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I read the text to death, trashing it, spilling coffee and alcohol onto it, forgetting it in bars or at the houses of girls I would never see again.haunts me like something I lived through, like my own life.I wonder what anybody thinks about using your own life, the actual words people say to you in the secrecy of love, or separation, or the oblivious moments when they’ve simply torn off an insult and flung it at you and you’re the one who remembers every little word, at least the ones I use and I fling it back in their faces, if not there, then here, sooner or later and they say, “Oh, I can’t believe I said that.” That’s from the beginning of the end of a story called “Jealousy.” It’s a big question. These were my questions as I luxuriously smoked cigarette after cigarette with me when I wrote.Did Eileen feel liberated to spread her whole personality out onto the page like this? I would pick a story and read it before starting into my own notebook.A person needs money to move, and people in Chelsea don’t have any.

I was starting to write stories, but wanted only to write about my life, the girls I was falling in love with, lightly stalking, being dissed by.Eileen Myles was more than a simple writer: she was bound to her writing in a way that nearly transformed her into a shaman.“At the end of the world I am my poem” — so ends the final piece in contains similar proclamations. I hear that you judge a saint by her whole personality, not just her work.” The Chelsea in is not scabby old Chelsea, Massachusetts, but the far more glamorous Chelsea Hotel, where Sid famously killed Nancy and Andy Warhol filmed his superstars.Reading her stories was like a prayer before beginning: Dear subconscious spooky hidden writing place, please hear the glory of this story, “Bread and Water,” one of my favorites ever.A broke lesbian, who has her period and cannot even afford tampons, is sort of bleeding around her East Village apartment hoping for a grant that will never come, tallying the petty but significant amounts she owes the bakery, the neighbor, not getting a piddly 10-dollar deposit back.

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Eileen Myles was deep in it, solving it, reporting from the inside. It could feel like psychic surgery and a newfangled workout routine and an aggressive cuddle-fest.