Summer Life

Photography: Claude Nori | Biarritz, France

Photography: Claude Nori | Biarritz, France

European summers taste and feel so different then our North American ones. It’s a collective celebration of life and its joys under the sun. People don’t run away from its pleasure seeking rays, in fact they embrace the starlight. The suns heat becomes desires fuel; freedom finds its way into the rhythm and pulse of days turned nights, where hands that smell of cigarettes come together in holy prayer on beds where after weeks of boredom have been exchanged for lovers quarrels and salacious nights.

The European summer evokes endless movement and promises of something better then before. -tM

Brutalism Meet Romance

This could very well come close to being my dream space. Rooms organized by mental and psychological activities, a space that is expansive, creative, minimalist, and allows others to live freely without crossing paths unless consciously desiring so; both thoughtful in design, and necessary for a creative to thrive in.

I am beyond moved by the beauty and intelligence of this space. -tM


Uniform Cool

Phtotography: tM

Phtotography: tM

I was struck by this man’s unique way of keeping style while in work uniform. I am not certain whether you can tell or not, but he had a large thick silver hoop earring gracing his right ear and a ring of the same stature on his left. I also love the contrast of the bandanna with his silver locks.

I immediately noticed him and payed no attention to the bikini clad sunbathers, as he weaved in and out of different projects in peace & style on a Wednesday afternoon. -tM

Affairs of the Underground


Photography: Andre Kertesz | La Fourchette, 1928

Photography: Andre Kertesz | La Fourchette, 1928

I have always found the sound of cutlery on a plate soothing. It probably has something to do with my childhood and the summers by the lake spent falling asleep under the shade of a tree while my parents had lunch in the distance.

As it so happens, today on the way home from work, eyes closed listening to the tracks in meditation, my thoughts were interrupted by the distinct sound of cutlery ever so gracefully scratching the surface of a ceramic plate. I immediately drifted into solitude, only to realize that the sound was both completely out of context and place. I listened intently, only to have it continue. There was no mistaking its intention.

In all actuality I didn’t search the cart for the elegant diner, however I did become distinctly aware of our vulnerability while in transit. We are neither here nor there, in transition, going from one place to another leaving us most open to such sensory experiences and to the breaking of boarders. A shared moment and space in transition is an interesting thing to observe and contemplate. And yes, I got here from there. Sometimes that’s just the way the mind works. -tM

That Time was like Never, and like Always

Photography: Unknown

Photography: Unknown

The communion with nature is so immense that any words used to describe its sanctity fall short.

The other day I took my shoes off and walked through the grass. I needed to feel the soil beneath my concrete treading feet, and in that moment, I felt time dissipate, it was like never, and like always. I need to faithfully nurture that connection to creation; where nothing is waiting. Sometimes when nothing is waiting we find everything. -tM

Parked for the Weekend

Photography: Unknown

Photography: Unknown

Sometimes I like to be parked for the weekend. It’s a glorious thing to be able to be at home, putter about, have friends come over to grace your space as opposed to venturing out into what sometimes seems to be waves of mass discontent. It’s all about balance, for me at least; balance, and going with the flow of well, me. -tM

It's Friday!

Photography/Artist: Sara Shakeel

Photography/Artist: Sara Shakeel

On Friday’s even my long journeyed public transit commute doesn’t feel so bad. With the promise of the weekend drawing closer, that Friday feeling is one of joy unlike any other day. There is a lightness of being, an extra bounce in my step, a disco ball of magical light bouncing off of every face I see, and every surface I touch. I even think I am a bit nicer on Friday’s. It’s magical through and through. I have said it before, and I will say it again, “Friday, I’m in Love with You.” -tM

When I am Done, I am Done

Photography: Unknown

Photography: Unknown

I am many things, but one thing I am not is someone who goes back to any past relationship, be it friendship, lover, or casual fling. You see, when I am done, I am done.

There is no friendship after a love affair, no knocking on my door after a friendship has been squashed, no “hey, I am here to see what’s up again” after a casual tryst.

This isn’t about holding grudges or being stubborn, nor is it about not understanding why things didn’t work out. It is quite the opposite, it is about having understood why things didn’t work out, about learning the lessons, doing the work required to heal, and then finally moving on.

Yes, people change, but by the time my relationships are over, people have gotten a second chance, and sometimes even a third. The way I see it is we had our time, we parted for reasons known to both of us, and now we move forward separately. Life is too short to repeat anything, especially patterns.

So you see, it all comes full circle: when I am done, I am done, nothing more, nothing less. -tM

I Can Feel the Dance in her Soul

Artist: Degas | Little Dancer, age 14 | National Gallery

Artist: Degas | Little Dancer, age 14 | National Gallery

“The Dancer premiered in 1881 at the Sixth Impressionist Exhibition in Paris, where it spurred condemnation for its “low” realism that many commentors considered vulgar. She stood as an indecently naturalistic portrayal of a working-class dancer, linked to nebulous ideas of vice, degeneracy, and corruption.”

She originally came to be known as the “Unloved Dancer.”

The world was appalled by her realism. It was the first modern attempt at a realistic sculpture. But the original unloved, wigged, and slippered Dancer no longer exists. The 1881 version was made entirely out of wax, which began to darken. It was later replaced with a simplified revised version also made of wax (as no one wanted to buy the original) Today, there are 30 of these bronze cast dancers around the world that were some what born out of Degas’ original. Plaster mould’s were made after Degas’ death in 1921 of a less detailed version of the unsellable original that Degas had later created. Degas’ revised wax rendition currently resides in the National Gallery in Washington, DC.

Now cloned, and idealized, the new version has been whole heartedly accepted by the masses, yet I still have a longing to be witness to the original. It just goes to show you how uninterested we as humans are in having realism find its way into our art, and how uncomfortable it is when it does, as it interferes with our ability to escape reality. -tM

Cool, I Don't Care


I have always cared too much, you name it, I cared and connected to it. The days of moving through life with my emotions tugging at my every turn left me exhausted to say the least.

I have always wanted to “not care,” translation: I didn’t want to feel so deeply. So in summation, I am finally getting to this point in my life, the not caring point, and it feels liberating to not have your emotions run your life.

I still care, but I don’t emotionally connect at that deep level anymore and I LOVE IT! Don’t get me wrong, there are still things that stay with me longer then they should, (letting go, and caring, can be synonymous), but that separation between self and others is wonderful. It leaves so much more space for connecting to myself, to the world, and to the moment. I can listen, empathize, comfort, and be there for others, but I no longer take that shit home.

I am also at that stage in my life where self-confidence trumps caring about what others think, and in turn, I will do what I have to do for me, without apologies. And if that sounds selfish,

well, I truly don’t care. -tM