RONAN BLAZE — BLOG

FROM: Ronan Blaze

TO: The CHS-JCCSS body – ON THE 70TH ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATIONS

On June 1, 2008, I talked with Rishi about this document I had written sometime ago. He read the piece and suggested I break it out into two parts for convenient reading. Frankly, I was reluctant to have it posted on the site for a variety of reasons, none of which seems that compelling now. Rishi thought it was very good—so here goes. If the stuff hits the fan, he is to blame! LOL.

PART II – [PLEASE SEE PART I FOR CONTINUITY]

The thundering, eternal river of Time can erode the staunchest of rocks to leave behind either something smooth and elegant, rendered almost flawless, or something rugged and jagged and ugly. [But perspective changes the view, and ugly is as ugly does.] Be assured that it does indeed leave something behind, and that the essence it secretes out of a thing is often secreted in the most unlikely of places. Do we live in a world where all “realities” are equally “valid”? Perhaps we do … if we do not, perhaps we should.

“… The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it’s done –
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it’s real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.
…” Cohen

“…Ring them bells St. Catherine
From the top of the room,
Ring them from the fortress
For the lilies that bloom.
Oh the lines are long
And the fighting is strong
And they’re breaking down the distance
Between right and wrong.
…” Dylan

I recall the seemingly endless line of eager faces, shining with hope and discovery, radiant in the glow of our always summer sun, anticipatory of the wonders another day at school would reveal: Ah, yes—the boys and girls [so lovely in their blushing innocence] whom we grew up with in our CHS family—“family”, a word I noticed Hardutt used. Many of us slipped in and out of one another’s lives in a bewildering criss-cross; many of us flitted in and out and were hardly noticeable at all. But all of us can see our shadows frolicking in the sun, while reliving again recess, never dreaming at that time where fate and fortune would take us eventually, and by what irresistible but guided hand. Yes. And all of us can hear, if we listen really carefully with our hearts, our footsteps ringing in those now hallowed halls of bygone years, but never with the bitterness that can come with tears.

To all our friends I say:

“…Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand …” Flecker

Yes. The umbilical cord is gone, long since shriveled up, rendered into dust by the natural order of our universe, and intermingled with the primordial state of being. But, ah, my friends, the UMBILICUS remains. Yes . . . the umbilicus REMAINS. Tell THAT to the “Romans”!

If we have found a place in the vast, ever-expanding intellectual firmament, it is Grace, hard work, and the selfless work and dedication of many that have dusted us there as pulsing, valiant stars. But we will have to be the ones to dust ourselves from those lofty heights; and as human beings, we can be pretty good at doing just that. How sorrowful is our downfall when we insist on being its misguided architects.

Excerpt from the writings of Ronan Blaze, Sometimes The Runner Stumbles:

“…

Sometimes the runner stumbles—
The runner in me and you.

Sometimes the runner stumbles
For reasons none construe.

Sometimes the runner stumbles;
He stumbles as he runs.

Sometimes the runner tumbles—
Tumbles to the ground.

Sometimes he speaks; he mumbles
Of medals he has won.

Sometimes the runner stumbles;
He stumbles but goes on.

…” ronan blaze

Yes; surely, yes . . . keeping his eyes on those far pavilions.

Here is a full piece I recently sent to Rishi Singh. He intends to post it prominently on the CHS website. I hope he does.

OLD FRIENDS—THE OLD SCHOOL

[A dedication to the old school, our teachers, and our fellow students]

By

Ronan Blaze

Her song still stirs the soothing breeze, tho’ the maid is gone.
Her sweet face still reflects in the lake that won’t turn dry.
Proud hibiscus blooms once graced by pearls of dawn—
Where have they quietly slipped away, where have they flown?

The old school’s still standing in that place we once found shade.
Its halls now echo hollow but call out our names.
The yard is pensive in the glow of day that’s frayed.
Our footsteps still drum the stairs, where once we laugh’d and play’d.

Time has parted distant seas and laid wide the roads;
It extend’ them through the air to lead away from home.
I look back, and I see the lights of friendships far:
We have tried to reach the skies to grab the brightest star.

I have sought deep Pierian Spring, there to sip at night,
Preferring more perspiring than the prompting sudden.
And I have turned long nights to day that I might see the light;
And I’ve held my pathway straight, turning neither left nor right.

The standpipe, worn and lonely, still breaks the lawn.
Our shadows slip in from the sun, seeking our warmth
In a place where soul had thirsted at the well—
That fount of knowledge, and of youth, that time can never fell.

It doesn’t matter where we’re bound, as long as feet kiss ground.
It doesn’t matter who’s up or down, or who’s upside down.
We break the mold, do the things normal people won’t do—
Who’re normal people anyway?—They always seem so few.

The chalk still screeches on blackboards in classrooms lit by day.
The girls wore white and blue, while the boys wore white and “khakay”.
The books, dog-eared by hungry minds, have served us all so well:
Per Ardua Ad Astra—Ah! As savvy time can tell.

The teachers who had plied their craft with skill and heart,
They have not slipped away into night and fog.
They shine as escutcheons in our minds and won’t depart—
To us they still stand out where mem’ries would spark.

Rainbows once straddled all with ribbons of harmony.
We were a band, happy band, thrust into the fray
Where time and space dispatched all beyond the sea,
There at times to pause in remembered ecstasy.

The old man with his hat still walks the classrooms all;
He stares ’cross time and smiles at us thro’ sunlit fog.
The Diaspora brings no pain to JC’s lofty stall—
That place from which he’d always hear our ever grateful call’.

The eyes float by, then the faces, of all that burned with me.
Sometimes, I think I recall them when they call softly.
And I fancy I see them smile from the ranks we’d held
In that lofty classroom, where the brightest we beheld.

© Copyright by Ronan Blaze, 2007. All rights reserved.

Note from the author: The initials—JC—refer to the Founder and Principal of Corentyne High School, Guyana, South America. His dedication to our success is legendary. We are eternally beholden to this man, and to our glowing teachers.

If what I am writing here seems a bit rambling and scattered, know that I have no intention to write a scholarly treatise or some impeccable piece of concise prose. I just want to be light and easy as the breeze weaving through the verdant luxury of an untouched mountain slope on a bright day in the spring of life, when all our world is in love with light—light that brings us vision and the visual beauties that abound, and light that brings us knowledge, discernment and irreversible enlightenment.

We have a lot to be thankful for. And for all of that, we owe a bond to so many, including the Principal/Founder and our teachers, who have struggled in our service in what could seem NOW, if we were to ignore contextual relevance [context validity?], like a minimalist environment. For their service, and BECAUSE of this, please accept and extend my personal gratitude and appreciation. Know that I do remember . . . and I do care. Know that so do many, many of us from that youthful time . . . from that steadfast, that unwavering place.

Someone once said: “God likes us when we work hard, but he LOVES us when we sing with our very souls.” Then let us sing in praise of the place of our origins.

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down
ye-eah we wept, when we remembered Zion.” Frank Farian et all, popularized by Boney M and Bob Marley.

[And we all do have our “Zions” that won’t go away, and rightly so.]

The last time I was at Rose Hall Town, at our home there, Rohan Chandisingh dropped by. That was in 1994, I think.

You know, I once sat with JC in his “study” at his home and had a nice conversation with the old man [I recall that Mrs. Chandisingh’s hair was in curlers at the time! Strange thing—human memory, and how it works]—I was still a student at CHS then.

My last recollection of Parsram Singh was in running into him at the cinema at Albion. I had taken my wife to the movies, and we stopped briefly and spoke with Parsram on the way out—way back in 1970! This gentleman weighs heavily and invigoratingly in my awareness.

The last time I saw Clive Drepaul was when I visited CHS in the 1977 [ I think. I was in the process of preparing a slim volume on Chemistry for publication. It was eventually published by Cambridge University Press.] This gentleman was a true gem to those of us who found the sciences intriguing.

I remember Shireen Sankar from our earlier forms at CHS. I always was a hopeless and hapless captive of romance and literature and story-telling. This charming and generous lady was kind to me in very discerning ways, none of which she might recall now. However, she stands out in memory.

I recall the time Dhanessar Sukhu visited our humble home at Mibikuri, Black Bush Polder. He was always such a gracious gentleman.

I recall my last one-on-one conversation with Haroun Samad. Something was troubling the gentleman, something deep and personal that I will not go into. But at the end of the conversation, we shook hands warmly and I said to him: “…those who bring sunshine to the lives of others can rarely keep it for themselves…” [ I had come across this observation somewhere—don’t recall source this moment. Now, when was this? My memory is deserting me in my gray hairs!

I do not recall clearly the last time I saw JC—it could have been in 1977 when I visited CHS and met Clive Drepaul.

From our History lessons, you might recall the words of a dying Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal at the time of Henry VIII, “If I had served my God as diligently as I did my king, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs.” Our teachers have served us with extraordinary diligence: let us not desert them in their gray years. Let us frequently pay homage to them and let them live forever. As a man once said: “…To live in the hearts of those we love is not to die…”

Please feel free to keep in touch, if you wish. Richard Nunes De Sousa and myself enter into gratifying email dialogue sometimes, as do other illustrious friends from CHS, such as Banks, Ishwar and Rishi, as time and mutual inclination permit. I prefer to view things from a distance; so I have gotten into the habit of distancing myself from things.

It is always a pleasure to speak with Banks, Ishwar or Rishi. I do so from time to time.

It is a good day when I can see truth and beauty around me.

I have had very many extraordinarily good days.

Today is a good day.

Today, I am light and easy as the breeze.

Best.

ronan blaze [pen name ]

Student of CHS
Teacher at CHS
Soul in endless search [ I think my Karma is to seek forever . . . but perhaps never ever to find. ]

Website: www.ronanblaze.com where you will find samples of writings and recitals.

EMAIL: ronan@ronanblaze.com

PS. Rishi, you may wish to blog this document. I will leave it to you to decide, but with one request: Except for corrections for typos/grammar etc, it ought to be posted in entirety, with no reduction—a suggestion. I know it is lengthy and grave—but gravity might be appropriate here. I am amused that I should think, perhaps arrogantly, that because I chose to take the “trouble” to write this, someone should want to take the onus of reading it! Please excuse any typos etc. Thanks. ronan. This guy ronan is too lazy to go blogging—Rishi does this for him! Hell-o.

FROM: Ronan Blaze

TO: The CHS-JCCSS body—ON THE 70TH ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATIONS

On June 1, 2008, I talked with Rishi about this document I had written sometime ago. He read the piece and suggested I break it out into two parts for convenient reading. Frankly, I was reluctant to have it posted on the site for a variety of reasons, none of which seems that compelling now. Rishi thought it was very good—so here goes. If the stuff hits the fan, he is to blame! LOL.

PART I

With the 70th anniversary celebration of CHS-JCCSS towering ahead, I take the liberty to communicate with you directly so that I may express appreciation for the contributions of our illustrious Principal/Founder, and our noteworthy teachers, as embodied in the essence and existence of CHS-JCCSS.

Is nostalgia a bad thing? I should think not. The past fuels the future and concretizes the present in many ways, all mysterious, far beyond human ken. By so doing, it adds dimensions of meaning and relevance to our lives that might otherwise be rather vacuous, even in the midst of plenty. I hope this is a notion that is neither declivitous in some way nor invidious in any way whatever.

“…
The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

…” Tennyson, Morte D’Arthur

It is appropriate that, in placing personal value on something, we should pause from time to time to gild and polish that thing, with the dedication and reverence it deserves, and so elevate it to its rightful place, thereby making its place rightful.

It is equally appropriate that, as the years slip pass ghoulishly, leering at us in that knowing and deterministic way, we should focus diminishingly less on the flaws in a thing of such personal value and more on the intrinsic and abiding worth of the thing. Who is to deny us this, and wherefore the authority, appropriateness and justification? This is clearly a personal journey, with no desired destination.

For me, this holds true for the OLD SCHOOL, as I fondly refer to CHS in somber reflection, its TEACHERS, and its PRINCIPAL/FOUNDER. The more distant these become in time, the more they gleam and the more they become relevant. These are my sentiments, and yes, I am quite sentimental about it all. I am rather pleased to say this, actually, losing little objectivity in the process, for I take humble pride in the acuity and discernment I am told I am capable of from time to time. [At other times, I am the usual run-of-the-mill irrational creature, subject to a plethora of very human failings/shortcomings, I dare say.]

“…
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety….

….What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;

…” Wordsworth, Ode: Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood

So let it be with our institution of yore: CHS. Let our praise rise and our songs ring. Let us pause to say THANK YOU to the OLD SCHOOL, OUR TEACHERS, and its legendary and looming PRINCIPAL/FOUNDER.

That the child should lift eyes upward in beholding its parent is a most natural phenomenon. That the child should keep eyes upward in looking at or recalling its parent across time, having grown older and world-worn, should come from inside the child of its own volition, because of the parent whose life story bespeaks of integrity and exemplary contribution, and from an appreciation of the fragility/fluidity of the human condition. “Flaws” are always there; yet, it is the brilliance of the “gems” that makes them so awfully, glaringly visible. And yet it is the very same emitted radiance that renders the “gems” worthy of the “flaws”.

Even if we are mere specks in the eyes of our Maker, it makes us worthy. If we are scintillating in the eyes of that most patient of beholders, it is because of the light—that bit of good that is God in us—that we carry in us, deep in our everlasting souls. As human beings, it is more than appropriate that we should pause from time to time in gratitude, remembrance, reverence and veneration of the things we hold precious and that add measures of meaning/dimensions to our lives. We can never be bigger than the smallness in us.

I recall JC clearly. I recall the times he would patiently sit at that tiny table outside his office door, a slim book of poetry in his bony, unsteady hand, with me sitting across from him but in close proximity. And I recall how beautifully and fervently he would read one-on-one to me, with me being there but not really—not really, really, quite lost in his ruminations.

[ In Fifth form, a few of us got to be a bit cocky and daringly comedic toward the end, causing disruptions at the back row. Whenever I would get ejected from class and sent to the Principal’s office, JC would sit with me and read poetry! He used to teach us English and knew I liked the stuff. If he had seen that as a form of punishment for me, one would have been hard-pressed to tell!]

And when he was done, he would glare at me rather severely, while reminding me that his own illustrious son was named RAJENDRA too! It was as if that in itself had placed me in a lofty position in his eyes . . . or so I thought . . . so I would like to think. What greater flattery can there be to burning youth than to be conspicuous in the eyes of the illustrious, however flawed in afterthought?

From his wide range of such readings that had never failed to hold me, a most willing captive of the moment, in rapt attention, I distinctly recall two things:

1) He would pause to ask me why “….The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair….”?

2) And he would whisper wistfully and reflectively: “… and gathered flowers are dead, Yasmin!…” at the end of another verse, a wondrous Ghazal, that I still recall. . [ I would be more than happy to share the full verses with anyone. They are stunning. ]

Like the perpetual child clinging to childish things, I have spent literally a lifetime seeking truth and meaning in seemingly trivial and inconsequential things, including those breath-taking lines of thought. Then I got to thinking about that frozen, desiccated leopard corpse on the slopes of Kilimanjaro and how important it is to be true to our true selves and to understand that the only limits we have are the limitations we impose on ourselves. I will keep trying to understand even more, and see even more in those lines—certainly, there is no futility in an individual’s effort

I also recall the time the THREE cleaning women came to him with a major discontent over the sharing of soap in their chores, quite like the women seeking Solomon’s wisdom and justice. They demanded that the soap be cut EQUALLY into THREE parts and EACH be given “quata . . . quata”. And the laugher that came from JC! Ah, yes.

Now, so far removed in time from the actual event, it is with a considerable degree of levity that I do recall the instance in a particularly contentious staff meeting when JC had announced with stunning finality: “…Are there any MORE objections/suggestions to be overruled? …” [words to that effect]. Then he rose from his seat, picked up his hat and whisked out of the staff room, leaving behind dead silence . . . at least for a minute or so before the outraged eruptions.

[Sometimes, I am inclined to think that all relationships are love-hate relationships, with every dollop of love tinged, perhaps, with an imperceptible germ of “hate” that comes and goes by a mere word or gesture, even capriciously. The anti-matter in matter is always there.

It is natural for the negatives to loom large in our lives, especially if they had hurt us where/when we were most vulnerable or in ways we could have least anticipated. We all carry baggage of sorts, things that can anchor our perspective and stagnate our emotional/intellectual frame of reference, though we have changed co-ordinates physically. ]

I recall the time Haroon Samad, with a rather severe expression on his face, had returned my History test paper to me. Shaking his head from side to side, he pointed out the word “oftenly” he had circled in guilty red. He then asked me what part of speech “often” was. I answered him correctly. He then delivered four lashes in my palms, with the wild cane. As he said at the time, he would never have expected THAT from me. Am I angry about this now? No. Was I embarrassed at that time? Sure. Do I see him now as Draconian or had thought him so at the time? No. For to do so would be to bend or create reality and to force fit the reality of those olden days into the reality we have now come to embrace elsewhere, now that the world has “evolved” about us and within us. Here was a man I had respected, a man who had obviously thought higher of me than I had delivered, albeit seemingly “trivial” though the failure might have been. Later in life, the gentleman attended my wedding, as I recall. He knew my dad very well, and he knew my wife’s people well too.

In looking into our past and at our “heroes”, we might be tempted to try to identify greatness with perfection of sorts, to interchange one with the other, and to diminish contributions in afterthought by the degree of imperfection we can uncover in the place of our origins and the people who were there. I think this is a rocky road to nowhere, with us engaged in a kind of a pointless circum-ambulatory excursion. Wherefore the focus on perfection? Whatever happened to the humanity therein? And when has humanity not been saddled with its share of flaws, however well-accomplished? When I peer into our past, past the “noise”, I see people on the high waves of life, in the throes of human struggle, trying to break free of shackles imposed on them in a faraway place at a distant time. I see the victims of circumstance prevailing against jealous odds. And I see heroes. It’s all I see, and all I’d want to see to my dying day. The rest is of little import.

I recall our teachers and offer my gratitude to ALL of them, whether they had taught me or not, for they have set the GOOD example and have lighted what were once obscure footpaths that have since led to our blindingly lustrous seas of change and development. If I mention some specifically, it is because they stand out conspicuously on the shifting plain of my consciousness and intellectual development: SHIREEN SANKAR, CLIVE DREPAUL, PARSRAM SINGH, JC, DHANESSAR SUKHU, ALEC FARLEY, SOMDAT SUKHU, TERRIL DOMAN, ADJODAH, HAROON SAMAD, GUMPTIE, RAMPHAL, POLYANDY ARMOGAN, PAUL ERRIAH, HAROON GAFUR, WALDRON, DEONARINE, SEECHARRAN [Order is immaterial, nothing implied therein]

An echo comes down through the years:

“…O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.
…” Flecker

No doubt, those of us who have had the honor of being teachers at CHS might have had occasion to feel slight of some sort, even anger and frustration at times. Looking back, I can see where the goals and concerns of the teacher can be, and usually are at the time, seemingly diametrically opposed to those of the administration, and where the teacher could, in a sense, feel as though they had been “betrayed”. [I am in Academia currently and do feel that way sometimes, when the administration seems to be “losing it”!] And I can see that approaches to personnel could have been different at the time, more redeeming and flattering, more amenable to a higher level of inclusiveness by the administration. But much of it was idiosyncratic and defensive, I think, and not necessarily malicious.

From my point of view, I take those experiences as object lessons: Things I would hope I have learned from and have avoided; things that I hope I can teach from a positive perspective. If at times we have found feet of clay where we had expected to see enduring feet of gold, the fault might lie more in our lofty expectations than in the starkness that NEW reality can bring. I am reminded that at CHS there were ALWAYS two kinds of people: Those with an unshakable commitment, and those who direly needed that unshakable commitment. Now, the matter is crystal clear to me. It is that simple, rendered so by the smoothing effect of the intervening years, much like the wave-smoothing functions in Mathematics.

“…it’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again …” Cohen

Best.

ronan blaze [pen name ]

Student of CHS
Teacher at CHS
Soul in endless search [ I think my Karma is to seek forever . . . but perhaps never ever to find. ]

Website: www.ronanblaze.com where you will find samples of writings and recitals.

EMAIL: ronan@ronanblaze.com

PS. Rishi, you may wish to blog this document. I will leave it to you to decide, but with one request: Except for corrections for typos/grammar etc, it ought to be posted in entirety, with no reduction—a suggestion. I know it is lengthy and grave—but gravity might be appropriate here. I am amused that I should think, perhaps arrogantly, that because I chose to take the “trouble” to write this, someone should want to take the onus of reading it! Please excuse any typos etc. Thanks. ronan. This guy ronan is too lazy to go blogging—Rishi does this for him! Hell-o.

TO BE CONTINUED… [ PART II TALKS ABOUT OUR FAMILY OF STUDENTS, OUR TEACHERS AND A BIT MORE]