Baby's
apricot
with
its
tongue
hanging
out
I fight
the constant
conscious
conscious
I fight
for
you.
(Eileen Myles)
Eileen Myles’s Cool for You: An American Classic (Terence Winch)
A few days ago, I wrote about the Irish-American reading at St. Mark’s Church in Manhattan in 1982, focusing on the work of the great Ted Berrigan. One of the other readers that evening was Eileen Myles (Download EileenMyles-onTedBerriganEileen Myles). After that night 27 years ago, I don’t think I saw Eileen again until January of 2009, when she came to a reading I did with Michael Lally in New York. It was a kick to meet up with her again. We agreed to exchange books, and a few weeks later Sorry, Tree (a book of poems) and Cool for You, which is called “a novel” right there on the cover, but which has the feel of a memoir, arrived in the mail. I want to focus here on Cool for You.
In an interview before the novel came out, Eileen said, "I'm writing, working on a new book called Cool For You. ...It's more about childhood. It's weird because it's technically about female incarceration. I had this idea about how the outsider in art is really male. Because I always think that females are insiders, and that female rebellion starts someplace where you're really trapped, like mental hospitals or shitty jobs. So I'm exploring my narrator, the Eileen Myles character, from the position of being, like, a camp counselor, and in lousy jobs and institutions. I have an Irish grandmother who ended her life in a state mental hospital in the '50s, during my childhood. So I'm weaving a lot of my childhood in with the notion of work and jobs. It's totally about class."
What I found most fascinating about this book, which was my primary reading matter this week, is that while every inch of text succeeds as absorbing narrative---an addictive portrait of the artist as a young woman, with plenty of sex, oppression, and craziness to keep her readers completely hooked on the story---the language here is so accomplished, the story so vividly and exquisitely rendered, that you can take practically any paragraph and turn it into a poem:
My belly was protruding a little. I wanted a cigarette. No, I will not smoke. I was trying to purify my youth. I wanted to be a perfect sacrament. I was trying to relax. I was trying to not die right away. I was trying to not start clenching my fists. Cissy get me a donut. Get me six. I was trying to stay awake. I was trying to be human. Get me a Coke too. I was trying not to cry. I was trying not to vanish.
This is indeed a very cool book, filled with the terrors of childhood and beyond, with a sense of the physical that brought to mind Alexander Lowen's comment in his classic study The Betrayal of the Body that "the knowledge of the ego must be tempered with the wisdom of the body." Such wisdom pervades this book. On menstruation, e.g., Myles writes: "Don't you think better when you're bleeding, don't you want to stay home and smoke and read and write. Don't you feel tremendously sexy. Have you spent years hiding it, arming yourself against revelation, the stains and the bloody smell. Do you want to fuck. I remember my friend describing his face when he described eating the pussy of a bleeding woman. That he had red wings."
(Source: The best american poetry)
