Alone Again

In yet another twist of events, I am left alone in this remote nowhere. Time simply passes: each day, I have no idea how long I’ve actually been here. Of course, the calendar tells me it has been eight days. Have I accomplished anything I wanted to in this time? No. Not really. But that doesn’t bother me — I’m thinking a lot, and that’s all I can ask for. Having the space to think is quite nice. My girlfriend visited briefly with two of her friends visiting the country. Some other friends of mine from the city came today for an even briefer visit. My girlfriend comes again on Tuesday to spend a few more days here. My hosts also return on Wednesday. It’s not like I’m actually alone here, but it’s funny how it all worked out. My friend who was supposed to stay these two weeks left unexpectedly. Now I’m alone with not just one, but two entire houses all to myself.

It reminds me of Siglufjörður, perhaps a little too much. It’s not that I’m lonely, rather I find myself ironically in a very similar situation, mentally. I’m contemplating my place in this country and the world at large. There’s a very interesting man who lives in this town. I first met him when I stayed here two years ago. I met with him two days ago, and we had a very fascinating conversation about art and capitalism. I would describe him as an anarchist, in a way. He told me about his own life and what he does with his time. How he sold his apartment to buy his buildings here. Now, he is selling his car. He told me about being able to get by — just barely — without needing to work. Because he was so tired of working for other people, doing things he didn’t want to do.

As is my situation. I want to be an artist. I wrote a lot about that. Now that I have all this time to myself, I’ve been reading, writing, and making quite a lot of art. My best work, I would dare say. I think I created one of my new favorite photos recently. I discovered an entirely new way to edit photos, and I’ve been having a lot of fun with that (and the new camera).

Anyway, this man lent me two Icelandic poetry books. Both are small, and one is a rare, signed collector’s piece. He said he was offered €500 for it once. I haven’t gotten far yet, only the first few pages. The author struggled with mental illness, and that knowledge as well as other context makes his writing very sad and heavy. He reminds of Bukowski if he were Icelandic. I find reading this kind of work to be inspirational in that it makes me want to write. Here’s my first Icelandic poem in a while, Gluggatjöld:

Tjöldin dregin fyrir mér

Sólin haldin úti

þótt hendurnar sem eru á mér haldi aldrei neinu

Bækur liggja á borðinu

Penninn liggur við

En borðið horfir á fram

meðan horfi ég á himininn

út um glugga

Alltént bækurnar snúa til himins

En þær eru þegar skrifaðar

I’m proud of this piece because there’s a lot of nuance that doesn’t translate. I’ll need to have someone read it over before I can call it complete, but it’s a start. Trying to write in another language is quite painful. I wrote one poem while studying Finnish — that was hard enough. I feel like a child. I have an old, physical Icelandic dictionary and two online dictionaries, trying to make proper use of different words. In English, I just write without any thought. It’s such a strange (and bad) feeling to have no control over a language whatsoever. I’m hosting a reading here on the 15th — that was meant to be the product of my time here. I’ve written a few good pieces in English, but I don’t know how much more I can do in Icelandic.

I came here specifically to learn Icelandic, but there isn’t really anyone to speak with (regularly). I didn’t expect my hosts to leave (that’s why my friend left). Thus am I left with all my thoughts rather than focusing on the language.

I’m thinking of taking a lot more time off work to focus on my writing and languages. I’m worried about money; I did just buy an apartment and that apartment also needs work done. I also have goals with my life that require money… life requires money. But speaking to this man here stirred up too many thoughts. I’m thinking of reading and writing and continuing to make art, plus setting up my prints as I wrote about before.

I’m thinking of living the life that I want to live and throwing caution (money) to the wind. However, this requires a considerable amount of action on my end: from actually setting up to pursuing everything. But I think I need the time… I think. I can never truly be certain. There’s just so much to do. I have not been too diligent with my Icelandic recently. I’m honestly amazed I speak the language. I was thinking about it, and I don’t do anything at all. I don’t read. I don’t write. I don’t study. I don’t even speak except once a week with my friend, the old man. While I’m proud of my abilities, I wonder what could be if I actually bothered to actively work on it. The reason I haven’t been is because life was too overwhelming. Hence my thinking I should take time off.

But there are grander questions. The more time I spend in Iceland, especially these remote towns, the more I see what a weird place this is. It’s so sad. And cold. And lonely. Yet also profoundly beautiful, artistically and culturally rich, and intelligent/wise, if I can describe a country thus. Anyway, I wonder what my future will be like. I wonder what I would or would not be comfortable doing with my life: what compromises I would be comfortable making. There are reasons for these questions that I won’t address just yet.

The thought of the future is a scary one. We can never know what will happen. I can think about it and worry about it and plan it and prepare for it. But I can never know what will happen.

I think I started asking a very important question when I moved back to Iceland in November of 2023: Who am I? I think I got sidetracked all this time, between establishing this new life, becoming an entirely new person, gaining an entire lifetime of experience in a mere one year, and everything else between. Now, for the first time since moving to this country, I’ve had a chance to breathe. And in the silence that comes therewith, a question creeps back into my mind. Slowly… Who am I?

Should it be easy to answer that? I don’t know. I’ll conclude with two verses from a piece I wrote recently:

This light you cast upon me. Do you expect me to know my form? These features unfamiliar, this face I have not seen. I am words embodied. I am color expressed. I am the movement of air, the taker of space. I am form ungiven, seeker of the night. I know myself by only reflection yet take you my hands and place them before me and look you away and leave me unguided; must this be my fate? Must at last I come to know? That before me is no shadow. That as much as must I now be me are you as much yourself.

And though we dance now in the sun, shadows play away. Perhaps to me is beauty the casting of light but in the mind. Perhaps to me is fear the fastness of form without reflection. Perhaps it matters not. The sun’s light reveals your face. As much as casts your shadow.