Call Me X
As a kid learning to spell my own name, I found it fascinating that people who were illiterate could sign their name with an X. In the movies they signed with a hesitant hand – a scrawl from upper left to lower right, upper right to lower left. The sound of quill scratching paper: a rake across parched earth.
Looking forward to a lifetime of literacy, I thought about how barren their lives must be without the classics – Curious George Visits the Hospital; One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish; Donald Duck and the Mystery of the Missing Peanuts. Now I think about how much my life has been enriched by Edward Abbey, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isaac Asimov, William Shakespeare, William Carlos Williams, Arthur Miller, Wendell Berry, and Brian Michael Bendis. I cannot imagine what it must be like to stand outside the world of the printed word – never understanding, let alone enjoying, the ideas and passions that text contains.
So here I sit in front of a computer screen—not scrawling but typing—thinking about that X. “Make your mark here.” “Give me your John Hancock.” “Lorenzo Ghiberti hoc fecit.” That drive to leave something behind, a record of ourselves, some kind of statement of who were and what we believed – that’s an ancient desire, an essential part of what makes us human. “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: / Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” But what mark can an illiterate leave? X. Nothing.
And what is a blog? A public diary? A soapbox? A monumental waste of time for both blogger and reader?
I guess as I approach this space, I see myself trying to leave a record of my life. But what should I be trying to save? What is my life about? Who am I?
A friend of mine put it well when talking about the friends he had made over the last few years in a city far from where he grew up: “In short, my life is very different than it once was, as yours is. The people who know me now don't know stage Nathan or Cuzzin Leroy. In fact, not having people around who know my history leaves me wondering who it is that these people here know.”
X: an illiterate’s signature, an unknown variable, a nameless heritage. That perhaps is me.
That is me. Call me X.
But X is more than an unknown. It’s two intersecting diagonal lines. Four angles that open to the cardinal directions. A suggestion of possibility within the confines of a limitation.
That’s me for this week. Who are you?
Looking forward to a lifetime of literacy, I thought about how barren their lives must be without the classics – Curious George Visits the Hospital; One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish; Donald Duck and the Mystery of the Missing Peanuts. Now I think about how much my life has been enriched by Edward Abbey, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isaac Asimov, William Shakespeare, William Carlos Williams, Arthur Miller, Wendell Berry, and Brian Michael Bendis. I cannot imagine what it must be like to stand outside the world of the printed word – never understanding, let alone enjoying, the ideas and passions that text contains.
So here I sit in front of a computer screen—not scrawling but typing—thinking about that X. “Make your mark here.” “Give me your John Hancock.” “Lorenzo Ghiberti hoc fecit.” That drive to leave something behind, a record of ourselves, some kind of statement of who were and what we believed – that’s an ancient desire, an essential part of what makes us human. “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: / Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” But what mark can an illiterate leave? X. Nothing.
And what is a blog? A public diary? A soapbox? A monumental waste of time for both blogger and reader?
I guess as I approach this space, I see myself trying to leave a record of my life. But what should I be trying to save? What is my life about? Who am I?
A friend of mine put it well when talking about the friends he had made over the last few years in a city far from where he grew up: “In short, my life is very different than it once was, as yours is. The people who know me now don't know stage Nathan or Cuzzin Leroy. In fact, not having people around who know my history leaves me wondering who it is that these people here know.”
X: an illiterate’s signature, an unknown variable, a nameless heritage. That perhaps is me.
That is me. Call me X.
But X is more than an unknown. It’s two intersecting diagonal lines. Four angles that open to the cardinal directions. A suggestion of possibility within the confines of a limitation.
That’s me for this week. Who are you?
posted by X at 7:59 PM
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