The social self has always been much more extensive, much more fluid, in time and space, than the physical -- or the personal. Social media are only the latest attempts to underscore this fact. Structures of government and bureaucracy preceded them. Religion and witchcraft preceded all that 'Governmentality'. Storytelling did too. Likewise all that genealogical stuff. Like Roots. What a dreary life we would have if all we had were our flesh and bones -- and blood and sweat and tears. No extensions whatsoever. But, thankfully, we have affinities. We communicate. We have memories. And imaginations. And aspirations. We take many forms, despite our physiological limitations. We know we are not alone -- and not the only one(s). Alone, neither the Self nor the Other endures -- in his or her or the Other's eyes. Nor is the social self necessarily a socialist. It is the unfinished selfie in which friends, dear ones and random others and places and things always appear, and with time quietly fade away -- only to be replaced by others, or none at all. 1. CLICK TO SEE THIS: What Charles Horton Cooley's scholarly self thinks that he thinks is his original thought about the social self
2. And see what George Herbet Mead says:
"The “I” of introspection is the self which enters into social relations with other selves. It is not the “I” that is implied in the fact that one presents himself as a “me. “ And the “me” of introspection is the same “me” that is the object of the social conduct of others. One presents himself as acting toward others – in this presentation he is presented in indirect discourse as the subject of the action and is still an object,– and the subject of this presentation can never appear immediately in conscious experience. It is the same self who is presented as observing himself, and he affects himself just in so far and only in so far as he can address himself by the means of social stimulation which affect others. The “me” whom he addresses is the “me,” therefore, that is similarly affected by the social conduct of those about him." (Read more).
With the sun fixing to set in the West as it does, as if rendered thus just for now by the knowing hand of a master artist, this whole music video, directed by C.A.R.D.O.S.O, presents as a super-inspired jollity. As vignettes, hints only perhaps, of the good life in a hidden ecosystem. The song's all-enveloping tone, vocal and instrumental, lifts and uplifts, rendering the brief moment in life it fills with itself a monumental experience; a festivity that'll linger and linger in the hearts of all who are blessed to hear it. It's a ritual of happiness. Of joy. Happiness and Champagne. Naughty dare-devilry. Some sort of cool fertility dance, too -- in the light of whatever it is that's celebrated, and in anticipation of its own aftermath. Listen to the guitar's perfectly timed punctuating! "Sikia namuna gitaa iko naliya," as a famous Congolese once upon a time sang, caught up in a sort of aural selfie. No one can take your blessings away in this charmed set-up, this microcosm of engagement and mirth, this subtle detour; this enchanting tribute to life as it ought to be spiced, now and then, when all is done for the moment and all is well. Down with all those who try! It's a wonderful song. Look how happiness spreads across them faces, one by one! And, yes, no one can stop it.
Look! That's my silver Firebird, at my Sherman Hall parking lot, in Champaign. You've got to look really hard to find it, in this "Christmas Card City" -- as the News-Gazette editors so aptly captioned the picture. I've always treasured it. This is back to the future stuff; a blast from the past -- from the last millennium, even. You can see that there's practically no one in the sidewalks this Friday morning, and little evidence of vehicular traffic. There were no selfies then. No email. No Twitter. No Google search. The millennials were not yet born. I think they were waiting for my return to Kenya. At this time, in early 1978, Obama hadn't even come to Illinois, let alone Kenya. Little Michelle, where was she, there in Chicago, that Windy City, that particular morning? It was a really cold morning, brrrrr! But I was in my room, and I remember it with as much warmth as my room provided me. You see, somewhere there inside Sherman Hall that morning was a Kenyan thinking about school work, and perhaps about home. I had been happily back to Kenya just months earlier, in the summer of 1977. The future was all ahead of me here. It's been a magical thing to come upon it in steps, along the winding way. But much of it is, for me, still is. You'll see. CLICK: Images of Firebird
