"For this occasion, I have written a letter to Dr. Horton that I am going to read now…. He has not read this.
'Dear Randall,
I’m happy you’re here. I am also so very thankful to have
known you before I read your books. Had I not, I likely would have sent you
embarrassing fan mail of the kind I may or may not have sent (in no particular
order) to Neil Gaiman, Junot Diaz, Anne Carson, Roxanne Gay and/or Margaret
Atwood. Since I *do* know you, I instead have the privilege of reading my most
personal and heartfelt sentiments to you. And a room full of people. [and now
the interwebs]
If I were to have written you a letter I would not recount
your personal and professional accomplishments, such as: B.A. in English, from University of the District of
Columbia, an M.F.A., in Poetry from Chicago State University, a Ph.D. in
English/Creative Writing, from SUNY Albany. And now your position at University
of New Haven.
I would not recount these things, because you already know
about them.
Instead, my letter would largely be about the words you’ve
taught me. I would begin with the first word you ever taught me—ekphrastic!
Poetry written about works of art, and describing in vivid detail. You taught
me this word in the context of a poem about compost.
While reading Pitch Dark Anarchy you taught me more words.
First, “roseate.” Yes, as in the color. But also as a bird—a
seabird, a tern, related to seagulls. They can exhibit kleptoparasitic
behavior! That means sometimes they steal fish from other birds! They aren’t
highly defensive of their nests, instead relying on the colony and the
conditions of their surroundings to protect their eggs.
Second word: “Brogans.” Shoes, boots, originating in 16th
century Scotland, used in the American Civil War and up through WWII. One of
their nicknames is “little tanks.”
Third Word: “Palmate.” A leaf with lobes of more than three,
almost shaped like a hand. Think a horse chestnut or maple leaf.
In The Definition of Place you taught me words, yes. But
you taught me about how they move together. As in,
“both of
them walking across hell on a spider web” or
“So I emulate his defiance practicing in front of full length mirrors anywhere I can; perfect my own variation of the lean until it feels natural and I can express my entire belief system in a walk.”
And now, Randall, in Hook, you open with “Location only
matters because of conditions that create location.” Here, you taught me about
what happens when words get stuck.
Stuck on our tongues before we know what words are, stuck in
our blood, in our throats. Stuck in books, in sanitized documents, in our
constructs, in trusting our readers. In the glue that keeps us from slipping
into fragments. In telling someone they belong and that They Are Loved. In
erasure. In blue prints. In the entire scope of American Letters.
When I return to your writing it is out of a need to feel
words make movement.
A need to see the vivid recreation of these little tanks
flying to hide eggs under a palmate cover. A need to walk my own belief system
across a spider web, to a place where I can see words made new.
Thank you, Randall, for these places.
All my love,
Darcy
Everyone, Dr. Randall Horton'."
I'm, begging you like a soup hound. Read.
