Musicians moved into my studio building.

The thing about sharing a building with recording artists is that you must deal with noise and repetition, often repetitive noise. Luckily the guys who just moved into my building are nice about it and often offer to turn their music down. And of course, I find their niceness unexpected and disarming so I tell them that the sound doesn’t bother me.

Honestly, the noise isn’t that big of a deal. I know that creating music involves sound, and before a piece is finished, unless a musician is the penny tossing John Cage, the sounds can seem like noise without context.

I’ve lived with musicians before and have endured while songs were written, edited, composed, edited, performed a million times, edited again, then performed to me completed, as though I hadn’t already heard its creation. So I know how to deal. I am grateful that these new recording artists in my building show some talent and are friendly people.

Today however, I had the musicians going plus the expected sounds of construction from the soon-to-be cafe downstairs, on top of ever present (though irregular) train horns. I had headphones. I used them. They worked only slightly, but ultimately just superimposed yet another layer of discordant sound atop the other things my brain was trying desperately to sort.

But alas, it’s nearly one in the morning. All the sound-producing studiomates have gone home. To their beds. I’ll be going there soon too.