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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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homeless

 


People that write music collect fragments - half a chorus, a bit of melody they hum in the shower. They are affectionately called homeless riffs, homeless verses. Eventually they find homes - well, most of them. They just need to be patient. All the same, I do not have a home. I have the people I love, and four rented walls. I don't have a country. The old one is an ongoing disaster, and this one is a police state. I lost them both as the years unfolded, paying rent. Watching my children grow. Seeing my wife evolve as a mother.

The cabinets are full of dishes I would throw away in a moment. There are no bookcases with cherished titles. I would leave tonight with one of the guitars and my family if I could. I would take the fastest taxi to the airport and never look back over my shoulder. 

There is no favorite bar here, or any bar I liked going to. No favorite restaurant. No friends, just acquaintances. Everyone smart left eight years ago, leaving the fools behind, and the people with nowhere to go. 

There is no living of life here, just a daily form of survival. 

The streets and hallways smell like a morgue, even in Spring. Stale cigarettes, burnt onions, cabbage, and diesel. The water often smells of gasoline. I am not working towards something here, because nothing is possible. I cannot open a pop up restaurant, or a small business. I can just lay low, and weather this out. 



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