Inferno, by Eileen Myles. It’s great. I’ve been meaning to read it for a while, but Emily Books is finally what got me there.
I did a reading with the love of Eileen Myles’ life, Leopoldine Core, two years ago. The reading was really stressful because it was in a loud bar where over half of the patrons didn’t realize there was a reading going on and didn’t care once they did. I read a story that had just been enthusiastically accepted by an editor and I was pretty excited and anticipated that it would be well-received and it wasn’t really because people couldn’t hear me and because it has a lot of dialog and I think that’s hard for audiences to follow even when they can hear you (unless you do different voices, etc., which, you know, no). I was feeling a little down when it was all over and Myles came up and told me I did a good job – maybe she walked by me and said “good job,” – and that totally cheered me up. Her girlfriend’s reading was great. Here’s something hilarious they just wrote together.
There are many great quotes from Inferno, many that are flashier, raunchier, or more deft than the one below, but I’m posting this one because it articulated something I often feel.
Writing is just what I do to frame my longing. I replace myself. The longer I live the deeper it goes. It seems it will never end this feeling. I throw a stone down and nothing ever comes up I don’t even get circles.