After moving out at 16, I did my best to navigate my restless nature. Even so, I ended up living in many
different apartments over those first independent years. One of the most memorable was a big old house on
Oxford Street in Toronto’s Kensington Market where I rented a room on the second floor. Kensington Market
was and still is a unique little world of shops and cafes represented by many cultures. Colorful bins
overflowing with beans and lentils line the streets, and Jamaican patty windows, Italian cheese shops,
and vintage clothing boutiques are hidden in alleyways and corners. Back then, I could barely afford my
rent and often went without food, but I still loved walking along those cobbled roads while dreaming of
what my life would become.

On the main floor of that house lived a young couple with a newborn baby who argued incessantly and had a
large Afghan dog. Sometimes that dog got out and I’d sneak him into my room where he’d just stand and
stare out my big bay windows. Down the hall was Gary, a Frank Zappa fanatic whose tiny closet of a room
was decked out in complete blackness, and from the adjacent room to mine Sara’s singing and guitar playing
would resonate through our shared wall, balancing out Gary. Behind the house was an empty warehouse
where bootleg parties took place at night, hosted by I kid you not, a mobster with a handlebar moustache.
I had clearly been cast in a strange magical movie.

Even though my lack of funds was restricting, all I really wanted to do was stay home all day and write
poems, sing my songs, and paint on large canvases. (Those paintings would pay off the following year when
I got a scholarship to study at the Ontario College of Art). On Wednesday nights I would head out to Fat
Alberts Café, an open mic coffee house that Ray and Ed ran in the basement of a church at Union and
Bloor. Every week I’d perform one or two original songs, and then afterwards we’d all go out drinking.
Everyone was at least 10 years older than me, so I was never asked for ID. For the first time in my life
I felt like I belonged to something.

I spent hours in my room on Oxford St. playing records, singing and writing. My vinyl was played so much that I
knew every scratch and every skip, and in that way Joni Mitchel and Neil Young were my constant companions. They held me together like glued up pieces of broken glass.

I moved a few more times until I finally left Toronto for good. But it didn’t matter where I went, there was always light along the way.