I did. So what's the point?

I walked into the courtroom three minutes late and saw him sitting there on the right. I had to catch my breath. I was already nervous on the way. Woke up nervous. It was the first time I'd seen him since he tried to kill me, two hands to the neck style. And the first thing I noticed (again) was just how big he was. Ogrish, actually. Like Michael Meyers without the mask. Like just his skin itself was enough. I thought it looked even more cratered, pasty than before. The blue collar protruding from a dark polo. The matted greasy hair and those heavy black shoes. A big man. Still makes me wonder how I managed to break free of him that day, not once but twice. Or three times, maybe. I could hardly look at him now. I left the courtroom and pressed my back against the cool window. And waited for my prosecutor. For direction. He walked out into the marble corridor and sat there like he was waiting for the subway, hunched over his Blackberry and sometimes smiling under his breath. Talking to his wife, nodding at his lawyer. I was having a hard time focusing on what I was going to say and how I was going to say it. I saw the cop who had filled out the report that day and referred to him as a wounded puppy after the fact. I saw the prosecutor and his lawyer walk into one of those small rooms with the frosted windows.

And when the deal was presented to me, I was relieved. And why not, when the option of prolonged trial and sentencing would likely only lead to the the same outcome conclusion. Especially when the judge would hear what an otherwise upstanding citizen he was. Church goer, business owner with Air Canada contracts to boot and sufferer of depression. At least this way I would be issued an apology in court, in front of the judge. And get the choice of the charity. I chose a victim's charity. I explained to my lawyer that I just wanted the court (the world) to know his real intention that crazy day was to shut me up for good - nothing less. But how could I get that recognition? He didn't seem to have an answer. So I decided to take his advice and settled.

I'm settling. There's no other way to say it.

I've been staring at him, sitting much farther down the hallway now. Far enough that we can't even make out the direction or intention of each others' eyes. I swear I made out a little smirk on his ugly face, maybe caught his wife shaking her head in some form of disapproval I hope I will never understand. But I keep on staring. This is my closure. That and the $350 donation, of course - above and beyond even the wildest of my prosecutor's wildest ambitions. I thought it was a touch cheap but who am I to say?

I'm sitting in the courtroom taking in mindless conversation about the Gaspé. I feel more calm and at peace now. I watch a couple of drunk drivers, one shoplifter and a couple of women gladly plead guilty in accordance with their own out-of-court settlements. (My prosecutor seems to be an expert at avoiding the courtroom altogether) Finally he's back and we're up. Frank makes his way before the judge with his back toward me. I can see him wringing those large hands again, closer now. His lawyer explains the history. The details have all been smudged: Parties had a disagreement related to said business, there was an event that followed and now my client would like to issue an apology. It all rang so hollow. He turned to me and said: "Robert, I've had a lot of time to think about what happened that day and I'm truly sorry. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. And we move on."

There was no emotion in that statement. It came out awkward and left me feeling slightly uncomfortable, then cheated. It was that kind of canned apology a kid will make when forced by his mother. I didn't respond and found it difficult to look him straight in the face.

I just sat there, not really feeling like a winner or a loser.

mayday, i can`t explain

I'm always going to have a soft spot for May Day.

Let's put the plight of the international workers and all the student protests and the death of Bin Laden aside for a second. Six years ago to the day, my brother Mark and I opened the first side of il Terzo Piano. It was our first jam space. Well, the first jam space we built ourselves - and a first of many hard lessons in construction, cost over-runs, sound leakage and nation building.

But when it opened, it became the coolest spot in my universe. All turquoise blue and sunburst orange. There was Vox Populi and D Open D in Room 1, Broken Palace in Room 2, odd couple Nick and Jonathan in a windowless Room 4 and Kamikaze in the deluxe suite. Humble beginnings, but with so much promise. Like Balzac had been at one time. And it didn't take much for the place to catch fire. In the next three years, it became the place to be. It was the place to spend your Tuesday mornings and your Sunday nights. It was the place I would run to from my parent's during the summer and the perfect place to have a snowball fight on a March night. It was always Franco's last stop after tour - and just a short drive to the quarry, if need be. We walked its stinky streets and admired the giant reservoirs from the roof in states few people would ever understand. We poured bending guitars into the hallways and shared our most intimate words on her cold, hard floors. The vibe was almost always positive, the pad parties were epic and those of us dedicated to the real cause all got to create some special music there. For me, the place peaked with Uptown VineRise, still months and months after our final pad party in the back section and before things went really sour with the landlords. And the band. But every musician will have their own story; their own beginning and ends.

And even in those last two years, when everything was broken and cold hard reality crept into those magical hallways; when the early wounds were torn open, the salt poured and the place left to slowly rot from the inside, I always found a good reason to go back. It wasn't always easy. But it was always necessary. Because that place was ours until the day it wasn't.

In my head, it'll always be all shiny and new.

levels. it's all about levels

I wish I could bottle the exact moment a dirty, dusty space becomes something else altogether in your mind.

I don't necessarily believe in divine inspiration. Because I know my brain has been quietly processing and building to this moment the whole time. I mean, my brother and I have been talking about organizing this little get together in the back section of the the Mothership for what seems like forever now. Who knows how many hundreds (hundreds? thousands...) of times I have walked past that dusty little corner where the conveyor belt used to be. Or how many hours I have spent carefully organizing and combing through the old Terzo decor in the big room directly facing it - wondering how the hell it would all put itself back together again.

And then it hits and your brain is jolted out of screen saver mode. Today, it was my brother mentioning the word stairs as he was plastering around the Freq Shop door on the ladder.

Suddenly I've got a little project on my hands. The secret vending machine and Billiardini table have already been mentally placed. I ripped the rotten gyp from the cinder block wall to expose the steel column. More texture. Now I can see the beige lamp dangling from the trusses and the old rocking chair with the burnt orange seat sitting solitaire n the corner. Even that steel bridge we found in the garbage so many years ago will find a home somewhere on the walls. All of it will.

And of course the old Terzo Piano sign - the one we symbolically carved out of the wall the last night the place belonged to us. Before it went back into the grubby hands of our asshole ex-landlord.

Soon to be the centrepiece of it all.