My great friend Pegie Stark Adam is a visionary. She sees things
that I can't see. Because she is a designer and artist, she sees
shapes, perspectives and especially colors in creative ways. In fact,
she's designed her living space mostly in white, so the colors will not
overwhelm her.
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The way Pegie sees colors is something like the way I see words,
even letters. Individual letters seem to have a secret meaning, as if
they could be detached from the word they help form.
The letter Z works
that way for me. Of course it comes last -- our Omega point in the
alphabet -- so we associate it with finality. At the beginning of words,
Z can be playful: zany, zoo, Zorro, zilch. But when it's in the middle,
I see trouble: Nazi, lazy or Uzi.
The letter O suggests a benevolent roundness, but two of them
together look like the implants of a porn star, or two fat men fighting
for a seat on a bus: zoot, moot, booze, tattoo, kangaroo.
Which brings us to X. We all must bear our cross, but this letter,
which seems carefree as the figurehead of xylophone, casts a dark mark
on the meaning of most words it infects:
Hex
Sex
XXX
X-rated
X-Men
Toxin
Ex-Lax
Excess
"All my exes live in Texas"
Excrement
Extreme
X chromosome
Generation X
X marks the spot
X = the unknown
Isn't it interesting that even the illiterate are able to put their
"X" on a legal document? Couldn't they as easily put an O or a T? Why
does X bear the burden of illiteracy?
At a recent conference on the tabloid newspaper, one European editor
noted that the letter X is the tab headline writer's best friend: No
Exit for Sex Fiend.
