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Look at how she writes about her affair with a famous junkie called Robin: I must fuck Robin. I was of this people; I must find my own complicated junkie to have violent sex with.In 1994, nothing seemed like a better idea, save for being able to write about it later.When I meet people from Massachusetts, they are always from Newton, which has become a bitter joke.Newton is the anti-Chelsea, a place where people have money and go to college and are afforded the privilege of moving around this country.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.These were sacred texts for sale in the window of a bookstore like no big thing. We were, as Myles reported, “animals.” Reading this made me feel happy and alive.

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“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.Meanwhile, I had just landed in a new San Francisco, which was roiling with a new kind of lesbian, who eschewed the term lesbian for the boot-kick of in the window like that — placed there by someone who also understood that this was the kind of book that makes readers come inside.Buying a book was a big deal for me in 1994 because I really didn’t have any money, but I bought it then and would buy it again and again throughout my life.When you spend so much of your days immersed in a book, at what point does the story become your own?If I could calculate the number of hours I existed inside it, and add to it the number of hours I spent thinking about it, revisiting it, really remembering it as if it was a memory — they are my memories, aren’t they?Their destination was the cheap carnivals, and beach towns of America.

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