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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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of pigs, birds and mice


Someone has perched a 2019 calendar in the stairwell. It is a strange message - that this is not trash, that someone else must want it, even need it. A bit of nostalgia for the year of the pig. Nostalgia, the cheapest drug. Outside a handful of birds are singing, flying in tight manoeuvres. They have no idea what day it is. They do not know what year it is. They just sing and fly, in countless laps around an imaginary track. No one wins,  no one loses. 

It is the year of the mouse now, with tiny ceramic figures perched on tables and stuck to refrigerators to remind us. I can already see this windowsill in a year, with the mouse calendar sitting on it, another offering, another item that has somehow filled its purpose. And the birds will surely be there, squawking on tree limbs above the trash bins, as we shuffle in the fresh snow towards February.  
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