“On the Pitching of the Woo”
Reflecting
I am doing something today I’ve been meaning to do for months…arranging my books in the studio. Not Dewey Decimal Point arranging (and who knows what that is, anyway) but putting them in an order that makes sense for me today. If by some very remote chance I get this task done today, then re-organizing will be something I need to do again…soon. Ah…and I worry about not getting anything done. Sigh.
Great danger lurks for me when I move books from one place to another no matter the place. The books keep ambushing my sense of time and mission. Like old west stage coach robberies, I stop any progress, hope this is not the end of the ride, and then immerse myself in the books I’m “moving.” I love to handle books, when I pick one up, I gauge the heft, the texture of the cover, the grain of the paper and the look of the text. Some books even smell different. Since I buy mostly used books there’s always a hint of age (mold) but that’s accompanied by a sense of adventure, “No one has opened this book in maybe decades.” I get to be the one.
One after another I pick them up, gently take their measure and place them on the shelves, BIG, heavy photo exhibition books on the lower shelves. Interesting, quick speed-read scanned books, some completely read, most not so much…they go on the knee height shelves. One half shelf up in the next casing, books I’ve read, books I will read again, books I can’t stand to read but do. Years ago I worked with Avi Bender. Avi’s father, Benjamin Bender, was a Holocaust survivor, Buchenwald. He wrote about his years before camp, during camp, and after camp including coming to America. His wife (she wasn’t his wife then) had similar experiences, he wrote about them parallel to his chronology. Sadly, Benjamin’s real life environmental experiences are echoing the hallways of congress as ultra-right, racist conservatives embed their hate into others hoping for a dictatorship in our country.
The last book I’m moving today totally ambushed me. Actually three small paperbacks, wedged into a “to read” shelf lost to attention more than a year ago. One of the books is “Coyote, New Stories and Poems,” by Ted King of Minneapolis, MN. I guess Ted might be characterized as a “Jazz Poet.” Sort of a shoutout to the beatnik generation and Kerouac who mostly hangout in SoCal. Except Minneapolis Ted. I like his work.
Ted and I went to high school together in the 60s, only three generations ago, back when things were changing. We graduated in ‘67, I went my way in the world, he went his, we met again 50 years later at the High School Reunion. I’ve followed him as he sporadically writes but most often he goes to the “Tributary, ” where he reads, hosts, and has fun. One day, I’d like to fly in and surprise him with a listen. But he probably will be out that day, or not listening to anyone, or not remembering the old guys sitting in the front row. Ahhh, the scythe of Father Time knows no steel stalk. Here’s Ted’s Poem, “On the Pitching of the Woo.” If you like the poem, sharply and briskly snap your fingers together for 30 seconds.
Men,
When you meet two sisters,
and you like these sisters,
and you think you might like
to pitch that woo
to one of these attractive women
Woo the other one
Don’t do the woo
with the obvious one,
the talented
outgoing, flashy one
Woo the other one
Woo the one who knows
what it’s like to have
a sister to whom
so many men
are pitching the woo