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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 ...
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mascara in the rain


Press the pedal down, and keep it there the whole time like it is the gas and the road is open. Sing slowly, but not too slow. Take pauses, but not long ones. Keep a light touch on your left hand  - the bass notes are louder than the other ones. Your right hand is cramping up, your fingers are too thick for the keys. A rumble from the hallway as the elevator doors smash open and closed. Another take, another chance to get it right.

Two days later, trying to nail down the same song - about mascara running down her face like she got caught in the rain. A song about meeting death with all of the grace that can be found. About fear, beyond regret. About the things you did right, measured against the things you did wrong. Words about what you think you deserve, and what you will probably get. 




It is a tall order, and my voice cracks on the high parts. It digs deep on the low ones that are just out of reach. I retreat into singing it all quieter, which may be the best idea yet. The computer overheats and I lose a good take in the process. My stomach growls, empty but I want to get somewhere before lunch. The sustain pedal is not working again, and I surrender to the afternoon.

The idea of being empowered by recording an album in the living room seemed like a great idea. In truth, it is a lesson in humility. It is a reminder that working alone amplifies the technical problems, with no one to blame but yourself. Recording a first album is hard enough, without these obstacles. Maybe it is a rite of passage, a gauntlet to run with your eyes squeezed tight wondering if the scary part is over yet.

Somehow, I think this is where I need to be right now. For better or worse, this is how it will happen.
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