Norman, our cat is asleep on his favorite chair, impervious to the bass pumping up from the apartment below. The house where I live is a wooden cabinet of music, built a hundred years ago on a street that that's long been loved by musicians. Long and McQuaid is the closest land mark and so it's easy to schedule rehearsals, plan meetings, and make drop offs. My husband has lived here for almost ten years, and he tells me there was a time when Gord Downie lived down the street. Andy Maze likes to walk his kids around the block, and our room mate loves to spot the Arts and Crafts gang strolling past her street facing window.

For our part, the wooden walls and high ceilings provide us with an excellent sound making space. The fella beneath us thinks so too, and so both apartments house home recording set ups, many amps, a few piano's and more percussion instruments then you can shake a stick at. It works out well that a bass player and a drummer should be neighbors. As I mentioned, my husband (Jeff the percussionist) has lived here so long that everyone else has moved in understanding that noise shall respectfully, but regularly be made. There's always music here. My music, Jeff's music, Greg's music. Someone's music. It's true. I'm living my dream.

What else can I tell you about my unbelievably lucky ass? This blog thing can feel a bit like an awkward party where nobody knows you. Ten years ago I was studying radio and television at Ryerson, and the program was trying to introduce us to the use of the internet. About all you could do on it back then was type. And you had to type in ugly basic fonts. Anyways, I remember thinking that no one will ever choose to read a back lit screen in a computer lab when they could settle down with a magazine, a letter or a book. Shows you how wrong you can be. I guess that's a crucial thing about me: I'm often wrong. I was wrong about wanting to study radio and television. I transferred out of that program because I realized that the only job I'd ever want was Peter Gzowski's and I figured he'd never ever leave the airwaves. (wrong again, rip, p.z.) I transferred over to the New Media department thinking I'd spend my days analyzing how the media sets us free. Wrong again. They wanted us to MAKE media, which I have to admit, I wasn't very good at. I'm chatty, not clicky. I was also poor. I needed jobs. Lots of jobs.

My old high school band mate, Blair Purdy called me up one day and asked me to come sing for series of house gigs he had at The Beat Junkie on Adelaide. Pandora's box was opened. I'd found the best job in the world. There were a few hitches: I was angry, very very angry, and my tuning was shit. I was angry because I'd managed to buy in to all the messages that music wasn't a worthy pursuit and because I'd wasted all that time and money trying to find consolation prizes that I could love. I was angry for a whole bunch of other reasons too, but that's for other blogs. Anyway I got lucky. Time and time again I met people willing to encourage me. A series of angels who will all get their credit in other posts ushered me away from self destruction and toward my current reality. And all the time I've had to write.

A film director once said that he made films as a tribute to God's creation. All art applies to these principals. Those of us who create are driven to do so by a need to digest, to express, to reflect. We testify out of wonder and respect for the world around us, and at the same time we draw witnesses to our own work. I still have a hard time believing that anyone's actually going to read these posts, but hey, I've been wrong before.