A while back, Blake Butler posted a brief snippet that said something like, “It’s not okay to like everything,” and I’ve been thinking that statement through since. A series of random events over the past few weeks has me thinking the corollary is also true. It is not okay to hate everything, either. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like everything. I’m not an optimist or a perky individual. I have a bitch streak a mile long. It just seems some people are never happy or satisfied with anything—and those people are completely unwilling or unable to appreciate things that do not fit into the constraints of what they like or think is good [writing, art, design, living, whatever] or have become accustomed to. I’m really burnt out on relentless cynicism and negativity and snarky judgment. When someone either loves or hates everything, I find it hard to take them seriously or give their opinions much credence. Isn’t criticism more effective when used judiciously?
Imagine yourself for a moment a laundry basket. A duffel bag of laundry, a black trash bag of laundry. Whatever. You’re one. Is there not, in the terrifying accumulation of our lives, a distinction between giving yourself away and asking to try someone on? Let’s say I ask if you’re okay. If you’re much pleasured by the current sky. Curried rice. Jim Carrey or ice cream. In so asking I’m digging in, hand in your basket, to take and pull a little cloth of yourself over a naked me-bit. Which is not always aggressive. Sometimes you do want me to ask you things; sometimes you’d rather I didn’t. I don’t want to talk about 2009, Facebook surveys, Michael Bloomberg’s polling strategies, focus groups for salsa commercials. It’s all relevant, but what I most want to say about Padgett Powell’s eye-twist of a novel (and I mean novel, like damn that’s novel)