It is a Tuesday Night. I have been invited to hear my friend play around the corner from my apartment at some "art house cafe". I live less than a block away, yet I haven't been to this locale. I didn't even know it existed. I am told to arrive at nine, when my friend tells me he will be playing. I walk in at ten to. (I am in the Rothko hanging on the walls near the stage near the upright piano.) My friend is at the back. Either they are running behind or my friend was mistaken. Nonetheless, I am here so I might as well listen. The musician is playing a tune written for saxophonist and C.D. The saxophonist blurts out melodies over the manipulated sounds of swearing inmates on death row (I am in these organized noises). It is unusual, impressive, and a completely new and unexpected experience. It is my friends turn to play with his band. I have heard these tunes before. I am almost his groupie. (I am in his Melancholy Song of Dear Departing Friends). This Tuesday evening is unique, but not special because it was unexpected and foreign. I never seem to be able to predict what a day in my life will entail.
I Heart My Toronto Life. I Find Myself Everyday Without Even Looking.
I Am Here.