Ithaca from a long ago and right now

Maceo Carrillo Martinet. A name I can’t forget simply because it belongs to the bluest human being I know. I wrote about Maceo a few weeks ago (‘To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows’). It’s been more than 16 years since the rivers down which our respective rafts made of poetry, love and revolution met in an ocean called Albuquerque and six since swam in a blueness of each other’s words.

So I wrote about him and he wrote back to me. It was a song made of cloud-formations and constellations. It took me back to Ithaca, a small town in Upstate New York and a time of community and solidarity.

Maceo remembered ‘the oceans of smoke-filled coffee we drank that kept buoyed the ancient salt of our skins.’ All that, for many reasons, owes to Ayça Çubukçu, now a professor at the London School of Economics and then an undergraduate at Cornell University.

Ayça was un-contained by choice and uncontainable too. One day she emailed a group of close friends, all of whom shared with her a discontent with the way things were in the world. She had been irked by some story published in the ‘Cornell Daily Sun’ and wanted to come out with an alternative publication, ‘Cornell Nightly Moon.’

So we met as suggested at 'Stella's,' a coffee shop on College Avenue. It could not be ‘Cornell,’ we agreed, for we were of the Ithaca community and citizens of a world without boundaries of any kind. We discussed content and who we would be writing for. Someone said ‘we have to accept that some people in this world will remain shoe-makers.’ Others disagreed. And so we celebrated the un-celebrated, recognized the importance of labor, noted the extraction of value as profit, the lack of resources to publish a newspaper on a daily basis, decided on a monthly publication and called it ‘The Cobbler,’ with Stella's as its virtual editorial office.   

For Maceo, as it was for me, what Ayça helped create ‘was a space and time that surrendered [him] to the thirst of people-power, its unquenchable songs of truth [he still hears] in the smallest and largest of shadows, like those of a hummingbirds heartbeat or the side of the moon that she never reveals to her daughter.’

And so he misses, as I do too,  the ways in which ‘our fingerprints smudged ink, how trees opened their chest, how words realized for the first time they can walk, how shoes realized they are pieces of art instead of the subservient limbs, how the lakes of Upstate New York became long, icy nails that made us protect the warmth within.’

‘The Cobbler’ was launched at the turn of the millennium. Cornell students wouldn’t know. Some of the older professors or rather the more radical of the older professors would. The activist community of Ithaca, especially those associated with the ‘Ithaca Catholic Worker’ would remember.

Paul Glover, who founded an alternative currency ‘Ithaca Hours’ that has since been replicated in dozens of communities all over the USA, once observed, ‘I’ve seen lots of student activists over several decades, but no one left anything behind in Ithaca — “The Cobbler” is an exception,’ or words to that effect. 

The Ithaca of ‘The Cobbler’ is not the home of Odysseus. The Ithaca described by Maceo is a separate state of being that can be found on any map. For example, open an atlas to a random page, close your eyes and let your fingertip pick a spot. That’s Ithaca, for wherever you may be or go there will be people who surrender space and time to the thirst of people-power, sing unquenchable songs of truth in the smallest and largest of shadows. And shoes, clothes, caps and flags recover agency, shed all illusions of being appendages, seek and find compatible hearts that will storm barricades or simply fly over them.

How do friends separated by continents, united by companionship of blueness begin to ‘catch up’ after six years or six centuries? Maceo had an answer:

‘I suspect the beginning is somewhere in the middle, next to water and dry land, where the  theories that seek to represent the world through or between one set of eyes, are not only discredited, but replaced with something better. The honeybee nor its honey, the water nor its clouds, the ant nor its colony, the coffee bean nor its leaves, see the world the same, let alone compared to human senses. Heck, even each of my eyes don’t see the world the same way, one is perpetually red in the corners, and the other has something going on with its cones and rods.’

Maceo sent me ‘the soft warm hugs of desert-dried wind, the sweet smell of brand new earth made from yesterday's wastes, and the wet-blue smile of the oceans.’ And in the release of words and the release obtained in the releasing of words we rediscover the magic of other places and times in the here and now. In that way we reconnect, renew and reimagine the world with the primordial strength of a hummingbird.
In the Ithacas we find ourselves in. 

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below] 

 

Other articles in this series:

Lessons written in invisible ink

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'

A tea-maker story seldom told

On academic activism

The interchangeability of light and darkness

Back to TRADITIONAL rice

Sisterhood: moments, just moments

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows

Sirith, like pirith, persist

Fragrances that will not be bottled 

Colours and textures of living heritage

Countries of the past, present and future

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains

The ways of the lotus

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville

Live and tell the tale as you will

Between struggle and cooperation

Of love and other intangibles

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions

The universe of smallness

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills

Serendipitous amber rules the world

Continents of the heart The allegory of the slow road

 

 

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Aaron Kuder and heart-doors that glide open on the wind

One day, more than twenty years ago, in a cafe named ‘Stella’s’ in a small town called Ithaca, located in upstate New York, I noticed a series of illustrations in several square pieces of ceiling. I asked someone who the artist was. My friend didn’t know the name, but said ‘I heard he committed suicide.’  

That’s a preamble of sorts.

I visited that cafe so often and indeed almost on a daily basis that by and by I got to know most of the waiters, waitresses and cooks as well as the more regular of the customers. That’s how I met Aaron Kuder. He worked at Stella’s. And when he was off work he hung out with his friends.

It was a place you could stay for hours, no questions asked, no hard ‘time-you-left-buddy’ looks. The clientele was mostly students. Some read. Some wrote. Some had meetings. Aaron drew.

By that time we were friends. One day I noticed him with a large drawing book and realized that he was sketching the scene at Stella’s.

‘I hope you are not drawing me too!’ I said.

‘That’s better than what most people tell me. They ask, “can you draw me?”’

We laughed. Aaron worked the night shift often. He finished at 2 am. I would stay until he was done. Then Aaron and his girlfriend Katy would take me for ‘dinner.’ There were a couple of all night diners. I always had trouble ordering food. People didn’t get my accent. Katy or Aaron knew what I wanted (mashed potatoes with gravy) and would order for me.

I once suggested that Stella’s should declare independence of the United States of America. It was then that I found that something of the sort had happened already in that some of the regulars had titles bestowed on them or else announced by themselves. There was a Duke. There was a Duchess. There was a Lady-in-Waiting. I called Aaron ‘The Gentle Giant’ but he was ‘The King.’ Katy, who found all these titles beneath her, named herself ‘The Supreme Goddess.’ And I named myself 'The Quote Jester.'

They were all beautiful people. To me, they were family, and although Aaron and Katy were very much younger, they were like foster parents.  

One day I asked Aaron about those sketches on the ceiling. I told him that I had heard the artist had committed suicide. He laughed. A resident of Ithaca, Aaron had indeed ‘gone missing’ for a while (I can’t remember now where he had been), hence the speculation of suicide.

‘I did that,’ he said, and laughed.

Sometime in June, 2000, I left Ithaca. Aaron was at work, but he had excused himself for a few minutes.

‘I wanted to finish that painting of Stella’s but I didn’t have the time,’ he confessed.

‘So I thought I will give you the entire sketch book.’

It had that sketch. It had all kind of sketches, mostly of ‘super heroes’ resident in Aaron’s imagination. Beautiful and detailed drawings. It’s the one ‘parting gift’ I received. Well, apart from the love, companionship, camaraderie and memories — Ithaca was the warmest place in all of the towns and cities I was resident in the USA. 

I met him once more. This was in 2004 when I was a member of a team of international election monitors (US Presidential Election, 2004, when George W Bush was ‘re-selected’). Our common and dear friend, Ayça Çubukçu, then a graduate student at Columbia University was spending some time in Ithaca. We met. We talked of times gone by.

‘You didn’t come to monitor any elections; you came because we had to meet each other,’ was Aaron’s take on that encounter.

I don't know where Katy is now. Time passes, things happen. Aaron was happy then, he's happy now. He works for Marvel Comics. He’s famous. We communicate off and on. A few days ago I posted a note on his Facebook wall.

‘So I remember Ithaca, now and then. And when I do, what I remember most is Stella's. There was such laughter, warmth and love. And there was you. What did I bring back from Ithaca, I sometimes ask myself. Not much, but then again, “a lot” is as truthful an answer. I brought you, Aaron Kuder. And you shall remain resident in Sri Lanka until I die. Happy birthday!

And Aaron painted something for me by way of thanks. 'A picture for you,' he titled it. 

‘The heart is an ocean and at the same time it is a castle. Moving through its hallways can be overwhelming. We must contain the tides of emotion in order to function. Our brains simplify our feelings into symbols…

‘There is a door in my heart. It has a picture of a woman making/repairing a shoe. She is a cobbler.

‘The symbol itself is not ornate. It is no more eye-friendly than your average bathroom door sign or crosswalk. The symbol, like the door, is made of wood and was obviously hand carved. And like all things in the heart, it was made with love.

‘Opening the door is an easy thing. You don’t even have to touch it. It does not squeak nor stick. It glides open on the wind.

‘Inside? Well, there are not words for everything the heart has to say. There are hills, endless hills that are both difficult and a joy to climb. There are songs. Songs sung in many languages. Songs about love, songs about family, songs about yellow submarines. There are smells of wonderful food.

‘Food made by friends for friends. Food made at diners. Food made to simply sustain. There are wonders big and small... paintings, rainbows, books of poetry (which are worlds unto themselves). There are waterfalls of tears. Healing tears for the pain of the world. Tears for us who just need a little attention. There are red balloons with children forever chasing them.

‘And... most importantly of all there are more doors. But these doors are not made by this heart. These are the doors that lead into the hearts of others. And they were made by those hearts inside your own. No matter the miles of distance, the minutes, days, years that have passed, these doors do not fade. Their hinges do not squeak as they glide open on the wind.

‘See you inside.’

‘The Cobbler’ was a monthly newspaper that Ayça and a few others, myself included, put together. The older and more radical of Ithaca’s residents might remember.

That’s not important. Aaron tells stories with lines, spaces and colors. Some words too. It’s hard to think of Aaron writing anything this long. Maybe he should have contributed pieces like this to ‘The Cobbler.’  

Anyway, there are heart-doors open, he reminded me. We will meet again. One day. 

Other articles in the series 'In Passing...':  [published in the 'Daily News']   

 

The walking words of Shantha K Herath

From here to there on a thread, a poem and a photograph

Reflections on seasonality 

At the departure lounge 

A without-a-second-thought story

The enduring 'maskism' of the human species

Mendis is special

Route 138: real, imagined and non-existent

True graduations 

Lookout points can reveal and deceive

I listened to a sermon at Buduruwagala

Of secrets sacred and unholy

The stubbornness of a reluctant writer

The fragrance of burning manuscripts

Turning points

Let's take a moment to take a knee

Anyone for inclusive grieving?

Wildlife in the Department

The far and near of police brutality and racism

David Dungay couldn't breathe either!

Field Officer Jayatilleka Herath

Suku's family and heart

When the Government lowered the bar

Mother and mothers

Back to the nursery

Homeward bound

Vesak and THE WORD

The dignity of a kos-kola otunna

Avurudu in enhanced circumstances 

The Theory of Three Chillie Plants  

The story of an aththamma and an aththa  

The underside of sequestering 

Potters, named and unnamed 

Eyes that watch the world and cannot be forgotten 

Gunnepana: Planet Earth's new name  

Melodies in and out of the 64 squares  

Let's raise an army of rain-makers  

Happy birthday Raj Amirthiah  

Let's not stop singing in the lifeboats

When the Welikada Prison was razed to the ground 
Looking for the idyllic in dismal times 
Water the gardens with the liquid magic of simple ideas, right now  
There's canvas and brush to paint the portraits of love  
We might as well arrest the house!
The 'village' in the 'city' has more heart than concrete
Vo, Italy: the village that stopped the Coronavirus  
We need 'no-charge' humanity 
The unaffordable, as defined by Nihal Fernando
Liyaashya keeps life alive, by living   

Heroes of our times 

 Let's start with the credits, shall we? 
The 'We' that 'I' forgot 
'Duwapang Askey,' screamed a legend, almost 40 years ago
Dances with daughters
Reflections on shameless writing
Is the old house still standing?
 Magic doesn't make its way into the classifieds
Small is beautiful and is a consolation  
Distance is a product of the will
Akalanka Athukorala, at 13+ already a hurricane hunter
Did the mountain move, and if so why?
Ever been out of Colombo?
Anya Raux educated me about Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis (JIA)
Wicky's Story You can always go to GOAT Mountain
Let's learn the art of embracing damage
Kandy Lake is lined with poetry
There's never a 'right moment' for love
A love note to an unknown address in Los Angeles
A dusk song for Rasika Jayakody
How about creating some history?
How far away are the faraway places?
There ARE good people!
Re-placing people in the story of schooldays  
When we stop, we can begin to learn
Routine and pattern can checkmate poetry
Janani Amanda Umandi threw a b'day party for her father 
Sriyani and her serendipity shop
Forget constellations and the names of oceans
Where's your 'One, Galle Face'?
Maps as wrapping paper, roads as ribbons
Yasaratne, the gentle giant of Divulgane  
Katharagama and Athara Maga
Victories are made by assists
Lost and found between weaver and weave
The Dhammapada and word-intricacies
S.A. Dissanayake taught children to walk in the clouds
White is a color we forget too often  
The most beautiful road is yet to meet a cartographer

malindasenevi@gmail.com

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