It often takes a horse some time to find its stride.
At long last I think that I’ve broken free from the cantor, and am now in my stride in Charlotte.
I was ruminating while getting dressed this morning: I, at 60, left everything in Chicago, and decided, against the odds, to fly to Paris to meet a model I’d never met before. When Artem never materialized, I went on the hunt and fell into Jean-Baptiste’s lap. He and I stayed together, entwined like Creeping Ivy for three weeks.
And then I flew to Charlotte.
I’m often asked, “Why Charlotte?”
My response is often a shrug, followed by, “I have no f@%#ing idea.”
But I do now.
Charlotte is home.