“Absolutely. But first, the cool must know, say and believe it themselves. Only then will others say and believe it also. Now say it.”
“I. . . am. . .”
He looked up at the ceiling. She supposed he was looking for his coolness there. It took him a few seconds, but then he found it,
“. . . cool?”
She smiled.
“No. It's not a question, but an answer. One of those existential questions life asks everyone. And everyone gets to answer it with yes or no. Cool or not. Are you cool? Life is asking. Life would like to know.”
He looked at her and drew in a big breath. A fire grew in his eye. He drew in another big breath and said,
“I. . . am. . . damned cool.”
Success.
“There you go. That's my boy. Now tell me something. Do you believe it was the reading of books that made you cool, or the desire to read books that did it?”
He looked up at his wooden pine trees as he contemplated the question.
“I believe it's because I read the cool books and even more importantly—maybe—because I had a high Cool Quotient to begin with. Though I can coolly admit it was smothered early on by my own fear of being and becoming cool. But I got over all that a long, cool time ago.”
Her positive reinforcement worked like a charm on him. She asked,
“You were afraid of being cool?”
“Sure I was. Everybody is, in the beginning. That is why I take reading seriously, and writing even more serious. You don't get cool like this just by being born. You got to work at it for a long, cool time. And as cool as reading is, writing is the apex, vertex and most extreme peak of coolness. And not just any writing; but cool writing. Takes a special writer to write cool words. Not just anybody can do it. You don't just wake up one day being able to write cool words. I remember when I wrote my first cool words. I was as awestruck at it as anybody would be, and then it became second nature and now I write cool words nearly everyday, and anybody can, if they work at it. These writing of cool words, they aren't so difficult to do, just takes all the brains, guts and glory a man's got—or a woman. There's nothing cooler in this world than reading cool words, except for writing them. And everybody has a cool volume of verse in them and everybody has at least one cool story in them. I spent an eternity working through the seven hells of poverty to discover these cool words in me. Why? Because I am as crazy as I am cool, I guess. And maybe to inspire all the other cool writers and readers out there, which is everybody, if they'd decide to be cool.”
She threw him a third beer and saved the last for when he was ready for it. Two beers for her slender frame was enough. She asked,
“Now what are these seven hells of poverty about?”
“They are the pathway and gauntlet to becoming cool, and not everyone can walk through them and remain, or become, cool. For hell, as you know, is a damned hot place. Like a goddamned furnace. They are the poverty of days too cold; the poverty of days too hot; the poverty of social exclusion; the poverty of familial exclusion; the poverty of a mutual belovedness; the poverty of lonely desolation; and the poverty of what I call S.A.D. (sad, angry and depressed)—stemming from all those kinds of hells meshed together. By walking through these the artist of life learns the value of the simple, single moment and the secrets of existence. Or some of them. And then they have something cool and meaningful to write about. On my long road to the seeking of infinite coolness I have carried on despite and got over, walked through and climbed under, slapped, smacked, kicked, boot-tipped and slam-punched my way through all seven sorrowful hells to write the words of extreme coolness I have writ. At least they seemed cool when I wrote them, but as the ancient Romans said in ancient times: All that's cool now will not stay cool forever.
He trailed off in his thought, looking down at the set of Encyclopedia Britannica.
She remembered something,
“I believe it was actually the ancient Greeks who said all that's cool now will not stay cool forever?”
He looked up and said,
“Was that the Greeks?”
They sat in idle contemplation for two minutes, contemplating the ancient Greeks. Then he took up where he left off.
“Anyway, as I was saying I have put all my cool energy into my works. I don't know how cool they are, but they might be cool-worthy. Will they like them? That is their decision to make and I respect whatever it is. Some are so critical that they can't find it possible to like anything that doesn't come ready-made with the stamp of professional-critic's approval. I can't help them with all that. Those people imagine they think for themselves when in fact, they don't know the first original thought of their own. They will have to wait until some rare and cool critic calls my works cool and then they will feel safe enough to jump on that wagon. And maybe they are just too cool for some; not everybody likes cool things. But maybe they will be a good fit for most people's level of coolness. One thing is sure: I don't own a patent on coolness. Anybody can be cool, if they work at it. Now that I think about it, that is why I write: to make the world a cooler place to live and laugh and be. . . cool. Every idealistic boy wishes to become cool and change the world by his coolness. These little works are what the young man who once-was-not-cool I once was, realized toward that idealistic dream of coolness for the entire world.”
He went to the slender bookcase by the door and picked out The Myth of Love, an obscure book from an obscure author that sold a million copies in the first six months of publication and then really took off, shattering all publishing records on earth.
“The poet once said, I gave up happiness, wealth and power. . . for the starlight in a flower. Now may others seek the same starlight in some new flower, under talking trees and dripping stars; all while wayfaring with their friends in a poetic and rich mental state of uttermost coolness. And then they will tell their own friends of this coolness and on and on it will go and become—the spreading of a cool wonder; a wonderful coolness to catch on, like a warm yet cool fire, throughout the world. I do believe that the wide-spread spreading of coolness is a much needed thing for our world at this time. Maybe more so now than at any other time in the history of man has this coolness been needed. If you have perused your cool Father of History, Mr. Herodotus, you will see we have been locked for one thousand generations now in a state of uncool behavior across all facets of society. If the preponderance of mankind do not become cooler within an indefinite—but relatively soon—period of time from this present time, our very survival as a species who-could-have-been-cool will be in jeopardy. I believe it was the great Roman who was named Cicero who said: To not beware the wise words of he-who-is-cool is to be sorry later.”
She said,
“Yes. I am quite sure Cicero is the one so named who spoke those immortal and cool words. That one you got right.”
He stood and pontificated,
“So I am seeking what all writers seek: salespersons of their cool works; proselytizers of their own particular brand of coolness. It won't pay anybody a dime, but neither is it hard work; in fact, spreading coolness is one of the most addictive and pleasurable things we as humans can do. So it won't be work to do it, but a noble pleasure of the noble savage.”
She said, “We must make this into a pamphlet called How to Be Cool. Everybody at some point in their lives needs to learn how to be cool. Will you give for free these secrets of how to be cool?”
“Well of course. There might be someone without the means to buy it, and those need to learn how to become cool most of all. With coolness, we can be cool about our lack. Anybody can see that lack is just luck with an a in place of the u. With the proper coolness at our command we can change that lack word around. Coolness is the basal requirement of anything. So I will always give for free the secrets of coolness, for all who are not cool will have the chance to read on how to become cool, and maybe, just maybe, some knowledge of coolness will rub off on them. If we could all just become cool or stay cool; if we co
uld all just believe in the uttermost and infinite-state-of-coolness, then that will someday turn the life of the world into absolute coolness. I am sure of it.”
“What are you going to do with all this cool fame when the obscure-yet-soon-to-be-famous secrets of being cool becomes famous?”
“I would probably go to the City of Angels, where I would speak with angels. I don't know if I believe in them, but maybe there are these angels to be believed in, you know, by sight itself. That would be cool to speak with angels one could see.”
He scratched his head and pondered on the silver bell wreath. He stood and shook it, making the bells ring. Then he sat back down and continued,
“Besides making one cool, or cooler, my works will do another thing for their readers that is beyond value. They will make them wonder. Wonder should never be discounted. In fact, wonder is actually the most infinite and perfect state-of-coolness that a human being can attain. After a certain age, few ever know wonder again. Life can often be an unpleasant kick in the ass and it sucks the wonder right out of us. My books will help with that. Now some would wonder why does this guy write about coolness when he is not cool? And some would wonder why he writes when he is no good at writing. What all that signifies is that everybody defines cool—and most other things—in their own particular way. And I think that's cool. But regardless of all that, it is and would be something to wonder on. I am at least cool enough not to let whatever anybody thinks, good or bad, change me from what I think. If Suzy Q. or Joe Blow thinks I can or cannot write well or that I am or am not cool, I appreciate their inalienable rights to opinions either way. As for me, as long as you think I am a cool writer, I am in cool heaven.”
They went on to talk the rest of the day about being cool and being in life and being in love and when the day began to die and their cigars had thoroughly contaminated the study they sojourned outside to sit beneath the tree. He sat on one white brick and she on another and the yellow glow of the street lamp set an other-worldly light upon them. He asked,
“What is wrong with things in this world?”
She answered, “It comes back to our own priorities, I believe. Life is just like a literary or otherwise artistic work of art. Why debatable? Because there are a million minds with their own opinions and there are billions more without their own opinions and the one thing both have in common is they never get everything right, especially works of art. The classic car they pay high dollar for was rusting in a forgotten field fifty years ago but now you couldn't scatter with a cattle-prod those who would pay big money for it. That is to say: few perceive the works of art until time discloses them. So that is what is wrong with the world: the works of art are not perceived while the riff-raff are considered invaluable. Everything's topsy-turvy.”
She noticed the stars were dripping down like they were on strings. She wasn't sure if it was the after effects of the Pabst or the place. She did not question him about it; if he saw it, too. She just watched them and realized she had never seen the stars do that before.
He said,
“I wish people would seek something bigger than material things. I wish they would seek the wealth within them. In a world like ours the poor with wonder has to apologize for their material lack while their inner gifts are disregarded. This makes everybody neurotic, unhappy and miserable. The human mind draws out every rich jewel of wonder within them because of struggles. Nobody can become filled with wonder with all the material things breaking their concentration. The high secrets of wonder are discovered by the great struggles and the understanding that riches are within first and last. What is called poor luck is often great luck. If success, ease and comforts were not so well known and sought after, people would know some real wonder for a change and they would be happy for a change.”
“I think you tried to discover the eternity in you, where there is a level of coolness that most cannot fathom. And I say you succeeded.”
He stood and grabbed her hand and pulled her with him. They walked to the side of the house, where a ladder was set against the roof. He climbed it then bade her follow. When she made the last step he took her hands and pulled her up, setting her softly on the roof. He said,
“Speaking of eternity, here is where I first discovered it.”
She said, “I read somewhere that every great dreamer must rise up from authority, oppression, poverty and rejection from a deep and sincere love for life and their dreams. That is what you have done.”
They sat on the ridge of the roof. In the eastern sky there was a star blinking red, white and blue. She wondered out-loud about it. She had never seen such a colorful star.
He smiled and said, “I noticed that a few years ago. I don't think that is a star. I think that is that Russian cosmonaut who got lost in space. Could be his homing beacon or something.”
She laughed.
He said, “You might find that funny, but I bet he isn't laughing. Could you imagine being stuck out in space with only a homing beacon for company? And if we can see those lights, imagine how bright they are for him? Poor bastard must be blind by now.”
She laughed again, “Or maybe he is a fellow who doesn't need much company. And being out there all alone and with the stars so bright, much brighter than they are here for us, is a never-ending wonder.”
“That is a good point. He might be the most wonder-filled man in the history of man by now.”
They sat and contemplated cosmonauts in space, then he said,
“But I bet he is sure cold.”
“Yeah. He has to be very cold. Poor Russian cosmonaut.”
The talk of cold made her shiver and he set his around around her. She bedded into his warmth and smiled to herself. He said,
“I remembered the other day, when I was young, how I wondered who I was. I wanted to know the answer to that question. I figured I should know it. And I remember what the fading light of that long ago day had answered. It had told me: Who knows? You're not finished yet. And I had smiled, because I liked that answer. And then I heard this: But you're one cool son of a bitch; that's for sure.”
She laughed and said, “On the Scale of Coolness, with it being one-to-ten, I would say you are an eleven.”
“No, that would be you. I am more like a six; maybe seven on a good day. Still some work to go. So far I am just a cool dreamer. Been smoking from that pipe a mighty long time. But I suppose if I died today I could be happy, considering all that has passed, that I was at least a six on the cool scale and a full-time dreamer, despite all.”
She said, “But you can't ever die. The stars would implode. A poet like you cannot die. And there is a little matter of the last book. All your stories are based in true-to-life wonder. I like that. I detest fiction that is all flim-flam. What good is all that flim-flam and dibble-dabble? There must be a basis of real-life truth to hang the real-life-wonder on. For me, an author speaks their hard-earned truth through their stories, and when they are done with the story-making they speak plainly the truth of their life in the last book. And you can't write the last book until all your great fears are over and done with by a long, long time; especially that one about love working out. You remember that one?”
“Yeah. I remember that one.”
She set her finger on his chest and said,
“There is great love in this world if there is great love in this heart. You just have to believe and never give up on it.”
And then, as the dripping stars dropped low on strings, he reached through her arms and took her hand and she wondered as he did that if the stars would stop their swinging and swaying in the welkin lands and all time would stop with them. And then Time did stop, for a single moment. She felt it, and her heart stopped with it. When her heart started up again a new age of time began with it.
And everything was changed.
He said to her,
“You know something; you are far too beautiful for me.”
She replied, “I was thinking the same exact thing about m
e relative to you. So that means we are a perfect match, and will give each other an heroic ideal to reach for.”
And there they sat, on the eve of the future, holding hands and pulling on the strings of stars. She pulled out of her pocket her phone number and handed it to him. He smiled and said, “I've been calling that number for three years.”
“Yeah. But I just wanted to give it to you again. Just for sures, ya' know.”
The Field of Wonders
November 15, 1963
From nature's—and not man's—official beginning of fall, they had been collusive with and conversing on, life. The second great leaf fall occurred the morning of November 11, specifically at dawn, and they found themselves watching it after having been up all night. She had gone by on the eve of the eleventh to say goodbye and around midnight made plans to connive a prolonging of the conference by asking him to eat a late-night pancake with her at some local all-night diner, but he saved her the trouble by asking, as he stood out of the swing they had been sitting in the past two hours, if she would like to make a late night breakfast.
She told him of course she would and he reached and pulled her with a masterful combination of rough and soft from the swing. As he did he said,
“The human heart is more fragile than a rose, and yet stronger than steel; depends on the love in the heart, whether it has been discovered, uncovered and then believed in. I believe a certain, unknown number of hearts come with the possibility and power of great love in them. I do not believe all of them do.” He then reached in and whispered to her, “But I believe you do.”
So they made breakfast at midnight and talked till dawn and then sat in the swing again and watched the second great leaf fall and by noon she was on a plane back home. He watched her walk away from him into the belly of the plane and when the plane lifted off the tarmac and disappeared into a cloud he thought to himself, “I must follow her soon. I cannot be away from her. I cannot let her go without following her.”
The Star Fisher Page 13