On the Paris Metro, two missionaries tried to enroll me in their church. They are good at their jobs, if not actually successful with me. It’s funny, too, how they seemed to be having a normal conversation and then suddenly flipped into their story of how moving it is to be with someone who is saying their first prayer – and then they start asking questions – at first they were relatively harmless. Where are you from? How long are you here? Where’d you get those shoes? And then after they’d asked me what my religion was, if I ever wondered why we’re here and I’d not given them anything they could work with, they tried. “What’s your main purpose in life?”
And while I have a very clear answer to this one – to make good art – I didn’t particularly want to share it with them. And FINALLY FINALLY, my stop arrived.
How purposed, sir, I pray you?
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