Yesterday while going to lunch with a friend, we were stopped by an African immigrant who wanted to write us a poem on postcards he had picked up out of galleries using the letters of our name to do it.
Clearly, a transaction was meant to take place. However, I’d have to say, the experience of standing there on the street while the fellow made up and read a poem on the spot, that included using the “X” in my name for “Xylophonic whisper into the field of time”, was more like an mutual offering.
