TRANSCRIPT

I'm Alynda Segarra of Hurray for the Riff Raff, and this is The Slowdown.

When I was 17, I left home for the first time. And I loved the idea of living on the road and just focusing on art like my heroes, Woody Guthrie, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, that being the purpose of your life. But the reason life on the road got old to me is because I was so dependent on the people around me. Because of danger, I couldn't just go walk anywhere, and I had to be on other people's timelines. So starting a band, I'm the one driving. I say when we go on tour.

As a songwriter, my responsibility is to witness, and it means being brave in life's most difficult moments. And the wonderful thing about folk music is you can continue conversation with artists and thinkers that are long gone, and then you can leave something that future generations can build upon and modernize.

It was through art that I saw many different examples of people who had created a life for themselves that they were told was impossible. So I fully committed to the path of an artist. It's a path that's allowed me freedom from gender or any other confines that were placed upon me.

And in spaces of desire, was where I dipped my toe into this well of I might change. I might want you to see me as this gender, maybe in two years it'll be a different one. And I've learned that it is okay to change and to explore. I feel so proud of a bunch of kids that just wanted to consider a different way of life, who wanted to see if they could create a freedom and weren't trying to hurt anybody.

Today's poem is heroic, erotic, modern, mythological, absurd, sentimental, and gut-wrenchingly real. More than anything, this poem is about time – how the stories of our desires and heartbreaks are the way that we feel ourselves move through time. Both our individual lives and the churn of history.

Holes
by Eileen Myles

Once when I passed East Fourth Street off First Avenue,
I think it was in early fall and I had a small hole
in the shoulder of my white shirt, and another on
the back–I looked just beautiful. There was a
whole moment in the 70s when it was beautiful
to have holes in your shirts and sweaters.
By now it was 1981, but I carried that 70s style
around like a torch. There was a whole way of
feeling about yourself that was more European
than American, unless it was American around
1910 when it was beautiful to be a strong
starving immigrant who believed so much
in herself and she was part of a movement
as big as history and it explained the
hole in her shirt. It’s the beginning
of summer tonight, and every season has
cracks through which winter
or fall might leak out. The most perfect
flavor of it, oddly in June. Oh remember
when I was an immigrant. I took a black
beauty and got up from the pile of poems
around my knees and just had too much
energy for thought and walked over to
your house where there was continuous
beer. Finally we were just drinking
Rheingold, a hell of a beer. At the
door I mentioned I had a crush on both
of you, what you say to a couple. By
now the kids were in bed. I can’t
even say clearly now that I wanted
the woman, though it seemed to be
the driving principle then, wanting
one of everything. I was part of
a generation of people who went to
the bars on 7th street and drank the
cheap whiskey and the ale on tap and dreamed
about when I would get you alone. Those
big breasts. I carried slim notebooks which only
permitted two or three-word lines. I need you.
“Nearing the Horse.” There was blood in all my
titles, and milk. I had two bright blue pills
in my pocket. I loved you so much. It was
the last young thing I ever did, the end of
my renaissance, an immigration into my
dream world which even my grandparents
had not dared to live, being prisoners
of schizophrenia and alcohol, though
I was lovers with the two. The beauty
of the story is that it happened.
It was the last thing that happened
in New York. Everything else happened
while I was stopping it from happening.
Everything else had a life of
its own. I don’t think I owe
them an apology, though at least
one of their kids hates my guts.
She can eat my guts for all
I care. I had a small hole in
the front of my black sleeveless
sweater. It was just something
that happened. It got larger
and larger. I liked to put
my finger in it. In the month
of December I couldn’t get
out of bed. I kept waking
up at 6PM and it was Christmas
or New Year’s and I had
started drinking & eating. I remember
you handing me the most beautiful
red plate of pasta. It was like your cunt
on a plate. I met people in your house
even found people to go out and fuck,
regrettably, not knowing about
the forbidden fruit. I forget
what the only sin is. Somebody
told me recently. I have so
many holes in my memory. Between
me and the things I’m separated
from. I pick up a book and
another book and memory
and separation seem to
be all anyone writes
about. Or all they
seem to let me read.
But I remember those
beautiful holes on
my back like a
beautiful cloak
of feeling.

"Holes" by Eileen Myles, from NOT ME © 1991 Eileen Myles. Used by permission of Semiotext(e).