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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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I am Dorothy, but this is not Oz


I do not sleep more in the longest nights. It is after four at the earliest, when the cool underside of a pillow finds me snoring. I live in a different time, no matter where I am. The dreams still arrive though, like noisy cars on a train crammed full with exotic animals. They are not written down, or committed to memory. They will return on their own, like birds that fly back after the winter. I know there are rooms I have never been in, only familiar in these dreams. A friend is somehow a chef now, making cookies from Ovaltine and cardboard that are just short of delicious. An actor from two of my films is a carpenter, with a mysterious assistant. I am Dorothy but this is not Oz.

It was an old fascination, looking up the meaning of bathtubs and toilets in a self-appointed dream dictionary. No one can know what this all means, unless you are naked and forgot your lines on stage. That is easy.
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