Although
Kevin McPherson Eckhoff has been praised as “the onanism of the literary
world,” there is much we are still decoding about his possible past of villainy.
A man who is as complex as an algorhythm can only be understood and analyzed
through close observations of semiotics (and the endeavor of shopping for
attractive shirts of the spectacle variety). It would appear that his features
evoke emotional, confessional lyrics that reveal the depths of a sensitive soul…
or is this mere performativity?
For
his fourth book, British Columbia poet kevin mcpherson eckhoff’sTheir Biography: an organism of
relationships (Toronto ON: BookThug, 2015) is less a composition by the
author than a selection of invited submissions on and around the author by a
multitude of others. Deliberately twisting ideas around “identity or
relationships or language,” the collage aspect of the collection writes “about”
the author as a collaborative and deliberately contradictory “memoir.” What
becomes interesting through the process of going through Their Biography: an organism of relationships is just how much the
structure instead opens up a different kind of portrait: one created less out
of facts than through, as the title suggests, a series of relationships. This
portrait portrays a writer deeply engaged with writing, his community of
friends, family and contemporaries, and the notion of “serious play,” one that
a number of his “authors” reflect in their individual chapters. There is such a
generosity present throughout sixty-two chapters of anecdote, illustration and
pure fiction. At the end of the collection, as a “Table of Contents,” he
includes a full list of “chapters” and their authors, including what appears to
be family members included alongside well known Canadian poets such as Gregory
Betts, Eric Zboya, Vickie Routhe Ness McPherson, Al Rempel, Amanda Earl, Laurel
Eckhoff McPherson, Rob Budde, Jeremy Stewart, Jonathan Ball, Claire Donato and
Marlene Martins McPherson, among others. Some pieces are incredibly playful,
deliberately inventing facts around the fictional character “Kevin McPherson
Echoff,” while others are a bit more straightforward, suggesting the use of a
more literal narrative of facts. What becomes clear, and quite compelling, is the
ways in which the portrait makes itself directly impossible through the
collage, and reads akin to a biography of a character that, in the end, becomes
entirely separate from the British Columbia poet. This is a highly entertaining
and imaginative book, and after a while, it might no longer matter if this
character is real, or has anything to do with the the author himself.
When
I first met Kevin McPherson-Eckhoff I was in a costume and he didn’t recognize
me. I met Kevin McPherson-Eckhoff coming out of the grocery store and noticing
that we had both shoplifted. It was then that I knew what the word hemorrhage really
meant, and how to spell it. I first met Kevin McPherson-Eckhoff while taking
dancing lessons; he was the only one to ask if I knew how to samba. At that
time I didn’t know that he would one day be a U.S. congressman, and treated him
like any other samba. When I first met Kevin McPherson-Eckhoff he was carried
by a circus man and in turn he carried a trapeze artist, which means we must
have been at a circus. It wasn’t until later that I recognized the glimmer of
terrible audacity in his buckling knees, but when I did, the realization drove
me to Vancouver. When I finally meet Kevin McPherson-Eckhoff after all these
years he will just be getting off the plane from the Deep South and I imagine
his thick accent perfuming our cab ride to the dog food plant. I met Kevin
McPherson-Eckhoff when I was a child and he was an elderly gentleman who taught
me how to read and introduced me to the wide world of daredevil listening. It was
then that I became a follower Marxism-Leninism against his wild gesticulation. The
day before I met Kevin I had a dream in which two jigsaw puzzles (one alive and
one dead) and two glass suitcases (one clear and one frosted) told me to make a
clearing in a field in which they could birth the future. I assume these were Kevin
McPherson-Eckhoff and Jake Kennedy, though I could be wrong. It wasn’t until
later that I realized how literal the prophecy was. I met Kevin
McPherson-Eckhoff lying naked in the middle of the highway, but when I offered
him a lift he spat in my eye. At the time I didn’t realize that was just his
way of speaking. When I first met Kevin McPherson-Eckhoff it was a cold day in the
spring and a deer stood in our path, casting aspersions our way. It was then
that I realized what kind of metal Kevin was made from: an aluminum alloy with
5% bronze. I met Kevin McPherson-Eckhoff while we were both in the middle of
something important, but it wasn’t until later that I realized it wasn’t that
important.
Jeremy Stewart is the author of (flood basement (Caitlin Press), a poetic memoir of growing up in Prince George, BC, the manuscript of which was shortlisted for the 2008 Robert Kroetsch Award for Innovative Poetry. His poems have appeared in online journals such as ditch, Treeline and stonestone, and in print in the Forestry Diversification Project anthology (UNBC Press). Stewart is a prolific producer of chapbooks and broadsides; he was the 2007 winner of the Barry McKinnon Chapbook Award. He has recently successfully defended his creative MA thesis, written under the supervision of Rob Budde—a novelistic long poem entitled “In Singing, He Composed a Song”—at the University of Northern British Columbia.
1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
As I’m sure many would say, my first book made me feel like a “real writer.” It also showed me how excited people were about what I was doing by giving them a concrete way to express it—my boss bought a copy for herself, and then copies for her son and her stepdad for Christmas. Conversely, it also inspired a series of prank phone calls in which an unknown caller mocked me for self-publishing, which of course I didn’t do! Yeah, that was weird.
Reflecting on my first book also made me aware of what I wanted to do differently. My new poems are either more lyric or more anti-lyric than (flood basement, and attempt less to get the lyric and anti-lyric to work together. I guess I’m not trying to get every idea into one book anymore.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I started writing songs when I was 11. I saw Nirvana on TV and I saved up my paper route money to buy an electric guitar (I still play in bands and I teach guitar lessons for a living). I didn’t really try to write poems per se until I was 18 and attending the College of New Caledonia. Barry McKinnon was my composition instructor. He was very funny, and he told us the only newspaper worth reading was the Village Voice. I had no idea who he was for at least a year. Then I stumbled on The the. in the CNC library and it blew my mind. Who would have thought? Poetry about Prince George! And that was how it really started.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
It depends on the project. Indeterminate Accumulation Anti / Ghazals, for example, takes four months to a year for 10 pages. I’m on section 3. I hope to eventually have 10. Meanwhile, something funny or very lyric might be just about done 10 minutes after the idea strikes. I do give myself quite a bit of time to edit, though.
4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
I will usually catch on a concept which is inspired by a word or phrase. The concept could be for a theme, a constraint, a writing process, etc. A couple years ago, I was walking down 7th Avenue in Prince George when I realized that it was not connected to the other 7th Avenue, and neither was it parallel to it; I thought to myself something like “to deliver pizza in this town, a person would need a degree in Prince Georgeography.” That term gave me an idea for a process of walking and tape recording myself improvising stories about all the places that have stories for me in this town. The scale of an idea comes from my sense of how much I could write connected to it. So, I think “Prince Georgeography” could someday be a book.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Public readings are a small but important part of my process. I use them to try on different versions of myself. When I do that, my partner, Erin, calls it “being obscure.” I like reading because I like to perform, meet people, drink free wine when available. It’s fun.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
I’ve been reading a lot of theory, partly because I just finished an MA in English at the University of Northern British Columbia. I am particularly interested in what I see as the connections between some of the ideas of Roland Barthes and of Deleuze & Guattari. This enthusiasm is manifested in my work in several ways. For one, I delight in the language of post-structuralism. It is a dense and ugly jargon that reminds me at once of the sleek, sinister look of an Uzi and of a trembling forest of stems. About a week ago, I defended my creative thesis project, called “In Singing, He Composed a Song,” a text that deploys the rhizome as a polyvalent structural strategy.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I think writing is the ‘original’ cyborg technology. I think that as our technology becomes less like an Uzi and more like a forest, writing will become more important, not less, and the figure of the writer, as a social technology, will have to adapt to that. I think we will have more and more and more writers. I only worry for the future of literacy (I know, awfully conservative).
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I have worked with two editors: Rob Budde and Vici Johnstone. Both of them were very hands-off, but in different ways. Rob asks questions more, and Vici shares her opinion more. Both pick their battles carefully, and both were wonderful to work with.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
That’s a tough call—there are three items, all related to Barry McKinnon, and one of which comes from Al Purdy. The first comes from Barry’s father, Ben McKinnon, who apparently told a very depressed Barry to “root hog or die.” I think that one explains itself. The second was a piece of advice from Al Purdy to Barry regarding poetry readings: “read the hits.” This can be extended to many areas of life. The third was Barry quoting somebody: “poets gotta hustle.” I have discovered this to be true.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to songwriting)? What do you see as the appeal?
Moving between genres has been the source of a lot of the energy in my writing. Imagining how the form limits the realization of a concept is often an important part of my tinkering process when I’m starting work on an idea. I also take breaks from one genre to work on others. In addition to writing poetry for the page, song lyrics, prose fiction, and essays, I also design posters and write bios for musicians when I can get the work. All these kinds of writing keep slipping into each other in ways that are exciting to me (advertising is especially infectious because it is so powerful).
11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I get up and feed the cats and dog and make coffee. Then, I sit for two hours drinking coffee, reading and writing. Then I walk to the studio where I teach guitar lessons. I am looking forward to spending more time reading, writing, and drinking coffee now that my MA is done. I also like having deadlines, self-imposed or otherwise. They keep me up at night, writing.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I do a lot of walking; or, at least, I used to. I would walk around taking pictures day and night. I haven’t had as much time for that lately. But that’s how I reconnect with myself. I also like to read. I like Border Crossings and Pitchfork. Sometimes an inspiration from one of these will catch me by surprise. I find that rereading my own notebooks can be very illuminating after a couple of years—the affirmation that I really was onto something, the happiness of finding a good, forgotten idea.
13 - What do you really want?
Just a closer walk with Jesus. And a warehouse which I can use as a concert hall, an art studio and gallery, a space to throw giant pay-what-you-want breakfasts, etc. In short, I want a closer walk with Jesus in Andy Warhol’s factory.
14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Listening to people talk is number one. I like people’s stories, and I like how they tell them. I like fragments of conversation out of context. When I go to an art show opening, I look at the art, I drink the free wine, but I also listen to people. Art openings, readings, and parties are great places to hear people talk, and they usually inspire me on another level, too, by provoking an intense experience of dissatisfaction with the social world as I find it. Well, dissatisfaction mixed with excitement: so much right, so much wrong, in terms of having a social milieu that encourages artists (rather than just screwing up their minds with useless, gossipy garbage).
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I really want to make some films. I have a couple of super 8 cameras and tons of sound equipment. I’ve written screenplays (none yet produced), but I think I would like to make something more open-ended. A series of surreal shorts, maybe.
17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I’d like to do some gardening. When I was an assistant to the curator of Barkerville last year, one of my tasks was to help restore Barkerville’s historic gardens. Knowing nothing about gardening coming into the position, I had to learn a lot. Now I’d like to try some at home. I think it’s pretty political.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
My grandmother, Linda Hankins. She was an elementary school teacher. She taught me to read very young. She also encouraged me in every artistic, creative, or intellectual pursuit she could. I think / hope I mostly grew up to be the way she wanted. She was great. (Oh, and I also got too old to become a rock star.)
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I am preparing for “In Singing, He Composed a Song” to go off to prospective publishers. I am starting work on a fairly conventional prose novel about how the teenage singer of a death metal band becomes a Christian. It’s set in Prince George, Burns Lake, and Vanderhoof, BC, in the 1990s. I am imagining this book somewhere between Hard Core Logo, Augustine’s Confessions, and Catcher in the Rye.
