageway to thank me and shake my hand. I suddenly realized the golden ruble was one of the coins I had given them. In a heartbeat, they had inspected the change and realized I had given them some gold. The dark haired one quickly gave me the coin back - -he knew it was a mistake. Of course, I felt relieved and went on my way.

It was later that very same night that I realized the coin was desperately trying to get away from me, and I had screwed up a beautiful escape plan. I promptly went out on the balcony and threw the golden coin into the darkness. It fell on some grass, or a clump of dirt. Not as poetic, but hopefully free.

Maybe someone will find it in the spring, I thought.

rocks, coins and angels

I had a blue-eyed angel in New York. I would pass him on the street at random moments every few months or more. His eyes blazing from behind his beard and a ski hat, he would smile at me. A quick smirk of recognition - - aha, you caught me. Yes, I’m here. I’m around. I know you’re completely lost, and I’m here as a sort of signpost to tell you - - you are right where you’re supposed to be.

I carry rocks and coins in my left pocket - reminders of various significant moments in my life. There was a $2 bill there for years. A little green piece of marble from Santorini. Migelli was a human version of these momentos. I kept losing him, and finding him.

In truth, he was the second assistant director on a feature film I worked on, right out of film school. I was the cinematographer for a former porn star turned-porn producer’s foray into legitimate (ok, more clothed) filmmaking. Candida Royalle (or Candice, once you got to know her) was half Sicilian, half Cherokee. Kind, generous, imaginative - -she gave me my first break and I made her futuristic, racy story of one woman’s triumph over sexual repression look like a lost Bergman film. (And, we shot it in 10 days.) Migelli was an invisible force - standing in as an extra, fixing flat tires, bringing fresh tiramisu to the set at 2AM. I have no idea how he got hired.

I would pass him on 36^th street, close to 9^th Avenue and a string of flat fix mechanics. I would see him at 4AM, cracking peanuts on the front steps of the Public Library. Once, I saw him crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. He did not seem to age. He always smiled. He always saw me first, but waited for me to notice him. I wonder how many times he saw me, and I was so wrapped up in my troubles that I did not.

I really thought Migelli crossed my path this morning, as I passed the Europevsky Shopping Center. It seemed impossible, but I have never failed to find such surprises in life. They seem to follow me.

I turned around, splashing through puddles to see if it was him.

Studencheskaya!

E sang in the cold rain today on the way to detskie sad. Dark and colorless, the low sky did not stop us from being silly. Men raked leaves into piles with handmade brooms - basically, twigs bunched together and wrapped in string. We pretended to be a train, and E was driving, calling out all of the stops.

“Studencheskaya!” she crowed, kicking wet leaves from our path.

“Parki!” She shouted.

Inside, the children were changing into dry clothes, and making a line at the door. They would all walk together to bring breakfast up to the classroom. The halls smelled of warm milk.

My face in the wet wind, I crossed the river. Fresh pastries thumping around in my pocket, I smelled both a sort of dread and a sense of possibilities. The world seemed to be wrapping around this solitary moment, each car splashing past me, each yellow leaf turning under my heel, each toy in each window, each face braced against the same wind.

A dark Monday like so many, but somehow my feet are still dry.

the taste of coins

The best part of the day comes at 5:30, when I pick up E from detskie sad. I often see her before she sees me. Her fluffy green jacket is still a little big. She stands with giant eyes, chattering with the other children. I see them dancing in a circle, holding hands. I see them running and hiding behind bushes, and under the apple tree.

I had just seen the blind girl from poje (later) in the street.

She was walking better, but still not very well. I thought to call out to her, but felt this was intrusive. Somehow I thought she would need to recognize me - not the other way around - for this sort of run-in to work.

Her eyes wide open, her face turned towards the sky and the light rain that fell on both of us.

Later, E came back to the office with me, where she would decorate the room with corn flakes, dolls and clay.

Passing under Smolenskaya, some stray dogs gnawed on blood red bones. Some guys sat around them, drinking cheap beer and smoking. I felt an algae taste in my mouth, like the back of my throat was covered with pennies. I could feel a cold coming on, and surrendered to it.

The snow was coming, and it would be easier once it arrived. A sort of relief, for the long slow winter to start.