Back down

I feel like asking for patience, noble reader, dearest reader. Note from endearer and entreater: patience, please.

Queer, queer, an aimless seer, contentious greeter, spiting the hate,
My jealous self sees certainty and arrogant conviction,
And sings it,
To hope and dream, a mass intention, to flee the responsibility of freedom,
Impatience leads me to proclaim, "You're wrong, you're wrong. What is, is all. And there is no one out there."
But who am I to open eyes? These conclusions I also fear,
I follow along trains of logic, and doubt the ground that has you glued.

Another preacher of "hurtful truth" and arrogant conviction,
Equivalent, in righteous vein, but cut of absolution,
I, the one to break your heart, and condemn all to fire,
I, the one to criticize your inherent desires,
I, the one to ridicule the cause of your condition,
I, the one to pick apart a natural predisposition,
Bleeding forth to ingratiate you with the new constitution.
Where is the right to open eyes? This eloquent profusion,
With diction, wealth of evidence, I speak no absolution,
A knife I bring to cut the strings, the puppet's wrist unbends,
The absent manipulator left the handle,
But the hand rolls across in extension,
And I can't hold that, only the fallen,
Whose hand remains as open,
And now those eyes, by rigor mortis, the shock of the contusion,
How could I, who am I? Am i, the cause of this conclusion?
To open eyes, to open eyes to absent absolution.

I am afraid, I too do not want responsibility,
But... what... if I... loved you?
Despite all my apparent disability,
Would my hand fall, much as would yours,
When cut from the life you don't understand?
You fear death, and I fear you, but who's the stronger?
No I don't love you, I never was your sincere sharing lover,
Madness separates love and reason,
And we both drink of the middle-ground,
But you in drunken stupor fall when cut about the strings,
And I in desperation laugh to kill the gravity.

A Nietzschean once, Romantic thence, always returns a Buddhist,
The hand, the knife, withdraw pristine, sheath sharpest in intention,
Life must remain as an atheist's disdain for bad logos regarding divine intervention,
How could I love you? I'm afraid of you.
Which, psychologically would suggest insecurity in my convictions,
And my existence.
I am. Am I? Soy yo. Soy yo?
No, no. No, no.
Je ne sais pas.
Ich. Ich! Ich? iiiiiihhhhhhhkkkkkk...

Aum

What was that? Did that just happen? It did! It didn't. I can't be sure...
And do I, did I ever love you?
Ha! Just try to localize the absurd!
In doubt I look around and it begins to seem familiar,
Again the present world awaits, my feet explore the Earth,
Exposure, then allured, censured, injured, and deterred to claim of worth,
Left obscure, in twists and turns, and labeled a rebirth,
For what?
So we can cap'talize a wealth of information?
For what?
So we can understand concepts of liberation?
For what?
So we can cherish ev'ry fleeting, passing second?
For what?
So we can gentrify this barren, soulless wasteland?

We? Me, and someday, hopefully, possibly,
You.

Indeed a bitter angst I cry, but muffled to repression,
A futile, endless search to find peace in infinite regression,
Back down, back down the mountainside's a nervous waiting station,
Where I sit upon the bench looking left to right in repetition,
Their feet so restless, a muddled mass of mutually assured gestations,
Each life a hollow genuflection from the time of confirmation
Existing in a chaotically convoluted, albeit purpose-laden, union
I suffer none to look at me, but cringe in apprehension,
They pass without a glance askance, wrapped in their communion,
And looking down, I mutter words bereft of absolution.

"Ego. Ergo. Sum."

Lullaby

"Lullaby" my first (and hopefully last) pop song. Played in G, C, and D.

Lie in a room, pondering truth,
Cold and distressed, thinking of you, yeah you.
One in 6 billion, so much removed,
I couldn't begin to describe, what a gem are you, yeah you.

It could have been everything I envisioned,
We could have done everything that never happened,
Put up with so many things to call forfeit,
Now separate by reasoning, I'm still missing you.

I could act, I could pretend,
But that's a mixed message I don't want to send.
When we're together, there isn't an end.
I see our path and it's infinite.

Choice is the essence. Fate is the plan.
I can't argue what I don't understand.
I dream of your lips and holding your hand.
The motifs the visions, can't abandon (If it's out of my hands)

It could have been everything I envisioned,
We could have done everything that never happened,
Put up with so many things to call forfeit,
Now separate by reasoning, I'm still missing you.

All I can say is what I'm sorry to say,
We conceived an ending and called it "escape,"
Failed to diminish, photos locked in a frame,
Began to discover we're chained.

And though it's too late, I know my role was replaced,
Your predisposition, Comfort falling like rain.
And I want you to know, straight from the bottom of the soul,
I only want you to know, want you to know that I've changed.

Bus to Amsterdam

As I've been pleased more than annoyed to see fellow high school seniors posting their college application essays to their blogs, I thought that I would venture down a path of personal edification and post my very own essay which was involved in my college application process. Despite that intro, the tone of this essay is more one of self-contemplation than glorification, and it was the analytical side of my thoughts that I tried to convey through this essay, which was more specifically a journal entry that I just typed out and sent around to college admission committees across the country. I wrote this entry while riding a bus from Berlin, Germany to Amsterdam, Holland. This came towards the end of a three-month sabbatical in Berlin between my junior and senior years of IB back in Ohio. Right before leaving, my English teacher had said, "You know, although the conditions of your vacation suggest a period of excess and indulgence, I'm betting this will all help to sort your life out." I remember saying something like, "Thanks, I hope so." And now, to return to the backseat of that night-line bus, here's "Bus to Amsterdam":



The following was taken from a journal entry I wrote while riding a bus to Amsterdam during a vacation in Europe last summer. Parenthetical notes in brackets were included for clarification and were not a part of the original text.

I’m on the bus to Amsterdam. Rather an observant opener, I know. That’s actually why I’m doing this right now. Not riding, specifically, but writing. For the first time in 30 minutes or so I was satisfied enough with thought teemed with keen observation. It was really quite enjoyable. My thoughts seemed to revolve around this persisting urge to keep reassuring myself to be calm. All unnecessary though, and particularly ironic, for I don’t know when the last time was when I have felt so relaxed—tranquil. It was perhaps out of habit that I tried to ward off restlessness, and that compulsion I get to do things as soon as I no longer have the means of doing them. That sounds kind of childish when worded like that; wanting to play with the ball immediately after my brother picked it up, and not during the hours beforehand in which it had lain dormant. Or perhaps I sound like Mike Piazza, Rafael Palmeiro, or any of those other aging athletes that smile for the camera as they proudly proclaim, “I’m impotent, and I support this message.” No, what I mean to say is that often it’s only when I feel like I’m wasting time (like while washing dishes for $6.85, or taking Pre-Calc a second time to comply with IB diploma scheduling conflicts) that I feel so incredibly motivated to do something active. Usually completing an essay before the due date, or succeeding in some sexual exploit—you know, where action and satisfaction blend with accomplishment and organization. My restlessness, though, I think, comes from the excitement of a perfectionist personality brought upon by a stressful environment. I’m not a doctor. But anyway today I feel devoid of this restlessness, and that strikes me as… well if nothing else, noteworthy. I tried to explain my repose. I’m not claustrophobic, so I didn’t have to worry about that. Traveling on this bus has reminded me of the doctor in Catch-22 that hated flying in airplanes because the only place you could go while flying in an airplane was somewhere else on that airplane. Still never been a concern for me, though, which is a good thing considering the room I sleep in back home. I tried playing it off on my surroundings, as it is proper bus-riding etiquette to remain quiet especially when traveling at night. (Indeed, this pleasant gentleman on my right hasn’t said a word to me or anyone since this exodus began, which is odd because I’ve been conversing with Shem [my travel partner] on the left and judging by this man’s reading material he’s an English-speaker.) I think also my iPod would have made me unapproachable. This is something I’ve noticed for years, even taken advantage of it on occasion by wearing disconnected headphones in public. Maybe the music I was listening to was chilling me out, too. I started this trip with Patrick Watson, Radiohead, and Coldplay (Amsterdam, naturally), but I think the two coffees and the Red Bull should have canceled out the soothing effects of song. Whatever, I’m debunking this way too thoroughly.

This all began about 4 ½ hours ago with me unnecessarily reminding myself that, “You don’t need to feel like you’re doing nothing, because at this very moment you are moving at 60 mph on a highway towards a destination specifically designed for you to not do anything in particular.” This came to me as more amusing than reassuring, as again there really was no need for the latter. I began to focus more on the music I was listening to, which I guess is a euphemism for “thinking incoherently” or “zoning out.” I was also fascinated with the scenery. It was the first time I’d seen fields in almost 3 months. We crossed over a thick river and I wondered if it could perhaps be the Rhine, though some voice in my head is telling me that’s impossible. I saw cows grazing in one field, which should have made me nostalgic for home. Actually many things today should have made me feel nostalgic.

—Just crossed the border. First thoughts: “I am now in Holland.”—

Today I saw a horse-drawn carriage from my balcony. Hearing hooves on pavement like that should have drawn some strings. Packing my clothes because I know I’m going to be home in a week should have drawn some strings. Being told that Tara wants to hang out when I get back should have drawn some strings. And going to Amsterdam as a 17-year-old might have brought about some excitement. But I’ve never been so calm.

I’m reminded now of my last morning at home, where I woke up to see my mother and my brother leave for school before I departed for the entire summer. I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open, reading a SparkNotes overview of a Lord Jim chapter, and I had the novel open in my left hand as I scrolled with my right. Mom came over to me, saw what I was doing and said, “This is what you’re doing on your last day?” incredulously, before kissing me on the top of my head. “Yeah,” I said, verifying her perception. You’re not crazy, I’m just apparently abnormal. I flatter myself. I’m afraid my studiousness may have left her confused about my personality, which, though not particularly undesirable under normal circumstances, was not what I was aiming for on the brink of what could be a traumatic separation for her. My apathetic tone wasn’t helping either. I did feel bad when she left with tears in her eyes. I stood there at the head of the table for a moment, then resumed my work. That’s been my mindset for a while now, or more of a tendency I’ve picked up in this past year; to suddenly stop what I’m doing, think briefly and sometimes on intensely emotional matters, and then just absent-mindedly continue whatever it was I had been doing. I know I’m probably making this sound like some rare mental condition and I realize it’s not. It was, however, treated like one, albeit only initially. That was the process. First my parents were paranoid that my detached personality indicated drug use. Then they retracted that accusation in favor of depression. Finally they came to terms with my personality.

The music and stories flooded my ear drums for a good 3 hours before succumbing to battery death. It was then when confronted with my thoughts, that I started really analyzing my surroundings. First of all, I felt like a king, or at least more so than usual. Obviously the lion mane [my hair] was a contributor, but there were other factors in play. Mainly, I couldn’t shake the impression of being a king on a chessboard. I’m seated in the very back row of this bus, the only one with four chairs lined evenly spaced from each other, that is to say, without an aisle in the center. There’s even a step to get up to this last row, an elevation gain that only escalates my sense of superiority. And like the white king of the side that poses the first offensive, I am located in the back-row, in the center section, slightly off to the right. My queen sits to my left, and bishops sit immediately on our flanks. My position likely made the greatest influence on my overwhelming sense of royalty, but the sights helped also. At first I was greeted with the sunset as we traveled west. (I was reminded here of my flight to LA and what I deemed our “race against the sun.”) Later, after dark, the fields we passed were hidden beneath a thick and dense fog. It was (beware, this is guaranteed to be my most pseudo-intelligent term ever) rex-esque. Yeah.

So I’m sitting here feeling like a king and I’m noticing also that the veins on my left wrist are unusually protrusive. This was greatly fascinating to me, but I was all of a sudden stricken with a thought that caused me to look between my feet. I thought: “If nothing else has made me excited thus far, if nothing else has succeeded in raising my pulse, then surely a listing of all that I am carrying in this bag will cause me to stir, if only a little bit. I thought of the contents of the bag and stared at it piercingly, perhaps half-expecting my x-ray vision powers to finally start kicking in, you know, like that infamous second growth spurt I’m bound to get any day now. I’m staring at this black leather gift of my Aunt Noel (1) and thinking that within hides my passport (2), my laptop (3), my journal (4), my pocket-journal (5), my literature (6), my sustenance (7), and my selected clothing articles (8). I thought of what I carried on me directly and realized I had my wallet (9) in my back pocket, my iPod (10) in my front-right, and my apartment keys (11) in my front-left. So many important possessions, and all capable of being lost, stolen, or destroyed on this ensuing vacation. Surely now I must be nervous. But like Alfred E. Neuman, I feel so inclined to say, “What, me worry?” I’m not going to rant on some anti-materialist, anti-consumerist campaign, nor am I going to steer this down some adolescent “I’m invincible” path, though both of those sentiments I’ll admit I have expressed on various occasions.

I was on a run about a week ago when I asked myself, “What is my most prized possession?” Truly one of those questions worth thinking over, but I came to the conclusion that there really is only one logical answer—my own life. So quick are we to exclude our own lives from our consciousness. So quick are we to ignore its fragility. It seems so shallow to consider a car, a piece of clothing, a fortune as something more valuable than a human life, when nearly all of our decisions are made on its behalf, no matter how indirectly. The only possession I could conceive as being more valuable than one’s own life is the life of another, a son, daughter, lover, even the relationship one has with God, divine or delusional. Everyone has to appreciate life; it’s the only thing with us from birth to death.

And though I hold my life in a rather attached fashion, and though I don’t officially endorse the existence of life after death, I can’t say I am particularly afraid of death. It’s inevitable, and ultimately unavoidable, and I’m resigned to that. I acknowledge that at any moment life could be stripped from me in an unprovoked manner. Se la vie. To paraphrase a great king, “I cannot duel with fate.” [Creon, Antigone] I repeat that I am resigned to death’s imminence, but that doesn’t make the fulfillment of my life seem trivial. On the contrary it makes it all the more dire. And for better or for worse it is the pursuit of this fulfillment that seems to compel me entirely, and is the only force which can incite excitement. Knowledge of the great writers, empathy for the adherents of all religious and political doctrines, physical health, firsthand familiarity with the assortment of human emotions, and the consciousness of the great importance contained in this moment, right now—these are the elements of my pursuit. But there are instances when few demands and acute awareness allow me to step away and look upon myself as an observer.

4:30 am
Holland 2008

More lost notes.

I found another crinkled piece of paper in my room, dated 4/11/07. I would have been 15. It reads:

Scribbling notes right now. Write now. Inspiration? I'll think of that later. I was wasting my time earlier, so I left for this. I'm thinking regardless. I need beautiful sounding words. And I used to walk like a sage. I felt elevated. Now I feel frustrated. Consumed in my rage. Consolation brings relief, and makes me smile. Am I incapable for some or is it just my sound? I need beautiful sounding words. Abandonment gave me this setting. Inspiration came and works through me, pulsing. Seeing familiar traits. Circles, rings, other round things. Halos turn to spirals. Direction unknown. Where are we going? With this. Sing to me in simplicity, affect with driving strength. Act out descriptions or move on your own. Fantasizing. Dreams are enticing. Excitement is rising. Calm down. Keep to yourself. It's too meaningless to settle. Act on impulse, but fight for the worthy. Internally organs beat with a fury, the outside is still. Once the movement was of a sage. Explanations of events suggest otherwise. Convinced, a new role is assumed. That was me. Now this is me. Everything close. Everything near.

Solidifying Insecurity into a Personality

His sense disappeared
A lost line inside himself
Scarred by the failure

Taken on a ride
Mutual, we're alibis
Memories that fade

Left for one to choose
And trapped in indecision
Hopelessly impaired

Clean an empty house
The past has been set in stone
Nervous gestures made

So much left to say
Waiting for the perfect day
Without Confusion

Written 10-23-07

A name

I am not particularly attached to my name. At least I do not delight in the way that it sounds when spoken aloud, or feel pride in the familial implications of the surname. However, I am at times fascinated by the idea that within a name, one possesses the representation of his identity in its purest form. Once a person becomes classified by his activities, such as the job he has, or by his features, say, by having a wide face or an athletic physique, he loses the individuality he began with and becomes a mere comparative example to people who possess similar qualities. A name represents purity—the purity of the individual. My name is Ian Thomas Lynch, and though I may not be the only person to bear this name, it still serves as a referral to my unique identity when applied in the right context, and from there, one is free to hold his own ideas of what it represents. And though it is my mission to define my name so that it becomes the most accurate representation of my identity, I refuse to embrace vague descriptions that attempt to diminish the true associations one makes when regarding my name. So when contemplating such matters as my purpose in life and what it is for me to do in order to achieve self-fulfillment and satisfaction, I often like to consider who it is exactly that will be making that action, and who will be affecting the future.

"The Windowsill" August, 7, 2008

And I fly,
The bird in the air,
There’s wind in my hair.
And through all, make haste, travel,
To those of whom you care.

There’s pain in my chest.
This city offers no consolation.
This cell provides no comfort.
If I’m not longing to be there,
I’m longing for them to be here,
Or everywhere at the same time.
“Only in dreams you see what it means”1

And I’m a sight to behold.
Though sleeping awake, I am unaware,
Or was unaware, till reality called me back.
And I see now how dreams are the escape,
The sedative, the tranquilizer,
The soft luminescence I choose to admire.

Our love, our love that transpired,
A longer duration I have left to squire,
Of youth, home, and family all quickly dissolving,
My ties to things past force me to acknowledge,
Their brevity, their dependence to that fugitive dimension,
Perpetually abandoned to life beyond apprehension,
Yet in vain do I struggle to conceive my future,
Against fate my will yearns to mold this new creature,
To a form I can recognize and proudly proclaim
It’s this I envisioned whilst alone those summer days.

1 Rivers Cuomo