Existentialism* ... and my random thoughts on the meaning of life [1]

• "The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those who feel."**
• All attempts by the individual, termed 'consciousness,' to attempt to map an order or purpose unto 'the other' will be met with failure, as 'the other' is non-rational and random.***
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[I'm not sure if this is a good time to post this but thinking about it gave me a headache. The permutations are complicated ...so, I'm posting it anyways.]

I hate large philosophical terms like 'existentialism'...'positivism'...'ecumenism'... 'phenomenalism'… bullsh*t-ism. But, three random things have occurred recently to bring me to write about an ism today. First, a former colleague lost his family house to a fire. For anyone familiar with Black Tinkerbell's blog, that is the reason for this post. (Blogger's permission required.) Secondly, yesterday was the annual World Food Festival in Mid-Town…that's between 40th St. and 56th St. on 9th Av., Manhattan. I had the intruiging company of the beautiful atheist. Conversing with her was…interesting in an end-of-life kinda way. (I assume that is what one is when they have 'no religion/spiritual beliefs'.) Thirdly, I walked into Mass today to hear the monotonous priest reading an excerpt from The Gospel of John. (Yes, I was 5 whole minutes late.) It was the prayer of Jesus just before his crucifixion.

I told you they were random events. Well, … almost random.

In Black Tinkerbell's post, she almost agonizes over the meaning of life. I think we've all done this at some point in our adolescence-to-maturity metamorphosis. It usually hits us when someone we know meets real tragedy; when disaster becomes personal to us.

In talking with the beautiful atheist, she told me about how she attempted to deal with the death of her boyfriend. She was a mature teenager. The type that people expect to have most of the answers. The type that people look up to for inspiration. The type that no one thinks to ask if life is less-than-perfect. She resorted to drinking as a way out. She had no religion and so there was no, 'It is well' to avail herself of. (By the way, if you know someone who's met tragedy, plzzzzz DON'T tell them 'It is well'! Say something you really understand and mean, something original …OR SHUT UP!) It set me thinking about how you pull through life when there is nothing to…………………….. just, when there is nothing.

The monotonous priest was less dramatic. If you're familiar with the prayer of Jesus, you might know that it speaks about His present and our future. Anyways, somehow, the priest found a way to turn his homily into a discourse on our purpose in life. And, while he lost me in the drift of his sermon, I stayed awake sufficiently enough to hear him concur with what I've always thought life means…assuming life has a 'meaning'.

However, before we get to all that, a couple of comments about existentialism and Walpole's quotation. I already said that I hate isms. However, I love Walpole's words. I always have. Mainly because the world amuses me and aggravates me alternately, depending on whether I am thinking or feeling. In short, all of the quote applies to me.

Existentialism, on the other hand, tells me that the Individual and all 'it's' choices are all that matter. The world is random. God, if he exists, is indifferent. Life is meaningless. Anyone with religious beliefs recoils at the thought that God might not exist as who or what we think. We are jolted into denial that life, as we know it, may have absolutely NO meaning or purpose. We want to think that we wake up in the morning for a reason; that our loved ones have not died in vain; that our privations for the sake of morality are not ignored and that we will be compensated by karma or the Eternal Ones; that 7 virgins await us when we offer up our lives to blow up the kaffirs…. In fact, we want to believe.

Unfortunately, everything as you fear it, is a possibility. We may be here for nothing - merely to live, breathe, and to die. The Big Bang may account for everything we know today as well as for what tomorrow reveals. The Almighty may be nothing than a filler for the eternal questions that we are too cowardly to answer. I think Voltaire tells us that if God did not exist, it would be necessary to create Him. This is what existentialism forces us to contemplate.

I do not believe you can fully appreciate the Deity until you consider - and accept - that He may not exist as you think Him to be.

Stop. Think. God may not exist. (Do it.)

Sh!t… then I'm totally screwed.

Pause again. Deep breath. Let's move on… in a future post. [Stay Tuned.]

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* A philosophy that emphasizes the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience in a hostile or indifferent universe, regards human experience as unexplainable, and stresses freedom of choice and responsibility for the consequences of one's acts.

**Horace Walpole, 1717 – 1797

***Albert Camus (pronounced 'Kamy'), 1913 - 1960

CONVOCATION

I guess I am jaded by events and gatherings and so I didn't think it was important to describe my impressions of the 2007 Law School Convocation at NYU. Anyways, I woke up this morning thinking that it would be a good thing to describe my thoughts as this particular event occurred. Hang on for the ride… It's an easy one today.

Perhaps, it's apt to say that nothing disastrous transpired (disappointingly) at the Convocation. The organization was very good from the get-go. I got to Madison Square Garden, after one of my eternal subway rides, at about 9.15am. I was so sleepy on the train that I was afraid I'd go past 34th St. Penn Station…and maybe wake up at Canal Street!
("Canal St." is my hypothetical subway perdition. When I have an early morning class, I usually get to my proper stop at West 4th Station just a few minutes before the class starts. Waking up at the next station – Canal Street – means that I will certainly be late since I have to ride the train most of the way to the end in order to change trains. Picture this happening when I have an early morning exam…………………… my point exactly!)


Anyways, I walked into The Garden feeling a bit too excited. After all, it is The Garden…Muhammad Ali knocking out Joe Frazier (1971); Hulk Hogan body-slamming Andre the Giant (1983); The NY Rangers winning the Stanley Cup (1994). Turns out we were at some section of MSG other than the arena. No matter, I was glad to be there and that’s all that mattered.

There was the usual hullaballoo. Parents panicking more than their children; picture flashes going off in your face inadvertently; people talking too loudly so you’d not soon forget that they were there (and interfering in your video recordings while they’re at it)… you know…typical convocation brouhaha.


We filed into the main hall according to our specializations, or the lack of it, as our individual situations required. Everyone looked rather resplendent decked out in purple convocation gowns, black hats with gold trimmings, purple ‘hood’ in hand. (I realized later that the ‘hood’ is not really a hood.) The hall was already full of people – parents, tribesmen and women, relatives, sponsors…. There was music playing. The only way I can describe that is that it was the same music “Macho Man” Randy Savage came into the ring with at Wrestlemania IV.

The event proper started with Dean Revesz speaking in his usual staccato, quick-fire manner. He spoke about the feeling of graduating from the “top” (?) Law School in the country and stepping into the light of leadership. He introduced a representative from the University as the second speaker. She spoke about… who remembers what the heck she spoke about!


Then student speakers took the floor. First was a girl. She was something called an Ann Brice Scholar, I think. She was Puerto Rican. She had started a non-profit organization for young, poor kids to apply to the best schools through the LSAT. The organization gave the kids a chance to break their chains by giving them an opportunity to study law at the nation’s top schools. After her, a tag-team of an Israeli and a Lebanese followed. They spoke about the recent war between Israel and Hezbollah in Lebanon and how they had been able to synergize their differences. Or, at least, managed to not order hits on the other throughout the academic year. It was touching.

The Keynote speaker was Corey Booker. He is the Mayor of Newark, NJ. He is a “political rising star” (Wall Street Journal). He once went on a 10-day hunger strike to protest open-air drug dealing in his community, and his greatest influence was a little woman called Mrs. Jones who lived on the 5th floor of the Projects and spoke in triads. Knowing that NYU loves their prestige, I was afraid they’d invite someone like Bernanke (in his confused manner where no one ever understands the point of his message) so, I was a bit surprised to see Mr. Booker. Turns out he was the best thing at that event. One thing he said that I remember:
You do not get everything that you pay for, but you must pay for everything that you get.
He got a standing ovation when he was done speaking. Many of us will not live to fight a cause, let alone dying for such a fight. Apparently, we all recognize that inherently. It may explain why we are so much in awe of those who are willing to run the gauntlet, sit beneath the fire, and weather the storm for causes they believe in.

Corey Booker was good for my soul that day.

After the speeches came the individual ‘hooding’. As I said, the ‘hood’ is not a ‘hood’ at all…except in the most imaginative way. But everyone gets has their name called; gets hooded individually, has a handshake with Dean Revesz; and has a picture taken beside the NYU Law flag.


With circa 800 graduands from the J.D., LL.M., and J.S.D. classes, I didn’t have the stomach for the entire proceedings. I left soon after my hooding. Strolled around Madison Square Garden a bit. Made a long phone call to Nigeria. Then, I hit the subway and made my way home. Later that evening, I had dinner with friends and generally basked in the reprieve from staying up at these ungodly hours for so many nights.

I haven’t looked back at my year. I’m just glad to be over with getting this degree. When I look back at it, I will probably smile, laugh, frown, sign, and shake my head. It took a range of emotions, coming to NYU. From being 3 days away from deportation to sitting with Vice Presidents at the World Bank and being applauded at a Tax Researchers conference, it has been valleys and hills. I’ll have to run through my emotions some other time. Right now, I’m just content to bask….

NYU Law Graduation 2007

The Video's on the profile bar. Much tidier...

Why Being A Nigerian Is So Hard

I culled this article from The Guardian Newspapers (Nigeria). The article actually came out a few weeks ago. I had to write the author for permission to publish the article. I think the article is remarkable because it gives a wonderful backdrop for the situation Nigerians and Obasanjo, the outgoing president, now find ourselves. It explains why, for the temperate ones amongst us, disappointment is more prevalent than anger over the last elections.

The author recently suffered a personal misfortune caused by the sometimes unpredictable weather overseas. Loss, inevitable as it is, always remains hard to bear. And so, I sympathize with him.

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Why Being A Nigerian Is So Hard
By Sonala Olumhense
sonala.olumhense@gmail.com

It is safe to say that Africa is awash with poor countries. Africa literally defines poverty. We are first in line when development is the subject because when they flip the coin, the terms that emerge: "poverty, ignorance and disease." Actually, this ought not to be so. Not for Nigeria anyway.

Nigeria is known to the world to have great promise, a quantity (or quality, if you please) that is evident when you look at the resources available to Nigeria. We have hundreds of miles of fertile land, should we wish to grow food. We have water, should we choose to develop fishery or champion swimmers. We have forests, should we wish to hunt, or on the contrary, to develop reserves for the preservation of any form of nature.

We have trained manpower stretching from the southern Australian coast to the northeastern fringes of Canada; from tiny hamlets in Argentina to China. You walk into the most elaborate office or business overseas and there is a Nigerian there trying to hide behind a funny accent or the most sophisticated couture. We try to demonstrate what competent professionals in the hope they will forgive our nationality.

We have money, because we are raising great taxes from everything from retail sale to middle class incomes. Should we wish, we can shake down the thieves in our midst who have raided the public till for many years. In any case, we have petroleum profits falling off our bodies wherever we turn.

This is why 1998 was such a momentous year. Sani Abacha, who had appeared to be taking Nigeria to hell, left for hell first. Poor Moshood Abiola also died. He had won the 1993 presidential election, but was denied. Thereafter, the gates of Nigeria's prisons were flung open. Out emerged Olusegun Obasanjo, understandably Abacha's enemy for here and hereafter. ''Abacha was more than evil, more than sadistic, he was actually mad,'' he angrily told the New York Times at the Murtala Muhammad Airport weeks after his release in 1998. ''Look at what he did to the nation's oil industry. He closed down our four refineries so that Nigeria would have to import refined fuel and he could make a fortune on those import deals. As a result we are paralyzed because we have no fuel.'' He was sitting in the presidential wing of the airport, waiting for a plane out of the country to meet with Mr. Nelson Mandela in South Africa. ''We are one of the world's biggest producers of oil," he reminded the reporter, "(but) we have no fuel. We have more power stations than we need, and no electricity. Madness.'' Of his perception of his role in Nigera as he resumed his celebrity, he said, ''Perhaps I can be a stabilizing influence, a conscience for our nation.''

Nigerians listened to him, and to all those men in Nigerian prisons who spoke of how humble and humane Obasanjo had been as one of them. When we looked up, we saw a man who could do better than being simply a "conscience." Within months, we voted him president. It is understandable that Obasanjo was never able to hide his hatred for Abacha, and he would go on to exact his pound of flesh-or pound sterling of vengeance. He followed the smell of every penning Abacha ever stole. As a Nigerian, I am grateful for this, choosing to believe he did it for Nigeria, rather than self. In the larger scheme of things, it does not seem Obasanjo needed Abacha's loot to make a difference. After one sorry term of office that ended in 2003, the elements were in alignment with him as he began his second. In the West, a United States-led effort in the Middle East saw war breaking out in Iraq.

War is always an ugly response, and it was no less so in Iraq early that year. For Nigeria, however, it engendered an avalanche of revenues from petroleum. They were revenues that were begging to be poured into the conquest of poverty and ignorance; into the revival of Nigerian industry and housing; into the rebuilding of our infrastructure and morale; into the re-engineering of the Niger Delta and our agriculture; into investment in education and education in investment.

This is always when being a Nigerian is so exciting, so challenging. In Obasanjo's hands in 2003 was the chance of a millennium. He could prove Abacha wrong; in fact, this was far more important than Abacha: he could right the wrongs of a generation of rulers and adventurers. To accomplish that, Obasanjo needed to do only one thing, not two. He needed to halt corruption. Everything in Nigeria is a function of corruption, and he knew it. He needed to declare corruption banned, and then stand up like a man to the vested interests that would resist him.

He knew also, that there could be no talk of development or good governance-he had said similar things for two decades-unless he "manhandled" corruption. And he knew that most of the vested interests involved members of the party in power, the one of which he was national leader, the PDP.

In few countries and few situations can the risk/reward picture be any clearer than this. Obasanjo knew it too. In his second term, the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), would shoot out of the gates following the appointment of its chairman, Nuhu Ribadu. Any progress on the corruption front in the past few years is owed to this man. Obasanjo's plan then, was to go forward by preaching reform, not performing one. The formal plan saw him in most of 2003 and 2004 launching "reform" programmes, but one rarely hears of them anymore. He does not mention his flagship scheme, the National Economic Empowerment and Development Strategy, anymore. He speaks neither of its progress nor its prospects, obviously because it has none.

But back in 1998, as he sweated in that airport that could not give him airconditioning, he identified everything that was wrong, and what needed to be done. He then got an unusual second opportunity in office, accompanied by worldwide acclaim and support. Everywhere he looked, he had skilled Nigerians waiting to make a contribution. Everywhere he looked, he had resources with which to make Nigeria work again. He could give us electricity, drinking water and jobs. He could build roads. He could keep us safe. He could open the door into Nigeria for tourists and the door of opportunity to foreign investors. He could set high standards. He could show the world he was for real.

For eight years, Obasanjo had it all in his hands, but his prevarication, double-talk and insincerity saw it all collapse. Now the world knows the real Obasanjo. Today, he has only one month left in office; he has expended seven years and eleven months extracting failure from the claws of success.

This is why it is so hard to be a Nigerian: to be so near yet so far away. As a Nigerian, I have experienced great lows and highs when there was a chance to vote, or when there was a coup d'etat. I have clapped to lines of cheerful voters on Election Day, and danced to martial music on a coup morning. I have listened to great inauguration speeches and read promising development and reform programmes. I have celebrated every new beginning, each one, but none arrived with as much promise as what we had in 1999.

As Obasanjo prepares to live office without leaving Nigeria alone, we must be careful about people who claim to be the messiah. That was what Obasanjo thinks he is, and he is wearing criticism of his colossal collapse as proof of that status. Instead of humbly accepting his humanity, he says Jesus Christ was crucified, after all. Here, however, is the best part: we can start all over again. Freedom Day is May 29, 2007.


Pasted from <http://www.guardiannewsngr.com/editorial_opinion/article03>

Birthday thinkings

I almost forgot about my birthday. At the very least, I certainly forgot to blog about it.

I guess I fall into that category of people for whom a birthday is just another day. Well, ... backtrack...that's not true. I love birthdays and what they symbolize. I know they're inherently ambivalent (everyday is really a step closer to the grave, or a day closer to increasing maturity). I just never celebrate them. I don't think I ever have. I've never really had a birthday party. I honestly don't want one...honestly.

This year, I was in the thick of exams on my birthday. Oh...wait! That was exactly what I was also doing last year! Fuck! Education really has consumed me in more ways than I can imagine.

I have these random thoughts on my birthdays. They skirt through my mind very lightly - never imposing, never interfering; neither judging nor condescending. Just the way that sincere thoughts should be. When you ask, 'so how do you feel?', here are the things that fly by my mind:

I am glad I'm here. I'm remember that the others are not.
I say a prayer for every name I can remember: I pray that I never forget

I can breathe the air; I'm thankful for what I have and whatnots

I sigh at the blankness in front of me; and, I smile at how far I've come
I try to remember just how old I am; it always takes more than a second of thought
I remember when I was 17 and love that it was my very best year
I remember the women that have been there for me; I try to ignore those that have not
I try to think of exactly where I was a year ago, and it always gets better
I try to think of how many I won, from all the wars that I've stayed and fought
I nod because I think everything will end up just fine
I shake away the worry that all this may have been for naught.

I always think that someday, I'd be able to fly my friends in and we would sit down together and talk about the old days...about our dreams and how they've come to pass or failed to happen. I'd love to see everyone's significant other and hear my favorite stories about our past experiences again and again. I'm sure I won't wait for a birthday to come by before I do this. But if I have a birthday wish...this would probably be it.

The Internet World's Top Hoaxes!

Here I am...3 hours before my final in-class exam.... and I decide to click on the Yahoo! icon on my perpetually-open laptop.

I saw this story about the Top 25 Web Hoaxes. I really despise those chain e-mails that try to make you feel guilty if you don't send them along. It is one of my commitments to my sanity to be a stop-point for any such email. I pray the prayers ('Our father, we're sorry that we have sinned....'); pity the pitiable children needing me to forward the email to all my friends so that AOL will contribute 7c to their surgery (as if AOL cares in making Yahoo!/G-mail more widely used), etc. But, I do not forward the emails.

Personally, I think the world is crazy enough - just as it is!