Sharing in That

This is the second book in the series, perhaps a little lighter in tone, and more focused on social interaction, the processes of the lives we live in the midst of enduring truths.

The Golden Thread
... continued

Wanting past gains and complaining,
left with loss, unsustaining,
wanting gaining so more paining,
on and on with more remaining,
aspirations desperation,
the pathway to despair,
not now here, but still there.
But …
what was also there is also here,
that that was always near, left in fear,
the sadness of the seldom seen,
the beauty of the always been.

continued ...

from Sharing in That
by John Stuart

The Gym

To find there is more to life than peace and grace,
just open the door to this cavernous space,
a sudden release of mindless mind,
the pumping pulse of synthetic time,
pounding sounds, a pulsating beat,
lost and found, energy and heat.

Looking around
at assorted bodies in various roles,
mechanical routines traversing souls,
housewives, tentative and so sincere,
like adolescent girls, also here.
Trim and fit, go for it!
Less obvious,
teenage boys, a little awkward,
not yet flush with manhood,
and middle-aged men struggling quietly,
discreetly anonymous, as usual.

In the midst of the madness,
the dominators, hulking, bulking males
everywhere and strongly present,
do not stare!
The Lords of the Jungle strutting their stuff,
punishing extremes is never enough.
Pushing, shoving, grunt and groan,
always further, cry and moan,
what we reap is also sown.

In the beginning …
a speck in space, a spot in time,
from creation comes the divine,
evolution in shaping form,
creates perception of the norm.

The human body,
efficiently programmed
to produce and procreate,
the cells constantly replenishing themselves,
but subject to normal wear and tear.
Some structural weaknesses such as the spine,
but the basic parts all work fine.
A design to be used, not coddled and cradled,
balance the elements, do not be labeled.
Body and mind are one of a kind!

Now, its back to the gym,
from mental turmoil, hustle and bustle,
to sweating stretching, gristle and muscle.
To be whole, release the soul,
be in the body, be in the mind,
be in the me, do not confine,
let thee be me in this is you,
just be, always be, yourself, true!

from Sharing in That
by John Stuart

and quiet flows the Don

The Don is Dead.
The images,
of authority and power,
an individual of character,
striding assertively to the crease,
pounding the attack,
accepting his fate uncomplainingly.
From a more gracious era,
the passing away
of the greatest Australian.
Immortality.

He’s just a cricketer,
his sister once said,
wondering about all the fuss,
and cricket is only a game after all,
played by kids in backyards
and bush paddocks,
and adults, more formally,
on manicured ovals,
with some achieving fame,
but in the final innings,
it is just a game.
Rather strange though, it seems silly,
all that dressing-up and preparation,
and what for?
Batsmen going in and getting out,
nothing much happens,
then, yell and shout!

And the recording?
Everything is noted down,
names, dates and times, wins and losses,
the eternal question of the tosses,
measuring the meaningless and mundane,
the trivialities of the insane,
still going,
contrasts and comparisons,
more balls bowled, most runs scored,
figures forever, I am bored.
Enough!
What’s really going on here?
Well, in this game between two teams,
nothing is what it doth seem.

Life and living,
we struggle to survive,
and compete to win,
cricket is our nature without the sin.
Instinct, aggression,
controlled violence,
a cult of the primitive
in modern form …
and Bradman,
the finest exponent,
his Test average,
99.94,
a glance, a whisper
from perfection.

The Don is Dead.
He was a man,
merely mortal,
but more than a name.
Don Bradman.
Say the words slowly,
with reverence,
strongly stressing each syllable.
Feel these sounds sounding forth,
sounding and resounding,
resonating,
affirming now, what is he,
always you and always me
all that we aspire to be,
all there is, for all is we.

from Sharing in That
by John Stuart

On February 15, 1942, during WWII, Singapore fell to Japanese forces. It was the greatest military disaster in British history, over 50,000 troops were captured, then interned as pows in the Changi barracks.

Many of these men were later transferred to work on the infamous Death Railway. This was constructed from February to October 1943, through 420 kilometres of jungle and mountainous terrain, as an overland link between Burma and Thailand, a supply route for an increasingly isolated Japanese Army.

The labour force was spread through a series of interspersed camps, working in primitive conditions, on a staple diet of a few grains of rice and an occasional watery stew.

The Inferno

With the early onset of the monsoon, it became imperative to complete the Project as soon as possible. As conditions deteriorated, the pressure intensified; shifts of up to 20 hours were imposed, for over 150 days. Dysentery, pellegia and beriberi were rampant. The sick were issued with no food or half rations, until they could work.

The slightest scratch or splinter could become a tropical ulcer, to be gouged out regularly with a sharpened spoon in one of the makeshift jungle hospitals, or otherwise treated. Amputations without anaesthetic, and even blood transfusions were carried out.

In periods of intensifying pressure,
speedos,
mindfully applied but manic,
prisoners were pushed beyond endurance
specters of death,
working more and more into the darkness
in the half light of flickering flares,
skeletal shadows unreal
Dante’s Inferno surreal.

John Stuart

The legacy

The death toll was appalling, in a work force of 61,000 Allied prisoners and 250,000 Asians labourers, well over 100,000 died, a life for every sleeper.

In the midst of random chance, the big guys went first, the odds favoured the short and wirey. But dying was easy, it was the living that was hard. Surviving meant existing on a day to day basis, living in the moment, finding a truth in self and holding on to it, no matter what, the elemental, the essential.

Ultimately, this is what it is really all about: we are all in Changi, we are all working on the Burma Railway, we are all Sharing in That.

The Diary

Stan Cox, Corporal Australian Army, pow 15 February 1942 to 8 September 1945, recorded his experiences over these years. In many ways he was an ordinary man, but his truth was fundamental. His Diary is featured in the “I am” sequence in Sharing in That.

from Sharing in That
by John Stuart