Attachment and revolution.

It's been a long time coming.

I've been in my current pad for six years. When I think about how deeply, how resonantly, my world has changed over and over again in that time, I'm left somewhat awestruck. It's a large ("palatial" by New Yorker standards) 2bedroom-plus-den "lower-level" in the heart of the Toronto arts district, somewhere within walking distance of some the best clubs, pattiseries, galleries, and parks in the city. I came here after living with some pretentious, weed-dealing goths following the breakup of my marriage, and by and large, it's been a place where I've embraced (and been embraced by) a lot of transformation. But it's had its problems, and when the opportunity to trade it in for a bright, cheerful 1bedroom on the doorstep of Toronto's equivalent to Central Park presented itself to me, I couldn't resist.

I believe that enacting personal change is a step toward creative revolution. I believe that when we consciously shatter those things which hinder us, prevent us from achieving that which we would otherwise celebrate, keep us from strengthening our greatest potentials and making dreams come true, we connect with the personal heroes in the mythology of our own lives. Like Sigurd, we slay dragons, and in the eating of its heart we finally understand the speaking of the birds. We break free, and finally recognize how to hear the words of freedom in the process.

I have an awful lot to let go of. In making this move, I find that I'm doing more than simply changing an address. As I winnow through six years' worth of goods, property, and echoes from the past, I've been facing ghosts on a daily basis for the last few weeks. It's healthy, but it's also fucking with my unconscious sense of attachment.

The Buddhists believe that attachment is the root of all suffering. Understanding that has helped me persevere through many undesired changes, and now that I'm at the threshold of a desired change, it's helping me break open some vestiges that have lingered on. Perhaps it's my earth-sign nature, but I have this tendency to retain.

The fact that I write a blog about past and current lovers probably demonstrates that, huh?



I'm finding old love letters. I'm finding the kissing stone I shared with Diva when we first met. I'm finding the little notes that The Grrl would leave for me, telling me how she loved the way I fucked her and how she was dying to reveal her bare ass to me again. I'm finding the pair of Shayne's panties that she slipped off from under her tartan skirt on the afternoon I introduced her to submissive protocol. I'm finding memories.

As I pack boxes and whisper to my cats about the changes that are coming our way, I pause in the hall and remember. There's the spot there where The Grrl, she who moved me in so many ways, gave me head when I got home from work, and the place where she did it after we got high together, and the place where I last kissed her before she said goodbye forever. I would later kiss other lovers there just to prove to myself that I could do it.

There's the spot where I spiralled my lubed index fingers deeply inside Morgan's tight anus, corkscrewing them after I had given her a thorough spanking on her lovely ass for her birthday. That's where Dean squirted on the walls as I violently jilled her, and there's where Molly did the same on the freshly-mopped kitchen floor.

I'm typing this entry on the futon of my parlour, one of cats sleeping and purring contentedly at my thigh. It was here where Steph blew my mind with her cocksucking skills and amazed me with the copious possibilities of her ejaculations when she gushed over my jaw in spigot-quality volumes. At this spot, Shayne rested her head as she knelt on the floor before me, her ass high in the air, as I fucked her hard two Decembers ago amid the strewn needles of the decorated tree. Stacy felt (and loved) a man in her ass for the very first time in this room. It was in here where Kara first experienced a hint of my Top self, standing on a chair as I paddled her gorgeous little behind as the room thundered with the strains of Conjure One. The woman whom I dated once and, looking upon the gothic stone sculpture on the wall with horror in her eyes, asked me incredulously if I'd ever had sex in here.

"Uh, yeah."



Sometimes I find myself measuring the scope of my life in terms of my relationships. Perhaps I do this because being with women teaches me so much about myself, about my interactions with the world around me. Each changing relationship (and they are all a source for change), teaches me something new and gives me markers for the directions in life where I'm choosing to go, to develop, to both conquer and be embraced by. It isn't just the memories of the sex and with whom it happened, as if I was counting coup or making hash marks on the bedpost. It's about looking back upon myself, who I was, what I did, where I triumphed, where I fucked up, where someone else fucked up with me, and with whose kiss I can value remembering the moments. In this way, the lovers I've known have been my psychopomps as I've traversed through the various levels of my own personal underworlds. For some of them, I`ve likely been the same in return.

From Jan, the blonde journalism student who lived with me briefly when I first moved to this place and enjoyed her jock boyfriend in the adjoining bedroom with her quiet little squeals, to Kara, with whom I feel so much possibility as she bravely ventures into sexual vistas of herself as she gets to know more and more of me, this Place has known many cries of ecstacy in the dark.

But it's with the Grrl that I'll most associate this pad that I'm moving from. We lived here together when she came up from the States, and to which she moved back after our final night shared in this very room where I type right now. While there's been plenty of closure since we ended, I also know that moving from here is like another lock on that closed door. That`s ok, despite how I sometimes do still miss her presence, as she`s good people. But when I finally cross the threshold of this pad for the final time, I`ll have walked away from many echoes and resonances.

And with Kara in my world, as I progress toward a much more upscale and psychologically healthier space, I`ll be consciously reincarnating and nurturing more of a life that I deeply seek.

I expect to move my futon into the new pad today. There`s good chance Kara and I will share it, our footsteps making their own echoes on the hardwood of the almost entirely empty rooms, tonight. I wonder how her cries will sound against the walls as I take her from behind, her pert and beautiful ass smacking loudly against my pelvis as I tug her from her hips.

There's beauty, and revolution, in moving forward. So many of us keep ourselves from our happiness because of fear and doubt and worry. To consciously break from that removes us from the pessimistic paradigms that our drama-laden culture would have us perpetually participate in. When we choose to perceive our actions as personal rites of passage, challenge the dragons that threaten us, we open ourselves up to the song of birds, in and out of the egg. We win.