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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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the runaway


A window must have cracked open, and the room is now freezing. In the darkness, I nudge it closed and try to find sleep. All at once, I see myself on the floor of a room. It was in January, my last year of college. Everyone was still gone on winter break. I had taken the bus a week early, freeing myself from the small town where my parents lived. They were in the middle of a messy divorce, and I was no help to either of them. The school was half-open, and there were just a few security guards. I would slip inside the film department before five, and hunker down in one of our classrooms. No one could imagine me here, but without windows I had no idea what time it was. I did not wear a watch in those days, foolish as it sounds. My jacket pulled tight, my cheek against the mud-crusted carpet I slept there for seven nights. It was a little like camping I told myself, roughing it by some wild stretch of the imagination.

Here in Moscow, in the middle of the night this somehow comes back to me. The cold air, the smell of desperation, the silence.
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