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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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Pushkin's wind



As Pushkin wrote, Like an infant wailing low. That is how the wind whips around the houses. Trees bend wildly, like giants losing their balance. 

We were on the playground when the first drops splashed on the seesaws. "Maybe we should go home." I say half-to myself but N agrees. I hoist V to my shoulders, one of her favorite things in life. With her arms grasping at the empty branches over our heads, she sings a made-up song. And then the wind comes and we are all running. I bring V down, burying her face in my jacket. She shouts at the weather, as if her demands will slow it down. The rain comes hard and the streets are dancing with little rivers in less than a minute. The windows above us in the new houses are rattling like ghosts are inside them. Inside the front door, soaked and out of breath we hear the howl as it trickles through the cracks in the windows. 

The next day, I see an entire tree uprooted, its roots as big as its trunk. 
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