A self does not amount to much,
but no self is an island;
each exists in a fabric of relations
that is now more complex and mobile than ever before.
Young or old, man or woman, rich or poor,
a person is always located at “nodal points”
of specific communication circuits, however tiny these may be.
Or better:
one is always located at a post
through which various kinds of messages pass.
No one, not even the least privileged among us, is ever entirely powerless
over the messages that traverse and position him
at the post of sender, addressee, or referent.

…language games
are the minimum relation required for society to exist:
even before he is born,
if only by virtue of the name he is given,
the human child is already positioned
as the referent in the story recounted by those around him,
in relation to which he will inevitably chart his course.
Or more simply still,
the question of the social bond, insofar as it is a question,
is itself a language game, the game of inquiry.
It immediately positions the person who asks,
as well as the addressee and the referent asked about:
it is already the social bond.

— excerpt, The Postmodern Condition A Report on Knowledge
By Jean-Francois Lyotard

Jean-François Lyotard (August 10, 1924 – April 21, 1998) was a French philosopher, sociologist, and literary theorist. Lyotard was a key personality in contemporary Continental philosophy and author of 26 books and many articles. – wikipedia

Children love to play games.  I know.  I observe the rambunctious play of our three grandchildren.  A favorite move of an inside-the-house game is to hide behind a corner or a nook between furniture.  Then to jump out with a shout to surprise the brother or sister.  The unexpected move in a game, the sneak attack takes the game to a heightened level of furious activity.

These lines written by Lyotard strike me as a sneak attack in what they reveal.  I read them with trepidation, as if crossing thin ice.  It is foreboding to consider that the very name that a child is given — instigates the innocent, immobile, inarticulate infant into a language game.  Within hours or days after birth, at our naming, it is as if I am drafted to a team, to play on a side in a language game.  That is the nature of the social bond.  The social bond, a dynamic reciprocal bond that is energized every time that I speak, and each time that I am spoken to.

Perhaps the “givenness” of the matter feels unfair?  I did not chose my parents, and I didn’t have a voice in the name that I was given.  Who knows if there was a good reason, or any reason I was given the name that I have?  Nevertheless the name positions me in a most important game that must be played as a employee, a lover, a spouse, etc.  A name, with a surround of connotation, evokes instantaneous emotional response when heard.

The game means that I am a player, each time I am spoken to, as if a ball is tossed in my direction.  What kind of toss, one too fast for me to catch, too far to the side, or a pitch within the zone of my ability to receive?  I have no choice but to play the game.  But my freedom is realized when I effect the game by each message which passes through me.

This limited, granular exercise of freedom is sobering to me.  Freedom is exercised each time that I speak, or each time that I receive a message that denotes, prescribes, evaluates, or performs something…  I and my interlocutor are in relationship.  My manner of play affects the game, a move that shifts the game meaningfully.

I ponder the condition, the situation of my fellow citizens who enthusiastically attend a Trump campaign rally, or spend hours on social media charged with rancor against Black Lives Matter and minorities in general.  Perhaps they even enjoy displaying their guns to one another in video chat rooms…  Every participant effects the game, has a share of responsibility for the direction of play.

And what of my own proclivities?  I gravitate towards listening to and speaking with individuals who read widely.  I enjoy hearing stories of “near miss” past adventures.  I like to read philosophy, which is a conversation of sorts.  What do those exchanges say about the social bond that is being cultivated?  What kind of future do I create with my style of play?

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1 in 4 households have experienced food insecurity this year. Jeff Bezos is worth more than every citizen in Vermont, Alaska, and Wyoming combined, while a fourth of Americans can’t pay their rent.

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With the intellectual heavy lifting, there is always a song to hold onto.  This one will bear the weight of our need for love and to be loved.  Yes we fail, in order to learn, and to try again…

The video is as exceptional as the lyric of this tune.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0W0zR6uPEGM

Every Rose Has Its Thorn

By Poison

We both lie silently still in the dead of the night
Although we both lie close together we feel miles apart inside
Was it something I said or something I did?
Did my words not come out right?
Though I tried not to hurt you
Though I tried
But I guess that’s why they say

[Chorus:]
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn

Yeah it does

I listen to our favorite song playing on the radio
Hear the DJ say love’s a game of easy come and easy go
But I wonder does he know?
Has he ever felt like this?
And I know that you’d be here right now
If I could have let you know somehow
I guess

[Chorus]

Though it’s been a while now
I can still feel so much pain
Like a knife that cuts you the wound heals
But the scar, that scar remains

I know I could have saved a love that night if I’d known what to say
Instead of makin’ love we both made our separate ways
And now I hear you found somebody new
And that I never meant that much to you
To hear that tears me up inside
And to see you cuts me like a knife
I guess

Written by B. Dall, B. Michaels, R. Rocket, C.c. Deville (Bruce Anthony Johannesson)

Bret Michaels said the inspiration for the song came from a night when he was in a laundromat in Dallas waiting for his clothes to dry, and called his girlfriend on a pay phone. Michaels said he heard a male voice in the background and was devastated; he said he went into the laundromat and wrote “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” as a result