LONG LIVE TFE !! !! !!
Eddie Woods has died. I write these words 10 days after the fact. It still hasn’t sunk in. Eddie died in his sleep the morning of December 26th.
On the third of January, under a full moon in Cancer, and the day of Hannah Woods’ birthday, there was a small funeral.
Earlier today, on the phone with Kush, whom I’m mistakenly thought had heard the news, I slipped and used that phrase that Eddie hated, that he had “passed away.” Immediately, Eddie’s voice rang in my ears and I made the correction.
We have had many conversations the past few days. Still laughing. Still arguing.
I first met Eddie, in Amsterdam, in 2007. Harold Norse had moved from his longtime residence to an assisted living facility within San Francisco. The lack of computer access virtually isolated Harold from the world. Hardly anyone had continued to write to him at Hayes Valley Care. I noticed a card from Eddie and since Harold had ceased writing I wanted to let Eddie know that he had received and appreciated the card.
This was a common theme in Eddie’s life. Staying in touch with people to wish them Happy Birthday or other such congratulations. Even though he had slowed down the past few years, due to an emphysema diagnosis, he still had the fire up until the end.
I’d been aware of Eddie via the Harold Norse of Course cassette tape. A blue and orange negative shot of Harold lurching forward in glasses, bowlcut toupee saved by sideburn overgrowth, mouth tilted toward mic with manuscript in hand. Though I didn’t know much about Ins & Outs Press or the storefront where that reading—and other legendary readings and photography shows—had occurred. I didn’t know a lot of things about Eddie but over the years he became one of my best friends and one of the most important mentors of my life.
Meeting Eddie was a major turning point in my life. Through his encouragement I began producing vinyl records from the readings he recorded in the 1980s via Unrequited Records. Honestly, I was completely content selling ganja for a living. But it was getting to the point, after a decade in, where I wondered about something beyond retail psychotherapy.
First, we pressed the Norse record, then Jack Micheline, and finally a Herbert Huncke reading that was previously unreleased. In fact, Eddie and Yarre Stooker, had to transfer the tape and do a bit of editing to clean it up. It’s nearly two hours of Huncke’s finest chops and I’m honored to have worked on it.
Earlier today, when trying to think of just one adjective to sum up Eddie the term correspondent stuck out. I’m gonna run with it. Eddie was not only a conduit but a reporter on the various scenes he was involved in. Sharing news, sharing publications and sharing contacts.
Like some of my other best friends, Eddie could be a pain in the ass. But it always sprang from a deep well of love and always accompanied by facts or references which informed his opinions. Eddie had a keen eye for sorting out the bullshit and attention to detail. He was never shy to point out an obvious typo of mine. In one of the last batch of emails I received from him—in his final act of mentorship which connected me with Win Harms’ mother—he laughed at me when I misspelled the word fiery. It was usually ‘tee-hee’ followed by the emoji of the wide tooth cheeky grin—how could I get made at that?
Eddie was always my first go-to editor. He was a hawk and unafraid to express his opinion on any matter. Not to steer it his way rather for clarification.
He had been a journalist writing for the Bangkok Post and this experience led to his magnificent book Tennessee Williams in Bangkok a memoir of Woods’ time in Thailand and Singapore in the early 1970s. This on top of his own books of poetry, numerous anthologies Eddie was published in, and a substantial amount of editorial work.
I began writing more poetry, and reading in public, with his encouragement. True to his style he got me on the Fiery Tongues Festival at the legendary squat, Ruigoord, where Hans Plomp had carried the torch for so many years until he died in 2024. The reading was special—-Louise Landes Levi, Hannah Woods and the late great Win Harms. I read my poem for Ira Cohen and Louise walked over to introduce herself. I’ve been in awe ever since.
I’ve visited Amsterdam more than any city in Europe. Eddie Woods’ home was always my first stop. It was like homecoming to have dinner with Eddie and Jane Harvey—Eddie’s longtime confidante, co-conspirator, co-editor, literary executor, and so much more than any adjectives could ever do justice. Eddie was in charge of salads and Jane usually conjured up a delicious curry. The conversation was appropriately deep, timely, informative and grew more passionate with each glass of wine.
Such is my love for these two that I arranged the schedule of a recent two-month European trip so that I could spend my birthday with them. I couldn’t think of a better place to be.
I have the pleasure of dialing up so many images of hanging out in Eddie’s room. Every now and then someone would lay some money on me to buy Eddie a bottle of whiskey, Jack Daniels Black, and he would be quite chuffed. He would fill a snifter and I would hit the hash pipe. It was my only line of defense against his chain smoking. I would hover near the barely cracked window & puff for dear life, creating and clinging to the cannabis clouds. Eddie would be lost in his computer screen, pontificating out loud about how to respond to such an asinine written declaration or statement or email, zippo at the ready, Leonard Cohen on the CD player, stacks and stacks of post-it notes multiplying by the moment. All of them eventually accomplished.
Though perhaps finest of all Eddie always had my back. When that publisher from back East threatened to put a bullet in my head, Eddie was the only person I turned to. He CC’ed me in the email and let’s just say that he handled it. Though Micheline had warned us all of this jackal in the 20th century.
I could always count on Eddie Woods for an honest opinion. Even if it was the one I didn’t want to hear. He always explained his rationale and usually convinced me. Though, I’d occasionally dig in heels and fight for autonomy of my own bold blend of visionary autonomy from the old-style grammar/punctuation/stylistics.
Curiosity made me search for the final email from Eddie. I had sent him the link to the City Lights discussion between me and Ira Landgarten regarding the Ira Cohen book A CERTAIN KIND OF WIZARD. We mentioned Eddie 41 minutes in—-Ira L. had pointed Eddie & Jane in the direction of Kathmandu—and Eddie responded about a factual inaccuracy. Well, more than one but his final email to me ended this way:
“The only thing that my dear friend Ira L. got wrong is the age at which I began writing poetry. That happened when I was 15.” This was punctuated with a simple smiley face emoji. Rosy cheeks and all.
This is by no means a complete bio/obit of Eddie Woods’ life. It would take many more pages to sum up the complicated, irascible and lovable Eddie Woods. Thankfully, many papers do exist in his archives at Stanford University. These papers were extremely helpful while working on the Collected Poems of Bob Kaufman. In fact, upon Eileen Kaufman’s death, when it was announced that her unpublished memoir had gone missing, Eddie notified me to say that he had a copy in his archives. Of course he did.
Tracking that down, photographing then typing it up to deliver to John Geluardi led me to Parker Kaufman. Two of my best friends these days.
Eddie Woods. The Gangster Poet as Harold Norse called him.
Ten-finger Eddie—that’s another story—probably searchable online—for anon. A word, among many, that I learned from Eddie.
A mutual friend, Doug Field, made a keen observance earlier. With such energy and a presence as strong as Eddie Woods had, he will also be around.
LONG LIVE TFE !!!
