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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 ...

the birdhouse


 

A sagging, metal cage is tucked inside a corner of this park. 

I ask N what it is. 

"For pigeons." She explains. "A bird house."

But there are no birds. Just a faded sign that hangs crooked from the fence, a path that is not walked. No feathers. No bird shit. No sounds of cooing or flapping wings. Just the wind that moves the trees around, suddenly full of tiny leaves. Just us on this bench, with V scraping a plastic spoon into an ice cream cone. 

I sit with the building behind me, sure that another relic will be gone if I glance back over my shoulder at it. Every shed painted the brightest blue, every concrete garage, every old swingset - they disappear in the middle of the night, ripping down by a secret society leaving not a splinter in the grass.

They are documented as a habit - a compulsion. 

"This could all be gone tomorrow" They seem to say. 


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