Process:
For rewriting the myth of Icarus, I started this through the lens of contrast to focus on the two opposites that Icarus faced: flying too low and drowning or flying too high and having his wings melt. To do this I worked with depression and anxiety in the first part and pride and happiness in the second. To encompass these two differences I structured the first part by focussing on repetition to represent the never-ending cycle that depression is, starting each paragraph with the character waking up feeling horrible and struggling to get through his day. For the second part I elongated the sentences and used references to summer, something that I associated good mental health or at least improving mental health. I did not use either experimental process as I used for rewriting the poem,
| I
My heart felt as though it was pulling me towards the ground, dropping like an anchor and pinning me to my bed. I couldn’t move. For the first time I felt like my soul weighed something but not necessarily worth anything. I was surrounded by negatives thrown around my room along with a few rolls that I couldn’t remember if I had already shot or were waiting to be used. I had tried to organize them into my drawers under my dimly lit room but had given up as I couldn’t be bothered to reorganize to find space for them. Then I remembered that used film didn’t have any film sticking out of it and returned to my unsatisfying lack of disappointment that simply meant I couldn’t find reasons to be unhappy in myself due to the state of my room. Well, maybe that’s a stretch given that I couldn’t find socks this morning. I had spent most of the semester watching all the other photography majors find internships or somehow blow up on instagram as I sat there, more like layed there, watching them float out over the horizon of success. I was the loan blotch of regret on my university’s stellar reputation. This time I felt like my muscles in my abdomen had been replaced with gravel, churning inside me and weighing me down. It was two in the morning and I turned from side to side feeling the weight of my insides straining me as a I willed myself to get to work on new concepts for a photoshoot. If only I had an internship or had the opportunity to work with someone famous, then I’d be able to save myself from this cycle. I felt like I was swirling around a vortex, getting closer and closer to drowning. It was not only my fate that was held in the balance by my efforts but also my parents. My parents had both been laid off and it was only a matter of time before their green cards would expire and it would be too difficult for them to get new ones without having a job. I thought if I started applying to online contests I might start to get noticed by agencies and have a shot of actually being paid by the only thing tying me to this earth. My mind was redirected to the weight of my breath that was holding me in place. With each exhale I felt as if my ribs were closing in on me, pressing me until I couldn’t take it anymore. I finally sunk into my bed, asleep. I awoke with my head feeling cloudy. Not because of a hangover but the haze of swirling regrets and despair that was the average alarm clock signaling to stay in bed. I pondered, yet again, how I could save myself from myself. All I had to do was drag some files into an online file and press the ‘submit’ button but what if I’m not good enough? I haven’t had any success with my photography so why would this be any different? My fingers were insistently tapping as if by tapping away like a broken metronome would eventually ease off my spiking anxiety and let it crawl back into the socket that was my chest cavity. It felt as though my heart was chewing through my chest as I felt an itch lighting my torso on fire. The scratching sensation was as bad as nails on a chalkboard, leaving ringing in my ears. I pressed the submit button. |
II
It had been a month since I submitted my work to the online competition and now I lived on top of the clouds that used to bury my mind in a foggy haze. I had attracted the attention of Platon, the notable portrait photographer who had shot a wide range of significant cultural figures including the likes of Obama and Marilyn Manson. Everyday felt as if I was a child exploring the world again as the summer rays hit me I looked up at possibilities as the warm breeze wrapped me in a blanket. I was filled to the brim with joy with the electricity of bees bumping into each other propelling me forwards with a skip in my step as I walked into the soho office each day I couldn’t help but smile and almost giggle at the thought that I was finally on track to what I was beginning to feel I had been born to do. School was now a struggle in a different way as I found myself spacing out thinking of the work I had been doing the previous day with Platon or the shoots I was scheduling with a myriad of up and coming models. The previous weekend I had been invited to a rooftop party where I met people such as Timothee Chalamet and Slick Woods, it felt as if I should be elsewhere instead of my class that was focussing on Adobe InDesign. What was the point if I was only working with Lightroom anyways? I felt like confetti shooting out of a canon, I’m here to flutter and sprinkle over people in shining and dazzling colors, I’m here to run and prance and leap across rivers, so how can I do that stuck in a classroom? I loved telling people where I was working. I immediately made business cards that I could give out like calling cards to everyone and anyone I ran into. My job became part of my name: Icarus Gerald Junior Editor for Platon. I didn’t really care if it irritated people, I’m not here to coddle people and play down my excitement because they can’t handle it, I’ve spent too much time with my head weighed down at my chin so that I could only look at my feet shuffling back and forth as I trudged from class to class so that I wouldn’t be struck down by the excitement I saw in other people’s eyes. It felt as if everywhere I went I could feel people eyeing my happiness like they could steel it. I glided along, as if I was in a blissful trance that allowed me to only see everything through a surreal lens of fame that was quickly becoming my everyday life. It felt as if I was conquering my surroundings. Every morning I woke up thinking that I would be working alongside another famous person, another model, another token. Every night I found myself trying a different cocktail of drugs with the models I had met earlier that day while working in one of the many studios I was being invited to. This particular morning I had made it my goal to see what would happen if I mixed lsd with ecstacy to enfuse my work with a new fantasyland-vigour that would not only expand my mind by my influence. After I finished with the one class I decided was worth my while that day, I headed straight to the penthouse studio one of my new found friends was currently renting, grabbing a few of my favorite cameras and a bag of rolls with me. The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed with my mamiya rb67 crushed by what could have only been a car that I vaguely remember turning its key in the ignition. I couldn’t feel my fingers as I felt the morphine numbing my joints to the point where I felt like one solid vinyl toy. That was when I was told my I wouldn’t be able to grip a camera ever again. |
Re-Written and Randomly rearranged Musee des Beaux Arts W. H. Auden
Kids who didn’t really care for it, skating
Its people’s nature: how it takes place
While someone else is consuming or opening a window or just trudging boringly along;
In Breughel’s Icarus, for example: how everyone ignores
About struggle they weren’t incorrect,
For the amazing birth, there always must be
How, when the old are respectfully, happily waiting
Where the doggos go on with their cute lives and the oppressor’s Mercedes
Sits still filling up with oil
But for them it did not matter; the sun was out
As it did on the white legs vanishing into the glimmering
That even the terrible martyrdom must play out
Regardless in corner, some messy area
Very relaxed from the accident; the homeless person may
Have heard the splash, the outlandish shriek,
Water, and the rich strong yacht that must have seen
A spectacular sight, a boy crashing from the air,
On the sidewalk, at the just after school:
They never forgot
The old heads: how well they knew
Had somewhere else to be and powered on.
Re-written and blacked out Musee des Beaux Arts W. H. Auden
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
W.H. Auden
