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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

the accidental nudist


It is like walking around naked. The accidental nudist, with nowhere to hide. The snark, the condemnations, the sharp teeth - they were always there, waiting. Is it some surprise that they return? They are like Moscow snow. No matter what, there will be a sour, muddy, sloppy winter.

People are who they are. It is so rare for anything to change.  

Someone once lectured to me that the ability to be vulnerable is a strength, a superpower they said. I don't think that is true. It is simply the cost of admission. If you want to buy a ticket, you have to really show something, share something, say something. 

The father in me wants to shield my children from these dilemmas. They write and draw, make music, and carry their hearts on their sleeves. The answer is not at my fingertips. I am not prepared for that day. 

Maybe no one is. 


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