The Extending Hallway

Remember it?

That scene from POLTERGEIST, where the hallway seems to grow right before Diane Freeling's eyes?

Or from "5 1/2 MINUTE HALLWAY" -- what's the line: "There's only so far I can go, when you're living in a hallway that keeps growing..."

So close to the end, and yet...

Those forces are rallying again. The ones that don't want me to finish.

They have their claws in me. And they're gaining ground.

The Finish Line

It's in sight.

I can feel the tension in the world around me. Like the scent of ozone in a lightning storm. The universe is charged, awaiting the birth...

Tennitus

I've fallen prey to the disease that writers fear more than Writer's Block... Terminal Tennitus.

For those of you who are lucky enough to have never contracted this particular disease, I will give you the basic prognosis: Terminal Tennitus is a disease which strikes when a writer hits the last ten pages of his/her script and is unable to bring the bastard across the finish line. I know this is a real disease, because I've spoken with other writers who have contracted it. Apparently, it's a lot like Herpes. Once you've had it, you have it for life and the outbreaks can either get worse with time, or can abate completely.

Symptoms include: cramping of the fingers, the intestine and/or the genitals. Profuse sweating from the brow. Bloodshot eyes. Too much or too little mucous. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Sleeplessness. Milky, yellow discharge from the anus and/or the ears. Clenched/puckered sphincter. Painful, itching pustules in the armpit region. Fever. Euphoria. Dementia. Claustrophobia.

I have all of the above. And man, have I got it bad. I'm like the Brundlefly at this point. It's nasty.

The throbbing of my twin Generac 7000 generators is like the Devil (my former agent) tap-dancing on my skull. I'm starting to think that what I'll do is cut and paste the first ten pages of the script at the end (because bookending scripts seems to be the thing to do now), or maybe structure the whole damn thing backwards like Memento or Irreversible.

Your truly from the bowels of despair,

JRH

Too early... too late...

It's 3am, and I'm sitting in a parked car, blowing on my hands for warmth. Across the street, my former agent's house is bone pale in the darkness. All of the lights have been off for hours, but on occasion I catch a silhouette moving through the gloom towards the bathroom on the second floor. A scant light gives me a glimpse of his bulbous form as he defecates in the toilet. Just as he expelled so many other talented clients before me, he flushes the waste down then retreats to the bedroom.

My "Dunkin Donut's" coffee is stale, and I'm out of cigarettes.

What is this, this "Hollywood" that we dwell in? The outsiders, the trash... the debris? There's an old saying that I can't place right now... but I think it goes, "Los Angeles is where all of the spare parts collect". Am I a spare part, just another wasted dream?

If only my agent was able to grasp what I was going for with "The Shroud". People have told me to aim for the teen market. "Prom Night" did great, and studios are looking for projects with a youthful edge. The truth is, I don't have a youthful edge. I'm old... I was born old. Even in high school I wandered the hallways, practically a corpse in tattered hand me downs, weathered eyes gazing out of deep sockets. I can't relate to children traipsing around some cheap high school set.

I watched "Prom Night", and it did nothing for me. The killer in the film wasn't frightening in the least. I'm not afraid of talented character actor Johnathon Schaech... his boyish good looks are not nightmarish, in fact they fill me with a sense of warmth that rises from the bottom of my belly and settles in my throat. It's hard to explain, but he just sort of makes me feel funny.

My former agent goes back to bed, and shuts off the lights, casting his home in darkness once more. I entertain the prospect of knocking on the door, just having one more chat with him. Maybe he'll see things my way. My screenplay is almost finished, and I need a messenger...

I'll settle for urinating on his mailbox.

As much as I try, I can't shake it.

Every try to walk away from something you love? How about someone you love? Do you love yourself? Every try walking away from yourself? It's like taking your own heart and ripping it out of your chest, only to chuck it in the dust and then piss on it while laughing at the moon.

The mangler just belched and now I can smell the coils burning. Fuck it. I'll fix it in the morning... right after I fix my 6 am goodnight Jim Beam and diet Doctor Pepper. Some things never let you down.

This god forsaken script will be the end of me. But, as much as I laughingly pretend I have any willpower left, I try to tell myself -- just get to the end of it! This could be something real in your life. This could be a moment of change. But "getting to the end" is like asking a dying man in the desert to crawl across cactus to lick the edges of some fluttering mirage that keeps slipping backwards towards the horizon as the clickity-clack of hungry scorpions closes in all around.

The scab on my index finger fell off on my desk earlier. I screamed and slapped at it, thinking it was an insect and then when it wouldn't move I pushed it around the desk with the empty tampon applicator my sometime "girlfriend" left on the floor. After realizing it was a part of me, my own flesh, dried and now hardened against the ravages of the world, I decided to eat it. The crust on the edges was fine, like beef jerky but earthy. But in the center was a big piece of soft tissue -- my own blood and skin -- and it snapped back in my teeth as I tried to tear it free. The thick bubbling foam of burbon and diet DP came up in my throat which I spit out, somewhat irrationally as I was already eating my own scabs. What next, I thought? What next?

That's the question that's been dancing around the window of my brain like a fariy in sand dusted cowboy boots. How to end it all. How to finish what has been started.

I hope Pandora had it easier.

A dream... or something more?

I woke from the dream drenched in sweat. It’s a massive cliché, I know – perhaps because it’s something that never really happens to people, but somehow sounds cool and scary.

But I’m serious – the bed was drenched. I had rapid-fire flashbacks of my childhood, my bladder control weakened as a result of the indignities piled upon me by my siblings.

That’s s story for another time. The ever-growing autobiography, perhaps.

I didn’t want to lose the images that had erupted in my dreams, so I put off rushing the sheets to the washing machine for later. Instead I made a bee-line for my computer, slamming down the mug of day-old coffee to punch up my flailing synapses.

I needed to be clear. Mentally clear. This was important.

Vivid dreams have never been a frequent occurrence in my life. I’ve heard it said that the creative geniuses throughout history often noted that they couldn’t remember their dreams at all. I’ve always felt this to be a kindred notion.

But the last few nights have proven restless. Like a pustule striving for release, some THING has been pushing against my unconscious mind, leaking out in my nocturnal state. I read the box from the topical ointment my doctor had prescribed, to help quell the remnant traces of irritation from my recent “liaison” (see post “A Writer’s Method”). But the warning label said nothing about inducing feverish dreamstates.

I wrote as quickly as I could. And I couldn’t believe the words that were leaping from my fingertips to the screen. I waited until I had finished – and then breathlessly re-read it all. My dream springing to life in my words – a pale imitation.

But the substance was captured. My first impression was – sacrilege. This is nothing short of sacrilege, of the highest order.

Or.

What if it was… dare I even speak the word –

-- prophecy?

In the first century, a man named John, a lowly exile on a small Greek island, had a vision. His words were a controversy that would play out over many hundreds of years. There were many who did not believe in the “unveiling” he witnessed. There are many who still do not.

Am I somehow connected, over two thousand years, to this other “John”?

Am I creating a fiction? Or am I translating a message?

Too many questions for this hour. I must sleep. I must dream. I must write.

I must RECORD…

Screenwriting Advice: Getting Out of the Cave

To say I spent the day in a whirlwind of despair is an understatement. Like winds whipping through the canyons, my personal demons swirled around me. They laughed, their cackles blending with the yips of the coyotes.

Sometimes a warrior must fight. Sometimes a warrior must retreat to his cave.

Today was my cave day. Outside the bright California sun blazed. The desert sweltered. The Salton Sea, relentless in its self-destruction, shriveled in the heat.

I closed my blinds. Shutting out the landscape of poisoned fish and date trees. Wanting only to wallow in my sorrow.

The afternoon was a blur of rum and The History Channel. (Such treacle!) At about four I turned on the Riverside Community College radio station, ready to revel in their weekly prog rock show. Unfortunately the students seem to have come late to the concept of irony, and were amusing themselves by playing 70s AM Gold. "Wildfire" gave way to "Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain." I was about to tear apart the radio with my bare hands when the truth seared through me. No more licking my wounds. If I couldn't face the computer, I had to connect with my creativity in other ways.

In short, I had to bake.

Every writer, every artist, needs a way to connect with the Muse. A way to let the unconscious run free. Proust gardened. Dickens walked. I bake.

What could be more compelling than the mystery of fermentation? Of dough rising, changing flour and water into bread, that most meaningful of foods. The alchemists of old could not have asked for more! The hypnotic process of kneading -- of slapping the dough against the board, digging into its soft flesh with my fingers, of probing its secret recesses -- ah, the freedom it could give me! The Muse would return, her sweet breath mixing with the scent of baking bread. I ran to the kitchen, ready to pummel dough as if it were my ex-agent's face. Perhaps I'd even bring him a loaf -- although the drive down to West Covina would be murder by the time I was done. (See, oh demon? The Beverly Hills post office box fools no one!)

It was then that I looked at my hands. Still bloody and bandaged from the trunk incident. As much as I wanted to make that bread -- nay, as much as I NEEDED it -- it was out of the question.

But there was another option. A recipe that reinvented an old standard, that blended disparate worlds. Just like I am doing with my script. I speak, of course, of cake balls. Bite-sized bits of cake and frosting enrobed in a chocolate shell. Pastry and truffle in one! For isn't my script, my passion, about disparate worlds mixing? Divinity and human folly. Man and beast sharing the same body. Yes!

A frenzy of baking followed. Of making cake, of rolling it in candy and nuts. Of embracing the ritual and the ecstasy of creation.

It was then that I emerged from my cave.

I thrust open the blinds. Knowing that life is good. The settlement from the fisheries department will last until I finish my script. The Generac 7000 will keep me secure. Soulless hacks will fight for the chance to write Leprechaun vs. Anaconda, but I will stay true to my vision.

I love you all. May you find your own ways out of the darkness.