I guess

It's hard - isn't it? - to reflect on existence. Cleo and the Redbirds have been doing a bit of it lately, in mulling over big questions (Can something that is invisible exist? Does love exist?) - and, as you can see in the photo above, they've found that a pot of mint tea can help in tackling such profound issues.

But so, too, can some well-chosen qualifiers. Professional philosophers may aim, of course, at a sort of crystalline clarity in their writing. But most of us, when speaking about abstract issues, tend to turn towards softening words - maybe; might; perhaps - in order, I suppose, to distance ourselves from an artificial confidence, or an unappealing assertiveness. Consider, for instance, a recent interview by the 405 with Tycho, an electronic musician. In it, he was asked why he doesn't tend to listen to electronic music by other composers. His answer? Well, it began like this:

"In general I guess I'm just exposed to other kinds of music more often. Maybe it's that my friends generally don't listen to electronic music..." Look at all of those qualifiers! In general; I guess; Maybe: clearly, Tycho is hedging his bets. Again, speaking about something as ethereal as artistic motivation can be hard, and such terms work to indicate the nebulous fuzziness of the topic.

Cleo hasn't been interviewed by an online magazine, but the other day I did run a few questions by her after I lost yet another game of Mummy's Treasure. And, lo and behold: she too speaks in highly qualified terms. Specifically, our conversation went like this:

Me: "Why do you always beat me at Mummy's Treasure?"
Cleo: "I guess I just know how to play more better than you."
Me: "Why do we play games?"
Cleo: "Because I just like to play games, I guess."
Me: "Why do people play sports?"
Cleo: "I guess so they get stronger."
Me: "And what is a sport?"
Cleo: "It's something that you play, like soccer."

More better than me? It might seem that she's rubbing it in: the girl can't even create a correct adverb, but she really does win, on the level, at least 75% of our games of Mummy's Treasure. And yet, I see in her answers a wise series of hesitations, as well. I guess, again and again: years ago, Wittgenstein noted that it's almost impossible to define, with any concrete exactness, game. Instead, he suggested, we rely on something like family resemblances: some games have boards, others have balls, and so on, and they all overlap in part, and we thus make do with a category that is far from precise but that more or less serves its broad purposes. In short, when we use language we don't always denote with precision; we also guess. And always have, mint tea or no.