Zeitschriftenartikel zum Thema „Heraldic calendars“

Pigs and humans were linked before this animal developed its domestic characteristics. In its wild boar form, it was hunted, respected, and even admired by various prehistoric, protohistoric, and ancient societies and civilizations, and its image was used as a magical artefact, a prestigious ornament, a sacred symbol, or a funerary emblem. Quite different was the case with the common pig, which was gastronomically exalted and repudiated, but whose representation went almost unnoticed until the High Middle Ages. It was from this period onwards that both subspecies coexisted in art in a more obvious way, thanks to their iconographic characterization in treatises on venison, agricultural calendars, and heraldry.

Based primarily on archival sources, the article presents new relevant facts about the life of Jiří [Georgius] Mělnický of Greifenfels († 1619), the first owner of a copy of Kalendář historický printed by Daniel Adam of Veleslavín in 1590. Concerning this copy, significant research attention has been devoted to only one more owner of this book, Václav Nosidlo, namely in connection with his chronicle recordings from exile in 1625–1639. The only information about J. Mělnický so far has come from the owner’s marks in Veleslavín’s calendar: his initials with the date 1596 and a heraldic bookplate on the upper board, an attached sheet of paper with Jiří Mělnický’s woodcut arms, and an encomiastic poem on this insignia written by Jiří [Georgius] Carolides of Carlsperk. The binding has been successfully assigned to Kryštof Meyšnar’s bookbinding shop. The activities of Jiří Mělnický, originally named Pšovský, in Koporeč, Polehrady and Litoměřice have been proved by archival documents, but his presumed stay in Mělník and Prague remains unconfirmed.

The calendar introductions were quite widespread in the Persian poetry of the Early Classical period (X–XIII centuries). The court poets on the occasion of a seasonal holiday (Nauruz, Mihran or Sade) or the beginning of a new season turned not only to the description of weather phenomena and changes in nature, but also to the Iranian names of months and days related to holidays and seasons. Such poetization of the Zoroastrian calendar became an integral part of Persian calendar poetry; references to Zoroastrian names of days and months can be found in many poets of the era: Rūdakī, Manūčihrī, ʿUnṣurī, Farruxī. In the cycle “Names of Persian days and months” by Masʿud Saʿd Salman this poetization is revealed most fully: each day of each Zoroastrian month in the poems of this cycle is heralded as a holiday. This article publishes a commented translation of the largest part of the cycle: the thirty poems devoted to the days of the Zoroastrian month. Despite the fact that the works of Masʿud Saʿd Salman are the object of scientific interest for a wide range of both national and foreign researchers, this poetic cycle is introduced into scientific discourse for the first time.

The calendar reforms of Peter the Great introduced on January 1, 1700 have produced a surprising amount of confusion and misunderstanding. This articles proposes firstly to clarify the aims and outcomes of these reforms, so far as the available sources allow. Secondly, through an examination of the New Year celebrations mandated by Peter's edicts, the article examines the legitimating arguments that have been deployed, including ideas about Russia's relation to western countries, about the position of the Orthodox Church in the polity, and about the prerogatives of the ruler in these matters. As a result of the changing arguments invoked by Peter and his entourage, the reforms introduced a regime of plural temporalities that has affected the course of Russia's development and the elaboration of its identities to this day. The reforms had little to do with heralding a secular, modern society. If initially they represented a failed pragmatic attempt to create a civil calendar aligned with Protestant countries, their justification, once it finally settled, harked back to long-standing theological ideas about the time of the Incarnation.

The eradication of the vector Rhodnius prolixus from Central America was heralded as a victory for controlling transmission of Trypanosoma cruzi, the parasite that causes Chagas disease. While public health officials believed this milestone achievement would effectively eliminate Chagas disease, case reports of acute vector transmission began amassing within a few years. This investigation employed a cross-sectional serosurvey of children either presenting with fever for clinical care or children living in homes with known triatomine presence in the state of Sonsonate, El Salvador. Over the 2018 calendar year, a 2.3% Chagas disease seroprevalence among children with hotspot clustering in Nahuizalco was identified. Positive serology was significantly associated with dogs in the home, older participant age, and a higher number of children in the home by multivariate regression. Concomitant intestinal parasitic infection was noted in a subset of studied children; 60% having at least one intestinal parasite and 15% having two or more concomitant infections. Concomitant parasitic infection was statistically associated with an overall higher parasitic load detected in stool by qPCR. Lastly, a four-fold higher burden of stunting was identified in the cohort compared to the national average, with four-fifths of mothers reporting severe food insecurity. This study highlights that polyparasitism is common, and a systems-based approach is warranted when treating Chagas disease seropositive children.

<p><em>The theme described in the title is connected with public advertising texts from two informational sources: newspapers printed in Daugavpils („Daugavas Vēstnesis” ‘The Daugava Herald’, „Daugavas Vārds” ‘The Daugava’s Word’, „Latgales Ziņas” ‘Latgalian News’ and „</em><em>Latgales Vēstnesis”</em><em> ‘The Latgale Herald”) and the linguistic landscape of the city, which characterizes the public information space. Commercial discourse is essential to this space, as a large part of public texts have the representation and promotion of establishments, companies and societies as a primary goal, in addition to the exhibition of offered goods and services.</em></p><p><em>The aim of the article is to define and characterize from the perspective of linguistic landscape the tools and techniques used to represent businesses and establishments in Latvian print advertisements in the 1920s and 30s. In fulfillment of this goal, content analysis and the diachronic linguistic landscape approach has been used for data analysis and interpretation (Backhaus 2005, Pavlenko 2010, Pavlenko, Mullen 2015, Pošeiko 2015). For summarization of obtained results, the descriptive method has been used.</em></p><p><em>Latvia is characterized in the interwar period by a unified language policy – including policies with mechanisms for the management of specific languages – highlighting the role of the Latvian language as the state language in the organization of public life and in nationalist ideology, and facilitating its use in all sociolinguistic functions. However, the interwar period in Latvia also marks the beginning of a period of Westernization – especially in the economic and cultural spheres – detectible in cinema, theater and concert posters; print advertisements for shops and consumer services, and business names in the urban environment.</em></p><em>During this period newspapers were printed in Latvian, but some papers, calendars and journals were printed in Latgalian, Russian and Polish. Company names, advertisements and partially-legible posters are visible in period photographs of the linguistic landscape. Advertising information at the beginning of the 1920s is only to be found in Russian, or with bilingual Russian-Latvian texts. Monolingual language signs in Latvian – noticeably missing diacritic marks and appropriate word endings – only begin to be seen from the 1930s.</em>

This article is the first attempt to chronicle in a comprehensive manner the official attitude of Russian rulers to the significance of the victory over Sweden in the Poltava battle by the Russian troops led by Peter the Great. It traces the evolution of the official stance throughout different periods in history of our Motherland from the reign of Peter the Great as first Russian emperor to contemporary leaders of Russia and newly -independent Ukraine. Using concrete examples the author reveals the nationwide patriotic fervor typifying the official line on the Poltava victory during the empire period as well as after the revolution. In the Russian Federation the national calendar marks the Poltava battle as the Day of Military Glory. The nationwide program of Patriotic Upbringing of Russian Citizens run by the state for the benefit of people at large features regular scientifically practical conferences, publication of books and articles, lectures and round-table discussions, quizzes and meets dedicated to red-letter days including the Poltava-themed ones, like the Mother of Poltava and Lesnaya Battle. In 2014 a propaganda drive masked as enlightenment was launched in newly independent Ukraine to indoctrinate people in anti-Russian, nationalist and Bendera-esque spirit. The last two years saw the drive to acquire neo-Nazi rhetoric. just prior to the celebration of the 300th anniversary of the Poltava Battle the Ukrainian leadership decreed july 27 1709 to be the Day heralding the start of the crusade by hetman Ivan Mazepa in alliance with Carl XII to liberate Ukraine from the yoke of the Moscow Kingdom.

West African Sahel is one of the most exposed areas to the adverse effects of climate variability in the world. All agricultural production systems are affected. However, farmers use indigenous knowledge that enable them to make short, medium, and long-term seasonal predictions in order to adapt their agricultural calendar to these climatic risks. In the North Central region of Burkina Faso, this knowledge is not well documented. Therefore, this study aimed to identify the indigenous indicators of seasonal forecasts and analyze factors affecting their reliability. Surveys were carried out in focus group discussions with 204 farmers in 10 localities across the region. Results showed that farmers use meteorological (cold, heat, wind, clouds, rainfall distribution), biological (food plants phenology, migratory bird behaviour, occurrence of insects), astronomical (sun, moon, stars), religious or magical indicators to predict the coming rainy season. The intensity and duration of the cold period, heat intensity and the formation of dark cloud (April-May) are signs of an early start of the rainy season (or a wet season). Likewise, the abundant leafing, flowering and fruiting of Vitellaria paradoxa, Lannea microcarpa, Lannea acida, Adansonia digitata and Tamarindus indica (April-May) predict a wet rainy season, while abundant fruiting of Sclerocarya birrea indicates a drought. The arrival period (May-June) of migratory birds heralds a start of the season. Nowadays, climate change, the degradation of plant resources and increasing human pressure are affecting the reliability of these indigenous seasonal forecast indicators in the North Central region of Burkina Faso.

The unprecedented onset of COVID-19 and the emergency closure of institutions of Higher learning heralded a new way of completing the curriculum and taking the students through the academic calendar. Previous definitions of emergency education had tried to allude to war, civil strife, floods, drought and even some instances of HIV AIDS or children living on the streets. The COVID -19 gave a new definition to emergencies, as it led to forced containment and requirement for social distancing on a global level. Prior to the pandemic, Learning Management Systems (LMS) had been around in what would be termed as E-Learning, computer-based education and other computer related terms, Most of the LMS would support both synchronous and asynchronous education. However, face to face learning was still the preferred mode of teaching, and the online component was considered complementary and supplementary. COVID-19 led to Emergency Remote Teaching, and this brought about a change in approach and rethinking of the technologies available for remote teaching. Many Universities had to find a way of providing a supplementary way of providing live and synchronous classes. Previous applications such a ZOOM, Google Meet and Microsoft Teams found their use in the educational setup, with many Universities subscribing to these tools as well as those that are embedded in LMS, such as the BigBlueButton as used to together with MOODLE as a plugin. The aim of this study was to establish how Videoconferencing tools are used to provide synchronous and asynchronous education. The objectives were to establish how Videoconferencing tools are used to aid in teaching and learning, how these tools are used to mirror a face to face class, as well as the challenges faced in integrating these tools in the classroom. This study used a quantitative and qualitative approach where a web-based questionnaire with both open and closed questions were posted to an E-learning special interest groups consisting of faculty in both private and public institutions in Kenya and some students taught by these faculty, and followed by in-depth interviews via Videoconferencing The study established that many institutions turned to stand alone and open source videoconferencing tools to teach both synchronously and asynchronously in a blended mode. The biggest challenge was in the IT element due to non- availability of stable internet connectivity and the fact that neither the students nor the faculty had clear training on the tools available within the videoconferencing applications, and there was no formal method of integrating the same to teaching. The study recommends a policy framework on the integration of such tools in the teaching.

<p><span>The article presents the literary works foryouth by Lojze Kovačič (1928-2004) who mostly wrote for adults.He was born in Basel, Switzerland, but before the Second World War, the author's family had to leave Switzerland and they emigrated to the then Kingdom of Yugoslavia, to the birthplace of his father. As early as 1947, he began publishing in Slovene in the student newspaper “Mi mladi” (We Young). After 1950, he wrote short modern fairy tales for children with modernist elements typical of adult literature. This deliberate modernity already heralds a top author who, for example, translated Kafka for children. In his initial phase, he collaborated with illustrators (e.g., Milan Bizovičar), created comics with avant-garde art elements and wrote science fiction. The most famous is the collection of short contemporary fairy tales “Zgodbe iz mesta Rič-Rač” (Stories from the City of Rič-Rač, 1962- ) which has been reprinted several times and represents only a third of the author's oeuvre. Two-thirds are unpublished, scattered through various radio shows and magazines. The editor of Pionirski list, Marija Kovačič Vida, published texts by a whole generation of authors in the 1950s and 1960s. In the most famous anthologies, entitled “Za celo leto: priročnik iger in deklamacij” (For the Whole Year: A Handbook of Games and Declamations, 1960) and “Praznični koledar: pesmi, črtice in igre za šolske prireditve” (Holiday Calendar: Poems, Literary Sketches, and Games for School Events, 1976), she made an outstanding review of literary creativity intended for children and youth. Based on the study of the author's oeuvre for youth, we can easily conclude that the author is a pronounced modernist, as he used avant-garde approaches, elements of art deco, Bauhaus, camera obscura, puppets, mundus inversus, commercials, etc. He translated picturesque visual images into modernist texts for young people. At the end of the article, suggestions are given for a scientific-critical monograph dealing with the author's literary opus for youth which is characterized by translation of visual into verbal and vice versa (e.g., puppets, comics), as well as between other media. It is paradoxical that L. Kovačič in his literary worksintended for adults was rather critical of the socialist system in his second homeland (1945-1991), but he nevertheless published the most literary units for youth during this very period, and his work was also regularly included in the curricula (1984, 1998) and readers in schools, while in the latest curriculum from 2019 he is completely overlooked and omitted. Based on his writing, L. Kovačič is a truely European author. He died on 1 May 2004, the day Slovenia became a member of the EU and the intense oblivion of history began. L. Kovačič was one ofthe victims of this process.</span></p><p><span><strong>Keywords:</strong> Lojze Kovačič, youth opus, art deco, avant-garde, Bauhaus, topsy-turvy world, camera obscura, puppets, radio, commercials.</span></p>

On the territory of Belarus as well as Ukraine, Poland, Lithuania, and western regions of Russia there are several micro-toponyms like Turaǔ Hill, Turaǔ Hillfort, Turaǔ Tomb (grave), etc. Some of them appear to be real hillforts. Near the settlement Taurapilis («the castle of aurochs») in Lithuania together with a hillfort there’s also a burial mound from the end of the 5th century. Metal aurochs’ horn fetters were found among other artifacts there. A recorded legend connected with Turaǔ Hill, located in Vilnia (current Vilnius), says about the formation of a town at the beginning of the 14th century by the duke Hedymin, after he killed an aurochs there on a hunt. However, according to archaeological data, the main parts of the future capital city were populated at least a few centuries earlier. There’s a similar legend in Slavonic-Moldavian chronicles. It says about voivode Drahosh who in the middle of the 14th century came over the mountains hunting an aurochs, killed it on the bank of the river Moldova, returned with his people to that place, and founded a Moldavian state. The findings of aurochs’ horns with metal fetters in big burial hills in Čarnihaǔ (Black Grave), Šastavicy, Hniozdava, Usc’-Rybiezhna (The Ladaha area) date back to the 10th century. In general, they meet analogies in Sweden and on the island of Gotland. In central and northern Europe, horns with metal frames have spread since the late La Tène period and peaked in the times of Roman influence. Then in the times of the Great migrations of people, this tradition disappears in Central Europe and remains only in Scandinavia and on the southern coast of the Baltic. In Lithuania these horns appear in the 3rd century, culminating in 5th – 6th centuries, at the end of the first millennium, and are used only in the lands of Žemajts, Zemihals, and Kurshs, surviving till the 12th century. But according to the written data, in Žemajtian wealthy and noble people used such horns as cups in the first half of the 16th century. In burial hills in the Sozh and the upper Dnieper river basins, lowlands of the Western Dzvina, in Smalensk, former Pskou and Noǔgarad regions round metal pendants depicting a bull’s head in the center with 7 figures around it and 52 granulated dots alоngl the perimeter were found. The bull’s head symbolized a calendar year, figures – several days per week, and dots – several weeks per year. The pendants were found only in women’s burials, and date back to the 11th – 12th centuries. The area of accidental findings of these pendants is even wider, and the farthest finding comes from the Viking settlement Haithabu (Hedeby) in the south of Jutland. In the basic area, the pendants occur on the sites characterized by mixed Slavonic-Baltic. The image of the aurochs’ head also became popular in medieval heraldry (for example, the coat-of-arms of Moldova, the Duchy of Mecklenburg, Swiss Canton of Uri, and several towns). From Belarus to Archangelsk, there’s a tradition to call a furnace post as aurochs, as it’s connected with a «post» wedding rite and personifies the World Tree. In mythological terms, aurochs were considered to be one of the personifications of the God of thunderstorms, though at the same time it could be connected with fertility and solar cults. Key words: Aurochs, Slavs, Balts, Turava Hara (Aurochs mountain), Thunder God, drinking horns with metal rim, pendants with the image of bullhead.

Abstract Background Absent pupillary reaction occasionally heralds a poor prognosis following severe head injury. The purpose of the study was to evaluate the outcome of all patients who underwent acute evacuation of epidural hematoma (EDH) despite absent bilateral pupillary reaction. Methods The Trauma Quality Improvement Program (TQIP) database for the calendar years 2017 and 2018 was accessed for the study. Adult patients ≥18 years of age who sustained severe traumatic brain injury (TBI) with the diagnosis of EDH and underwent evacuation of the hematoma were included in the study. The patients' characteristics, injury severity score (ISS), Glasgow Coma Scale (GCS) score, midline shift, and comorbidities were compared between patients who had absence of both pupillary reaction (ABPR) and those who presented with presence of both pupillary reaction (PBPR). The primary outcome of the study was in-hospital mortality. Propensity score matching analyses were performed for the study. Results No significant differences were found between the ABPR and PBPR groups regarding the median age (37 years [interquartile range (IQR): 26–53] vs. 40 years [IQR: 28–55]), gender (males; 81.9 vs. 79.5%), median ISS (29 [25.5–34] vs. 27 [25–33]), GCS score (3 [3–4] vs. 3 [3–3], presence of significant midline shift (75.9 vs. 79.5%), and comorbidities. The patients who presented with ABPR had a significantly higher mortality (34.9 vs. 10.8%; p = 0.002). A higher number of patients were discharged to skilled nursing and rehabilitation facilities (16.7 vs. 10.8% and 46.3 vs. 41.9%, respectively; p = 0.045). Conclusion Approximately 65% of severe TBI patients survived after the evacuation of the EDH despite the absence of pupillary reaction.

Each organization fosters its own culture that is established, maintained and redeveloped in formal and informal social relations among co-workers; however, these are also influenced by the broader cultural environment in which a given organization exists. The question raised in this article is how the context of urban culture is reflected in the community of colleagues. We suppose that it is during such informal gatherings or during leisure time, when they can communicate more freely, and celebrate or mark various occasions that the social and cultural context of co-workers becomes apparent. The article aims to compare cultural expressions in co-workers’ communities among the inhabitants of Vilnius and Sofia by revealing the place of Soviet-period and current celebrations among co-workers. It also aims to show how an employee experiences his or her personal life cycle in a coworker’s environment, including (1) work-related personal events as the first salary, marking the length of service, retirement, and family-related events such as birthdays, weddings, and funerals, and (2) official holidays (public holidays, religious and other calendar feasts, commemorations of important dates, and other celebrations significant for the public). The study showed that the civil rites created in the Soviet era to promote coworkers’ participation were integrated into the culture of the urban people, by (1) transferring traditions of folk communities into the urban environment and in this way developing urban communities, and (2) allowing indirect control of the introduction of new holidays into the family environment. Comparing the expression of the cultural environment in coworkers’ gatherings among the inhabitants of Vilnius and those of Sofia, a difference was observed between the co-workers with regard to the family life cycle: in Sofia, coworkers very seldom socialize during funerals and only to some extent on the occasion of weddings, while the birth of a child is often marked in absentia, that is with the mother and the child absent. Meanwhile, the coworkers in Vilnius have always celebrated these occasions since the 1970s. As for the official holidays at the state level, Bulgarians, unlike Lithuanians, in Soviet times mentioned May 1 and national celebrations such as the Revival Leaders Day, the Saints Cyril and Methodius Day, and Baba Marta (Martenitsa), an informal one. This is apparently the reason why currently official celebrations enjoy greater popularity among coworkers in Sofia than among their counterparts in Vilnius. The first comparative studies of these cities show that a country’s official cultural policy influences the cultural expression of coworkers (and citizens in general): formal cultural expression is affected directly, and informal is influenced to some extent. When the end of the Soviet era heralded a new cultural policy, the intensity and intentions of formal holiday celebrations changed, but the character of informal celebrations remained more or less the same.

One of the commonplace and myopic reactions to the rise of televisual time-shifting via video-on-demand, DVD rental services, illegal downloads, and streaming media was to decree “the death of the communal television experience”. For many, new forms of watching television unconstrained by time-bound, regularly scheduled programming meant the demise of the predominant form of media liveness that existed commercially since the 1950s. Nevertheless, as time-shifting practices evolved, so have attendant notions of televisual temporality—including changing forms of liveness, shared experience, and the plastic and flexible nature of new viewing patterns (Bury & Li; Irani, Jefferies, & Knight; Turner; Couldry). Although these temporal conceptualisations are relevant to streaming media, in the few years since the launch of platforms such as Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon, what it means “to stream” has rapidly expanded. Social media platforms like Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat, YouTube, and TikTok allow users to record, share, and livestream their own content. Not only does social media add to the growing definition of streaming, but these streaming interactions are also predominately mobile (Munson; Droesch). Taken together, a live and social experience of time via audio-visual media is not lost but is instead reactivated through the increasingly mobile nature of streaming. In the following article, I examine how mobile streaming media practices are part of a construction of shared temporality that both draws upon and departs from conceptualisations of televisual and fixed streaming liveness. Accordingly, HQ Trivia—a mobile-specific streaming gameshow app launched in August 2017—demonstrates novel attempts at reimagining the temporally-bound live televisual experience while simultaneously offering new monetisation strategies via mobile streaming technologies. Through this example, I argue that pervasive Web-connectivity, streaming platforms, data collection, mobile devices, and mobile streaming practices form arrangements of valorisation that are temporally bound yet concomitantly mobile, allowing new forms of social cohesion and temporal control.A Brief History of Televisual TemporalityTime is at once something infinitely mysterious and inherently understood. As John Durham Peters concisely explains, “time lies at the heart of the meaning of our lives” (175). It is precisely due to the myriad ontological, phenomenological, and epistemological dimensions of time that the subject has long been the focus of critical inquiry. As part of the so-called spatial turn, Michel Foucault argues that theory formerly treated space as “the dead, the fixed, the undialectical, the immobile. Time, on the contrary, was richness, fecundity, life, dialectic” (70). While scholarly turns toward space and later mobility have shifted the emphasis of critical inquiry, time is not rendered irrelevant. For example, Doreen Massey defines spaces as the product of interrelations, as sphere of possibility and heterogeneous multiplicity, and as always under construction (9). Critical to these conceptualisations of space, then, is the element of time. Considering space not as a static container in which individual actors enter and leave but instead as a production of ongoing becoming demonstrates how space, mobility, and time are inexorably intertwined. Time, space, and mobility are also interrelated when it comes to conversations of power. Judy Wajcman and Nigel Dodd contend that temporal control is related to dynamics of power, in that the powerful are fast and the powerless slow (3). Questions of speed, mobility, and the control of time itself, however, require attention to the media that help construct time. Aspects of time may always escape human comprehension, yet, “Whatever time is, calendars and clocks measure, control, and constitute it” (Peters 176). Time is a sociotechnical construction, but temporal experience is bound up in more than just time-keeping apparatuses. Elucidated by Sarah Sharma, temporalities are not experienced as uniform time, but instead produced within larger economies of labor and temporal worth (8). To reach a more productive understanding of temporalities, Sharma offers power-chronography, which conceptualises time as experiential, political, and produced by social differences and institutions (15). Put another way, time is an experience structured by the social, economic, political, and technical toward forms of social cohesion and control.Time has always been central to the televisual. Though it is often placed in a genealogy with film, William Uricchio contends that early discursive imaginings and material experiments in television are more indebted to technologies such as the telegraph and telephone in promising live and simultaneous communication across distances (289-291). In essence, film is a technology of storage, related to 18th- and 19th-century traditions of conceptualising time as fragmented; the televisual is instead associated with the “contrasting notion of time conceived as a continuous present, as flow, as seamless” (Uricchio 295). Responding to Uricchio, Doron Galili asserts that the relationship between film and television is dialectical and not hierarchical. For Galili, the desire for simultaneity and storage oscillates—both are present, both remain separate from one another. It is the synthesis of simultaneity and storage that allows both to operate together as a technological and mediated vision of mastering time. Despite disagreements regarding how best to conceptualise early film and television, it is clear that the televisual furthered a desire for spatial and temporal coordination, liveness, and simultaneity.In recent years, forms of televisual “time-shifting” allow viewers to escape temporally-bound scheduling. In what is commonly periodised as TVIII, the proliferation of digital platforms, video-on-demand, legal and illegal downloads, and DVD players, and streaming media displaced more traditional forms of watching live television (Jenner 259). It is important to note that while streaming is often related to the televisual, the televisual-to-streaming shift is not a clean linear evolution. Televisual-style content persists in streaming, but streaming might be better defined as matrix media, where content is made available away from the television set (Jenner 260). Regardless, the rise of streaming media platforms such as Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime is commonly framed as part of televisual temporal disruption, as scholars note the growing plurality of televisual-type viewing options (Bury and Li 594). Further still, streaming platforms are often defined as television, a recent example occurring when Netflix CEO Reed Hastings called the service a “global Internet TV network” in 2016.The changing landscape of streaming and time-shifting notwithstanding, individuals remain aware of the viewing patterns of others, and this anticipation impacts the coordination and production of the collective television experience (Irani, Jeffries, and Knight 621). Related to this goal is how liveness connects viewers to shared social realities as they are occurring and helps to create a collective sense of time (Couldry 355-356). This shared experience of the social is still readily available in a time-shifted landscape, in that even shows released via an all-at-once format (for example, Netflix’s Stranger Things) can rapidly become a cultural phenomenon. Moreover, livestreaming has become commonplace as alternative to cable television for live events and sports, along with new uses for gaming and social media. As Graeme Turner notes, “if liveness includes a sense of the shrinking temporal gap between oneself and the rest of the world, as well as a palpable sense of immediacy, then this is something we can find as readily online as in television”. To this end, the claim that streaming media is harbinger of the “death of liveness” is far too simplistic. Liveness vis-à-vis streaming is not something that ceases to exist—shared temporal experiences simply occur in new forms.HQ TriviaOne such strategy to reactive a more traditional form of televisual liveness through streaming is to make streaming more social and mobile. Launched in August 2017, HQ Trivia (later retitled HQ Trivia and Words) requires users, known as HQties, to download the app and log in at 3.00 pm and 9.00 pm Eastern Standard Time to join a live gameshow. In each session, gameshow hosts ask a series of 12 single-elimination questions with three answer choices. Any users who successfully answer all 12 questions correctly split the prize pool for the show, which ranges from $250 to $250,000. Though these monetary prizes appear substantial, the per-person winnings paid out are often quite low based on the number winners splitting the pool. In the short time since its inception, HQ has had high and low audience participation numbers and has also spawned a myriad of imitators, including Facebook’s “Confetti” gameshow.Mobile streaming via trivia gameshows are a return to forms of televisual liveness and participation often disrupted by the flexible nature of streaming. HQ’s twice-a-day events require users to re-adapt to temporal constraints to play and participate. Just as intriguing is that “HQ sees its biggest user participation—and largest prizes—on Sundays, especially if games coincide with national events, such as holidays, sports games or award shows” (Alcantara). Though it is difficult to draw conclusions from this correlation, the fact that HQ garners more players and attention during events and holidays complicates notions of mobile trivia as a primary form of entertainment. It is possible, perhaps, that HQ is an evolution to the so-called second screen experience, in which a mobile device is used simultaneously with a television. As noted by Hye-Jin Lee and Mark Andrejevic, the rise of the second screen often enables real-time monitoring, customisation, and targeting that is envisioned by the promoters of the interactive commercial economy (41). Second screens are a way to reestablish live-viewing and, by extension, advertising through the importance of affective economies (46). Affect, or a preconscious structure of feeling, is critical to platform monetisation, in that the capture of big data requires an infrastructuralisation of desire—in streaming media often a desire for entertainment (Cockayne 6). Through affective capture, users become willing to repeat certain actions via love for and connection to a platform. Put another way, big data collection and processing is often the central monetisation strategy of platforms, but capturing this data requires first cultivating user attachment and repeat actions.To this end, many platforms operate by encouraging as much user engagement as possible. HQ certainly endeavors for strong affective investment by users (a video search for “HQ Trivia winner reactions” demonstrates the often-zealous nature of HQties, even when winning relatively low amounts of prize money). However, HQ departs from the typical platform streaming model in that engagement with the app is limited to two games per day. These comparatively diminutive temporal appointments have substantial implications for HQ’s strategies of valorisation, or the process of apprehending and making productive the user as laborer in new times and spaces (Franklin 13). Media theorists have long acknowledged the “work of watching” television, in which the televisual is “a real economic process, a value-creating process, and a metaphor, a reflection of value creation in the economy as a whole” (Jhally and Livant 125). Televisual monetisation is predominately based on the advertising model, which functions to accelerate the selling of commodities. This configuration of capital accumulation is enabled by a lineage of privatisation of broadcasting; television is heralded as a triumph of deregulation, but in practice is an oligopolistic, advertising-supported system of electronic media aided by government policies (Streeter 175). By contrast, streaming media accomplishes capitalistic accumulation through the collection, storage, and processing of big data via cloud infrastructure. Cloud infrastructure enables unprecedented storage and analytic capacity, and is heavily utilised in streaming media to compress and transmit data packets.Although the metaphor of the cloud situates user data as ephemeral and free, these infrastructures are better conceptualised as a “digital enclosure”, which invokes the importance of privatisation and commodification, as well as the materiality and spatiality of data collection (Andrejevic 297). As such, streaming monetisation is often achieved through the multitude of monetisation possibilities that occur through the collection of vast amounts of user data. Streaming and mobile streaming, then, are similar to the televisual in that these processes monetise the work of watching; yet, the ubiquitous data collection of streaming permits more efficient forms of computational commodification.Mobile streaming media continues the lineage of ubiquitous immaterial labor—a labor form that can, and commonly is, accomplished by “filling the cracks” of non-work time with content engagement and accompanying data collection. HQ Trivia, nevertheless, functions as a notable departure from this model in that company has made public claims that the platform will not utilise the myriad user identification and location data collected by the app. Instead, HQ has engaged in brand promotions that include Warner Brothers movies Ready Player One and Rampage, along with a brief Nike partnership (Feldman; Perry). Here, mobile and temporal valorisation occurs through monetisation strategies more akin to traditional televisual advertising than the techniques of big data collection often utilised by platforms. Whether or not eschewing the proclivity toward monetising user data for a more traditional form of brand promotion will yield rewards for HQ remains to be seen. Nonetheless, this return to more conventional televisual monetisation strategies sets HQ apart from many other applications that rely on data collection and subsequent sale of user data for targeted advertisements.Affective attachment and the transformation of leisure times through mobile devices is critical not just to value generation, but also to the relationship between mobile streaming and temporal and mobile control. As previously noted, Sharma elucidates that time is part of biopolitical forms of control, produced and experienced differently. Nick Couldry echoes these sentiments, in that there are rival forms of liveness stemming from a desire for connectivity, and that these “types of liveness are now pulling in different directions” (360). Despite common positionings, the relationship between television and streaming media is not a neat linear evolution—television, streaming, and mobile streaming continue to operate both side-by-side and in conjunction with one another. The experience of time, nevertheless, operates differently in these media forms. Explained by Wendy Chun, television structures temporality through steady streams of information, the condensation of time that demands response in crisis, and the most powerful moments of “touching the real” via catastrophe (74). New media differs by instead fostering crisis as the norm, in that “crises promise to move users from banal to the crucial by offering the experience of something like responsibility; something like the consequences and joys of ‘being in touch’” (Chun 75). New media crisis is often felt via reminders and other increasingly pervasive prompts that require an immediate user response. HQ differs from other forms of streaming and mobile streaming in that the plastic and flexible nature of viewing is replaced by mobile notifications and reminders that one must be ready for twice-daily games or risk losing a chance to win.In contributing to a sense of new media crisis, HQ fosters novel expectations for the mobile streaming subject. Through temporally-bound mobile livestreaming, “networked smart screens are the mechanism by which time and space will be both overcome and reanimated” as the “real world” is transformed into a magical landscape of mobile desire (Oswald and Packer 286). There is a double-edged element to this transformation, however, in that power of HQ Trivia is the ability to reanimate space through a promise that users are able to win substantial prize money only if one remembers to tune in at certain times. Within HQ Trivia, the much-emphasised temporal freedom of streaming time-shifting is eschewed for more traditional forms of televisual liveness; at the same time, smartphone technologies permit mobile on-the-go forms of engagement. Accordingly, a more traditional televisual simultaneity reemerges even as the spaces of streaming are untethered from the living room. It is in this reemphasis of liveness and sharedness that the user is simultaneously empowered vis-à-vis mobile devices and made mobile streaming subject through new temporal expectations and forms of monetisation.As mobile streaming becomes increasingly pervasive, new experimental applications jockey for user attention and time. HQ Trivia’s model of eschewing data collection for more traditional televisual monetisation represents attempts to recreate mobile media engagement not through individual isolated audio-visual practices, but instead through a live and mobile experience. Consequently, HQ Trivia and other temporally-bound gameshow apps demonstrate a reimagined live televisual experience, and, in turn, a monetisation of mobile engagement through affective investment.ReferencesAlcantara, Chris. “Diving into HQ Trivia: The Toughest Rounds, the Best Time to Play and How Some Users Beat the Odds.” The Washington Post 5 Mar. 2018. <http://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2018/business/hq-trivia/?utm_term=.02dc389ae3a9>.Andrejevic, Mark. “Surveillance in the Digital Enclosure.” The Communication Review 10.4 (2007): 295-317.Bury, Rhiannon, and Johnson Li. “Is It Live or Is It Timeshifted, Streamed or Downloaded? 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London: Sage, 2005.Munson, Ben. “More than Half of Global Video Views Start on Mobile.” Fierce Video 24 Sep. 2019. <https://www.fiercevideo.com/video/more-than-half-global-video-views-start-mobile-report-says>.Oswald, Kathleen, and Jeremy Packer. “Flow and Mobile Media.” Communication Matters: Materialist Approaches to Media, Mobility and Networks. Eds. Jeremy Packer and Stephen B. Crofts Wiley. New York: Routledge, 2012. 276-287.Perry, Erica. “Here's How HQ Trivia Is Finally Monetizing Its Massive Audience.” Social Media Week 29 Mar. 2018. <http://socialmediaweek.org/blog/2018/03/heres-how-hq-trivia-is-finally-monetizing-its-massive-audience/>.Peters, John Durham. The Marvelous Clouds: Toward a Philosophy of Elemental Media. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2016.Sharma, Sarah. In the Meantime: Temporality and Cultural Politics. Durham: Duke UP, 2014.Sterling, Greg. “Nearly 80 Percent of Social Media Time Now Spent on Mobile Devices.” Marketing Land 4 Apr. 2016. <http://marketingland.com/facebook-usage-accounts-1-5-minutes-spent-mobile-171561>.Streeter, Thomas. Selling the Air. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1996.Turner, Graeme. “'Liveness' and 'Sharedness' Outside the Box” Flow Journal 8 (2011). <https://www.flowjournal.org/2011/04/liveness-and-sharedness-outside-the-box/>.Uricchio, William. “Television's First Seventy-Five Years: The Interpretive Flexibility of a Medium in Transition.” The Oxford Handbook of Film and Media Studies. Ed. Robert Kolker. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. 286-305.Wajcman, Judy, and Nigel Dodd. “Introduction: The Powerful Are Fast, The Powerless Are Slow.” The Sociology of Speed: Digital, Organizational, and Social Temporalities. Eds. Judy Wajcman and Nigel Dodd. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2017. 1-12.

I can remember setting up the dish, all the excitement of assembling it [...] and then putting the motor on. And in the late afternoon, you position the dish and kind of turn it, to find the right spot, and all of a sudden on this blank television screen there was an image that came on. And it was shocking knowing that this noise and this thing would be there, and begin to infiltrate – because I see it as an infiltration, I see it as invasion – I’m not mad on television, very choosy really about what I watch – and I see it as an invasion, and there was GWN as well as the ABC. I just thought ‘by golly, I’m in the process of brain-washing people to accept stuff without thinking about it, like consciously considering either side of any case’ [...] The one thing that protected you from having it on at all times was the need to put on the generator in order to power it. I felt a bit sad actually. (Savannah Kingston, Female, 55+ – name changed – homestead respondent) This paper addresses the huge communications changes that occurred over the past fifty years in outback Western Australia. (What happened in WA also has parallels with equivalent events in the Northern Territory, Queensland, in the larger properties in western New South Wales and northern South Australia.) Although the ‘coming of television’ – associated in remote areas with using a satellite dish to scan for the incoming signal – is typically associated with a major shift in community and cultural life, the evidence suggests that the advent of the telephone had an equivalent or greater impact in remote areas. With the introduction of the telephone, the homestead family no longer had to tune into (or scan) the radio frequencies to check on predicted weather conditions, to respond to emergencies, to engage in roll call or to hold a ‘public meeting’. As the scanning of the radio frequencies ended, so the scanning of the satellite signals began. As Sandstone resident Grant Coleridge (pseudonym, male, 40-54) said, only half ironically, “We got the telephone and the telly at the same time, so civilisation sort of hit altogether actually.” The scale and importance of changes to the technological communications infrastructure in remote WA within a single life-time spans pre-2-way radio to video livestock auctions by satellite. It comes as a surprise to most Australians that these changes have occurred in the past generation. As recent viewers of the unexpectedly-successful Mongolian film The Story of the Weeping Camel (2004) would know, one of the themes of the Oscar-nominated movie is the coming of television and its impact upon a traditional rural life. The comparative availability of television outside the rural areas of Mongolia – and its attraction to, particularly, the younger family members in the Weeping Camel household – is a motif that is explored throughout the narrative, with an unspoken question about the price to be paid for including television in the cultural mix. It’s easy to construct this story as a fable about the ‘exotic other’, but the same theme was played out comparatively recently in remote Western Australia, where the domestic satellite service AUSSAT first made television an affordable option just under twenty years ago. This paper is about the people in remote Western Australia who started scanning for the satellite signal in 1986, and stopped scanning for the RFDS (Royal Flying Doctor Service) 2-way radio phone messages at about the same time. Savannah Kingston (name changed), who in 1989 generously agreed to an in-depth interview discussing the impact of satellite broadcasting upon her outback life, was a matriarch on a rural property with four grown children. She had clear views upon ways in which life had changed dramatically in the generation before the satellite allowed the scanning of the television signal. Her recollection of the weft and warp of the tapestry of life in outback WA started thirty-five years previously, with her arrival on the station as a young wife: When I went there [mid-1950s], we had a cook and we ate in the dining room. The cook and anyone who worked in the house ate in the kitchen and the men outside ate in the outside. So, with the progress of labour away from the bush, and the cost of labour becoming [prohibitive] for a lot of people, we got down to having governesses or house-girls. If the house-girls were white, they ate at the table with us and the governesses ate with us. If the house-girls were Aboriginal, they didn’t like eating with us, and they preferred to eat in the kitchen. The kids ate with them. Which wasn’t a good idea because two of my children have good manners and two of them have appalling manners. The availability of domestic help supported a culture of hospitality reminiscent of British between-the-wars country house parties, recreated in Agatha Christie novels and historically-based films such as The Remains of the Day (1993): In those early days, we still had lots of visitors [...] People visited a lot and stayed, so that you had people coming to stay for maybe two or three days, five days, a week, two weeks at a time and that required a lot of organisation. [int:] WHERE DID YOUR VISITORS COME FROM? City, or from the Eastern states, occasionally from overseas. [Int:] WOULD THEY BE RELATIVES? Sometimes relatives, friends or someone passing through who’d been, you know, someone would say ‘do visit’ and they’d say ‘they’d love to see you’. But it was lovely, it was good. It’s a way of learning what’s going on. (Savannah Kingston.) The ‘exotic other’ of the fabled hospitality of station life obscures the fact that visitors from the towns, cities and overseas were a major source of news and information in a society where radio broadcasts were unpredictable and there was no post or newspaper delivery. Visitors were supplemented by a busy calendar of social events that tied together a community of settlements in gymkhanas, cricket fixtures and golf tournaments (on a dirt course). Shifts in the communications environment – the introduction of television and telephone – followed a generation of social change witnessing the metamorphosis of the homestead from the hub of a gentrified lifestyle (with servants, governesses, polo and weekends away) to compact, efficient business-units, usually run by a skeleton staff with labour hired in at the peak times of year. Over the years between the 1960s-1980s isolation became a growing problem. Once Indigenous people won the fight for award-rate wages their (essentially) unpaid labour could no longer support the lifestyle of the station owners and the absence of support staff constrained opportunities for socialising off the property, and entertaining on it, and the communication environment became progressively poorer. Life on the homestead was conceived of as being more fragile than that in the city, and more economically vulnerable to a poor harvest or calamities such as wildfire. The differences wrought by the introduction of newer communication technologies were acknowledged by those in the country, but there was a clear resistance to city-dwellers constructing the changes as an attack upon the romance of the outback lifestyle. When the then Communications Minister Tony Staley suggested in 1979 that a satellite could help “dispel the distance – mental as well as geographical – between urban and regional dwellers, between the haves and the have-nots in a communication society”, he was buying into a discourse of rural life which effectively disempowered those who lived in rural and remote areas. He was also ignoring the reality of a situation where the Australian outback was provided with satellite communication a decade after it was made available to Canadians, and where the king-maker in the story – Kerry Packer – stood to reap a financial windfall. There was a mythological dimension to Australia (finally) having a domestic satellite. Cameron Hazelhurst’s article on ‘The Dawn of the Satellite Era in Australia’ includes a colourful account of Kerry Packer’s explanation to Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser of the capacity of domestic satellites to bring television, radio and telephone services to isolated communities in arctic Canada: And I [Packer] went and saw the Prime Minister and I explained to him my understanding of what was happening in those areas, and to his undying credit he grasped on to it immediately and said ‘Of course, it’s what we want. It’s exactly the sort of thing we need to stop the drift of people into urban areas. We can keep them informed. We can allow them to participate in whatever’s happening around the nation (Day 7, cited in Hazelhurst). Fraser here, as someone with experience of running a rural property in Victoria, propounds a pro-country rhetoric as a rationale for deployment of the satellite in terms of the Australian national policy agenda. (The desire of Packer to network his television stations and couple efficiency with reach is not addressed in this mythological reconstruction.) It is difficult, sometimes, to appreciate the level of isolation experienced on outback properties at the time. As Bryan Docker (male, 40-54), a resident of Broome at the time of the interviews, commented, “Telegrams, in those days, were the life-blood of the stations, through the Flying Doctor Service. But at certain times of the year the sun spots would interfere with the microwave links and we were still on morse from Broome to Derby during those periods.” Without reliable shortwave radio; with no television, newspapers or telephone; and with the demands of keeping the RFDS (Royal Flying Doctor Service) 2-way radio channel open for emergencies visitors were one of the ways in which station-dwellers could maintain an awareness of current events. Even at the time of the interviews, after the start of satellite broadcasting, I never travelled to an outback property without taking recent papers and offering to pick up post. (Many of the stations were over an hour’s journey from their nearest post office.) The RFDS 2-way radio service offered a social-lifeline as well as an emergency communication system: [Int:] DO YOU MISS THE ROYAL FLYING DOCTOR SERVICE AT ALL? Yes, I do actually. It’s – I think it’s probably more lonely now because you used to switch it on and – you know if you’re here on your own like I am a lot – and you’d hear voices talking, and you used to know what everybody was doing – sort of all their dramas and all their [...] Now you don’t know anything that’s going on and unless somebody rings you, you don’t have that communication, where before you used to just hop over to another channel and have a chat [...] I think it is lonelier on the telephone because it costs so much to ring up. (Felicity Rohrer, female, 40-54, homestead.) Coupled with the lack of privacy of 2-way radio communication, and the lack of broadcasting, was the particular dynamic of a traditional station family. Schooled at home, and integrated within their homestead lifestyle, station children spent most of their formative years in the company of one or other of their parents (or, in previous decades, the station staff). This all changed at secondary school age when the children of station-owners and managers tended to be sent away to boarding school in the city. Exposure of the next generation to the ways of city life was seen as a necessary background to future business competence, but the transitions from ‘all’ to ‘next-to-nothing’ in terms of children’s integration within family life had a huge socio-emotional cost which was aggravated, until the introduction of the phone service, by the lack of private communication channels. Public Relations and news theory talk about the importance of the ‘environmental scan’ to understand how current events are going to impact upon a business and a family: for many years in outback Australia the environmental scan occurred when families got together (typically in the social and sporting rounds), on the RFDS radio broadcasts and ‘meetings’, in infrequent visits to the closest towns and through the giving and receiving of hospitality. Felicity Rohrer, who commented (above) about how she missed the RFDS had noted earlier in her interview: “It’s made a big difference, telephone. That was the most isolating thing, especially when your children were away at school or your parents are getting older [...] That was the worst thing, not having a phone.” Further, in terms of the economics of running a property, Troy Bowen (male, 25-39, homestead respondent) noted that the phone had made commercial life much easier: I can carry out business on the phone without anyone else hearing [...] On the radio you can’t do it, you more or less have to say ‘well, have you got it – over’. ‘Yeah – over’. ‘Well, I’ll take it – over’. That’s all you can do [...] Say if I was chasing something [...] the cheapest I might get it down to might be [...] $900. Well I can go to the next bloke and I can tell him I got it down to $850. If you can’t do any better than that, you miss out. ‘oh, yes, alright $849, that’s the best I can do.’ So I’ll say ‘alright, I’ll take it’. But how can you do that on the radio and say that your best quote is [$850] when the whole district knows that ‘no, it isn’t’. You can’t very well do it, can you? This dynamic occurs because, for many homestead families prior to the telephone, the RFDS broadcasts were continuously monitored by the women of the station as a way of keeping a finger on the pulse of the community. Even – sometimes, especially – when they were not part of the on-air conversation, the broadcast could be received for as far as reception was possible. The introduction of the phone led to a new level of privacy, particularly appreciated by parents who had children away at school, but also introduced new problems. Fran Coleridge, (female, 40-54, Sandstone) predicted that: The phone will lead to isolation. There’s an old lady down here, she’s about 80, and she housekeeps for her brother and she’s still wearing – her mother died 50 years ago – but she’s still wearing her clothes. She is so encapsulated in her life. And she used to have her [RFDS] transceiver. Any time, Myrtle would know anything that’s going on. Anything. Birthday party at [local station], she’d know about it. She knew everything. Because she used to have the transceiver on all the time. And now there’s hardly any people on, and she’s a poor little old lonely lady that doesn’t hear anything now. Can you see that? Given the nuances of the introduction of the telephone (and the loss of the RFDS 2-way), what was the perceived impact of satellite broadcasting? Savannah Kingston again: Where previously we might have sat around the table and talked about things – at least the kids and I would – with television there is now more of a habit of coming in, showering and changing for dinner, putting on the motor and the men go and sit in front of the television during [...] six o’clock onwards, news programs and whatnot and um, I find myself still in the kitchen, getting the meal and then whoever was going to eat it, wanting to watch whatever was on the television. So it changed quite appreciably. Felicity Rohrer agrees: [Int:] DO YOU THINK THERE HAVE BEEN CHANGES IN THE TIME THAT YOU SPEND WITH EACH OTHER? Yes, I think so. They [the homestead household] come home and they – we all sit down here and look at the news and have a drink before tea whereas people used to be off doing their own tea. [Int] SO YOU THINK IT’S INCREASED THE AMOUNT OF TIME YOU SPEND TOGETHER? Yes, I think so – well, as a family. They all try and be home by 6 to see the [GWN] news. If they miss that, we look at the 7 o’clock [ABC], but they like the Golden West because it’s got country news in it. But the realities of everyday life, as experienced in domestic contexts, are sometimes ignored by commentators and analysts, except insofar as they are raised by interviewees. Thus the advent of the satellite might have made Savannah Kingston feel “a bit sad actually”, but it had its compensations: It was definitely a bit of a peace-maker. It sort of meant there wasn’t the stress that we had previously when going through [...] at least people sitting and watching something, you’re not so likely to get into arguments or [...] It definitely had value there. In fact, when I think about it, that might be one of its major applications, ’cos a lot of men in the bush tend to come in – if they drink to excess they start drinking in the evening, and that can make for very uncomfortable company. For film-makers like the Weeping Camel crew – and for audiences and readers of historical accounts of life in outback Australia – the changes heralded by the end of scanning the RFDS channels, and the start of scanning for satellite channels, may seem like the end of an era. In some ways the rhythms of broadcasting helped to homogenise life in the country with life in the city. For many families in remote homes, as well as the metropolis, the evening news became a cue for the domestic rituals of ‘after work’. A superficial evaluation of communications changes might lead to a consideration of how some areas of life were threatened by improved broadcasting, while others were strengthened, and how some of the uniqueness of a lifestyle had been compromised by an absorption into the communication patterns of urban life. It is unwise for commentators to construct the pre-television past as an uncomplicated romantic prior-time, however. Interviews with those who live such changes as their reality become a more revealing indicator of the nuances and complexities of communications environments than a quick scan from the perspective of the city-dweller. References Day, C. “Packer: The Man and the Message.” The Video Age (February 1983): 7 (cited in Hazelhurst). Hazelhurst, Cameron. “The Dawn of the Satellite Era.” Media Information Australia 58 (November 1990): 9-22. Staley, Tony. Commonwealth Parliamentary Debates. Canberra: House of Representatives Hansard (18 October 1979): 2225, 2228-9. The Remains of the Day. 1993. The Story of the Weeping Camel. Thinkfilm and National Geographic, 2004. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Green, Lelia. "Scanning the Satellite Signal in Remote Western Australia." M/C Journal 8.4 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/01-green.php>. APA Style Green, L. (Aug. 2005) "Scanning the Satellite Signal in Remote Western Australia," M/C Journal, 8(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/01-green.php>.