I marvel how often ideas travel together, like migrating birds. Just
a few days after I composed my X-essay, I came across this tribute to a
Southern motel called the Moon Winx Lodge. Here's the lead from Michael
Martone:
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The X. It is the Moon Winx Lodge. That X does a lot of work. There
is the X that visually represents a cartoon wink. The eyes are X'ed out
in death or drunkenness, the unconscious X that mimics the XXX labeling
of the jug of moonshine. At night when the kinetic neon of the sign
blinks and winks, what flutters on and off is an X of braided tubes.
The man in the moon X's out for a moment, then snaps awake again. And
why the knowing wink? The X of the unknown or, more precisely, the X of
the not wanting to know, the hidden, the disguised, the censored. X'ed
out. It is the X of sex, of course, the ultimate rating. The excesses
of sex. Or the string of drunken kisses. XXX. The cheesy lodge is a
testimonial for itself: The No-Tell Motel. X marks this spot. It now is
X-rated. Winx is a kind of poem. It multiplies its meanings. X times X.
It's the cross-hatching of a switch, a toggle. It is the map of the
crossroads. One does both in bed. Sleep. Sex. Sleep. Sex. This
double-cross. These eyes closing in sleep and closing in pleasure.
These I's leaning in toward each other, crossed and crossing. X-tasy.
X-scape. X-tra marital. "Get it?" the sign says. "Get it?" The sign
winxs, and you get it.
How appropriate that this language excursion appeared in the recent edition of O-x-ford American.
