The He(art) of Non-Attachment

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about attachment and desire, so it seems fitting to me that I would find this specific video at this specific time in my life. I love Michael Stone’s pragmatism and honesty, which is reflected in the video’s clean-cut and sincere editing. Really well done. I think it’s time to start yoga again.



“People cry not Because Love ends, but Because it still Continues, even if it’s over”

Beloved poet Adrienne Rich has died at 82 today of complications from rheumatoid arthritis. Feminists, poets, and lovers of the written word will mourn her loss, though her work will live on.

Image via the Poetry Foundation. 

Seeing Yourself: Mark Sommerfeld Street Photography

If you’re in the Queen West area in Toronto, and you notice out of the corner of your eye a random twenty-something snapping pictures with his SLR, let him do his thAng; he’s not a creeper, he’s a street photographer, and his name is Mark Sommerfeld.

Mark spotted me with my pup outside the White Squirrel, a cafe I frequent on account of the cheap coffee and free internet.

That day, I was bundled up in my coziest winter wear: English riding boots, jeans with leggings underneath, my grandmother’s winter sweater, a double-layered toque, and, of course, an oversized jacket to match my pups’ (Duncans’).

So again, don’t run away from the west-end street photographer, and be sure to check out his fashion-focused Tumbler account, They Wear This. Mark will also be authoring a feature article on my street style, which will be published Tuesday morning on The Genteel . Be sure to catch it.

Love You Like

New Spoken Word track entitled “Love You Like” by The Lady Medusa.

All Images via the WeHeartIt Community & Photographer Viki Bee. Music from Ray Lamontagne’s album, Till the Sun Turns Black, song titled “Empty.”



there was no yew today. it was all me. jst me … and sometimes it seems . that withot yew there is no me;


there was no me today. all day long eye was inside my head . thinking. abot my daily bread . and how today would be the day . eye wood not taste . the sacrificial offering of yew.





Tanya Davis

Rebekah Higgs: Halifax Sounds Ready to Rock Toronto

It’s always a strange experience meeting an artist before you’ve met their art. It usually it happens the other way around: you see a painting or hear a band, and your prompted to do a little research: you watch interviews and you-tube videos; you read their bio online, and your research informs your opinion about the artist’s ideals, goals, and overall personality.

But as a journalist in the wonderful city of Toronto, you brush elbows with some fantastic and creative artists before being exposed to their work. Last night, I had the pleasure of meeting this up-and-coming female musician. More after the jump..

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My Jonas Brothers Stage of Mindless fan Idolatry. Or, On the Importance of Digital Discourse

Yesterday, I posted a blog about meeting television personality George Stroumboulopoulos at CBC studios (Read full post here).

My interview was framed with admiration for Stroumboulopoulos, and perhaps came across as gushing. I received a few comments on this post, but one particular commentator’s thoughts caught my attention. His name was Allan Sorensen, and he passionately disagreed with my idolization of George. In particular, he disliked my claim that Strombo was responsible for building an empire.

Sorensen’s initial comment was well-written and informed, although he called me some names and spoke to me in a demeaning tone. I replied to his comment, appealing to his intelligence, and seriously asked for his opinion. I also asked if he could refrain from using hateful language.

Sorensen replied to my comment with something I value: rationality. He backed up his claim with evidence—lots of it. He spoke to me seriously, and he presented his opinion logically rather than hatefully. He did not use names and no longer sounded like an asshole.

If you read the full debate, Sorensen makes valid points against my opinion of Strombo as a character deserving of admiration. Sorensen gave me information I wasn’t aware of, and affected my opinion. After reading all of his supporting evidence, I reconsidered my approach to Strombo and seriously entertained Sorensen’s argument that I’m too quick to admire.

I’m always grateful when people engage with me on my blog: whether they agree with me or not,  I want discussion—I want social conversation. My blog is a space where I stake my claims: obviously, there is less at stake if I say a coffee shop is really great than if I say we should admire someone. One of my readers strongly disagreed with my opinion, and I thank him for sharing his thoughts and opinions (Namaste, my friend).  Lady Medusa isn’t afraid of being wrong; she aims to stimulate productive conversation.

My debate with Sorensen exemplifies the need for serious digital discourse. Lady Medusa seeks to create a space for social conversation. As the author of this site, I’m not saying my opinion is right, I’m simply voicing it. After voicing this opinion, I’m accountable for it, and it’s my job to defend my opinion should anybody call me out on it, or ask me to further explain it.

What’s interesting to me is how the debate evolved. At one point, I’d asked Sorensen to stop his name-calling and seriously speak to me, and he did. Only then was I capable of hearing him and entertaining his opinion.I think the whole situation is a great paradigm for how we ought to be using digital media to converse with one another—or better yet, how we ought to converse with one another in general.

All it took was a little open-mindedness on my part and some willingness to engage on Sorensen’s part, and voilà: what could have been a name-calling contest turned into a productive conversation about Canadian broadcasting and the nature of admiration and fanship in popular media.

Thanks you, Allan Sorensen, for engaging with Lady Medusa, and please, don’t hesitate to disagree again.

My Impromptu Interview with George Stroumboulopoulos

As I strolled through the John Street entrance of CBC studios yesterday afternoon, I crossed a threshold from the outside world—the world of streetcars and frostbite—into a world of possibility—the world of television broadcasting. Yesterday, I was lucky enough to be on set during the taping of  George Stroumboulopoulos’ New Year’s Eve show.

While the CBC technitians fiddled with the computer (they were setting up for a live interview with You-Tube sensation Anton Dobson), Strombo fielded a few questions from the audience. Here’s what George had to say when Lady Medusa asked about radio and television broadcasting and the future of Canadian communication.

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Strangers in the Night: A Fictional Encounter of the Third Kind


Strangers in the night, exchanging glances

wondering in the night, what were the chances

– Frank Sinatra, “Strangers in the Night “


Last night, I found a stranger. Or, perhaps he found me—that’s the thing with these small serendipitous moments: we can never know how much is chance or how much is choice;  all we can know is that these moments, these instances at the crossroad of fact and fate, are the raw and real residues of the mysteries of the universe; they’re the ashes of Sacred’s long cigarette.

His name doesn’t matter. It mattered to me, but makes no difference to my story, so I’ll omit the details. We began as strangers in the night, but he took me by the hand and pulled me into his life, and for that moment, our stories coincided. For that brief and beautiful encounter, we shared setting, lighting, context, and feeling. In another life, we’d compare notes.

I’d only asked him for directions, but my stranger opened his jacket and offered me all he could. I have nothing to show for what he gave me, but his offering meant everything to me. My stranger taught me that life is comical. We couldn’t promise each other tomorrow, but who ever can? He made me laugh when I could barely smile.

More importantly, my stranger taught me that this is all we have. This one moment, this one wordless surrender, is the pinnacle of humanness. Each moment is the fleeting climax of the  moment proceeding it, and it is always now.

When we least expect it, the universe shifts, eroding the flat landscape of everyday life. Seemingly out of nowhere, a stranger materializes. Perhaps they’ve lived a whole life—a life full of colors you’ve never seen and flavors you’ve never tasted—or perhaps they’re not real at all. Perhaps they’re made of dust, a being solidified solely for the purpose of your star-crossed encounter.

He was from New York—a city like my city, only bigger. A city where life is but a whirlwind of noise—clamoring concrete buildings and screaming vertical lights— where survival depends on your ability to cling together, to share cigarettes and pillows with strangers.

My city, like his city, is a nexus of silent strangers, a quiet interchange of bodies with softly expanding lungs and hushed beating hearts, all coursing through the veins of side-streets, screeching like creaky twilight streetcars through pulsing pink moments.

When dawn came, we parted. We didn’t exchange numbers or worry about finding one another again. It was an unspoken agreement our bodies made: if the tides brought us to brush shoulders again, so be it. If not, our moment was perfect and complete, an exchange bracketed by the brief and holy unloneliness allowed for by the proximity to skin. I doubt I’ll ever see him again, but I know I’ll never forget my stranger.



Stranger: [streyn-jer]

1. a person with whom one has had no personal acquaintance

2. A newcomer in a place or locality: a stranger in town.

3. an outsider:

From “strange,” late 13th century, from elsewhere, foreign, unknown, unfamiliar, from the French “étrange,” meaning foreign, alien, or external. As a form of address to an unknown person, it is recorded from 1817, meaning “one who has stopped visiting.”

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