Live for the Real World

I’ve been on a wild adventure these past two months. There has been something happening in every area from partnerships to relationships to friendships to life in general. I attended two funerals, met countless people, started reading again, started writing poetry again, started taking pictures again. I established my company with the help of an amazing accountant/advisor — we were approved two days ago and received our social security number. I printed for my gallery show and set that up yesterday. Tonight, my own space is having a poetry night with a huge community gathering. Tomorrow, my first solo exhibit opens downtown with another community gathering.

I think of everything that’s going on and how grateful I am for the world around me in this tiny city. However, things aren’t great. I’m burning money like a madman between ink, frames, commercial space rent, office rent, and my general bills. The total profits from every endeavor I’ve undertaken these past few years is approximately 20,000isk. To be more specific, I’ve sold a few books. For reference, my website costs 20,000/year to run. And I have three websites. Now, I’m not about to go on yet another rant about money, rather I’m pointing out the feeling: What in the world am I doing?

My life is run off the idea of hope. If I manage to get up and running, then all will be well. That is a very large “if.” Nevertheless, I am hopeful. I’m hopeful because I’m determined. I’m determined because I see a rich and beautiful world around me full of rich and vibrant people who are all in the same position as me: all running around like madmen in the name of spiting the broken systems we freed ourselves from.

Working in museums, cafes, cleaning bathrooms, stocking grocery stores. Those things don’t bring us joy. They can, and I argue they definitely should, but the criminals who run these companies treated us all like refuse. They made what should have been simple and enjoyable work into something that killed our souls. So, we all searched and searched until we found the same artist community in the heart of Reykjavík. It was through this community I had the opportunity to perform at a venue where I met my friend and business partner who helped me open this space of our own which we hope to turn into a gallery and store.

This brings me to the topic I want to write about: Living for the real world. I don’t really have a social media presence. Sure, I could probably share my art in various places on the internet and build some kind of online following. But my efforts are more devoted to enjoying the world I live in. I want to attend events, host events, talk to interesting people, know the people in my community. These days, thanks to the efforts of my friends and partners, when I go out, people recognize me. “How is your store coming along?” people ask me. I don’t even know who they are. But the gratitude I feel in knowing that these people know me and care about what I’m doing is something indescribable.

Meanwhile, I see others living for the internet — the world I dare call not real. “If I grow my presence online, I’ll attract opportunity and money.” Such statements are true. And then what? Will you work from home, having no friends to meet with when you go out? I know it must not necessarily be like that, but it’s an incredibly dangerous situation to be in. I say to instead build your local community and grow an online presence out of that.

There were so many times during this journey of mine where all I wanted to do was run away. When nothing worked or when things seemed difficult, I wanted to run somewhere else and try again. Akureyri, Siglifjörður, Hveragerði, Kópavogur, Reykjavík. Then, I thought about moving to Finland after being in Reykjavík for only one year. I went there, even. But I saw that it wasn’t all I was hoping for for the very simple reason that I already have a world here in Reykjavík.

Things have been extremely difficult for me recently, financially and emotionally. That along with some external influence made me question things once more: What am I doing here? Why Reykjavík? Why Iceland? I don’t have any answers. I did consider moving a bit out to Mosfellsbær, but I quickly realized that as nice as it would be to be in nature, it lacks opportunity. Last year, I went out to Hellissandur for a while. I love it there, and the community is amazing. However, it’s a small town in the middle of nowhere. It has a nice community, but it does not have the opportunity I seek. Yet this past week, I asked myself again why I’m here.

What I seek is to be someone. Not in the sense of fame or glory, rather in the name of sharing and spreading my message. My message is what I express through my poetry, through my stories, through my art pieces, through the music I now write. I want people to see it and experience it. I need that. It’s what gives me a sense of meaning and purpose. I can still create things and share them while living elsewhere, but then I lose the connection to those people who would experience my work. I also lose the ability to experience their work. This sharing is something that must take place both ways. To both inspire and be inspired. That’s simply speaking to art — as an artist. There is a world at large beyond that.

I’m going to the bank soon with my documents to open a company account. Then, we can open our business officially. I pray I sell some art from my exhibit, too. Maybe some books. Either way, I know what I want to do. I have an idea for my next book. What I need is the space to write it. That space will only come once these present tribulations are seen to the end. And they very much are near the end. After the exhibit, I can bring the photos to my business and fill the space with art to sell. After that, I have administrative tasks to get everything rolling, and then I’m free.

With that freedom, I will write. Maybe take some photos, we’ll see, but I want to write. There’s a story deep within my soul that yearns to be expressed, and I’ve been trying and trying to pull it out from the darkest depths of my self, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot express it. What I see now is that I’m not ready to write this story. Instead, what flows out of me is a different type of writing, something nonfictional. As much as I don’t want to write nonfiction, that’s what comes, and I believe that this is, therefore, what I must write. I shouldn’t resist it, nor should I force something else.

Meanwhile, writing music has been a great a source of joy for me. During one period of “downness” a few weeks ago, I came to my office at 10:00 and left around 16:00. All I did was sit and write/play music. The time flew by in the mere blink of an eye. That is what life is worth living for: these moments where we can engross ourselves in something that brings us joy and meaning and purpose. In the end, I produced a piece of music that I can now share and express something with. That is how writing should be, how going for walks should be, how spending time with friends should be, how all days should be spent.

Live for the real world. If you have any inclination to reach for your phone, figure out what you should be doing instead. That will lead you to a rich and beautiful life of your own, where hours of scrolling mindless internet content instead becomes hours of pure joy where the time doesn’t even matter. As a starting point, I suggest going for a walk, then reading a book.

I’ll end with a piece I wrote last night called, Tell Me My Name. I wrote it while wondering about what I was doing with my life. Then, I decided I was going to come to my office to write in the morning which is where I am now. I’ll read it tonight at my poetry gathering.

Tell me my name, then ask me again. If I remember, then I am home. But I do not remember. I do not know. I toiled so long in such labors of hands that I noticed not the wrinkles overtake me. It was smooth skin I watched, such monumentous tasks, so engaged that when at last I blinked, I recognized no longer these lines before me.

Ask me my name, then no longer can I tell you. The man I was is lost to the past: youthfully ignorant, beautifully naive. He saw a mountain and sought to climb it. I left him with the trees.

To reach here, I must have journeyed. The sun who burns me watched me closely yet answers to me nothing. The moon knows my path. But watches she silently, mocking me endlessly; her presence hides the stars.

Who, then, knows me? Who knows my tale? If not me, then where shall I go? Is the path to future to forsake achievement? Do the hands of my youth await me? Tell me my name, then ask me again. It is no longer memory. Do I recognize? Can I be recognized? Have I any name?

I have climbed the mountain. And lost all that I wished proclaimed.