say it with me

f*ck minimalism

Don’t get me wrong. I, too, used to be a follower of minimalism. Actually, I still am. You think this doesn’t make sense? You’re sitting here looking at a piece of glass containing the unfiltered barely edited thoughts of a sleep deprived twenty something year old from across the world and you think my little contradictions make no sense?

Not to like, be dramatic or anything.

Anyway, let me just catch you up maximally and in unnecessary detail to my comings and goings in the last month or so.

***

The last time we spoke (or, I spoke at you… and by spoke I mean wrote) I was sick, and then I disappeared for almost a month. Kind of disappointed nobody has been trying to find out if I’ve died or not. I haven’t died, and I feel a lot better now.

Turned out I had a very well known and curable bacterial tonsillitis, and not an unknown incurable tropical disease. This was both a disappointment and a joy. Night gathers, my watch continues. It shall not end until my death of an illness that will later be named after me. Which, ironically, would also be both a disappointment and a joy. Can’t win, can’t lose, so we just carry on.

Antibiotics are a magical thing. It’s really quite unbelievable they’re just out there, growing on things. (I know, only sort of.) People say money doesn't grow on trees. But if you consider “money” to be “things you need for survival” then it absolutely does. Grows all over the place. Hold on, I feel a “what’s this world coming to” rant incoming. Must resist. Clench fists until Socialist’s Anonymous. It’s all not that simple anyway, so I’m giving you credit to know I’m not being serious.

***

I sneakily called myself a twenty-something year old earlier. I will be doing that several times a day for the next couple of weeks since it’s the last time I can do that. June fourth I shall turn thirty. Things are getting real now. Thirty is very respectable age. Can I still blame my silliness on youth? What’s the fundamental difference between me today, a twenty-something; and me in a couple of weeks from now, a thirty year old? I know the general consensus these days is the empowered belief that the difference doesn’t exist but

aren’t we all still counting? So maybe the real question is why a zero at the end of a number is more significant than a nine.

***

The last few days we have been on a home inspection induced spring clean. Having ended up with a house that’s the same albeit marginally tidier the effort does not seem worth it. (See, a thirty year old wouldn’t even begin to doubt the validity of effort spent cleaning. “Of course, a person should clean. A lot. And often.” *huffs and puffs*) Turned out the home inspection was just to check the fire alarms and water pressure.

Tidying and organising with a toddler and a very curious baby is almost impossible. You can’t finish painting that bridge, yadiya. I was talking to my sister throughout this process via unreasonably long voice notes.

My sister has always been better at these things. Neater, more responsible. But even she was complaining: she has been feeling like her house is always a mess, what with this child she made. Jules likes to cite a book by a lady from CleanTok. She is asked a question about keeping a house clean with young children, to which she responds with “don’t worry about it”.

I’m also finding my mind wander towards the homes I’ve enjoyed spending time in. I’ve been in plenty of really tidy minimalist homes. But the ones I most enjoyed have been the ones that have life happening. We used to rehearse with my band in one of the guys’ homes. He had two young children (they’re teenagers now), and him and his wife clearly weren’t the type of people who would clean for the sake of casual visitors. That’s not to say their house was messy: it was really beautiful. It had life.

There were lots of toys, mismatched furniture. There were musical instruments, the books different members of the family have been reading. They didn’t bother pretending like they don’t do these things. I never even thought about it, everything seemed so organic, so natural.

And so I’m realising that we’re all living a lie. The amount of people that keep a pristine house at all times is so much smaller than the amount of people that clean before they have visitors. We do this and then we act like everything is completely normal.

Why do we do this? I go to someone’s house and think: wow, this is so nice, I wish my house was this tidy. Well, it always is, when I know we will have company. So I feel bad, then someone comes to my house, feels bad, and the cycle of lies continues.

What a colossal waste of time.

My sister told me that since they moved into a new apartment that she really enjoys, she’s given up on needing the house to be perfect for company. “I’m really jealous”, I said. “I’m trying to get there.” She said it has more to do with turning off the looping self deprecating internal monologue and letting yourself focus on more important things. Not to continue bringing up Community in every life situation, but Pierce sums it up perfectly here (from 0:30). (Because you know who is coming to your house? The people you love.)

***

I did not finish my cleaning task fully. The laundry that I didn’t want to do ended up in a bag in a wardrobe. This technique is a big throwback to when Sasha and I were made to clean our room so we’d collect things into bags and throw them on top of the wardrobe, never to be seen again. Never, until the day my granddad dismantled the wardrobe to install a new one. He was very confused by the apparent lack of cohesion and common category of the items being stored together in bags.

***

Minimalism the way capitalism spun it ruined real homes.

Minimalist lifestyle was never supposed to be a monochrome pristine existence. You don’t need to get rid of sentimental photographs just to make sure that your corridor prints all match. So yes, fuck minimalism in the interpretation where you must purge yourself of sentimental possessions for the sake of matching your couch to your TV stand. You’re not supposed to be embarrassed about eating things inside your home. You don’t need to be endlessly doing laundry to be considered worthy of respect.

I think I’m being swept up by a bigger shift right now: midcentury modern is taking over from sleek modern. There are more colours, there’s more detail. Bring on all your mad men, I’m here for it.

We need more heart in homes. I want to see the lamp your aunt made in the sixties (something a friend showed me recently), the ugly plant your mother in law bought, the toys your children enjoy.

And yes, the ugly plant is mine. I walked past the shop where she got it the next day and was amazed at how she chose the ugliest plant in there. And you know what, I’m happy to have the ugly plant. If anything, I would rather fill my house with ugly plants selected carefully by my mother in law than have a house devoid of heart.

This is all to say in a roundabout way that I would rather change my entire personality and approach to running my home, and what I put in it, than spend another day cleaning.

P.S. I’m only about 75% certain the choice of plant was unmalicious.