A Conversation with Eileen Myles: “It’s Still an Odd Decision to be a Poet”

Words: Lia Quezada

“What’s your sign?” poet and novelist Eileen Myles asks me. They’re recalling last month’s travels around Europe, which included forgetting the bag with all their belongings when boarding the flight to Mexico. Very Sagittarius of them. On the way to breakfast, Eileen brings up pictures of their dog, Honey, and shows me the book they brought along for this trip: The Lights by Ben Lerner.

Eileen is pure fun. Wearing the Walmart shirt they had to buy upon arrival, they chat about discovering Peso Pluma in GQ and getting hooked on his music ever since, trying crickets in Oaxaca and picking up Pedro Páramo to read in Spanish. Taking a sip of our surprisingly good hot chocolate, we share last night’s dreams.

Later that day, as part of the book tour of the Spanish edition of Chelsea Girls, Eileen will read a chapter in independent bookstore Casa Tomada and have a conversation with writer Elvira Liceaga. It will be a joyful evening; Christmas-like, even. We’ll end the night with lime soup and tacos de pibil, talking about movies and TV shows as we stroll through Parque México.

LIA QUEZADA: There are so many angles to narrate one’s life. In Reverse Cowboy, McKenzie Wark tells her story from the perspective of her sex life; in Chelsea Girls, you go through your youth by way of the people you fancied or were involved with. I heard you are working on a new, thousand-pages-long novel that catalogues all your previous relationships. What draws you to write through this lens?

EILEEN MYLES: You know, in empires, time is marked by eras like Elizabethan or Victorian. I’ve realized I measure time through relationships. There’s something erotic in it, of course, but it’s also a way of organizing reality–like, when I was with this person, I lived in that place, and we did those things. I’m definitely the kind of person who doesn’t run the show in a relationship; I often let her take the lead. So, my partners and lovers have had a strong influence on me.

Also, as an ex-Catholic, sex has always seemed like the most important thing in the world. Even in Catholic school, where it was considered the “wrongest” thing, it still held that power. When I started to see myself as a dyke, it felt like my life really began, even as a writer. I was in New York, trying to be a poet, sort of trying to be straight, but once I loved a woman, all this energy just came up. It really fueled my writing–I had so much to work with. Sex and love have always been huge forces in my life, so of course I write about them.

The book you’re talking about, All My Loves… I was ending a relationship in 2013 and I had this funny feeling that I wasn’t just breaking up with that person, but with everyone. I’ve felt that way before, with these flashbacks–not so much about the people, but about the habits. Like, if you feed an animal with a spoon, you must wash it right away. That was a strong rule from a partner, and I still obey it today. There was this other girlfriend, the one the book starts with, she told me to never use soap on my face and to use this skincare thing instead. And here I am, thinking about her because I forgot my luggage for this trip and don’t have my usual cleanser. These women are everywhere in my existence. 

Chelsea Girls was translated into Spanish this June, thirty years after it was first published. Much has changed since then. Do you have any expectations about how it will be received by Spanish-speaking readers today? Are there particular aspects of the book that you think will resonate differently with this new audience, compared to its original readership?

For years, I’ve been telling myself that I need to learn Spanish. So, it’s exciting for my book to get there first, you know what I mean? If I were younger, I would move to Mexico City –it just feels like such a cultural hotspot. Spain felt really good, too. It’s funny to have a book come this late, because, when it first came out, it wasn’t as widely received as I’d hoped. But now, it’s having this second life, and suddenly all these young people are reading it. It’s a familiar story, and that’s exciting. 

Anyway, I don’t think life in New York in the 70s is all that different from life in Mexico City in the 70s, or even the 90s. I could be completely wrong, but that’s fine. And then there’s queerness, of course, and being a woman–it’s all connected. I actually wrote some of Chelsea Girls in Tulum, back in 1985, my first time here. I was newly sober, so I was very... Sometimes, a little isolated. We were staying in these grass huts on the beach–there were hammocks, it was just a dollar a night. I’d be sitting there writing letters to friends, filling out postcards. I had written probably three or four chapters of Chelsea Girls. Suddenly I had this idea: what if the stories were like postcards to myself, from other times in my life? I thought, I could do that. So, the first chapter of the book, about Maine, I wrote in Tulum. I know that I wrote a chapter called Quietude, and another one, too. It was interesting because I really wanted to tell that story about Maine–getting arrested and all that–for a long time, but I couldn’t find the language. I didn’t know how to write it. When I realized it could be like a postcard, the whole thing just… Unfolded. I realized this [recently,] when I was in Spain. I mean, I think maybe Bath, Maine is my favorite story in Chelsea Girls, and I wrote in Mexico.

Inferno: A Poet’s Novel (2010) revisits the poetry readings you went to when you first moved to New York, at 25 years old. Your position in the literary scene has obviously evolved—just last week, you filled the auditorium at Madrid’s Reina Sofía. How do you think the literary scene has changed since those early days? Do poetry readings still hold the same significance in today’s literary landscape?

At least in the States–I’m not sure if it’s the same in Mexico–, poetry is hot. The art world loves it, and I think it’s partly because poetry is one of the last art forms that hasn’t been commodified at its core. There are readings all over New York. And I think people come to New York still to be a poet. It’s an art form that you can practice immediately, [in the sense that] you don’t need a studio. The scene has changed in that it’s become a little bit more academic: people will get PhDs in poetics. But I think part of it is because they want time and space to read and think. And I mean, the economy is always the big difference. When I was growing up, every poet I knew had their own cheap apartment in the East Village. We were these little sexy monks, with room to read and fuck and write. It’s different now, and I think that contributes to the success of my book. People want to be in that space. And I think that’s what’s so great about reading. It’s transformative. It takes you there.

I also think poetry marks a culture. Right now, there are so many incredible trans poets and fiction writers. They’re at the forefront of the sexual life of our time. Their stories and innovations are important because they’re changing writing, literature, and the way we think. Take St. Mark’s Church, for example. A few years ago, they had their first director of color. When I worked there, I was officially the head, but I worked closely with an African American woman who was a huge part of our team. Later, Kyle, who was Filipino and queer, took over as the director, and that made a huge difference in the programming. Even though he wasn’t trans, he brought a kind of trans energy to the church. It was new in a way it hadn’t been before. When I ran it, it became more queer, more diverse, but it was still fundamentally the same place. Under Kyle, it wasn’t. Of course, the old guard wasn’t happy, but it was heartening to see an institution actually change. That doesn’t happen often; they usually just harden. It felt like a revolution.

In one of your books, you say that poets generally make good art critics because of their natural ability to describe. Do you think that poet’s inherent sensitivity has something to do with their ability to approach this subject?

Well, I mean, anybody could make the decision. But I think it’s still an odd decision to be a poet. Because in a way, you’re committing to being open to everything you hear and see, which means you could end up working all the time. I mean, I think all writers experience this to some extent. 

I had a hard time when I was young going to art galleries. I mean, I would go, but it always made me feel sort of sad. I thought “I should have done that”. But when I stopped drinking… I mean, drugs are great. I feel like drugs and alcohol gave me so much in terms of writing and thinking. But nothing is as good as dropping it all, you know. I was 33 looking at the tops of buildings and I just felt so alive. Sex became so amazing. I could really feel it. Likewise, when I would go into an art gallery, I would light up. I didn’t have that thing anymore, that “I should have done this”, because I could partake. My response was, naturally, to write about it. 

It took a few years for somebody to create an opportunity. I met a poet who was an art critic, Peter Schjeldahl. He was the head art critic for The New Yorker. He died a couple of years ago. When I was in my 20s, he sort of befriended me and took me around to galleries. And he was like, “you should be an art critic. Don’t be a drug addict, be an art critic.” When I got sober, I already knew many people from the art world, so it was very easy to take that step. It was amazing to get paid to write an art review because I never got paid to write a poem. It also brought people from the art world to my readings, so in a way, it was like building an audience. Nowadays I don’t write reviews anymore, but I write catalog essays. And I can do whatever I want. I can write a poem. I mean, that’s the biggest difference is the art world: it’s not only accepting of a poem., but excited to get one. That’s a big transition. I think in the 60s, with Frank O’Hara, it was like, poets and artists were equals in a way, but artists were still the gods. 

Few poets have run for president. In Latin America, I know only of Pablo Neruda and Mario Vargas Llosa. You conducted an openly female write-in campaign for President of the United States in 1992. If you were running for office today, what would your top priorities be?

To stop bombing. To withdraw all support for Israel. To return those billions of dollars that we spend and put them into health care and education instead. It’s crazy how much debt people in America take on just to go to college. There’s so much that needs to change. I mean, it’s weird to watch this election right now. Trump is getting the working class, just because he’s allowed. You know, Trump is like a “fuck you” vote. Democrats need to do something concrete, like raising the minimum wage to $15 an hour for everyone. That would matter. People need money–not some vague promise of being able to buy a house someday. When I lived in New York in the 70s, I could have bought my apartment for $5,000. But who had that kind of money? That’s how it is for most people in America now.  Marfa is an art town, but most of the town is living in poverty. The disparity is glaring. It all comes down to education. Cultural life was starved so that America could be an empire. We need to reverse that. There’s not even a Department of Culture in the cabinet, for god’s sake