What I've been working on...

Or, more accurately, what I've been procrastinating on.

Writer’s block is real. It is a topic I research from time to time: reading articles, listening to podcasts, looking for advice in columns, and measuring myself up against quotes from writers and creators.

One of these sources (and I apologize for not crediting it here. It was so long ago that I just can’t seem to find my receipts) made reference to a writer’s block that lasted for nearly 4 years. Now, I don’t think I’m getting close to that — yet, anyone that wants to read my work is almost always left unsatisfied. I take long breaks from writing. It’s not because I don’t love to do it. I do. It’s just that I am so full of this unbreakable duality of ego and inferiority and I end up paralyzing myself.

Will my work live up to this image I’ve made of myself?

No.

Will I always be a big, self-serious, indulgent, piece of human garbage.

Also no. But I can’t help but think that the time I spend not writing is a manifestation of the fear that I shouldn’t be writing. More specifically, that I’m just not all that good at it.

A self-fulfilling prophecy. An Uroboros. If I’m not writing, then there I am, being not good at writing.

And nothing seems to buoy that twisted mindset more than a project that has hamstrung me for 5 years. I take 6 month hiatus’ from it and come back to it because I can’t seem to finish it.

And every time I feel close to finishing it, something stops me and makes me spend the next few months reconsidering why I even started it in the first place.

Below is yet another excerpt from this project — one that I plan on finishing some day. Or maybe it will be my white whale and all the evidence of its existence will live on as some sort of folktale:

---

Attempt 2

“The paradox of modern day,” says Hephy Sajak as he walks off stage, “is these damn kids. They think they’re remarkable and unremarkable at the exact same time: remarkable in all the unremarkable ways that don’t matter and unremarkable in all the remarkable ways that do.”

         “Don’t forget that you have lunch with your agent and then you’re going to be on the Eileen show at 2 P.M.”

         “Do you ever think” Sajak continues “of doing a real show for the people? One that shares with them equally life and death?”

         Hephy’s assistant, Dolores, looks at him quizzically and responds, “I don’t think the network would approve of that, Hephy.”

         “The fuck do you know? What if we didn’t tell ‘em and just did it one day?”

Dolores continues to walk with Hephy Sajak toward his dressing room, clipboard in hand. “The answer is quite simple, actually. They would never air that episode and you’d be fired.”

         “They wouldn’t fire me. They need me.”

         “Who’s the one who thinks they are remarkable, now?” Dolores asks glibly. “Don’t be so naïve. If you ever did fall from the height you’re at, you’d never get back up.”

         “So she says from her comfortable role behind the curtain. I’m going to change for that awful lunch. Where am I going?”

         “Magianno’s on 5^th.”

         “Who picked that place? Oh, to hell with it.”

         Mr. Hephy Sajak enters his dressing room. Taciturn, he grimly removes the makeup from his face. As he gets closer to his vanity mirror, a note on yellow, lined, legal paper written by what looks like a very childish hand gets his attention.  Scrawled on it is short, only a few words, reading like a poem:

A window

into every conceivable reality

represented.

The

immutable variability

of life,

predicted.

         The words send a sudden chill through him. The handwriting is clearly juvenile; almost as if it were scrawled in crayon. However, the words are acute, sophisticated, and cut deeply into Mr. Sajak’s mind. The poem somehow found its way onto his vanity while the show was going on. He scans the room to see if anything else is amiss or out of place but everything is exactly as he left it before getting on stage except for this single poem on lined paper. With a more calculating eye, he examines every crevice of the dressing room. He turns over books and pillows, looks under the desk, under the sofa on the other side of the room, trying to find some evidence of the trespasser.

Hephy Sajak cannot shake the uncanny feeling that he is being watched. He removes the rest of his makeup, takes off his patented Sajak suit, puts it into a garment bag, puts on jeans, a t-shirt, a blazer, his glasses, and prepares to leave. Before exiting the dressing room, he turns once more to give the room a final suspicious glance. The poem sits right where he found it on the vanity. Backtracking quickly, he grabs the poem, folds it, and puts it into his breast pocket.

“Dolores!” he calls out. “Dolores!”

“Yes, Mr. Sajak?”

“Don’t Yes, Mr. Sajak me. Did you give anyone access to my dressing room while I was performing?”

“You’ve been very strict about that lately, Hephy,” Dolores responds. “No one has access to your dressing room before or after shows. I think I’ve done a pretty good job of following- “

“Yes, I know what I’ve told you,” he interrupts. “But did anyone maybe, perhaps, I don’t know, go into my dressing room?”

“Are you accusing me, sir?” Dolores, replies.

“No, I’m not accusing you. Should I?”

Dolores pauses and then replies “Did something happen?”

“No,” says Hephy. “I mean, yes. But no, nothing. Just forget it. Did you order my car yet?”

“Yes. It will be here in ten.”

In the car, Hephy stares out the window and observes his own reflection in the tinted glass. The lines in his face are set in hard creases from forcing smiles for the camera. His phone buzzes. Lowering his head down, he sees a notification from his calendar: Maggianos w/ Mohammad.

Mr. Hephy Sajak contemptuously throws the phone down onto the seat beside him. Gazing back out the window, he observes pedestrians on the sidewalk, craning their necks, staring down at their aluminosilicate glass, tapping gratuitously so that they can hear, see, or feel a response. Hephy’s stomach turns over. This common bout of nausea started for him a few years back before the beginning of his show’s 16th season. It’s not stage fright. Even when he first started, that tremor of fear was never an affliction. He lived for the stage. It started when he observed a change in the faces of the contestants and the audience: adults and children still as excited as ever, but now these faces, young and old, all looking hungry and tired. His job, always such a joy, grew difficult: jokes fell flat. And that joy in the audience had been replaced by an expectant eagerness in what he perceived as a loss of wonder. It keeps him awake at night.

Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out the folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and begins reading again. The words on the page have transformed, yet are still written in the childish font as before:

It is those globules that contain so much for me to read

The streams that roll down and streak up your cheeks

At midnight with the lights off at the kitchen table, silently weeping into a fresh tissue

Like an alphabet that can only spell those words that you regret

Like a picture worth the thousand sentences you’ve got screaming in your head

Unbroken lines of dialogue from active shoppers

These eligible people, uncomplicated and fading from view.

         Lifting his head up once more, Hephy Sajak looks out the car window. He holds his hand up and in front of his face, pinching his fingers together. His fingers move along the pedestrians like the cursor of a computer. Dragging his fingers over a young Asian man wearing Airpods, he pinches and removes the Airpods from his ears. From his car window, he then pinches at the headphones and earbuds of each pedestrian  thereafter. He collects all of the headphones that he has plucked from the pedestrian’s ears and, together, into a circle on Lexington Ave. sets them on fire with a snap of his fingers. He sees a woman walking a small Bichon Frise. He pinches his fingers around the collar of the Bichon Frise who whines and yelps, and gently places it down in the center of the circle of burning Airpods. He starts picking up and placing people into clusters based on their appearances – tall, short, dark skinned, light skinned, feminine, masculine, all along the sidewalk. He clumps them all together and places them on different parts of the street.

         Growing tired of organizing the pedestrians, he begins pulling the people apart and placing their individual limbs, torsos, noses, eyes, chins, ears, lungs, hearts, and minds into neat piles along the sidewalk. Piles of fingers and noses and shins fill the sidewalk of Lexington Ave. Once finished, he starts to reassemble pieces into new shapes and forms. He combines a muscular right arm, a feminine dark-skinned leg, the thick hips of Aphrodite, the thick lips of Makeda, the eyes of Odin. He creates a patchwork quilt of the human form. The traditional form fades as he constructs his vision.

         He adds limbs where none should be. He places an ass upon an ass and laughs to himself from the backseat of the livery car. 

“You alright back there, Mr. Sajak, sir?” Hephy turns his head and sees the driver's eyes glancing back at him from the rearview mirror. “You maybe want some fresh air?”

“Keep the windows up, goddammit,” Hephy Sajak exclaims. “I’m working.” 

Bringing his attention back to the sidewalk, he stops and sticks two torsos where two ears should be and then sticks two heads where two arms should be and continues in this manner until all of the human fodder is used up. Scaling back, he looks at the monstrosity he has created, three stories tall and unrecognizable from the people it once was. As the final piece, he looks to the ground, pinches his fingers around the collar of the Bichon Frise and places her upon the top of the creation like a crown. She barks.

         “Sir, we’ve arrived.”

         Mr. Sajak folds the poem and places it back into his breast pocket. He enters the restaurant and asks the hostess if Timothee Mohammad has arrived yet.

         “Right this way.” The hostess walks a little too fast for his liking. Hephy speeds up in order to catch up but once he gets to her, he finds it impossible to match her speed. He lags behind again and watches her as she arrives at the table where Timothee is seated. Once he reaches the table he hears her finishing her sentence: “…duck confit. Enjoy your meal!”

         “Hephy, Hephy. How lovely it is to see you!” Timothee Mohammad says, standing up to greet Hephy. “I must say I wish it was under better circumstances."

         “Better circumstances?” Hephy asks ambivalently. “Noone likes a vague agent, Mohammad. Out with it.”

“I didn’t want to do this over the phone,” Mohammad says, leaning closer and speaking in a softer tone. “And I don’t want you to feel ambushed later on the Eileen show, but I have to show you something. A picture.”

Holding his cell phone out toward Mr. Hephy Sajak, Mohammad’s phone has a selfie of Mr. Sajak and an older couple (may they rest). 

“A picture?” Hephy asks. “Looks like a picture with a pair of some old fans. So what?”

“The picture below has been sent to major news networks in the last hour. The older couple in the photo were found dead in their home, found by their son. The mother died of suffocation and the father of an apparent heart attack.”

“May they rest,” Hephy says, “but what’s that got to do with me? That photo was probably taken years ago, no?”

“Apparently,” Mohammad continues, “the photo circulating was taken only a few hours before their deaths.” Mohammad looks off toward a far corner of the restaurant as if processing details at great speed. “The authorities haven’t ruled you out but I don’t think I can hold off the news networks much longer. You’re going to have to go on the Eileen show and come clean.”

“Come clean?” Hephy Sajak says incredulously. “About what? There’s nothing to come clean about!”

Mohammad's eyes glaze over in a familiar way, his face looking hungry and tired. “A world without misunderstanding,” he says. “A future where you can tailgate your own funeral. Do you hear me? Those tidy little webs of understanding are no longer contained. They expand beyond our comprehension. I have a new role for you! It just came across my desk. It’s perfect. A serious role that is unlike anything you’ve done. Let me tell you. They specifically asked for you, baby!”

         As if from another pair of lips, Hephy Sajak says, “I’m listening.”

         “The script will come to you from somewhere else” says Mohammad, stressing the importance. “Recite them to the audience. The script will be a code and what follows from there will be the last task.”

Mr. Hephy Sajak’s agent, Mr. Timothee Mohammad makes eye contact with Hephy once more. Hephy nods his head in agreement, yet the nauseous feeling from earlier starts creeping up.

“Is everything alright, Hephy?” Mohammad asks. “You don’t look well.”

“Do you know anything about poetry?” Hephy suddenly asks. Timothee stares blankly at Hephy who has abruptly stood from the restaurant table. “I have a poem here in my pocket. The words keep changing on me and I’m not sure what they mean.” Hephy Sajak fishes around in his breast pocket for the single piece of lined paper, his fingers feeling around frantically.

“Sit down,” Mohammad calmly says. “You’ll be happy to know that I’ve arranged for some creature comforts to meet you at the studio. All you need to do is go on the show, deny the allegations, entertain the crowd with some stories, and you’re out. The crowd’ll love you. They always do.”

         “And the new role?” Hephy asks.

         “the – what? The role? I don’t think I follow.”

         “And the codes and the task?” Hephy continues.

         “I don’t know the specifics of your backstage routine, Hephy. You’re the performer. I’m just the one who gives you a place to perform. Listen, I’ve got to get going. The meals’ on me. And eat! You look pale.” Mr. Mohammad gets up from his seat, pushes his chair in, pats Hephy Sajak on the back and exits. 

Hephy looks down at a plate on the table in front of him. A pair of Airpods sitting on a fresh leaf of romaine lettuce. He looks around and sees people in the restaurant staring at him. He is standing up; his mouth covered in garlic sauce and a lamb shank bone at his feet. He exits the restaurant with haste.

         Outside, Hephy begins to bound down the sidewalk moving much faster than the pedestrians. He runs with no regard for his physical body; seemingly forever and into moving traffic. He jumps over an open manhole with ease. In his pocket, his phone rings. He answers:

“Hephy, is everything ok? The police are at the studio looking for you. They want to ask you some questions.” It is Dolores, his assistant.

         He arrives at a monolithic skyscraper. Eileen’s studio is on the 56^th floor. He walks through the lobby with ease and makes his way over to the elevator. Inside the elevator, he is accompanied by a harem of flying nymphs who flutter around his head and disorient him. In their high-pitched voices they are squeaking in unison directly into Hephy’s ears: “We have a surprise! We have a surprise! All of the lives! All of the lives!”

Hephy Sajak swats at the nymphs who continue to chant: “Free from the pain! Free from the pain! Little kid’s games! Little kid’s games!”

“Enough!” Hephy yells. The elevator dings and the door opens. Dolores is waiting for him.

“We’ve only got 10 minutes before you’re on. Where have you been?” she asked.

“Didn’t you just call me? I’m on a quest.”

“Are you doing ok?” Dolores says. “You look like hell.”

Hephy puts his hand to his breast pocket and listens to the whispers of the folded piece of paper crinkle. “I am fine. Take me to the dressing room.”

Inside the dressing room, Hephy places his hand into his breast pocket and takes  out the slip of paper. The paper is blank. He closes his eyes and rolls them into the back of his mind. Doing so gives him access to limitless plains. He projects some form of his body up to the moon by imagining himself there. Once there, he pushes further, off to a distant star. It takes a little longer to get there but, by the time he arrives, it was well worth it. So far from home, he’s able to appreciate the quiet and the endless glow of the stars. Each glimmer of the star as it rotates and flares lightyears away gives Mr. Hephy Sajak the feeling of a lifetime passing by. Each twinkle lets him live a new life, uninterrupted, from beginning to end. A knocking wakes him from his reverie.

“On in 5, Mr. Sajak!” yells a backstage assistant.

“Coming” he yells back. He then mutters to himself: “coming, coming, coming, coming. Coming. I. am. Coming. I am going.”

As he approaches the stage, Dolores walks up beside him. “Hephy! Hephy. What is going on? My phone is blowing up. Look at this picture!” She says, holding her phone up toward him. “Do you know what this is about? You’re not going on that stage, Hephy. You can’t.”

But it is too late. Mr. Sajak is already walking through the curtain into the bright light of the Eileen show. What follows is the perspective of the audience watching at home:

Eileen: Please welcome Hephy Sajak!

*crowd applauds* *the camera pans across the crowd*

After exiting through the backstage curtain onto the stage, Hephy Sajak stands frozen with a wry smile on his face. He shakes his head abruptly and the smile disappears. He moves towards the beige armchair that is facing in the direction of the crowd. He moves the chair so that it ignores the crowd and faces Eileen directly.

Eileen: Oh! How intimate!

*crowd laughs*

Hephy Sajak: Who are you?

*crowd quiets to a soft murmur, confused*

Eileen: Did you not see my name on the door as you entered the studio?

*crowd laughs*

Hephy Sajak (standing up): My name is Hephy. That is who I am.

*crowd applauds*

Eileen: That’s right. Maybe some of the viewers at home may not know you. Can you explain what your name means?

*Hephy’s head turns toward the camera* He stands up and starts walking toward the audience*

Hephy Sajak (while walking up the stairs): A name is a game.

*crowd cheers*

Hephy Sajak: I did not kill the mother and I did not kill the father. The picture is perfect.

*Sajak gestures at a female audience member*

Hephy Sajak: Where is your code?

*audience member in an olive green beanie stares up at Hephy Sajak, smiling but bewildered*

Eileen: This show is going off the rails!

*Crowd laughs*

Audience Member: Do you, uh, do you want my name?

Hephy Sajak: Yes, I want the code.

Audience Member: My name is Destiny.

Hephy Sajak: The code! The code! Now, give me a task!

Audience Member: A …task?

Eileen: Someone must’ve got his own wheel spun today!

*Crowd laughs*

Hephy Sajak: You are a cipher and I am the key. What is my task?

Audience member: I just love your show, Mr. Sajak. My husband and I watch it every night.

*Hephy Sajak reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper*

Eileen: What do you have there, Hephy?

Hephy Sajak: The task! What is my motherfucking task!

*Crowd gasps*

Eileen: and we’ll be back.

*end of transcript*

After Eileen calls for the commercial, Dolores storms out from behind the curtain. The crowd is rumbling uncomfortably and squirming. Eileen walks over to Hephy. Theresa and Eileen arrive beside him in the aisle of the audience.

“I need the task!” Hephy screams. “Please just tell me the task!”

“Hephy. Just, let’s get off the stage, ok?” Dolores grabs lightly at his sleeve.

“What’s going on?” asks Eileen. “Is he ok? Oh, what the fuck.”

Hephy starts walking back toward the stage. Eileen moves out of his way.

“I don’t really know,” Dolores responds.

“Wait!” Hephy declares from the stage to the audience. “I have the poem! I have the task!” Dolores has her arm around him, trying to lead him off stage.

“Hephy,” Dolores whispers, “the camera’s aren’t on.

“Let me read the poem!” he yells. Hephy struggles away from Dolores. 

The crowd is anxious and murmuring. Hephy unfolds the slip of paper. Sweat begins to form on his brow. The crowd is growing restless.

A woman with a lime green scarf stands up. She yells: “Go away! You’re a monster!”

Hephy looks down at the sheet of paper and the words begin to reveal themselves like an invisible ink. He begins to read off of the page in a deep, dull voice:

Mornings with the mother were spent

Mourning that I’d find her dead

Mornings with the father were like

Watching moorings untied and swept away

Now these visions of visions are intrepidly cast

And oh so fast

There is an incision that blisters the spine

and tries to redefine my days

It is of barely perceptible size

and yet

with the calluses that have been formed

Unable to lie

Each time that I try to escape

This new version of me will keep sucking me right back in

To the death of magic thinking

At the conclusion of the poem, Hephy Sajak looks up and sees the audience, what were individuals in seats, now a heaping mass of limbs and arms, teeth and noses, eyes and hair; redistributed parts collected together with no order - a monster made from man.