Go Darke

I am a fervent adherent of minimalism (someone in the peanut gallery starts laughing). Well… in a way that someone who goes to church on Easter Sunday and Christmas day is a Christian. I really like the concept, but serious quantifiable action has, up until this point, eluded me. Or perhaps I have eluded it. Like the uncommitted jihadist, while supporting the cause, I am unwilling to pull the trigger, spread myself thin and paint the world in my blood, ball bearings and fecal matter.

I jest with religiosity because to the faithful, minimalism is a lot like a religion. If someone in charge (perhaps with an officially issued hat) were to tally the amount of ‘stuff’ I have accumulated during the course of my existence, I doubt I would be even be allowed to apply as a neophyte. True believers don’t hoard books, music and Danish building blocks. (and if they once did, they are now extremely apologetic)

Those are, after all, the trappings of a maximalist. Which, apparently, doesn’t mean what I thought it might.

maximalist /ˈmaksɪməlɪst/ noun: maximalist; 1. (especially in politics) a person who holds extreme views and is not prepared to compromise. adjective: maximalist; 1. of or denoting an extreme opinion

I mean that could also be me. But as antonyms go, surely there is some conflict here.

Conflict with whom exactly, is unclear… maybe Poland? Historically speaking that would probably make sense. We have always been envious of their Lebensraum. Although the Poles make the best games these days (CD Project Red, 11 bit studios, etc) which makes me less inclined to call for occupation and maybe take up a more, let them live and make games philosophy.

I bought this today. Or rather, perhaps more accurately, this arrived today. (wedged between two sheets of polystyrene¹, wrapped in cardboard, and mummified in sticky-tape)

[1] a whole different guilt trip/psychological crisis.

It suddenly dawns on me, that the last couple of records I’ve bought have all featured a naked (or half naked) female on the cover (Pixies – Surfer Rosa, The Pretty Reckless – Death by Rock ‘n Roll) which clearly points to some sort of pathology. (somewhere a bearded psychoanalyst leans into this Chesterfield Wingback and tips his pipe at me. “Ohne Zweifel” he says sagely)

I pay Spotify every month for the privilege of being able to listen to (almost) anything. And yet I spend money, carbon credits and tiny slivers of my sanity to ship a twelve inch piece of plastic in a printed paper jacket across the planet. On every measurable metric this is crazy-illogical.

Yet here we are.

When my future descendants (from their capsule hotel in Chiba city²), embarrassed by their wayward ancestors materialism, despairingly ask ‘what were you thinking?’ I am going to have to go with ‘mental disorder’. Which is… probably (mostly) true. I’m trying to plaster over feelings of insufficiency with consumerism I’ll say, sadly its not really more complicated than a run-of-the-mill self-esteem issue.

[2] The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel

Look at my accoutrements, do they not make me seem like a captivating person who had interests and passions? Do they not make my life seem like it was a good one?

Real minimalists on the other hand, mentally at least, have their ducks in a row. (insofar as ducks can be rowed, I’ve always found them to be quite resistant to linear organization) Minimalists don’t need knick-knacks to give their life meaning. They have ideology. Which is way better. Well, unless that ideology entreats you fly passenger aircraft into tall buildings. Which is obviously problematic for everyone.

I tilt my head, furrow my brow and consider what fundamental minimalism might entail… but then decide they are likely godless. Its subtraction in all things isn’t it? Polytheism to monotheism to… eh… no-theism. Its a tenuous pathing, but I decide to just go with it.

Having waffled now for several paragraphs I think I just wanted to put it on record that I feel bad about my consumption. I’m like Colin McGinn’s pigeon, standing in front of a mirror who can’t figure out its own reflection. I don’t have the tools in my cerebral toolbox to work out a better model for being. Sorry.

This is a cool album though.

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