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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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mud and water


Away from the people in the street, the workers rebuilding the little church, past the new market there is a path that leads to the river. Not the murky stream close to our place, but the Moscow river. I know the water is full of chemicals there, but at least it looks nice. No one comes down here any more. Normally the promenade would be full of strollers and roller skaters. I am alone with the traffic rumbling past, the clouds trotting along. 

A tour boat, all steel and glass and karaoke music is making its way. 
No one is inside it. 

Maybe I should have lunch here sometime. Eat out, not tucked into a corner of the kitchen staring out at a little patch of green outside the windows. 

The water is so quiet. I imagine what is down there below the surface. Beer bottles, vodka bottles, maybe a lost wingtip. But nothing grows there. There are no green things swaying in an underwater slow motion breeze. 

Nothing, just mud and water and gasoline trails.  


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