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somewhere over the rainbow (and other stories)

  Exactly two years ago I found myself flying through a corner of a rainbow, and landed in Oaxaca, Mexico. It was the last film festival I traveled to, a brutal and sweet experience in the harshest of realities, trying to wrap my arms around the slipperiest industry and failing magnificently. Surrounded by fresh faces and eager eyes I ran from the rooms and into the street time and again, wandering off with the camera in my bag as a companion. I took pictures of a blind man that sang on the same corner every day, of wedding parades, of an old woman waiting to see the dentist.  Literally somewhere over the rainbow, I met the ugliest answers to questions I had been dragging my feet towards for years. Cramming the most delicious food into my mouth, joking at the nightly rooftop cocktail parties, grinning like the Cheshire Cat it was all coming to an end. Actually, it had ended before it even started though - and on the plane back to New York and finally Moscow the bone-crunching undertow
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miniatures (a storm)


A wind comes up from nowhere, flipping the drapes all the way outside the windows. The sky flashes, dead silent. No thunder, no delayed crash and crackle. Just fingers of electricity drawing briefly, shooting up into the clouds, drawing down to the trees. The clouds pulse, backlit, as if bombs are going off in the distance. It feels like a silent war has begun.

We stand at the windows. E is wide awake, her face turning up to mine, her eyes wide. N tiptoes in, and tells us to stand back from the balcony, that it is not safe.

The baby is still sleeping somehow.

Trees are bending hard. The smell of ozone and smoke is drifting up to us.

The rain does come, with little patters and then cupfuls. I close all of the windows tight, my feet wet from what has come in already. Thunder finally cracks, the first sound in half an hour to come from that bright sky. There will be a flash flood, a night of drops smacking against the windows like little bells.

I fall asleep to this sound, knowing E is warm under her red blanket, seeing V twist in her sleep, her legs caught in some briefly imagined infant ballet for a moment, then folding back to her side. N is curled next to her, an arm bent to keep the baby close, so that she senses that little touch of skin on skin, just brushing elbows, that miniature connection that lets us feel that everything will be ok.

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