Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2015, Page 50

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Well, maybe entitlement wouldn’t be the
right way to describe me (I thought I’d
talk about myself a little bit now, another
surefire way to get people to give up and
move on to the next article). I know some
entitled people, and I’m not one of them. If
anything, I’m frankly a little embarrassed
I exist. One of my most finely honed tal-
ents is staying out of people’s way. And
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m kind of
a hack, stealing most of my writerly MO
from stuff I hear and see around me, and
not really using it to create anything truly
new. I’m sure you’ve read hundreds of
“don’t-read-me” pieces just like this one
in publications, zines and blogs stretch-
ing from now and all the way back to beat
poetry, depending how old/well-read you
are. Rest assured, this is just another one
of those.
No, I’m talking about entitlement
that’s afforded to me by those around
me. I’ve had a long-standing offer from
this paper to publish whatever the hell it
is I want to write, an offer that I’ve had
extremely rare occasion to accept, and
usually only when it suits my purposes.
I’m not sure exactly why that is; someone
once asked someone else I know if I was
“afraid of success,” and that could be it.
I don’t think so, though. I love suc-
cess. I love the limelight, and I’ll in fact
happily assume that any audience, be it
a silent one of readers or an applauding
throng of concert-goers is utterly thrilled
to be entertained by my insufferable ass. I
mean, you’re reading this now, right? I’ve
hardly really said anything in 500+ words,
and you’re still reading. Clearly, you love
me, and I’m loving that you love me. No,
I think the root goes deeper than simple
fear of success.
I definitely harbor a fair amount of re-
sentment toward those who, despite their
clearly inferior talents, have achieved suc-
cess, however modest, in their pursuit of
followers, be they writers, musicians, pho-
tographers, sculptors, whatever. That re-
sentment is sort of a vicious cycle, because
successful people that would ordinarily
happily help me feel the resentment, and
consequently don’t help me, or stop help-
ing me if they already are, causing me to
resent them even more.
So I clearly love success, or at the very
least crave it. But would I love it so much
if I had it? And would I even recognize it
if I ever achieved it? Am I maybe already
successful? Success can be a gradual pro-
cess, so gradual you don’t even realize it’s
happening, or so I assume, having read the
occasional article about it (and of course
shamelessly plagiarized it for content).
I’m the son of a somewhat successful
artist, and maybe I feel like any success I
attain would be unfair to those not lucky
enough to be in my very fortunate posi-
tion. There are certainly far more talented
and original people I could name who,
through no fault of their own, have yet
to achieve even the very modest success
I have, and it’s unfair. Sometimes I wish
they were relatives of a successful artist;
maybe that way, they could catch a break.
Meanwhile, my entitled ass gets to put
out records on vinyl through family con-
nections, records full of trite, middling
pop-punk that’s been done to death for
20+ years.
…except that’s not really true. Or not
always, anyway. Sometimes, I find myself
perversely resentful of those who don’t
give me more of a chance than they would
some filthy unwashed mugblood musi-
cian, simply on account of me having a
famous relative. Those are the moments I
am at my absolute worst as a human being,
and thankfully they never last long before
I catch myself.
I think what I fear far more than suc-
cess is a success I have not earned. I fear
achieving notoriety as a musician or
writer, only for people to find that there is
no talent behind the words or behind the
songs. It’s all hype, and you only bought
the record because of my mom. You only
read this article because you’re a Bjork
fan.
If so, shame on you, because you’re
a horrible person who’s ruining my life.
No wait, sorry, you’re really not, it’s just a
knee-jerk thing I do, but still; you see my
point. While there’s nothing inherently
wrong with how you come by music (I
mean, shit, I got into GBV because of Jay
Carney), you can see why I might hate
you, in the same way that a lifetime comic
book fan doesn’t like it when you attend
ComiCon because you saw Chris Evans
traipse around with an American flag on
his back in some horrible fucking movie.
You may be reading this because you de-
cided to dabble in cute Bjork-Iceland stuff
because it seems fun and cute, but this is
my entire existence you’ve taken a casual
interest in. It’s my life; don’t you forget, it
never ends.
But this article must. It’s already taken
a long time to not really say anything, ex-
cept maybe offer a hopelessly incomplete
explanation as to why I don’t write for the
Grapevine anymore. The truth is that I
don’t really know. I mean, I do and I don’t.
I don’t really know if I know or not. Some-
times I feel like I do. But most times, I’m
not really sure. So basically you read this
whole thing for nothing, really. Sorry.
TAKE NOTE: The vinyl edition of Sindri El-
don's critically acclaimed solo début, 'Bitter
And Resentful', just hit local record stores.
MUSIC
OPINION
It’s good practice to start your article with a nice, attention-grabbing line that draws the read-
er in, one that serves as a purposefully inconclusive summation of the piece’s content without
a fully satisfying conclusion; that way, the reader will have to continue reading. Preferably, it’s
a short sentence that gets its own paragraph to make it more eye-catching, a sentence that
has a rhythm to it, whether it’s a clipped rhythm, full of plosives and punctuation, or a roll-
ing, lilting rhythm that seems to tumble off the page into the reader’s brain, or sometimes a
purposefully disjointed rhythm to intentionally subvert what’s traditionally considered “good
form.” Whatever kind of sentence you choose, it’s how I believe any good article should start,
and normally, that’s what I would have done here. But I’m not going to do that this time.
I thought I’d write a piece with the most meandering, meaningless opening paragraph—a
paragraph that could easily have been divided into two or more paragraphs, incidentally—
and keep the reader thoroughly disinterested. That way, I can fulfill my obligation to the
editor of this paper whilst simultaneously keeping a promise I made to myself. Because you
see, I don’t really want you to read this article. This article is an in-joke, an elitist, self-congrat-
ulatory prank played on you by a lazy agoraphobic wordsworth whose sense of entitlement
plainly exceeds his intellect. So don’t read it.
Photo Hvalreki
Words Sindri Eldon
6
A Semi-Partial Introduction
To Opinions I May Or
May Not Have