I first met James A. Reeves in a bar called Ahven, a couple of blocks from my apartment in the centre of Helsinki. The bar was decorated in brown and served expensive imported ales. James drank a club soda with lime, wore an eggshell white blazer and was tall.

We introduced ourselves. He’d just moved to Helsinki from New York. He ran a design agency and a record label. He was trying to be a writer. He took photos, thought a lot, and wanted to run. I had just moved from London to Helsinki. I designed and wrote music. I smoked Kent Menthol cigarettes and I did not run.

In the summer, James and I would carry his big desk into the yard and work in the warm sun. Several months later, he left Finland and moved back to New York. We had become solid friends and agreed that one day we should work together. And that was that.

Months later, James moved to New Orleans. Together with Candy Chang he founded Civic Center, a creative agency that makes cities more comfortable for people. And most recently, in the summer, James invited me to join Civic Center. I accepted his invitation, quit my job, packed my bags and took a flight to the United States of America.

Now, my local convenience store is called Mardi Gras Zone. They sell boat soap, mouse traps and Bob Marley dietary supplement. Strangers smile and greet me on the street. I’m learning to smile back. Some days I wear shoes but not socks. There are palm trees, freight trains and secret Asian restaurants. There is a voodoo temple behind our house.

I don’t smoke, but I do run. And I do good work with good people.

It’s a lot to take on but I’m coming to terms with it.

What next?

1. Visit Mardi Gras Zone online and purchase beads, pickles and coffee.

2. Read more about Civic Center, James and Candy’s agency

Sasha Huber’s Haïti Chérie, for which I composed the soundtrack. The video is a response to the earthquake in Haiti, in January, 2010.

A short video from our foraging adventure. This particular forest is in Turenki, Finland. The music is a demo, foraged from my archives, recorded earlier in 2011.

We’re staying in a small Finnish town, north of Helsinki, called Turenki. There are lakes here. In the summer millions of mosquitos mount a constant attack. It’s winter now, lush greens gave way to falling leaves and those gave way to tall, naked trees. Life is slow and quiet. Beyond our back garden is a forest.

The Girl can’t believe I’m unable to find my way around this small town. When I run, I follow a straight road for a few kilometres and then back again. There’s no working GPS here. No 3G phone network. Barely any phone reception. Any deviation from this one road and I’d be lost.

In Turenki, everything looks the same. It’s like a flash-frozen Scandinavian holiday village, waiting to thaw out for next year’s holiday season. Gosh, it’s odd.

On a chilly Saturday afternoon, I joined The Girl, her niece and nephew for a spot of Finnish forest foraging. We deviated, digressed and drifted away from the beaten path. Berries, moss, sprigs and twigs were collected. We meandered through puddles, leapt over logs and got thoroughly lost.

Before we found ourselves again, the ground gave way and The Girl ended up waist deep in cold, rancid, pond water. I pulled her out. She bravely soldiered on. Together, we acted like grown-ups and slowly, surely picked our way home.

We arrived home with soggy socks and pink noses. The Girl’s nephew and niece were overjoyed with their little adventure.

What next?

1. Read this guide from The Ecologist and then head out for a spot of foraging.

Today we foraged in the Finnish forest. We gathered cranberries, moss and lingonberry sprigs.

Finland’s Nyt magazine featured A Tool Through Which To Experience The City.

There’s a short story written by Jonathan Nolan called Memento Mori. Jonathan’s brother, Christopher Nolan, later based the film Memento on this short story. I’ve still not the seen the film but I read the story yesterday.

The overall structure – as opposed to the prose – has a kind of staccato rhythm that compels you to read on through. It’s a short story divided into even shorter chunks. Which, I’m feeling silly for only just realising, is a clever way of communicating the central character’s stop-start life.

There’s a great passage in the story. It’s quite long but revealing it here doesn’t spoil a thing. Its sentiment and clever conceit seems to sum up why I need lists.

Here’s the truth: People, even regular people, are never just any one person with one set of attributes. It’s not that simple. We’re all at the mercy of the limbic system, clouds of electricity drifting through the brain. Every man is broken into twenty-four-hour fractions, and then again within those twenty-four hours. It’s a daily pantomime, one man yielding control to the next: a backstage crowded with old hacks clamoring for their turn in the spotlight. Every week, every day. The angry man hands the baton over to the sulking man, and in turn to the sex addict, the introvert, the conversationalist. Every man is a mob, a chain gang of idiots.

This is the tragedy of life. Because for a few minutes of every day, every man becomes a genius. Moments of clarity, insight, whatever you want to call them. The clouds part, the planets get in a neat little line, and everything becomes obvious. I should quit smoking, maybe, or here’s how I could make a fast million, or such and such is the key to eternal happiness. That’s the miserable truth. For a few moments, the secrets of the universe are opened to us. Life is a cheap parlor trick.

But then the genius, the savant, has to hand over the controls to the next guy down the pike, most likely the guy who just wants to eat potato chips, and insight and brilliance and salvation are all entrusted to a moron or a hedonist or a narcoleptic.

The only way out of this mess, of course, is to take steps to ensure that you control the idiots that you become. To take your chain gang, hand in hand, and lead them. The best way to do this is with a list.

It’s like a letter you write to yourself. A master plan, drafted by the guy who can see the light, made with steps simple enough for the rest of the idiots to understand. Follow steps one through one hundred. Repeat as necessary.

What next?

1. Read Memento Mori by Jonathan Nolan.

2. Watch Memento by Jonathan’s brother, Christopher Nolan.

3. Write a list of things you really should do.

Last night I saw Midnight In Paris, the new Woody Allen flick. Gil Penderson is a present day writer, obsessed with Paris in the roaring ’20s. He visits the city and, at midnight, discovers a way to travel back in time. Gil spends his time with Hemingway and the Porters, shares a drink with Dali and gushes over Picasso’s girlfriend. It’s all very silly and quite sweet too.

At 12 years old, I decided I didn’t want to be forgotten after I died. I figured that composers – really good composers – are remembered long past their death. And with that, I decided to be a composer. What a tall order! How silly and naïve and (just a little) egotistical.

The thing is, I still don’t want to be forgotten after I die.

Gil Penderson comes to realise that, though the present may seem dull, there is in fact no better time to be. Stepping back, considering my circumstances, I realise that Gil was right: now is the best time to be.

Now, my piers and friends are writers, artists, designers and thinkers. Fantastic, clever, inspirational people who see things differently and make things happen. And while right now not all of us are terribly well known, it doesn’t really matter. It’s clear we’re all doing amazing things and we probably won’t be forgotten.

What next?

1. Go see Midnight in Paris.

The Accurate wristwatch by Mr. Jones. The hour hand reads, “remember,” the minute hand, “you will die.”

There’s a t-shirt I own that’s very special to me. The t-shirt is cut slim. The material is beige cotton. Across the front is a screen printed image. The image, designed by Bart Van de Vel, is a complex insect comprised of smaller insects.

Back in 2004, I was editor of an online design magazine. The design community fluttered around a couple of Internet message boards and it was on one of these boards that I met Bart Van de Vel. Bart was friendly and funny and would draw portraits for anybody who asked.

After exchanging a few messages, Bart decided to produce illustrated desktop wallpapers for the design magazine. By the end of the project, he had created over 100 wallpapers.

And then the site closed. And I went on to do other things. And so did Bart. And a few years passed. And an email arrived. And it explained that Bart was dead.

I still don’t know how Bart died. It’s the first thing I wanted to ask. I realised soon after that the answer wouldn’t matter. I know that Bart was friendly, unpretentious and fun. He was prolific, silly, talented and good.

In the years leading up to his death, Bart submitted t-shirt designs to a site called Threadless. If a design garnered enough votes, Threadless would put the t-shirt into production.

None of Bart’s t-shirt designs ever received enough votes. Even so, he kept creating and submitting and not succeeding. Bart created one hundred and thirty different submissions in total. Let’s add brave to the list of Bart’s attributes. Bart was brave.

After Bart died, as a tribute to him, his final submission was put into production. Wearing that t-shirt, I remind myself that Bart Van de Vel is gone, but I am not.

It’s good to think about death. It’s good to remind ourselves that we’re alive. To push ourselves to do the things we would otherwise perpetually put off until tomorrow. It’s not morbid, it’s liberating.

What next?

1. Visit Bart’s wallpaper exhibition.

2. Wear Bart’s Insectoid t-shirt.

3. Look at Bart’s fantastic Flickr collection.

4. Go make, do, create or experience something, because you can.

Tiger in a Jar made this video for Kinfolk Magazine, it features my piece Lumi Karhu.

“It will be so tender you will cry one tender tear,” said Candy Chang.

Somewhere in South America, Lucky Strike launched an analogue cigarette with an on button.

This could be the start of a great little sci-fi short story, perhaps penned by someone with a forty-a-day habit and a husky textured voice. However, it’s true. These special cigarettes are the real deal, packed with tobacco, flavour and fire.

I stopped smoking weeks ago. I’m fine with it. Except every few nights, I dream about smoking. I toy with an unlit cigarette in my hand. Run my fingers down its delicate edges. Tentatively squeeze and feel the give and soft crunch of tobacco within. Occasionally I place it between my lips, still unlit.

And I struggle with this dilemma as I sleep. In my dreams, I imagine smoking. I can almost feel the rush and release. I suck in, smoke fills my mouth and, with a sharp inhale, it’s in my lungs and there’s a wave of relaxation that folds into a satisfying smokey sigh. It’s beautiful and frustrating.

During the day, I don’t struggle. I do my work. Drink my coffee. Consider exercise. Try not to eat too much food. Try not to drink too much coffee. Aim to get to bed at a reasonable time. I smoked for over 15 years and yet the thought of smoking never troubles me. It’s only a concern when I dream.

Many months back, a friend of mine smuggled a pack of these special Lucky Strikes over from Chile. Squeeze the filter and the internal flavour ball goes pop which, in turn, switches the cigarette to on, releasing delicious menthol. She watched me squirm with delight as I pressed the button and puffed away.

Chanel and Dalí, Chanel’s mirrored staircase

I’m getting older. The hair on my head is thinning. I’ve taken to exercising. I don’t smoke but I drink coffee. Sometimes, I listen to classical music and gently sway back and forth. As I listen, I feel content, pleased and excited.

That’s a new feeling for me. To listen to classical and feel butterflies tickling my tummy. As a child, in the back of my mother’s car, I heard hours of classical music. I never listened though. It’s a good feeling to discover this excitement in such a familiar but unexplored place.

Several nights back, we watched Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky. Stravinsky fiddled with compositions between bouts of fiddling with Coco Chanel. Afterwards I trawled through his back catalogue. His music is rough and romantic and manic.

When Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring premiered in 1913, at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées in Paris, it caused a riot. People shouted. There were fistfights. There’s one absurd detail from the reports that I adore: in what I imagine was a misguided attempt to calm the audience, the producer flashed the house lights on and off, again and again.

From what I can tell, Stravinsky didn’t compose this piece to offend or be contrary. People just freaked because it was new, different and aggressive.

Isn’t that just fantastic? To make someone feel so strongly about your art that they lose themselves so completely and respond with violent, physical emotion. Powerful stuff.

If you’ve heard The Rite of Spring, you’ll surely understand.  It’s frustratingly schizophrenic. Beautiful themes bash up against gentle melodies and those, in turn, give way to violent struggles of rhythm and notes and noise.

The problem is, I don’t quite get it yet. There are very brief moments where I see the beauty. I’m convinced that I need to learn how to listen. That what sounds dissonant and messy to me right now, won’t always. To me, Stravinsky’s music is a knot that needs unknotting.

The riot might be myth. Reports were probably embellished. Who cares though? Listen to just a few minutes of The Rite of Spring and you can imagine the uproar in the aisles that first night. Forget The Clash, this is music to riot to.

What next?

1. Listen to a very old recording of Stravinsky rehearsing an orchestra.

2. Listen to a 1968 piano duet of The Rite of Spring.

3. Watch Stravinsky, at 82 years, conducting an excerpt from The Firebird.

4. See the trailer for Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky.

Old exam results from my music college days, around fifteen years ago.