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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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a summer storm



There is lightning, but no thunder. Like a silent film, the sky blinks bright. The clouds are drawn quickly, revealed and then hidden as if they are monsters in a room then lost in the shadows. I feel very small on the balcony, watching it all. My breathing is louder than this summer storm.

Nothing is more surreal than daily life. Especially this strange new life with its rules and fresh fears, its quiet moments and the frantic ones. Children are hugged just a little bit tighter. Fruit tastes a little bit sweeter. Wine and whiskey are savored with lip smacks and thick tongues. The little things help so much, like turning out a fresh loaf of bread after everyone has gone to sleep that waits for them in the morning like a trophy on the table waiting to be devoured. 

We will all grow older as this unfolds. We will have birthdays and anniversaries, holidays and regular days at home, at small tables. This pause, this break, it will go on for a very long time and it may never actually end. It feels foolish to make big plans for "when this is over." That would be like whistling past the graveyard. 

The sky heats up again. The storm is not over. But it still says nothing.


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