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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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a pregnant moon

 

The moon hangs low. There are bright spots in the sky that could be stars or just approaching airplanes. That single ice cube in my last drink has melted down to a sliver, and the cool air wraps around us. 

A backyard. The low chirp of cicadas. The sweet smell of burning wood and wet earth, and a certain hushed silence. All as foreign as a trip to Mars. 

The country, where you nod off early and sleep well. Even if the houses are crammed next to each other and some tennis courts lurk a few minutes walk from here, it is not the city. Voices are lower. Concerns evaporate, or at least seem so far away, no longer hanging from our ears like wet noodles. The children run in random circles, spying a raspberry bush or a papery white butterfly. Hands dig deep into pockets as the sun drifts away, searching for a little warmth as that cool, fresh air rolls in. 

And then it is time to pack things up, to walk the rooms one last time, as insects circle our heads. We head back, that moon hanging lower and lower in the trees, swollen maybe even pregnant as the traffic trickles past. 

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