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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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stepping over mountains


My eyes are wet, but I blame it on the wind. There is delicious music blaring in my headphones as I float past the morning traffic. I am here, but not here. I am inside a guitar instead, dangling from thick strings. Plans unfold. Titles for songs present themselves. The wind is kicking my jacket around like a forgotten sail on an abandoned skiff. 

A cello plays. An accordion wheezes. 

My feet know the way. 

The faces approach, sour glances, angry stares. Two teenagers kissing at a crosswalk, eyes forced closed, lips inching forwards. The light changes from red to green to red. He has fresh pimples. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail. They are lost inside the tiny universe of this corner, a world of two.  I head down towards the river, where a broken footbridge dangles across the muddy water - a twisted reminder, each day closer to its collapse. 

The trucks and buses roar past. The music fades. Just the sound of my breath, my heartbeat, and great thoughts that disappear as easily as they present themselves. We are all famous on a good walk, giants stepping over mountains. 

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