play, a first approximation: creative activity, breaking toys, giggling, and joy

Dear Zsa Zsa,

I want to play.

Play has some extremely different and heavy connotations in different lexicons. I'm not sure how many of those I'm excluding, but I do know I have a general meaning in mind that has something like a core to it.

Let me contrast play to creative activity as a first approximation. Play is not primarily directed toward producing something, even its own effects. It is for its own sake. Creative activity, as I'm using the concept here, produces something and is directed toward that production. Here's one place where the boundary becomes blurry, and where I get into trouble. What I do for play can become a creative activity. The effect of play can turn into an object for appropriation and production -- in a word, work. This happens gradually.

In fact, my so-called career as a so-called philosophy instructor is due to play becoming creative activity becoming work. I count my entry into this biz as the afternoon I spent quite innocently getting TREMENDOUSLY PISSED OFF AT IMMANUEL KANT, and developing a set of questions about the Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics that took three class sessions for the professor to address (thanks, Dr. Pressler). That was when, for lack of a better expression, I started taking this play seriously.

I have a tendency to that, it seems. Playing the guitar became something I took very seriously for a while, and I started teaching myself finger-picking and practicing until my hands were exhausted. Somewhere along the way, I fixated on the notion that I would play gigs, in front of other human beings. I was always thinking of playing as practicing for these future gigs. It became a chore. I didn't get very far before Ménière's Disease stopped me, and that might be lucky for me in a way, because, in the moments that I can play, I am no longer able to sustain the same degree of self-criticism. I know it's not feasible for me ever to play any gig. I'm fortunate when I get to play at all.

In short, a major problem I have is turning play into work. Some of my models of play require virtuoso skill, which you can only acquire with a ton of practice - i.e., work. (Practice is more or less breaking down playthings into pieces and then rebuilding them, over and over again. I am Hegelian to my bones.^*)

I know, for instance, that I play with words as much as I do because I already have a lot of skill developed, through endless iterations. This is my secret as an academic writer, too. While many of my friends and colleagues complain about the pain and suffering of writing, I never do. Whenever it doesn't feel like fun, I don't bother. I write a lot, I take very little of it very seriously, and even when I present it as a "product" of my "work," I (try to) suppress a giggle.

A major effect of play would seem to be joy. The giggles I suppress when I bring something I've written into a class are not because I'm so impressed with my own jokes (although they are brilliant), but because writing it was so damn much fun that I want to laugh out loud. I want to infect everyone with that enjoyment.

I know that part of what I'm doing is showing off while I play. Showing off might be ego-gratification on some level, and to that extent enter into a psycho-economy of symbolic exchange. Like the child at play, I often write things as though to shout "Look at me!" But notice the ambiguity of this shout: it is about "me," but is also a call to join in, if only as an observer. (Perhaps the adult called by the child counts as a kind of incomplete or incapable child, and the child notices that the adult's play is so attenuated they can only participate by observing.) Whether or not my writing floats your boat, you might still be able to appreciate that it floats mine. 

When I write in that free, joyful, giggle-inducing way, I am a Thelonious Monk song, and nothing can harm me, not even failure, because play is fail-safe. It can be started and stopped. It can be given life or death. But as long as it is, it can't fail to be play.

--




* G.W.F. Hegel wrote in the Encyclopedia of Philosophical Sciences that the most intelligent thing a child can do with their toys is to break them. I have always thought that was not only one of his keenest insights, and funniest lines, but also one of the best expressions of the heart of Hegel's philosophy. I'd love some day to write a commentary on Hegel and call it something like Broken Toys

Ella Fitzgerald Sings Every Song Ever

I am listening to Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Duke Ellington Song Book. I adore Ella Fitzgerald. I think there should have been an Ella Fitzgerald recording project called Ella Fitzgerald Sings Every Song Ever.

I am unabashedly biased in her favor, and can think of only one or two instances in all the recorded music I have of hers that I think could even have been improved, let alone where I think she made a mistake—and those are on imported discs of unknown and dubious provenance.

The impression I get so often listening to Ella Fitzgerald is that she sang on the basis of a kind of Necessity. Her voice had astonishing range and power in almost all registers, great emotional scope and depth, and did not lack delicacy, although she is not well known for it. One of the glorious things about the recordings we call the Song Books is the way they display her ability to take quite varied material and treat it as both the material that it was and also make it her own. She could take even Irving Berlin and Richard Rodgers numbers that seem a little corny or square, and make them fresh while remaining paradoxically quaint or out-of-time.

All of it seems to be precisely what had to happen, a kind of singular perfection of each song—an odd thing to say about jazz-ish interpretations of popular songs, I realize. In those rare cases in which I prefer someone else’s version of a song, I still perceive something necessary and complete in what Ella did with it. It’s perplexing to me in a deeply satisfying way, and that’s why I can’t help returning to her. Her singing was a kind of Hegelian absolute of popular song, I think.

I think playing Ella Fitzgerald, and explaining what she’s doing, would be a good way to explain Hegel’s philosophical method.

Hegel's super-skepticism

At the end of the preliminary, critical section of the Encyclopedia Logic, Hegel notes that what has just transpired -- to wit, a thoroughgoing criticism of the history of philosophy of logic and ontology in 100 pages -- could have been achieved through skepticism about all presuppositions. In other words, instead of the detailed work Hegel has done, he could have begun by saying something like "hey, kids, you know what? Everything you thought you knew about logic is wrong. Now let's start over."

Why not just make that quick move? There's a pretty strong history of throwing out presuppositions and re-starting ontology. It's a move that allegedly permits foundational certainty, that means our knowing will be complete, real, 100% knowing, not only organic but also pesticide free and shade-grown, etc. Presuppositions, you see, are the genetically modified organisms of ontology. You're never entirely certain what they're made of or that they're going to work out the way you planned, and by the time you realize it, they've already irreparably mutated and cross-bred with everything you're growing. The skeptical move in ontology is the insistence that we start with virgin soil, virgin seeds, the pure sun, and water from untainted mountain sources. Start over again, you see, after razing what had been there before.

Hegel says doing so would be "sad," but more to the point, redundant, because the approach he's going to take to systematically construct ontology will do that work along the way. There's a constant negation of half-thought half-logic, abstraction and incompletion in Hegel's system. It picks up every single philosophical idea and perspective, both historically and systematically, and subjects each one of them to this negation. I can try to explain this basic move in Hegel's thought with the example of "immediate knowing."

Hegel says that one position on knowing is that we immediately know: this knowing cannot be justified in terms of what else we know, or in terms of our evidence, or anything. It is exactly like faith. This form of knowing isn't unfamiliar. Take this: "I know that this dog is speaking to me with the voice of god." Now, a claim like that cannot be given evidence. It cannot be justified in terms of other things the speaker knows (you can't say, "... and I know this because..."). This idea can only be asserted as true, and this assertion can only rest on itself. Immediate knowing, as a position about knowing, says that knowing cannot be tested or proven.

The skeptical move here would be to say that we shouldn't believe anything merely asserted, because it presupposes that the speaker isn't crazy, that a dog could possibly speak, that there is a god who could and would speak through a dog, etc. etc., and thus debunk the claim to know.

Hegel's claim is this: not only can't there be evidence either for or against a claim to immediate knowledge, but the claim to immediate knowledge can't be immediate. If "I know this dog speaks to me with the voice of god" can only be asserted as immediate knowing without any justification, that assertion, to have the content that it has, to have the meaning that it has, cannot be asserted immediately. "I know that this dog is speaking to me with the voice of god" requires that the proposition itself, to have any meaning at all, says something that even the speaker must be able to evaluate the truth or falsity of -- or else it is not a claim to know, at all. In other words, it can't be immediate, because it is in relation to something else that would be able to tell us whether the sentence is well-formed, says something predicable, etc.

What I think this means, about Hegel's view of philosophical positions about knowing, is that every positive stance about knowing that commits the error of being one-sided is not merely false (which they are, because they are one-sided), but that none of them can be meant as they are meant. Every philosophical position-taking is hypocritical.

Every philosophical position-taking is hypocritical.

"Except Hegel's?" you're asking. Or your dog is asking.

Yes, except Hegel's... insofar as Hegel doesn't take a position. The truth is the whole, if played out consistently, means that he can't take a position (or, technically, that if and when he does, he then undermines it).

So, skepticism isn't skeptical enough, because it's only skeptical that positions are true, or that any position could be true. Hegel's skepticism is that the position isn't what it is, and the position-taker can't take the position.

Far frickin out.