oscar’s tenth chapter: unexpected by-products of some quality alone-time.

October 26, 2012 § Leave a comment

Oscar knew in a flash of cosmic visual match-making that the symbol for his mother would be a giraffe.

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If there is a way to make an omelette without breaking eggs, Oscar thought, his mother would have some helpful hints and some insight.

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What happens in space when a black hole gets close to another black hole?

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How come nobody recognizes Superman when he’s out of his outfit?

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Could there possibly be anything faster than the speed of light?

Well, after spending some quality time sitting alone in the bathroom – but not so much time that suspicion would be aroused – Oscar had thought of four things: the first, and most obvious to Oscar, was the speed of dark; second, the developmental speed of an idea along its wildly convoluted path from its conception to its conclusion somewhere right before “Aha!” or “Oh!”; third, the escape velocity of an angel’s fart; and, finally, how quickly her kiss simultaneously evaporated from and burned Oscar’s lips leaving a swollen, glowing, rainbow tattoo of warm sweet affection, infinite memory and unmeasurable feeling.

After flushing, Oscar got in bed.

oscar’s ninth chapter: change is hard and sounds like velcro.

October 24, 2012 § 2 Comments

Oscar was not awake. Yet.

A warm, musical voice whispered in Oscar’s ear, “Between slumber and wakefulness is where you’ll find me. Always.” Which set Oscar’s sleepy mind to thinking: this voice sounds female; and then to imagining: this female – a rather attractive one at that – sounds curvier and juicier than I’d expect from a fairy tale. But the surprise is a pleasant one, and he smiles a sleepy little smile and rolls out of bed and into the kitchen where his mother is baking a pound cake.

“Oscar, my little hip-hop-hurray! What’s bouncing ’round your brain pan this beautiful morning?” She’s wearing a large terry cloth man’s bathrobe and her favorite red cowboy boots. “I’ll bet something wild and beautiful is going on in there, eh?”

“Well, I think I just figured out why men wake up every morning with erections.”

“And?” The beater whirs.

“It’s Peter Pan’s breath.”

“Well, at least it’s nothing naughty. Your imagination is infinitely more virtuous than any dribble of reality. Tell me more, hon.”

“There’s not much really, only that she waits for me between my being asleep and awake. In tights. She whispers in my ear.”

“Peter Pan’s a she?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m quite sure!” He didn’t volunteer any more details except to say, “It feels like she breath.”

Oscar’s mother laughed and started the beater.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oscar, you’re a dear.”


“The conviction you maintain to your perceptions and beliefs are precious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I read that story to you every night right after fluffing your pillow, and, well, more often than not, you were fast asleep long before I finished the story. In there, between being awake and being asleep, you heard the story but got the characters into the wrong outfits.”


“Oh yes, hon, but it doesn’t matter.” She stops her batter beating to place a powdered, white hand on either side of Oscar’s head, and kiss him firmly on his forehead.

Oscar blushes and sits quietly staring at the robin’s egg blue linen table cloth. Finally, he asks, “Well, what did I get wrong?”

“Dear, wrong is too severe and mean a word. Inaccurate feels kinder.”

“Okay, so what’d I get inaccurate?”

“Alright, my little love dumpling, I’ll tell you: Peter Pan is a little boy — just like you –and the little, luscious, juicy (How’d Mom know! blushed Oscar) fairy is Tinkerbell, and she is the one that blows promises into your eager, naïve, male-bound, rose petal ear.” And she bops Oscar on his sleepified shaggy dog head with a dough-padded spatula. “But I’d have to agree with you: Tinkerbell is a cutie.”

Oscar, quiet with mild embarrassment, sips his orange juice and watches his mother grease the inside of the pound cake pan, which she does with slow, steady, circular, confident, buttery caresses.

My mom knows a lot, thought Oscar.

oscar’s eighth chapter: it grows back after a while, doesn’t it?

October 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

It had happened once six or so years ago, but today, in the church parking lot, under a giant old oak tree, in a rush of tumbling, sweaty, giggling bubbliness, Oscar almost lost his virginity again.

oscar’s seventh chapter: drool doesn’t lie.

October 11, 2012 § Leave a comment

Oscar woke up from a nap in which he was dreaming about his mother and a snail to discover that he had inadvertently used his sketchbook for a pillow. On one of the pages there was a little, shiny pool of spittle that had waterfalled from his mouth and smeared part of his last entry so that it now read, “I am except …,” and disappeared into a wispy, watery, inky cloud.

Now he wonders who his father was and why, every time he and his mother go anywhere, she stops in the doorway, turns and yells inside, “If anyone calls, just take a message!” Then she starts jingling her keys.

He looks down again at his last entry and remembers. He had written, “I am exceptional.” He blinks. The watery cloud takes the form of a bruised beagle wearing a sombrero and scuba gear and drifts across the page.

oscar’s seventh chapter: how big does an ocean need to be?

October 10, 2012 § Leave a comment

Oscar’s mother lay in the hammock, softly swinging back and forth, dreaming on a daring but absent-minded drop of sweat grazing between her breasts. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly it moved lower and lower toward the watering hole of her navel.

“Surf’s up,” she breezed lightly, eyes closed.

oscar’s sixth chapter: moisture is a sign of life.

October 9, 2012 § 2 Comments

Oscar had lots of hard thinking to do and his mother had the lawn to mow. So off they went, two adults to do what they wanted: one mother, one son, as a sky sweaty, heavy and pregnant with imagination watched over them. It was about to rain.

oscar’s fifth chapter: the high and low, new-morning tides of a brain.

September 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

Oscar shuffled into the kitchen. At the stove, dancing slightly, was his mother, wearing a wildly floral bathrobe, red cowboy boots, singing folk songs from the twenties and thirties in an exaggerated Broadway manner. She was also wearing a poorly applied mask of pancake batter as she sang lightly, to an audience of one, and flipped pancakes with a short but happy sizzle. This is what Oscar woke up to.

“Bon dieu, my beamish boy!”

“Good morning, Mom.”

Flip, sizzle, sing too-rali-oo-rali-oo-rali-AY!

“Hey, Mom…”

“‘… Sweet Betsy from Pike.’ How’s your book?”

“Oh, okay… I read one sentence over and over and over last night before I fell asleep, and now I can’t remember anything about it.”

“Oh,” she said pointing the spatula at Oscar’s head,” It’s in there, dear. And when you pick up your book and find that sentence, you will be instantly, intimately familiar and cozy with that sentence and all it’s meanings – if not more. That sentence will probably mean more to you than any other in the book, and you should write the author a little note telling him – or her! – which of the sentences you slept with. They’ll be very happy to hear from you, I’m quite sure.”

“Well then, are the other sentences wasted?”

“Oh no, dear, absolutely not. Someone somewhere will fall asleep to one of those other sentences, so they have to be there.”

“Can there be a book with just one sentence?”

“Oscar, there can be anything you can imagine; and once you’ve imagined it, it’s there.”

“Then would all those other maybe blank pages be wasted?”

“Honey, when you talk about an idea and creation, there is nothing more meaningful and rich with possibility than the blank page. Well, except maybe an empty wall.” She poured out two more pancakes to sizzling applause. “It’s bigger.”

The pancakes bubbled and Oscar started. The moon lay sizzling on the grill, and it was just as flat as he remembered it last night. His mom shuffled the spatula under one of the moons and flipped it over revealing its dark side. It was very smooth.

Flip sizzle. More applause.

Oscar was waking up. He wondered what Captain Crunch would taste like in the pancakes.

The moons on the grill showed their appreciation for Oscar’s mom’s Broadway interpretations of the old folk tunes.

“Hey Mom?”

“‘I can seen by your outfit that you are a cowboy…’” his mom sang.

Oscar sipped his grapefruit juice and considered a new purpose for his life: he was going to write the sentence that could be buried somewhere in a big, fat book full of smooth, white, whispering, infinitely dense nothing.

He ate four sides of the moon – all dark but rich with melted butter and sweet with real maple syrup – then retired to his room to contemplate his sentence.

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