The lights are on, and someone's home. They just might be out back, though.

I have described the Retreat as "a sanctuary for thought", yet considering the scarcity of - and long periods between - postings, even the most casual of visitors could be excused for assuming that I don't do a lot of thinking.

Not true.

My days are filled with observations and reactions to continuing events, and I am constantly thinking about them. The problem is, they all get jumbled and tangled, and I generally don't get a lot of time during the day when I can sit down and sift them thoroughly. I have gotten into the habit of taking a book with me to work, to jot down thoughts as they attack. Unfortunately, ideas and responses tend to hit at the most inopportune time; eg. when you're carting around 20 kilogram (43lb) cartons and you can't stop what you're doing.

So, the thoughts fade and swirl around in that part of my brain that is always foggy until one day, possibly months down the track, they step into the sunlight and are ready for scrutiny.

Sure, it would be easy to simply write the first thing that pops into my head, but I feel that would be bordering on the outskirts of fundamentalism which is dangerous country. It's no good saying you believe in something without being able to say why.

And that's mostly why I take so long to formulate a response to something that many people would consider warrents immediate attention.

That and the fact that I am easily distr.... Wow! I didn't know John Wayne refused the lead role in the television series Gunsmoke because he didn't want to be type-cast as a cowboy...

The ripples of a Sand Pebble

Finished reading this book, The Sand Pebbles by Richard McKenna, a couple of nights ago. Anybody who has been paying attention to my reading list will have noticed that there has been a fair bit of time elapsed between this book and the previous one. That's because Sand Pebbles came as somewhat a surprise, and demanded a bit more attention than most.

I came across this second-hand copy at the annual OXFAM giant book fair in Eltham. The book was only fifty cents, and I freely admit that I bought it for all the wrong reasons. I thought it would be a real boy's book, with lots of bang-bang-shoot-em-ups and lusty interludes. Instead, I found a well crafted story that gives us a unique view of the birth pains of a nation.

The tale is set in China in 1926 - 1927, just before, and at the beginning of, the revolution that was to shape China into the nation it is today. It tells of an opressed, disenfranchised people struggling to find their identity, of a country steeped in the feudal ways of warlords, ready to explode. Chiang Kai-shek will write his name in the pages of history.

And in the middle of it all is the gunboat the San Pablo (Sand Pebble) and her crew, the Sand Pebbles. Their transition from opressor to opressed is as inevitible as the annual flooding of the Yangtze River which they patrol, and equally as unstoppable.

Well worth the careful read. And it inspired me to look up and gather some more information on that period which, in turn, has led to a better understanding of where the China we know today came from.

Just goes to show. When you throw a pebble in the river, sometimes the ripples become a tidal wave.

Bird call

The other day I noticed that a bird had left its calling card on the brick fence beside our front gate.

Whilst bird poop on a fence isn't in itself particularly remarkable, considering the size and the quantity of the deposit, I strongly suspect an emu must have walked past our house at one time.

Siege

It's been a while since the last assault. You begin to think maybe it has gone away. But, if you listen carefully, you can still hear it moving around outside. You look out the window, and in the pale moonlight you see the trees swaying as it moves through them. A fingernail scratch on a blackboard shiver runs up your back. You instinctively fold your arms across your chest and give yourself a squeeze. There's a hollow howl as it rushes around the house. You know it's going to attack again. It's only a matter of time.

The windows in the dining room rattle. It's changed the direction of its assault again. You've heard it as it's moved around the house, probing, looking for that weak spot which will allow it access; the windows in the lounge, the kitchen, the main bedroom. It's shaken the back door numerous times. It's relentless. If there's a way in, it will find it.

And you know that, sooner or later, you're going to have to confront it. It's not something you like to contemplate - the very idea makes your blood run cold - but, you know it has to be done. Life must go on.

You replay the daily routine of your life. Breakfast, shower, dressing for work. All too soon, it seems, it's daylight, and you find yourself standing at the front door, mentally preparing for the onslaught when you open it. With a final shiver, you hunch your shoulders and step outside.

It comes at you in a rush. It's stronger than you anticipated, and it almost takes your breath away. It attacks your face. Your eyes are watering and closed to slits. You can feeling it tugging at your clothing, yanking at your hair. It's as if it's determined to prevent you reaching that sanctuary which is your car.

It's alive, malevolent, merciless. And it is oh, so cold.

It is the south wind.

London.

While ever there remains in this world people who are free to think for themselves, these cowards will continue to skulk in the shadows.

Let's ensure that is where they stay.

Tomah es tay. Eh hah tomoh tekay.

Okay, You Found It. Now Please Put It Back.

According to legend, Archimedes was taking a bath when he suddenly chanced upon the solution to a task he was set by the king. He was so excited by his discovery that he forgot his situation and ran naked through the streets of Syracuse, shouting "Eureka! Eureka! (I found it! I found it!)"

What he had actually discovered was what is now known as Archimedes Principle, a mathematical equation relating to mass and bouyancy.

Maybe it was a common thing, in the Third Century BC, for naked men to run through the city streets, yelling, but imagine if Archimedes had done that in today's society.

Think about it. One day, as you're going about your normal daily routine - doing the shopping, paying bills, minding your own business - some bloke comes running down the street naked, shouting "I found it! I found it!"

How would you react? Confronted with such a spectacle, you would inderstandably be quite stunned, right? Would you then look away, pretending you hadn't noticed him, hoping like hell he doesn't come up to you and force you to pay attention? Or would morbid fascination not allow you drag your eyes away? Like at an accident when you know you're going to see something ugly, but you've just got to look anyway.

Then comes the speculation. Just what is it the chap has supposed to have found? That which he is currently displaying to the world at large? And if that was the case, why is it he hasn't found it up until now? Also, making allowances for the current temperature, is the object of discovery really anything to get that excited about? And why does he think we might be interested?

I think it would be safe to say that ninety-nine percent of us would come to the conclusion that the bloke was under the influence of some kind of drug, illegal or otherwise. It would also be reasonable to assume that the authorities would soon show up and deal with the situation, taking the poor fellow away, and that would be the last we hear of it. One can only assume that he had been taken somewhere he wasn't a danger to himself, or to others.

There are probably a lot of secondary school maths students who wish that was exactly what happened to old Archimedes. It might have saved them from ever having to calculate the area of a circle.

But you do have to wonder, don't you? It has been said that genius is society's accepted face of insanity. But, just exactly how many of us today would recognise a naked man shouting about his principle as genius?

I'm Sorry. Could You Repeat That?

Everyone knows that Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone. Well, everyone that is except the Germans (who claim the honour for one of their citizens, Philipp Reis) and the Italians (who tout one Antonio Meucci).

However, putting all that aside, let's examine what were supposedly the first words spoken over a telegraph wire;

"Mr. Watson, come here. I want you."

I think we can safely assume this wasn't an invitation for Thomas Watson's luck to change. No, it was purportedly a call for immediate assistance. Why? Because Alex had spilled battery acid onto his trousers and it was burning its way through.

The sanitised movie version of how Alexander Graham came to invent the world's most annoying implement would have us believe that he spilled the acid on the top of his thigh. As any man will tell you, if liquid of any description is going to spill or splash, it invariably soaks that area of the male anatomy most embarrassing. The crotch. Such was the case, apparently, with Mr. Bell when he spilled the battery acid.

I guess in the sixties, movie goers couldn't be subjected to the image of a man violently slapping at his crotch whilst trying to rip his trousers off, so naturally they toned it down a little.

This, then, beggars the question, what did Alexander Graham Bell really say? "Mr. Watson, come here. I want you", calmly spoken whilst acid was eating its way toward a rather sensitive area? I don't think so.

I reckon he said something a lot more concise and to the point. And, most likely, only one word.

What If ... ?

Here's a hypothetical for the legal buffs.

Let's say you're covered by a life insurance policy, which encompasses accidental death. You are in a car accident and, whilst on the operating table, you pass away. Luckily, thanks to the ministrations of the attending medical staff, you are revived.

Here's the question.

Technically speaking, you have died. Are you then entitled to lay claim against your life insurance policy? I mean, can you ring up the insurance company and say, "Listen. I've got a policy with you. I died. Now you pay up"?

And what if, at some later date, it happens again? Would you be able to claim a second time? And would the insurance company put the premiums up, like they do when you've had a driving accident?

Just wondering.

Stitched Up.

Went to doctor Thursday afternoon to get stiches removed from the back of my scalp.

I've always had what I assumed (as have most other people) to be a mole on the back of my head. Last week , it decided to to get angry and puffed up like a blow fish. Consequently, I took it to see doctor and, being somewhat attached to it, I thought I'd go along as well. As I had never actually seen the thing, and because she was in a better position to be able to testify to its condition, S came with me. Between us, we managed to convince doctor that the growth was indeed misbehaving, and deserved some form of discipline.

Whilst examining the miscreant, doctor discovered it had a false identity. What had been passing itself off as a mole was, in fact, a wart. For such duplicity doctor was obliged to hand down the only sentence allowed. Capital punishment. "Off with its head!" A date was set for sentence to be carried out.

The day of excision finally arrived. S and yongest daughter, E, came along with me for moral support. As they had some shopping to do, they thought they'd get that done, then meet me at the surgery. This sounded like a plan, and off we went on our adventure.

To ensure proceedings went as smoothly as possible, I had previously gone to my barber and gotten him to shave the immediate area surrounding wart, exposing its crimes for all to observe. Boy! It stuck out like a certain part of a dog's anatomy, only uglier, and I was sure that everyone behind me in the crowded shopping centre was staring at it as I made my way to the surgery. I forged onward, though.

Being experienced in these matters, (not by design, mind you) I wasn't particularly anxious about the upcoming procedure. The only part I wasn't too happy about was the injection they give you to anaesthetise the immediate area. That stings a bit. But, of course, once the anaesthetic kicks in, everything becomes numb, and the operation is carried out smoothly and painlessly, all according to the script. Sometimes, however, the lines get fluffed, and the performance is suddenly impromtu.

Doctor didn't use enough anaesthetic.

It's a good thing scapels are so sharp. With the exception of the bottom extremity of the excision site which was nice and numb, I felt every single slice. Imagine slicing your finger open with a carving knife, ten to twenty times. Then imagine not being able to jerk your hand away. That was me, lying there on my stomach - which is something I am unable to do for any great length of time, to start with - fists and teeth clenched.

Because scalps are quite vascular and can bleed freely, doctor had called in nurse to assist. Her duty was to swab the area to ensure blood didn't make a mess. Nurse was aware of what was happening, and offered to let me squeeze her hand to ease the pain. I cheerfully asked if she wanted to keep her hand. Finally, accompanied by a chorus of relieved sighs, the recalcitrant wart was divorced from my scalp.

Now, if you think cutting something out of your body without anaesthetic might be painful, try stitching it up again. When something is causing you pain, it seems to last forever, doesn't it? I would have sworn doctor was hand sewing a quilt, it seemed to take that long. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if he's stitched a label that says "Hand Crafted In Australia" back there.

Suffice to say, the job was eventually finished. The wound stopped bleeding, and the wart was sent off for autopsy. Nurse, who had come close to revisiting breakfast, was able to return to her more mundane duties behind the reception desk. I was sent home with a smarting scalp, and a belief that Rambo had nothing on me. S and E were in the waiting room doing what waiting rooms are designed for - waiting - and I filled them in on all that passed. S was naturally concerned and empathetic. E covered her ears.

Anyhow, as I said, on Thursday I got the stiches removed. Well, not all of them. One had been covered over by the scab. Doctor was reluctant to try and remove it for fear of pulling away the scab and reopening the wound, thereby forcing him to repeat the sewing procedure. I was never more in agreement with someone than when he suggested we leave the stitch in for another week, and give the scab time to dry out and fall off.

Results of the autopsy showed there were no signs of cancer, just a mild bacterial infection which the antibiotic army had already dealt with. Also wart's identity was confirmed.

So, all in all, a happy ending, except ...

Being a wart, it's kind of like a lizard's tail. It can grow back. Doctor informed me of this possibility and advised that, next time, I come in earlier, whilst it was still very small, and he would be able to freeze it off instead of excising it.

Not a problem.

Anything larger than a pin head, and I'll be waiting at the door when they unlock the surgery.

More New Purchases.

I'm excited about three new purchases which arrived in the mail yesterday; two from Singapore, one from England.

They are three CD's by a Chinese woman named Dadawa. I stumbled across her album, Sister Drum, here in Melbourne, and was really impressed. Enough so that I went online to see if she had done anything else. I discovered that Sister Drum was her third album, and (to date) her biggest seller. I took note of her two previous titles, and went searching.

I discovered both were available on Ebay, plus another album comprised of her greatest hits. Only problem was, they were all only available overseas.

As the items had some time to go before the auction closed, I thought I'd have a look here first before committing to an international purchase. (Never done it before, and was a little wary). I asked at JB Hi-FI if they had any of her work. The only album they had on file was Sister Drum, and that was only in Sydney. They had never heard of her first two albums.

So back I went to Ebay where I was able to get all three albums at a very reasonable price. Listened to the first one last night. Very nice.

Now, excuse me a second while I put this hat on (Those who know who Molly Meldrum is will be familiar with the image). Do yourself a favour. Go out and buy these albums today. Okay, she may not be mainstream, but Dadawa is being touted as the Chinese Enya, and she's got some really good stuff.