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.
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
Toxin
Excess
Excrement
Extreme
X chromosome
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.