Just across the river in Long Island City, a warehouse full of freaks. I’m holding a video camera trying to keep it steady. A masked lady appears on a rotating stage completely naked with a giant afro. And then Whitney singing I’m every woman it’s all in me. She takes big hoop earrings and a belt out of her mouth. She’s got her heels stuffed away in her hair. A shirt too small for her breasts but fitting her tiny waist comes out from between her legs. And then a pair of shorts. Shit…I brought a republican with me. Now she’s not naked anymore; raises her hands above her head. Fade out I’m every woman. Clap clap clap. Finally I think to myself, someone’s doing something that’s making my eyes bigger and my smile wider. The republican says it’s not the real thing and I tell him that she just pulled leggings out of her ass and she’s every woman and it’s all in her.
The same night, an accordionist steals my heart but forgets my name. A year and a half earlier, my friend Mashinka gets married and I turn to my date Selin and say: “It feels like we’re in a movie.” The New Orleans jazz band and the lady singing the blues I’ll never forget.
I am in Prague, drinking a raspberry daiquiri like I’ve never tasted before, sharing a conversation about Moscow with the two most fascinating people in the world. I am in Granada, smoking a peach flavored hookah, drinking Moroccan tea, and watching the tiny mirrors reflect candlelight onto the walls. I am in Paris, riding up an escalator. I am in New York, bicycling through the Bronx to Orchard Beach, where I am attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes. I am in Los Angeles, dreaming. I am always on the look out for moments that seem too cinematic to be true.
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