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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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bird on the wire (no one can really say)


No one can explain why the birds sit on those wires. There are so many other wires here, a ramshackle, sagging spiderweb crisscrossing the entire neighborhood, but these are the ones they rest on. At night, they all fly away. No one can explain that either. Of course, I think of the Leonard Cohen song every time I pass, craning my neck to look up at them. He wrote part of it on a Greek Island, and finished it in Hollywood but he was never truly done with it. There were always revisions to made, tinkering with the first words he would sing at most concerts. 

People like to think they know what they mean, these birds on the wires. That is the maddening beauty of his lyrics - they can mean whatever you want them to. You can bend them to your will. They can be a stubborn example of the force of your will. They can be lonely, isolated. They can be that familiar sight from your kitchen window. 

I am glad they are there, defying explanation. They give me an odd sense of hope, and how fleeting it is, how random it is, and how I makes no sense most of the time. 


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