Journal articles on the topic 'Cairn Hill'

Baltinglass is a multi-chamber Neolithic passage tomb in Co. Wicklow, Ireland, excavated in the 1930s. This paper presents the results of a radiocarbon dating programme on charred wheat grains and hazelnut shell found underlying the cairn, and on cremated human bone found within and near two of the monument’s five chambers. The results are surprising, in that three of the six determinations on calcined bone pre-date by one or two centuries the charred cereals and hazelnut shells sealed under the cairn, dating to c. 3600–3400 calbc. Of the remaining three bone results, one is coeval with the charred plant remains, while the final two can be placed in the period 3300/3200–2900 calbc, that is more traditionally associated with developed passage tombs. A suggested sequence of construction is presented beginning with a simple tomb lacking a cairn, followed by a burning event – perhaps a ritual preparation of the ground – involving the deposition of cereal grains and other materials, very rapidly and intentionally sealed under a layer of clay, in turn followed by at least two phases involving the construction of more substantial chambers and associated cairns. What was already a complex funerary monument has proven to be even more complex, with a history spanning at least six centuries.

Rathmell Archaeology Ltd carried out the excavation of a disturbed kerbed cairn at Swaites Hill, Cloburn Quarry, South Lanarkshire. An inner and outer kerb were noted: the inner revealed two short cists, one containing two cremation burials. A third disturbed cremation burial with associated cordoned urn was present within cairn material between the inner and outer kerbs. A second urn and further cremated human bone deposits were found in the upper cairn material. The discovery of a Middle Bronze Age rapier within re-deposited cairn material hints at even more complexity; however, the full picture was sadly obscured by eighteenth to nineteenth century disturbance.

The excavation in 2015 of a hilltop Bronze Age funerary cairn in South Lanarkshire resulted in the discovery of a Bronze Age rapier, found amongst displaced cairn material ( Gordon and McKinstry 2019 ). This paper discusses the wider context of the find, focussing on the differing strategies employed in rapier deposition, in contrast with those evident amongst finds of later Early Bronze Age daggers. It concludes with the observation that our assumptions regarding the deposition of Early and Middle Bronze Age daggers and rapiers cannot go unquestioned and that the strategies which underpin their deposition may be more complex than can sometimes be assumed.

This report sets out the results of a programme of topographic survey, geophysical survey, field walking and trial excavation, carried out in 1998–99 and funded by Historic Scotland, in and around an extensive upland prehistoric landscape in the Upper Clyde Valley. It was designed to build on the results of limited excavation of a large, late Neolithic enclosure at Blackshouse Burn, South Lanarkshire (NGR: NS 9528 4046) and preliminary survey of nearby monuments undertaken in the 1980s, and to identify and characterize prehistoric settlement in the adjacent valleys through field walking. Topographic survey of the enclosures at Blackshouse Burn, Meadowflatts and Chester Hill, and of hut circles, clearance cairns and a possible ring cairn on Cairngryffe and Swaites Hills, recorded a complex ritual and domestic landscape: evidence of the longstanding prehistoric occupation of the Pettinain Uplands. The geophysical survey of Chester Hill enclosure found traces of internal structures and quarry scoop, while geophysical survey of part of the large Blackshouse Burn monument and smaller adjacent enclosure found evidence for a curvilinear feature in the large enclosure and a possible screen in its entrance. The systematic examination of ploughed fields in the valleys to the west and south-west of the upland monument complex discovered several concentrations of lithics, most notably evidence of late Mesolithic tool production and late Neolithic to early Bronze Age tool production and domestic activity. Trial trenches excavated over a late Mesolithic cluster at Carmichael found a knapping floor and several structural features.

The first season of an on-going project focused on Leskernick Hill, north-west Bodmin Moor, Cornwall, entailed a preliminary settlement survey and limited excavation of a stone row terminal. Leskernick comprises a western and a southern settlement situated on the lower, stony slopes of the hill and including 51 circular stone houses constructed using a variety of building techniques. Walled fields associated with these houses vary in size from 0.25–1 ha and appear to have accreted in a curvilinear fashion from a number of centres. Five smal burial mounds and a cist are associated with the southern settlement, all but one lying around the periphery of the field system. The western settlement includes ‘cairn-like’ piles of stones within and between some houses and some hut circles may have been converted into cairns. The settlements may have been built sequentially but the layout of each adheres to a coherent design suggesting a common broad phase of use. The southern settlement overlooks a stone-free plain containing a ceremonial complex.The paper presents a narrative account of the work and considers not only the form, function, and chronology of the sites at Leskernick but also seeks to explore the relationships between people and the landscape they inhabit; the prehistoric symbolic continuum from house to field to stone row etc, and to investigate the relationship between archaeology as a discourse on the past and archaeology as practice in the present. It considers how the daily process of excavation generates alternative site histories which are subsequently abandoned, forgotten, perpetuated or transformed.

Many American scholars work in Cairo these days. For this reason, we pay more attention to Egyptian history-writing, to the situation of the archives as well as to newly discovered textual sources. I have compiled here a few notes along these lines.Published in late 2004, Mashayna khatti-sirah dhatiyah [Going My Way], (Cairo: Dar al-Hilal, 336 pp.), is an unusual work by the well-known Egyptian historian Raouf Abbas, which sold several thousand copies in days and elicited a number of reviews. The wide interest in this autobiographical work doubtless lies in the controversial subjects it raises and the names it names.

The account of the destruction of the giants in the flood presented in lines 1689b–93 ofBeowulfis probably the commentary of the narrator and not part of the inscription on the hilt. It is addressed to the audience, and it completes our understanding of the significance of Beowulf's victory beneath the mere. Hroðgar's extended gaze at the hilt before he begins his speech is a sign that he is also reaching toward a new understanding of theeotenaswho have plagued his people. Regardless of whether he is able to read the runic inscription on the hilt, he can read the hilt itself against Beowulf's account of his struggle. The presence of the hilt in his hands implies an extensive social nexus for his apparently solitary enemies, who are now revealed as the enemies of God as well. Hroðgar knows nothing of the biblical stories of Cain and Abel or the flood, but his understanding of the meaning of Grendel's attacks now tracks that of the audience fairly closely. Although his “sermon” is not a direct response to the brief account of the flood, this account provides us with a context for understanding his speech.

Public space has been always regarded as a reflection of the social status of the community. Based on this assumption, the challenge for achieving a ‘socially sustainable’ community in Cairo is in need to be re-questioned in relation to the role of public space. Accordingly, the paper explores the role of public-space in maintaining the social sustenance in the extreme ends of Cairo’s social structure, first: the gated communities taking ‘Beverly Hills’ as a prototype, and second the informal areas taking ‘Al-Zahraa’ district a prototype.Keywords: Social sustainability; Neoliberalism; Public spaces; Gated communities.eISSN 2398-4295 © 2018. The Authors. Published for AMER ABRA cE-Bs by e-International Publishing House, Ltd., UK. This is an open-access article under the CC BY-NC-ND license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). Peer–review under responsibility of AMER (Association of Malaysian Environment-Behaviour Researchers), ABRA (Association of Behavioural Researchers on Asians) and cE-Bs (Centre for Environment-Behaviour Studies), Faculty of Architecture, Planning & Surveying, Universiti Teknologi MARA, Malaysia.

The small island of Tuppiap Qeqertaa, formerly known as Tobias Ø or Tobias Island, is situated 80 km off the northeast Greenland coast. The island was discovered in 1993 and is approximately 2 km long and 1.5 km wide. Most of the island is covered by an ice cap that rises to 35 m above sea level, as determined by airborne laser scanning. High-quality geodetic GPS measurements determine the position of a small cairn erected on the island to 79°20′34.48′′ N, 15°46′31.23′′ W. Minor parts of the island are ice free, with small hills of gravel. Late Holocene shells of marine bivalves have been found and were presumably brought up by ice floe push. Shell fragments of southern extralimital marine invertebrates point to the presence of pre-Holocene deposits. Three species of moss are the only land plants that have been found on the island.

Recent investigations at Stonehenge have been accompanied by new research on the origin of the famous ‘bluestones’, a mixed assemblage of rhyolites and dolerites that stand among the much taller sarsens. Some of the rhyolite debitage has been traced to a quarry site at Craig Rhosyfelin near the Pembrokeshire coast; but fieldwork on the upland outcrops of Carn Menyn has also provided evidence for dolerite extraction in the later third millennium BC, and for the production of pillar-like blocks that resemble the Stonehenge bluestones in shape and size. Quarrying at Carn Menyn began much earlier, however, during the seventh millennium BC, suggesting that Mesolithic communities were the first to exploit the geology of this remote upland location.

Rangia des Moulins, 1832 is a small genus of mactrid bivalves that is currently distributed in estuarine waters of the eastern United States, Gulf of Mexico, and Gulf of California (Keen, 1971; Abbott, 1974). (One congener, R. cuneata [Sowerby, 1831], was recently introduced to the Antwerp (Belgium) harbor [Verween et al., 2006].) Although these clams are euryhaline and capable of living in freshwater as adults, they require an estuarine-like salinity regime for successful reproduction and recruitment (Cain, 1973; Hopkins et al., 1974), which has constrained their ability to penetrate the North American continental interior through coastal drainages (Cain, 1974; Swingle and Brand, 1974). the Neogene and Quaternary fossil record of the genus is also restricted to coastal or near-coastal marine-influenced depositional systems, with the exception of Holocene specimens of R. cuneata from two archeological sites in the central United States which were obviously introduced by humans (Baker, 1941; Hill, 1983), and a Pleistocene(?) occurrence of this species from along the Pecos River in New Mexico (more than 800 km from the sea) which has been attributed to transport of Gulf Coast immigrants on waterfowl (Metcalf, 1980; Taylor, 1985). Here we provide fossil evidence that the biogeographic history of this predominantly brackish-coastal genus also includes avian-assisted colonization of a far inland lake in the western United States—Pleistocene Lake Russell, Mono Basin, California (Fig. 1).

Queen's Park in Maryborough is one of many public gardens established in the nineteenth century in Queensland: in Brisbane, Ipswich, Toowoomba, Warwick, Rockhampton, Mackay, Townsville, Cairns and Cooktown. They were created primarily as places of horticultural experimentation, as well as for recreational purposes. They formed a local area network, with the Brisbane Botanic Garden and the Government Botanist, Walter Hill, at the centre – at least in the 1870s. From here, the links extended to other botanic gardens in Australia, and beyond Australia to the British colonial network managed through the Royal Botanic Gardens (RBG), Kew. It was an informal network, supplying a knowledge of basic economic botany that founded many tropical agricultural industries and also provided much-needed recreational, educational and inspirational opportunities for colonial newcomers and residents. The story of these parks, from the time when they were first set aside as public reserves by the government surveyors to the present day, is central to the history of urban planning in regional centres. This article provides a statewide overview together with a more in-depth examination of Maryborough's own historic Queen's Park.

The Cairo-Suez Province (CSP) is one of the highly deformed settings in northern Egypt that includes a complex structures and drainage network. The scope of this paper is to present the results of investigation as how far can geological structures control and/or affect the distribution of drainage networks based on insights from several selected sites along CSP. High resolution satellite images are used with field extracted structural data in order to clarify the structural setting of the studies areas. Moreover, hill shaded digital elevation maps (DEMs) are set up for the studied sites in order to compare the structural features with the resulted structural maps. Additionally, GIS based tools are used for extracting drainage network from DEMs. Trend analysis is used for comparing the drainage network to the main resulted structural elements. As a result, nine different structural models are suggested to control the drainage pattern along CSP. These models are placed under main three structural categories which are; simple fault(s), linked faults and fault-related folds. Additionally, the resulted structural models show main controls on sedimentation as well as groundwater accumulation. The findings of the research are helpful as preliminary step for groundwater studies, sedimentation, and geo-hazard assessment.

Jeffrey Nedoroscik's book is a sensitive sociological survey of life in Cairo's City of the Dead, where more than 500,000 people are now enlisted to reside. In an attempt to both demystify and account for this phenomenon, Nedoroscik argues that life in the City of the Dead is as old, and as rich, as life in Cairo itself. Today, residence in and among the family tombs stretching across some five square miles at the base of the muqattam Hills, constitutes an informal housing sector that has developed as a response to Cairo's severe housing crisis. Historically, though, the cemetery also teemed with life as a religious center housing some of the Muslim world's most important monuments, and a site of temporary and permanent shelter to relatives to the deceased, guardians of tombs, itinerants, the poor, the sick, Sufis, and other religious leaders.

Cancer and Clinical Oncology wishes to acknowledge the following individuals for their assistance with peer review of manuscripts for this issue. Their help and contributions in maintaining the quality of the journal is greatly appreciated. Cancer and Clinical Oncology is recruiting reviewers for the journal. If you are interested in becoming a reviewer, we welcome you to join us. Please find the application form and details at http://www.ccsenet.org/reviewer and e-mail the completed application form to cco@ccsenet.org. Reviewers for Volume 7, Number 2 Aditya R Bele, University of Florida, USA Anand Kumar, Banaras Hindu University, India Chandra Sekhar Bathula, Washington State University, USA Dhaarini Murugan, Oregon Health and Science University, USA Hua Wang, Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, China Juan Luis Callejas Valera, UCSD/Moores Cancer Center, United States Kartik Anand, Houston Methodist Cancer Center, USA Kaushik Thakkar, Stanford University, USA Manal Mehibel, Stanford University, USA Mark G Trombetta, Drexel University College of Medicine, USA Mona Mostafa Mohamed, Cairo University, Egypt Rajesh Kumar, Cancer Center MGH/Harvard Medical School, USA Sunil Kumar, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, USA Wright Jacob, University of Glasgow, United Kingdom Xi Yang, Stanford University, USA

Pembengkakan payudara merupakan salah satu masalah dalam proses menyusui yang sering dialami ibu postpartum. Di Indonesia angka kejadian pembengkakan 55% dari seluruh ibu postpartum. Salah satu cara untuk mengurangi pembengkakan payudara yaitu dengan melakukan kompres daun kol. Hal ini efektif karena kubis mempunyai sifat antibiotik dan anti-inflamasi karena kandungan sinigrin (Allylisothiocyanate), rapine, minyak mustard, magnesium, dan sulfur yang dapat membantu memperlebar pembuluh darah kapiler, sehingga meningkatkan aliran darah untuk keluar masuk dari daerah tersebut, dan memungkinkan tubuh untuk menyerap kembali cairan yang terbendung dalam payudara tersebut. Penelitian ini bertujuan melakukan efektifitas kompres daun kol terhadap pengurangan pembengkakan payudara pada ibu post partum. Disamping itu untuk mengetahui pembengkakan pada payudara sebelum dan sesudah dilakukan kompres daun kol. Penelitian ini menggunakan metode deskriptif analitik. Penelitian ini dilakukan pada ibu postpartum yang mengalami pembengkakan payudara. Pembengkakan payudara diukur menggunakan skala engorgement menurut Hill dan Humenick dalam whittlestone denagn menggunakan Uji Paired T Test. Setelah melakukan perlakuan pada 30 orang, menunjukkan bahwa efektivitas pemberian kompres daun kubis (brassica oleracea) terhadap skala pembengkakan payudara pada ibu post partum dapat dilihat dari penurunan pembengkakan payudara sebelum diberikan kompres daun kubis (brassica oleracea) yaitu skala 5, sesudah diberikan kompres daun kubis (brassica oleracea) pembengkakan payudara menjadi skala 2 dengan p-value 0,000 ( = 0,05). Kompres daun kol (brassica oleracea) dapat digunakan sebagai terapi untuk menurunkan skala pembengkakan dan mencegah terjadinya pembengkakan payudara pada ibu post partum.

This study aimed to: (1) determine the effect of the interaction between liquid biofertilizer and plant spacing on growth and yield of peanut (Arachis hypogea L.) varieties Talam 1, (2) determine the concentration of liquid biofertilizer that gives effect the best on the growth and yield of peanut (Arachis hypogea L.) varieties Talam 1, and (3) determine the relationship between growth and yield components of peanut (Arachis hypogea L.) varieties Talam 1. The experiment was conducted from April until July 2018 at Sangkanurip Village, Cigandamekar District, Kuningan Regency. Located at a hight of 434,2 m above sea level.The method used in this study is the experimental method. The experimental design used was a randomized block design (RBD) factorial. The study consisted of two treatment factors, is the dose of biofertilizer concentration and the plant spacing repeated three times. The first factor, namely the concentration liquid biofertilizer consists of four levels, namely: K1 (concentration 0 ml / 1 liter of water) K2 (concentration 5 ml / 1 liter of water) K3 (concentration 10 ml / 1 liter of water) K4 (concentration 15 ml / 1 liter of water). The second factor is a spacing (J) consists of three levels, namely: J1 (30 x 15 cm), J2 (30 x 20 cm), and J3 (30 x 25 cm).The results showed that: (1) there is an interaction between liquid biofertilizer and plant spacing on plant height DAP age 41, fresh pods weight per hill, and the weight of dry pods per plot, (2) The treatment of concentration 10 ml / 1 liter of water (K3) and a spacing of 30 x 20 cm (J2) showed the best effect on the weight of dry pods each plot which produces 1.43 kg/plot, equivalent to the average yield of 2,33 tons / ha, with assuming 80% effective field, (3) there is a significant correlation between plant height age 31, 41 DAP, number of leaves age 21, 41 DAP, leaf area index, and root volume with the weight of dry pods for each plot.

This experience aims to result the influence of cow manure and liquid organic fertilizer Super Natural Nutrition as well as their interaction and the resulting growth of land cress plant and obtain dosage of the cow manure and concentration of liquid organic fertilizer super natural nutrition is right to land cress plant.The research was carried out for two months, from lateMaret 2016 to Mei 2016.From land preparation until crops.The location of the research in Mekar Jaya village, SebuluSubdistric and Kutai Kartanegara regency, East Kalimantan Province.Experiment design using a factorial 4 x 4 in a random design group (RAK), with consists of two factors experiment and three group. The first factors is the cow manure (P)this research consists of 4 levels : without cow manureorcontrol (p0), 5 ton/ha cow manureis equel to320 g/plot (p1), 10 ton/ha cow manure is equel to640 g/plot (p2), and 15ton/ha cow manure is equel to960 g/plot (p3). The secondfactors is theconsentrationof liquid organic fertilizer super natural nutrition (N)consists of 4 levels : without liquid organic fertilizer super natural nutrition(n0), theconsentrationof liquid organic fertilizer Super Natural Nutrition 1 ml/l.water (n1),consentrationof liquid organic fertilizer Super Natural Nutrition 2 ml/l.water (n2) and thenconsentrationof liquid organic fertilizer Super Natural Nutrition 3 ml/l.water (n3).The result showed that cow manure treatment (P) is significant effect plant height at 10 days after planting. The very significant effect plant height age at 20 days and 30 days after planting.Number of tilers for hill and weight of the crop per plant. The highest treatment weight of the crop per plant is p3 (dosage cow manure 15 ton/ha equel 960 g/plot) is 69,32 g/plant and the lowest weight of the fresh plant in the treatment of p0 without cow manure or control is 40,00 g/plant.Treatmentof liquid organic fertilizer Super Natural Nutrition (N) does not significant effect with number of tilers for hill. The Significanlyt effect plant height at 10 days after planting.Very significantly effect plant height at 20 days and 30 days after plantingdanweight of the crop per plant.The highesttreatment weight of the crop per plant is n3 (concentrationpupuk organik cair Super Natural Nutrition 3 ml/l.water) is 65,25 g/plant and then The lowest treatment weight of the crop per plant p0 (control treatment), yaitu 46,70 g/plant.

The Mamlūk historical tradition's depiction of al-Ḥākim bi-Amr Allah (386-411/996-1021), the fifth Caliph of the Fāṭimid dynasty of Egypt (296-556/909-1171), is a contradictory amalgamation of awe, confusion, and horror. Al-Ḥākim assumes effective political power by murdering Barjawān, his guardian and tutor, who was pivotal to securing the young Caliph's succession in the face of powerful military opposition. Then we are witness to al-Ḥākim's steady decline into a kind of psychosis or madness. He sits alone in the candlelight or darkness for years and orders the sūqs (markets) to remain open throughout the night. His policies range from the patently absurd (e.g. banning cobblers from making women's shoes to keep them indoors or the killing of all dogs) to the outright tyrannical (e.g. forcing Jews and Christian to wear ten pound weights around their necks). The sources express horror when recounting al-Ḥākim's sudden killing sprees, but even his greatest critics acknowledge his selfless generosity. Most compilers assert that he proclaimed his own divinity and authorised missionaries to spread this message, while others deny this allegation, pointing towards his persecution of the early Druze. In the end, we are shown al-Ḥākim riding into the hills surrounding Cairo in solitary contemplation only to vanish into thin air.

Princess Kadriye Hüseyin is one of the important figures of Turkish Literature that developed in Egypt. The work of Princess Kadriye Hüseyin, who thinks that people should give importance to moral education and values education in order to protect cultural values and prevent corruption, is taught in a fluent style in Mehâsin-i Hayât. As in the Divan literature within the Turkish litera-ture developing in Egypt; Important figures have also been raised in the field of New Turkish literature. The most important of these personalities is undoubtedly Princess Kadriye Hüseyin. Princess Kadriye was born on January 10, 1888 in Cairo. Princess Kadriye is a member of the Kavalalı Mehmet Ali Pasha family, whose name the Egyptians speak highly of today. This fa-mily dominated Egypt until 1952, when Kavalalı Mehmet Ali Pasha became governor in 1805. Princess Kadriye Hüseyin witnessed the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the liberation struggle of Anatolia. National Struggle in Turkey has neglected its moral and material support. Princess Kadriye Hüseyin "always saw herself as a part of Istanbul" due to her grandmother be-ing from Istanbul. Kadriye Hüseyin, who took part in the establishment and operation activities of the Hilal-i Ahmer Ladies Center, which was established within the Ottoman Hilal-i Ahmer Society, and made material and moral contributions; He wrote articles on life, people, cultural, religious and national values, spirituality, manners and manners with the consciousness of being indigenous, national and well-being. Kadriye Hüseyin has written important works such as Me-hasin-i Hayat, Temevvücât-ı Efkar, Muhadderât-ı Islam, An Important Night, My What, Letters from the Holy Ankara. Princess Kadriye Hüseyin penned the first examples of the essay in the Turkish literature that developed in Egypt, which is defined as the writings that the writer has written in a style that carries the air of speaking to himself, without making definitive judgments and without the need to prove his personal thoughts on any subject he chooses according to his own will. His work named Mehâsin-i Hayat consists of trials. In this study, information about the life, literary personality and works of Princess Kadriye Hüseyin will be given and her work consisting of essays named Mehasin-i Hayat will be introduced.

Framed within an interpretive, humanistic ‘archaeology of inhabitance’, the study explores the means by which a social, intellectual order particular to time and place is embedded within the material universe. Through the mediation of the human body, natural and architectural space is considered to be a medium for the production and reproduction of social relations. The specific materiality of places inhabited in the past is explored in detail, focusing on possibilities for and constraints upon the body and the senses.The phenomenon of monumentality at the Loughcrew passage tomb cemetery in east-central Ireland is considered in the context of changing narratives of place and biographies of person and landscape. In contrast to many previous studies, the focus is upon engagement with the exterior spaces of the complex: the more frequent and larger-scale involvement of the communal body in these ‘public’ spaces will have played a critical role in the validation of knowledges and claims to authority which a more restricted group will have articulated within the confines of tomb chambers and passages.The earlier tombs draw out qualities latent within the landscape, placing particular emphasis on prior, natural boundaries. Through time, the regionalisation of the Loughcrew hills acquires increasing architectural definition, by means of which a series of interconnecting spaces emerge at a much more human scale. The latest architectural and spatial developments may well form part of material strategies through which were engendered particular structures of authority carrying the potential for substantially heightened individual prominence within increasingly exclusive kinship solidarities. Ultimately, mediation between the physical and metaphysical elements of existence may be controlled with reference to distinct lines of descent rather than to a more generalised ancestral community. At the same time, the range of hills is gradually transformed from a meaningful locus which conceals within it the human efforts of monumental construction, to a landscape that derives its significance from massive summit cairns visible from considerable distances. This appropriative transformation may be seen as a material strategy which moves communities' conceptions of existence from an integrated, cultural whole in which people and landscape are embedded in each other, towards a vision of individuals and places as increasingly separate and self-contained.

Jurji Zaydan was born in Beirut, Lebanon on Dec. 14, 1861, into a Greek Orthodox family. Many of his works focused on the Arab Awakening. The journal that he founded, al-Hilal, is still published today. His writings have been translated from Arabic into Persian, Turkish and Urdu as well as English, French and German. By the time he died unexpectedly in Cairo on July 21, 1914, at the age of fifty three, he had already established himself, in a little over twenty years, as one of the most prolific and influential thinkers and writers of the Arab Nahda (Awakening), but also as an educator and intellectual innovator, whose education was not based on traditional or religious learning. Philip Thomas called Zaydan, “the archetypical member of the Arab Nahda at the end of nineteenth century.” Zaydan transformed his society by helping build the Arab media, but he was also an important literary figure, a pioneer of the Arabic novel, and a historian of Islamic civilization. Zaydan was an intellectual who proposed new world view, a new social order, and new political power. Zaydan was the author of twenty-two historical novels covering the entirety of Arab/Islamic history. In these novels Zaydan did not attempt to deal with the history in chronological order, nor did he cover the whole of Islamic history; rather, his purpose was to popularize Islamic history through the medium of fiction. This paper will offer a brief analytical outline of Zaydan’s historical novels and how his critics viewed them.

Per Stam om CAROLINE HAUXFRAMKALLNING. SKRIFT, KONSUMTION OCH SEXUALITET I KARIN BOYES ASTARTE OCH HENRY PARLANDS SÖNDERGöteborg/Stockholm: Makadam, 2013, 359 s. (diss. Stockholm) Sofia Pulls om EVA SÖDERBERG, MIA ÖSTERLUND & BODIL FORMARK (RED.)FLICKTION. PERSPEKTIV PÅ FLICKAN I FIKTIONENMalmö: Universus Academic Press, 2013, 328 s. Johan Alfredsson om MARTIN GLAZ SERUPRELATIONEL POESIOdense: Syddansk Universitetsforlag, 2013, 115 s. Lisbeth Stenberg om MARIA M. BERGLUNDVÄRV OCH VERK. FÖRNYELSE OCH TRADITION I NORDISK KVINNOLITTERATURHISTORIA FRÅN TILLKOMST TILL TRYCKT BOKKarlstad University Studies, 2013:21. Karlstad: Institutionen för språk, litteratur och interkultur, Karlstads universitet, 320 s. (diss. Karlstad) Åsa Arping om EIVIND TJØNNELAND (RED.)KRITIKK FØR 1814. 1700-TALLETS POLITISKE OG LITTERÆRE OFFENTLIGHETOslo: Dreyers forlag, 2014, 639 s. Jesper Olsson om MARKUS HUSSMOTSTÅNDETS AKUSTIK. SPRÅK OCH (O)LJUD HOS PETER WEISS 1946–1960Lund: ellerströms, 2014, 297 s. (diss. Södertörn/Stockholm) Frida Beckman om MAGNUS ULLÉN (RED.)VÅLDSAMMA FANTASIER. STUDIER I FIKTIONSVÅLDETS FUNKTION OCH ATTRAKTIONKulturvetenskapliga skriftserien, 2:2014 Karlstad: Karlstads universitet, 2014, 230 s. Per-Olof Mattsson om CHRISTIAN BERRENBERG”ES IST DEINE PFLICHT ZU BENUTZEN, WAS DU WEIßT!” LITERATUR UND LITERARISCHE PRAKTIKEN IN DER NORWEGISCHEN ARBEITERBEWEGUNG 1900–1931Literarische Praktiken in Skandinavien; 3. Würzburg: Ergon, 2014, 476 s. (diss. Köln) Tilda Maria Forselius om EVA HÆTTNER AURELIUS, HEDDA GUNNENG & JON HELGASON (RED.)WOMEN’S LANGUAGE. AN ANALYSIS OF STYLE AND EXPRESSION IN LETTERS BEFORE 1800Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2012, 260 s. Jennie Nell om PETER LIND”STRUNT ALT HVAD DU ORERAR”. CARL MICHAEL BELLMAN, ORDENSRETORIKEN OCH BACCHI ORDENStudia Rhetorica Upsaliensa 4, red. Otto Fischer, Uppsala: Uppsala universitet, 2014, 322 s. (diss. Uppsala) Marianne Sandels om CARIN FRANZÉNJAG GAV HONOM INTE MIN KÄRLEK. OM HÖVISK KÄRLEK SOM KVINNLIG STRATEGIStockholm: Ersatz, 2012, 174 s. Johannes Björk om MAGNUS NILSSONLITERATURE AND CLASS. AESTHETICAL-POLITICAL STRATEGIES IN MODERN SWEDISH WORKING-CLASS LITERATUREBerlin: Berliner Beiträge zur Skandinavistik Band 21, 2014, 172 s. Hilda Jakobsson om KRISTINA FJELKESTAM, HELENA HILL & DAVID TJEDER (RED.)KVINNORNA GÖR MANNEN. MASKULINITETSKONSTRUKTIONER I KVINNORS TEXT OCH BILD 1500–2000,Göteborg/Stockholm: Makadam, 2013, 351 s. Thomas Götselius om KNUT OVE ELIASSEN, ANNE FASTRUP & TUE ANDERSEN NEXØ (RED.)EUROPEISK LITTERATUR 1500–1800. BIND 1. VERDEN: FRA COLUMBUS TILL NAPOLEONAarhus: Aarhus universitetsforlag, 2013, 260 s.

The aim of this study was to evaluate the body composition, nutrient uptake in mammary gland and milk amino acid profile of lactating Etawah Crossbred goats fed by tempeh by product. Twelve lactating goats were randomly allocated into three groups which fed by ration containing concentrate (R1), concentrate plus 25% fresh tempeh waste (R2) and concentrate plus 25% fermented tempeh waste (R3). Tempeh waste was fermented by Aspergillus niger. Kinggrass was given 50% of the total ration for all groups. Urea space technique was used to measure body composition before and after the experiment was done. Milk production was calculated two times a day during two months after giving birth (postpartum). Total milk protein and amino acid, whey and casein were analyzed by kjeldahl method and amino acid analyzer respectively. Nutrient uptake in mammary gland was calculated base on Fick principles. Result showed that there was significantly different on body weight, but on body water, protein and fat had no significant difference between the treatments. The best milk production was found in fermented tempeh waste group. Concentration of glutamic acid was dominant than other essential amino acids in whole milk and casein but there were no significant difference between groups for those essential amino acid profile. It was concluded that fermented tempeh waste could substitute 50% of total concentrate and had the highest body weight, milk yield and nutrient uptake in the mammary gland of lactating Etawah Crossbred goats. Key words: body composition, fermentation, lactating PE goat, nutrient uptake, tempeh waste DAFTAR PUSTAKA Astuti DA & Sastradipradja D. 1998. Measurement of body composition using slaughter technique and urea-space in local sheep. Indonesian Journal of Veterinary Science. 3: 1-9 Astuti DA & Sastradipradja D. 1999. Evaluation of body composition using urea dilution and slaughter technique of growing Priangan sheep. Media Veteriner. 6 (3) : 5-9. Astuti DA, Sastradipradja D & Sutardi T. 2000. Nutrient balance and glucose metabolism of female growing, late pregnant and lactating ettawah crossbred goats. Asian-Australasian Journal of Animal Sciences. 13:8: 1068-1077 Astuti DA& Wina E. 2002. Protein balance and excreation of purine derivatives in urine of lactating etawah crossbred goats fed with tempe waste. Jurnal Peternakan dan Veteriner. 7(3) : 162-166 Astuti DA, Baba AS & Wibawan IWT. 2011. Rumen fermentation, blood metabolites, and performance of sheep fed tropical browse plants. Media Peternakan. 34 (3) : 201-206 Astuti DA & Sudarman A. 2015. Status fisiologi, profil darah dan komposisi tubuh domba yang diberi minyak lemuru tersaponifikasi dan disalut dengan herbal. Buletin Peternakan. 39 (2): 116-122. Badan Pengendalian Pengendalian Dampak Lingkungan Daerah. 2000. Laporan Pertanggungjawaban Pembangunan Instalasi Pengolahan Limbah Cair Industri Tahu Tempe PRIMKOPTI Ngoto Yogyakarta. Yogyakarta (ID) : Setwilda Propinsi DIY Bishop JM, Hill, DJ, & Hosking CS. 1990. Goat milk does not suppress the immune system. Journal of Pediatrics. 116: 862-867 Bruhn JC, FST & Davis CA. 1999. Dairy goat milk composition. https://drinc.ucdavis.edu/goat-dairy-foods/dairy-goat-milk-composition Cant JP, DePeters EJ & Baldwin RL, 1993. Mammary amino acid utilization in dairy cows fed fat and its relationship to milk protein depression. Journal of Dairy Science. 76 (3) :762-774 Chaiyabutr N, Komolvanich S, Preuksagorn S & Chanpongsang S. 2000. Comparative studies on the utilization of glucose in the mammary gland of crossbred holstein cattle feeding on different types of roughage during different stages of lactation. Asian-Australasian Journal of Animal Sciences. 13 (3): 334 – 347. Laconi EB, & Jayanegara A. 2015. Improving nutritional quality of cocoa pod (theobroma cacao) through chemical and biological treatments for ruminant feeding: in vitro and in vivo evaluation. Asian-Australasian Journal of Animal Sciences Open Access. http://dx.doi.org/10.5713/ajas.13.0798. Lehninger AL. 1982. Principles of Biochemistry. New York (US): Woth Publisher, Inc. NRC. 1990. Nutrient Requirement of Goat. Washington (US): National Academy of Science. Panaretto BA & Till A.R.. 1963. Body compositition in vivo. II. The composition of mature goats and its relationship to the antypyrene, tritiated water and acetyl-4-aminoantipyrene spaces. Australian Journal of Agricultural Research. 14 (6): 926 – 943 Park YW. 1991. Goat milk as a substitute for those who are lactose intolerant. Journal of Dairy Science 74:3326-3333 Riis PM. 1983. Dynamic Biochemistry of Animal Production. New York (US): Elsevier Science Rovanis. 1995. Letters in applied microbiology. Journal of Milk and Food Technology. 20 (3): 164-167 Steel RGD & Torrie JH, 1993. Principles and Procedures of Statistics. New York (US): McGraw Hill Book Co. Inc. Shapiro BA, Harrison RA & Walton JR, 1982. Clinical Application of Blood Gas. 3rd ed. London (UK): Book Medical Publishers, Inc. Waghorn GC & Baldwin, RL. 1984. Model of metabolic flux within mammary gland of the lactating cows. Journal of Dairy Science. 67: 531-544

Abstract Background: Triple-negative breast cancer (TNBC) is an aggressive breast cancer subtype characterized by lack of ER, PR, and Her2. Up to 85% of TNBCs have a p53 mutation as their oncogenic driver. TP53 is a tumor suppressor known as the “guardian of the genome” for its roles in regulating growth and death after genomic insult. Due to this high frequency of p53 mutations in TNBCs, targeting p53 mutants in a clinical setting is highly attractive. However, there are currently no FDA-approved drugs that can directly target p53 mutant TNBCs. We propose pathways exist that, when inhibited, will induce the specific death of p53-mutant breast cancer cells, but not p53-wild type breast cells. To investigate this hypothesis, we performed high-throughput drug screening to identify drugs that induce death in p53-mutant TNBCs. We then characterized the identified drugs for mechanism of death induction and in vivo drug effect. Methods: In vitro and in silico drug screens were conducted with small-molecule libraries of drugs with known protein targets, and screens were integrated and common drugs identified. P53-wild type and mutant cells were treated with identified drugs and stained with DAPI and DRAQ7 to identify growth-suppressive and death-inductive effects. One of these drugs, the GPX4 inhibitor ML-162, was selected for further study. Mechanism of death induction by ML-162 was determined with AnnexinV/PI, caspase cleavage, and ferroptosis assays. To confirm these results, GPX4 was knocked out and replicated the effect of ML-162. To determine the reliance of this phenotype on p53 mutational status, a series of inducible p53-mutant cell lines were created in ER+ and TNBC cell lines and then treated with small molecule inhibitors. ML-162 in vivo effect was demonstrated by treating p53-mutant TNBC xenografts in nude mice. Results: Integration of in vitro and in silico screens identified 6 common drugs, representing cell cycle inhibitors, cell division inhibitors, a proteasome inhibitor, and a peroxidase inhibitor. Identified drugs were demonstrated to reduce growth or induce death of p53-mutant TNBC cell lines. The GPX4 inhibitor ML-162 was further characterized, and found to induce death through ferroptosis, and not apoptosis or necroptosis. GPX4 knockout in p53-mutant TNBC cell lines induced ferroptosis and can be blocked with an anti-ferroptosis drug. Inducible p53-mutations in ER+ and TNBC cell lines were treated with ML-162. P53 mutations in TNBC, and not ER+, cell lines showed increased sensitivity to ML-162. To demonstrate in vivo effect of ML-162, TNBC cell line xenografts were grown in nude mice and treated with ML-162. This treatment significantly reduced tumor volume and also induced lipid peroxidation, a hallmark of ferroptosis. Conclusion: Our high-throughput screening demonstrated several of the identified drugs suppress growth or induce death preferentially in p53-mutant breast cancers. One of these drugs, ML-162, induces death of p53-mutant triple-negative breast cancer cells through induction of ferroptosis, both in vitro and in vivo. These studies provide the basic science foundation to further develop ferroptosis inducers for the targeted treatment of p53-mutant breast cancers. This work was funded by the John Charles Cain Endowment. Citation Format: William M Tahaney, Jing Qian, Reid Powell, Cassandra L Moyer, Yanxia Ma, Nghi Nguyen, Jamal Hill, Clifford Stephan, Abhijit Mazumdar, Peter JA Davies, Powel H Brown. Inhibition of GPX4 induces preferential death of p53-mutant triple-negative breast cancer cells [abstract]. In: Proceedings of the 2021 San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium; 2021 Dec 7-10; San Antonio, TX. Philadelphia (PA): AACR; Cancer Res 2022;82(4 Suppl):Abstract nr GS1-09.

The Australian endemic humicolous and hygropetric water beetle genus Tympanogaster Perkins, 1979, is revised, based on the study of 7,280 specimens. The genus is redescribed, and redescriptions are provided for T. cornuta (Janssens), T. costata (Deane), T. deanei Perkins, T. macrognatha (Lea), T. novicia (Blackburn), T. obcordata (Deane), T. schizolabra (Deane), and T. subcostata (Deane). Lectotypes are designated for Ochthebius labratus Deane, 1933, and Ochthebius macrognathus Lea, 1926. Ochthebius labratus Deane, 1933, is synonymized with Ochthebius novicius Blackburn, 1896. Three new subgenera are described: Hygrotympanogaster new subgenus (type species Tympanogaster (Hygrotympanogaster) maureenae new species; Topotympanogaster new subgenus (type species Tympanogaster (Topotympanogaster) crista new species; and Plesiotympanogaster new genus (type species Tympanogaster (Plesiotympanogaster) thayerae new species. Seventy-six new species are described, and keys to the subgenera, species groups, and species are given. High resolution digital images of all primary types are presented (online version in color), and geographic distributions are mapped. Male genitalia, representative spermathecae and representative mouthparts are illustrated. Scanning electron micrographs of external morphological characters of adults and larvae are presented. Selected morphological features of the other members of the subtribe Meropathina, Meropathus Enderlein and Tympallopatrum Perkins, are illustrated and compared with those of Tympanogaster. Species of Tympanogaster are typically found in the relict rainforest patches in eastern Australia. Most species have very limited distributions, and relict rainforest patches often have more than one endemic species. The only species currently known from the arid center of Australia, T. novicia, has the widest distribution pattern, ranging into eastern rainforest patches. There is a fairly close correspondence between subgenera and microhabitat preferences. Members of Tympanogaster (s. str.) live in the splash zone, usually on stream boulders, or on bedrock stream margins. The majority of T. (Hygrotympanogaster) species live in the hygropetric zone at the margins of waterfalls, or on steep rockfaces where water is continually trickling; a few rare species have been collected from moss in Nothofagus rainforests. Species of T. (Plesiotympanogaster) have been found in both hygropetric microhabitats and in streamside moss. The exact microhabitats of T. (Topotympanogaster) are unknown, but the morphology of most species suggests non-aquatic habits; most specimens have been collected in humicolous microhabitats, by sifting rainforest debris, or were taken in flight intercept traps. Larvae of hygropetric species are often collected with adults. These larvae have tube-like, dorsally positioned, mesothoracic spiracles that allow the larvae to breathe while under a thin film of water. The key morphological differences between larvae of Tympanogaster (s. str.) and those of Tympanogaster (Hygrotympanogaster) are illustrated. New species of Tympanogaster are: T. (s. str.) aldinga (New South Wales, Dorrigo National Park, Rosewood Creek), T. (s. str.) amaroo (New South Wales, Back Creek, downstream of Moffatt Falls), T. (s. str.) ambigua (Queensland, Cairns), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) arcuata (New South Wales, Kara Creek, 13 km NEbyE of Jindabyne), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) atroargenta (Victoria, Possum Hollow falls, West branch Tarwin River, 5.6 km SSW Allambee), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) barronensis (Queensland, Barron Falls, Kuranda), T. (s. str.) bluensis (New South Wales, Blue Mountains), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) bondi (New South Wales, Bondi Heights), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) bryosa (New South Wales, New England National Park), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) buffalo (Victoria, Mount Buffalo National Park), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) canobolas (New South Wales, Mount Canobolas Park), T. (s. str.) cardwellensis (Queensland, Cardwell Range, Goddard Creek), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) cascadensis (New South Wales, Cascades Campsite, on Tuross River), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) clandestina (Victoria, Grampians National Park, Golton Gorge, 7.0 km W Dadswells Bridge), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) clypeata (Victoria, Grampians National Park, Golton Gorge, 7.0 km W Dadswells Bridge), T. (s. str.) cooloogatta (New South Wales, New England National Park, Five Day Creek), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) coopacambra (Victoria, Beehive Falls, ~2 km E of Cann Valley Highway on 'WB Line'), T. (Topotympanogaster) crista (Queensland, Mount Cleveland summit), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) cudgee (New South Wales, New England National Park, 0.8 km S of Pk. Gate), T. (s. str.) cunninghamensis (Queensland, Main Range National Park, Cunningham's Gap, Gap Creek), T. (s. str.) darlingtoni (New South Wales, Barrington Tops), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) decepta (Victoria, Mount Buffalo National Park), T. (s. str.) dingabledinga (New South Wales, Dorrigo National Park, Rosewood Creek, upstream from Coachwood Falls), T. (s. str.) dorrigoensis (New South Wales, Dorrigo National Park, Rosewood Creek, upstream from Coachwood Falls), T. (Topotympanogaster) dorsa (Queensland, Windin Falls, NW Mount Bartle-Frere), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) duobifida (Victoria, 0.25 km E Binns, Hill Junction, adjacent to Jeeralang West Road, 4.0 km S Jeerelang), T. (s. str.) eungella (Queensland, Finch Hatton Gorge), T. (Topotympanogaster) finniganensis (Queensland, Mount Finnigan summit), T. (s. str.) foveova (New South Wales, Border Ranges National Park, Brindle Creek), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) grampians (Victoria, Grampians National Park, Epacris Falls, 2.5 km WNW Halls Gap), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) gushi (New South Wales, Mount Canobolas Park), T. (s. str.) hypipamee (Queensland, Mount Hypipamee National Park, Barron River headwaters below Dinner Falls), T. (s. str.) illawarra (New South Wales, Macquarie Rivulet Falls, near Wollongong), T. (Topotympanogaster) intricata (Queensland, Mossman Bluff Track, 5–10 km W Mossman), T. (s. str.) jaechi (Queensland, Running Creek, along road between Mount Chinghee National Park and Border Ranges National Park), T. (Topotympanogaster) juga (Queensland, Mount Lewis summit), T. kuranda (Queensland, Barron Falls, Kuranda), T. (s. str.) lamingtonensis (Queensland, Lamington National Park, Lightening Creek), T. (s. str.) magarra (New South Wales, Border Ranges National Park, Brindle Creek), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) maureenae (New South Wales, Back Creek, Moffatt Falls, ca. 5 km W New England National Park boundary), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) megamorpha (Victoria, Possum Hollow falls, W br. Tarwin River, 5.6 km SSW Allambee), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) merrijig (Victoria, Merrijig), T. (s. str.) millaamillaa (Queensland, Millaa Millaa), T. modulatrix (Victoria, Talbot Creek at Thomson Valley Road, 4.25 km WSW Beardmore), T. (Topotympanogaster) monteithi (Queensland, Mount Bartle Frere), T. moondarra (New South Wales, Border Ranges National Park, Brindle Creek), T. (s. str.) mysteriosa (Queensland), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) nargun (Victoria, Deadcock Den, on Den of Nargun Creek, Mitchell River National Park), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) newtoni (Victoria, Mount Buffalo National Park), T. (s. str.) ovipennis (New South Wales, Dorrigo National Park, Rosewood Creek, upstream from Coachwood Falls), T. (s. str.) pagetae (New South Wales, Back Creek, downstream of Moffatt Falls), T. (Topotympanogaster) parallela (Queensland, Mossman Bluff Track, 5–10 km W Mossman), T. (s. str.) perpendicula (Queensland, Mossman Bluff Track, 5–10 km W Mossman), T. plana (Queensland, Cape Tribulation), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) porchi (Victoria, Tarra-Bulga National Park, Tarra Valley Road, 1.5 km SE Tarra Falls), T. (s. str.) precariosa (New South Wales, Leycester Creek, 4 km. S of Border Ranges National Park), T. (s. str.) protecta (New South Wales, Leycester Creek, 4 km. S of Border Ranges National Park), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) punctata (Victoria, Mount Buffalo National Park, Eurobin Creek), T. (s. str.) ravenshoensis (Queensland, Ravenshoe State Forest, Charmillan Creek, 12 km SE Ravenshoe), T. (s. str.) robinae (New South Wales, Back Creek, downstream of Moffatt Falls), T. (s. str.) serrata (Queensland, Natural Bridge National Park, Cave Creek), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) spicerensis (Queensland, Spicer’s Peak summit), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) storeyi (Queensland, Windsor Tableland), T. (Topotympanogaster) summa (Queensland, Mount Elliott summit), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) tabula (New South Wales, Mount Canobolas Park), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) tallawarra (New South Wales, Dorrigo National Park, Rosewood Creek, Cedar Falls), T. (s. str.) tenax (New South Wales, Salisbury), T. (Plesiotympanogaster) thayerae (Tasmania, Liffey Forest Reserve at Liffey River), T. (s. str.) tora (Queensland, Palmerston National Park), T. trilineata (New South Wales, Sydney), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) truncata (Queensland, Tambourine Mountain), T. (s. str.) volata (Queensland, Palmerston National Park, Learmouth Creek, ca. 14 km SE Millaa Millaa), T. (Hygrotympanogaster) wahroonga (New South Wales, Wahroonga), T. (s. str.) wattsi (New South Wales, Blicks River near Dundurrabin), T. (s. str.) weiri (New South Wales, Allyn River, Chichester State Forest), T. (s. str.) wooloomgabba (New South Wales, New England National Park, Five Day Creek).

Newgrange and the white wall Newgrange, 50 km north of Dublin, receives 200,000 visitors annually and is probably the most famous and most visited passage grave in the world (Figs. 1-2). It was constructed around 3400 BC.The fact that the huge mound contained a passage grave was not revealed until 1699. In 1870, a deep ditch was dug all the way around the mound in order to let the kerbstones and their ornamentation be seen more clearly, and a stone wall was built on top of the border stones to prevent the earth of the mound from sliding into the ditch (Fig. 3). In the course of time, the mound was increasingly worn down, and some of the large stones in the chamber and passage became unstable. This was a major problem because of the many visitors. Representatives of the Irish state, which had acquired Newgrange, therefore decided to have the mound renovated, and a committee was established for this purpose. This committee in turn asked Professor Michael J O’Kelly to head an investigation and restoration of the monument. Between 1962 and 1975 O’Kelly and his team spent four years of fieldwork investigating Newgrange. The committee had specified one of the tasks as being to restore the natural sloping surface of the mound. However, the project turned out differently. Once O’Kelly had investigated the structure of the mound and observed, at several points, the layer sequence in the mound-filling that had subsided, he came up with the provocative idea that Newgrange had looked completely different from the common conception of its structure.In 1982, Michael O’Kelly published his investigations and described the context of the restoration in the book “Newgrange. Archaeology, Art and Legend”. The layer sequence of the mound just east of the entrance can be seen in the profile illustrated in Fig. 4. The mound filling mainly consists of loose stones, divided by layers of turf. O’Kelly thought that all the mound’s layers were contemporary. Outside the kerbstone numbered K95 both the subsided earth and a culture layer deposited by a Beaker-settlement around 2300 BC are visible. A “quartz/granite layer” with large amounts of small white quartz pieces was found in a wide belt outside the kerbstones. Outside the kerbstones this layer could be followed across a 105-metre long stretch (i.e. 43% of the mound’s circumference) in a width of 6-7 metres. According to O’Kelly, this layer had originally covered the front of a 3-metre tall retaining wall on top of the kerbstones on both sides of the entrance. However, the wall had been unable to withstand the pressure from the mound and had eventually given way and tipped over. Consequently, Newgrange had had a totally different appearance during the Stone Age: “Stone walls are necessary where the mound is built of loose stones, but a turf wall would be quite adequate and completely effective where the mound is built of turves or soil. It may be, therefore, that the majority of passage-grave mounds had an original drum-like appearance and were not at all the gently sloping rounded mounds which we see in varying states of collapse to-day. Newgrange was such until excavation revealed that it had the revetment wall which has now been restored.”Consequently, O’Kelly had a concrete wall built, which was covered by the quartz (Fig. 5). The passage and the chamber were embedded in concrete. The entrance of the passage grave was completely altered in order to facilitate access for the many visitors. This area of the wall was covered with dark stones (Fig. 6) to underline the fact that this was not the original appearance. Newgrange had again become an impressive monument, and many visitors find it spectacular (Fig. 1). And spectacular it is – almost too spectacular! In 1982, John Michell commented on the newly restored Newgrange: “New Grange [has been] transformed in recent years into an archaeological show-site after undergoing drastic excavations … Only a few years ago New Grange was scientifically dug into, many of its interior and other stones were disturbed, and the reconstructed model, now curiously faced with a layer of ornamental pebble-dash of quartz and boulders to represent someone’s theory of how it originally looked, lets in rain through the roof for the first time in history.” Others have observed that as there was no concrete in the Stone Age, the wall could not have been as vertical as it is now. The Loughcrew-field with its more than 30 passage graves was discovered and investigated during the 1860s by Eugene A. Conwell. Here it suffices to take note of the description of the two largest and best-preserved mounds, Mound L and Mound T, as these two mounds are important for understanding the original layout of Newgrange. “L is forty-five yards in diameter, surrounded by 42 large stones, laid lengthwise on their edges, and varying from six to twelve feet in length, and from four to five feet high. Great quantities of the loose stones which formed the apex of this carn have been removed, of which there are very visible evidences.” (Fig. 7). On Mound T – to which he has given the much more interesting name of “the Tomb of Ollamh Fodhla” after a legendary Irish king – Eugene Conwell writes: “The original shape of this carn still remains comparatively perfect, consisting of a conical mound of loose stones … It is thirty-eight and one-half yards in diameter at the base, having an elevation of twenty-one paces in slant-height from base to summit. A retaining wall, consisting of thirty-seven large flags [kerbstones] laid on edge, and varying in length from six to twelve feet, surrounds the base externally … Inside the retaining wall of large flag stones, as far as was examined, and, apparently, going all round the base of the carn, was piled up a layer, rising from three to four feet in height, and about two feet in thickness, of broken lumps of sparkling native Irish quartz …” (Fig. 8).At Loughcrew T, Eugene Conwell noticed that the white quartz had been arranged like a collar a little up the hillside, just inside the row of kerbstones. Apparently, this was a common feature of many of the mounds at Loughcrew, because the ridge with the many mounds is also called Carnbane, which is Irish for “the white mounds.” When I saw Loughcrew L and T in 1999, I realised that this could have been what Newgrange used to look like. Newgrange had changed a lot in the course of time; it had to contain several phases, just like the Irish passage graves of Baltinglass Hill and Newgrange site K (Fig. 9).Knowth is situated less than 2 kilometres from Newgrange. In a number of ways, the two Neolithic barrows are identical. Professor George Eogan carried out the investigation of Knowth, which began in 1962, the same year that Michael O’Kelly started investigating Newgrange. In Knowth, there are two passage grave chambers, one with a passage towards the west, the other with a passage towards the east. Outside and on either side of the passages’ entrances in front of the chain of kerbstones are large areas sprinkled with what Eogan calls “exotic stones”, such as white quartz. Eogan suggests that these layers may have something to do with the site of the mound: “However, excavation has not produced enough evidence wholly to confirm this theory, and we cannot rule out the likelihood that this spread, or at least its lower part, was a deliberately laid feature.” In addition, he continues: “The spread of exotic stones may also have played a role in the suggested ceremonies. They could have embellished the edge of the mound as a background for the ceremonies … After the ceremonies the stones might have been spread, a ‘cloth’ to protect and emphasize the ceremonial, possibly altar, area; it may be noted that the exotic stones occur on the old ground surface.”Similarly, some Danish dolmens and passage graves have areas of white stones along the mound side and in front of the entrances. In these cases, the stones are white-burnt flint and not quartz. Such a layer was found at the passage grave of Kong Svends Høj (King Svend’s Mound), and it has been interpreted as a sacrificial layer. The white-burnt flint may also have been arranged as a collar a little up the hillside, just as Conwell interpreted the quartz arrangement at Loughcrew T.O’Kelly thought that the quartz had been arranged in a three-metre tall wall on top of the kerbstones at Newgrange. Today, it is difficult to interpret the profile in Fig. 4 in this way, because that would imply that the wall had been pressed outwards all at once in its whole length, like a gate falling forward so that it is stretched flat on the ground with its entire height. If the wall really existed, it would more likely have collapsed gradually, and the fallen granite and quartz would have piled up in a heap just in front of the kerbstones. The quartz and granite would not have ended so far from the edge as they in fact did. The appearance of Dowth, the third Neolithic barrow by the Bend of Boyne, also contradicts O’Kelly’s collapse theory. Although Dowth is taller and so has a steeper hillside than Newgrange and Knowth, its kerbstones were not hidden by fallen stones.Usually, burial mounds consist of two or more phases, and the mounds are extended successively. The Neolithic mounds may also have several phases. It is less well known that dolmens and passage graves may also have more phases. In Denmark it is possible, in broad outline, to distinguish five steps (Fig. 10).If we take another look at the Newgrange profile, we are able to identify several possible phases (Fig. 11). If at the same time we take into consideration that the turf layers may not have been laid by humans but may instead be natural vegetation layers, this would support the idea of a gradual change in Newgrange’s appearance during the prehistoric era. Here, just as in nature, the vegetation side of the turf layers is turned upwards and not downwards, whereas the vegetation side would usually be turned downwards in turf-built mounds. Phase 1: The foot of the mound is marked by a small stone wall, situated 6.5 metres from the present kerbstones. If the kerbstones were present, phase 1 would belong to step C. However, it is more likely that the mound had no kerbstones at this early stage. Just 12 kilometres from Newgrange is the passage grave of Fourknocks I, which was investigated in 1950. It had no kerbstones, but the foot of the mound was marked by a low stone wall (Fig. 12). Moreover, it is possible that Newgrange had an even older phase, because the passage has a peculiar bend half way along its length, which may indicate the original foot of the mound.Phase 2: The distance between the foot of the mound and the kerbstones is reduced to just under 2.5 metres. Step C. Between the mound and the kerbstones was an open area, perhaps a forecourt, which may have been used for cult ceremonies and processions. Such an open area would explain why many of the kerbstones also are ornamented on the inside.Phase 3: If the complete stone layer between turf layers T2-3 and T3-4 is interpreted as one single phase, the kerbstones would have been hidden, and we would be dealing with a step E mound. More likely there are two phases in this layer, so that the surface of phase 3a was in line with the top of the kerbstones, corresponding to a step D mound – the classical passage grave mound such as Loughcrew T and perhaps Knowth. If in fact there were a phase 3a, phase 3b would belong to a step E mound.Phase 4: This phase also belongs to a step E mound. However, the layer may also have been created by material that had slid down from the upper part of the mound.When the mound was enlarged from phase 1 to phase 3a, the passage may have been lengthened by adding the outer three pairs of passage orthostats. This is indicated by the fact that these three stones are taller than the neighbouring stones in the passage, as opposed to the usual case in passage graves, where the heights of the orthostats in the passage decrease towards the outside (Fig. 13). These three pairs of stones also differ in having an unusually large distance between the third and fourth supporting stones on the northern side of the passage – exactly where a pos­sible earlier termination of the passage would have been. The present exit of the light channel in the side of the mound above the entrance was constructed when the passage was extended. The light channel already existed – it was just extended. Passages in other Irish passage graves have been extended – for instance, at Newgrange Site K (Fig. 9), which is situated a mere 100 metres from Newgrange.Whether this theory of several phases at Newgrange is correct could be confirmed or rejected by new C-14 datings. At first it would suffice to have the top layers analysed. They are rather easily accessible. One of the turf layers was previously dated to 300 AD.Around the mound of Newgrange, twelve large stones are situated at a distance of 7 to 17 metres from the mound’s kerbstones (Fig. 1). These stones can be inscribed in a large circle surrounding the mound. O’Kelly thought that such a stone circle would originally have consisted of 35-38 stones at a distance from each other of 7-9 metres. However, it is much more likely that the preserved stones towards the southeast indicate the Stone Age appearance of the large circle. Thus, there may have been 19 stones surrounding the mound (Fig. 14). The non-typical location of stone 2 also has to be taken into consideration.Michael O’Kelly knew that his restoration of Newgrange was not popular with everyone. He used to speak ironically of his opponents by saying that they wished themselves back to the romantic days when cattle were grazing on the mound, and the passage and chamber were lit by candles (Fig. 15). However, his radical and faulty restoration of Newgrange quite needlessly continued the tradition of the early 20th century, when it was popular for restorers to tear down medieval churches and castles and rebuild them largely according to their own taste. At the beginning of his book on Newgrange, Michael O’Kelly quoted one of his predecessors, E.P. Wright, who in 1900 had said: “To be a restorer of ancient monuments one should be sheltered by a triple coat of brass, but even a repairer of such required a coat of mail.”May this small comment on Newgrange help to punch a hole in Michael O’Kelly’s armour and in the hideous white wall of Newgrange!Palle EriksenRingkøbing MuseumTranslated by Annette Lerche Trolle

Rapid urbanization rates impact significantly on the nature of Land Cover patterns of the environment, which has been evident in the depletion of vegetal reserves and in general modifying the human climatic systems (Henderson, et al., 2017; Kumar, Masago, Mishra, & Fukushi, 2018; Luo and Lau, 2017). This study explores remote sensing classification technique and other auxiliary data to determine LULCC for a period of 50 years (1967-2016). The LULCC types identified were quantitatively evaluated using the change detection approach from results of maximum likelihood classification algorithm in GIS. Accuracy assessment results were evaluated and found to be between 56 to 98 percent of the LULC classification. The change detection analysis revealed change in the LULC types in Minna from 1976 to 2016. Built-up area increases from 74.82ha in 1976 to 116.58ha in 2016. Farmlands increased from 2.23 ha to 46.45ha and bared surface increases from 120.00ha to 161.31ha between 1976 to 2016 resulting to decline in vegetation, water body, and wetlands. The Decade of rapid urbanization was found to coincide with the period of increased Public Private Partnership Agreement (PPPA). Increase in farmlands was due to the adoption of urban agriculture which has influence on food security and the environmental sustainability. The observed increase in built up areas, farmlands and bare surfaces has substantially led to reduction in vegetation and water bodies. The oscillatory nature of water bodies LULCC which was not particularly consistent with the rates of urbanization also suggests that beyond the urbanization process, other factors may influence the LULCC of water bodies in urban settlements. Keywords: Minna, Niger State, Remote Sensing, Land Surface Characteristics References Akinrinmade, A., Ibrahim, K., & Abdurrahman, A. (2012). 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This report sets out the results of a programme of topographic survey, geophysical survey, field walking and trial excavation, carried out in 1998-99 and funded by Historic Scotland, in and around an extensive upland prehistoric landscape in the Upper Clyde Valley. It was designed to build on the results of limited excavation of a large, late Neolithic enclosure at Blackshouse Burn, South Lanarkshire (centred at NGR NS 9528 4046) and preliminary survey of nearby monuments undertaken in the 1980s, and to identify and characterize prehistoric settlement in the adjacent valleys through field walking. Topographic survey of the enclosures at Blackshouse Burn, Meadowflatts and Chester Hill, and of hut circles, clearance cairns and a possible ring cairn on Cairngryffe and Swaites Hills, recorded a complex ritual and domestic landscape: evidence of the longstanding prehistoric occupation of the Pettinain Uplands. The geophysical survey of Chester Hill enclosure found traces of internal structures and quarry scoop, while geophysical survey of part of the large Blackshouse Burn monument and smaller adjacent enclosure found evidence for a curvilinear feature in the large enclosure and a possible screen in its entrance. The systematic examination of ploughed fields in the valleys to the west and south-west of the upland monument complex discovered several concentrations of lithics, most notably evidence of late Mesolithic tool production and late Neolithic to early Bronze Age tool production and domestic activity. Trial trenches excavated over a late Mesolithic cluster at Carmichael found a knapping floor and several structural features.

Abstract In 2014 to 2016, Liaoning Provincial Institute of Cultural Relics and Archaeology and Longcheng District Museum of Chaoyang City conducted rescue excavation to the Banlashan (Half Hill) Cemetery. This cemetery was carefully designed and constructed, on the ground of which earthen mounds were built up and the burials and sacrificial facilities were all arranged on these mounds. In the late stage of the use of this cemetery, functional zoning appeared: the burial zone was in the south of the cemetery and the sacrificial zone was in the north. In total, 78 burials, one sacrificial altar, one architectural foundation and 29 sacrificial pits were recovered, from which pottery wares, stone implements and jades were unearthed. The discovery of this cemetery, especially the concentrated discovery of sacrificial remains, gave us a brand-new understanding to the functions and structures of the cairn cemeteries of the Hongshan Culture and provided important evidences for the studies on the ancient funeral customs.

Abstract The selection of nineteenth-century Arabic texts on medical education, medicine and health demonstrates the significant link between the revival of the Arabic language and literary culture of the nineteenth century, known as the nahda, and the introduction of medical education to the Ottoman Empire. These include doctor Ibrahim al-Najjar's autobiographical account of his studies in Cairo (1855), an article by doctor Amin Abi Khatir advising on the health and care of infants (1877), questions and answers in the major popular Arabic journals al-Hilal and al-Muqtataf (1877–1901) and an article about a new tuberculosis treatment by doctor Anisa Sayba‘a (1903). Taken together they contribute to our understanding of the bottom-up production, reproduction and reception of global scientific knowledge, as well as to a social and intellectual history of science. We argue that the engagement with science during the nahda was a multi-vocal and dialogical process, in which doctors and patients, journal editors and their readers, negotiated the implications of scientific knowledge for their own lives and their own society. The texts of the original documents and their translations can be found in the supplementary material tab at https://doi.org/10.1017/S0007087422000413.

IntroductionMusicians and critics regard Australian jazz as vibrant and creative (Shand; Chessher; Rechniewski). From its tentative beginnings in the early twentieth century (Whiteoak), jazz has become a major aspect of Australia’s music and performance. Due to the large distances separating cities and towns, its development has been influenced by geographical isolation (Nikolsky; Chessher; Clare; Johnson; Stevens; McGuiness). While major cities have been the central hubs, it is increasingly acknowledged that regional centres also provide avenues for jazz performance (Curtis).This article discusses findings relating to transient musical populations shaped by geographical conditions, venue issues that are peculiar to the Northern region, and finally the challenges of cultural and parochial mindsets that North Queensland jazz musicians encounter in performance.Cairns and MackayCairns and Mackay are regional centres on the coast of Queensland, Australia. Cairns – population 156,901 in 2016 (ABS) – is a world famous tourist destination situated on the doorstep of the Great Barrier Reef (Thorp). Mackay – population 114,969 in 2016 (ABS) – is a lesser-known community with an economy largely underpinned by the sugar cane and coal mining industries (Rolfe et al. 138). Both communities lie North of the capital city Brisbane – Mackay in the heart of Central Queensland, and Cairns as the unofficial capital of Far North Queensland. Mackay and Cairns were selected for this study, not on representational grounds, but because they provide an opportunity to learn through case studies. Stake notes that “potential for learning is a different and sometimes superior criterion to representativeness,” adding, “that may mean taking the one most accessible or the one we can spend the most time with (451).”Musically, both regional centres have a number of venues that promote live music, however, only Cairns has a dedicated jazz club, the Cairns Jazz Club (CJC). Each has a community convention centre that brings high-calibre touring musicians to the region, including jazz musicians.Mackay is home to the Central Queensland Conservatorium of Music (CQCM) a part of the Central Queensland University that has offered conservatoire-style degree programs in jazz, contemporary music and theatre for over twenty-five years. Cairns does not have any providers of tertiary jazz qualifications.MethodologySemi-structured in-depth interviews were conducted with twenty-two significant individuals associated with the jazz communities in Mackay and Cairns over a twelve-month period from 2015 to 2016. Twelve of the interviewees were living in Cairns at the time, and ten were living in Mackay. The selection of interviewees was influenced by personal knowledge of key individuals, historical records located at the CQCM, and from a study by (Mitchell), who identified important figures in the Cairns jazz scene. The study participants included members of professional jazz ensembles, dedicated jazz audience members and jazz educators. None of the participants who were interviewed relied solely on the performance of jazz as their main occupation. All of the musicians combined teaching duties with music-making in several genres including rock, jazz, Latin and funk, as well as work in the recording and producing of recorded music. Combining the performance of jazz and commercial musical styles is a common and often crucial part of being a musician in a regional centre due to the low demand for any one specific genre (Luckman et al. 630). The interview data that was gathered during the study’s data collection phase was analysed for themes using the grounded theory research method (Charmaz). The following sections will discuss three areas of findings relating to some of the unique North Queensland influences that have impacted the development and sustainability of the two regional jazz communities.Transient Musical PopulationsThe prospect of living in North Queensland is an alluring proposition for many people. According to the participants in this study, the combination of work and a tropical lifestyle attracts people from all over the country to Cairns and Mackay, but this influx is matched by a high population turnover. Many musicians who move into the region soon move away again. High population turnover is a characteristic of several Northern regional centres such as the city of Darwin (Luckman, Gibson and Lea 12). The high growth and high population turnover in Cairns, in particular, was one of the highest in the country between 2006 and 2011 (ABS). The study participants in both regions believed that the transient nature of the local population is detrimental to the development and sustainability of the jazz communities. One participant described the situation in Cairns this way: “The tropics sort of lure them up there, tease them with all of the beauty and nature, and then spit them out when they realise it’s not what they imagined (interviewee 1, 24 Aug. 2016).” Looking more broadly to other coastal regional areas of Australia, there is evidence of the counter-urban flow of professionals and artists seeking out a region’s “natural and cultural environment” (Gibson 339). On the far North coast of New South Wales, Gibson examined how the climate, natural surroundings and cultural charms attracted city dwellers to that region (337). Similarly, most of the participants in this study mentioned lifestyle choices such as raising a family and living in the tropics as reasons to move to Cairns or Mackay. The prospect of working in the tourism and hospitality industry was found to be another common reason for musicians to move to Cairns in particular. In contrast to some studies (Salazar; Conradson and Latham) where it was found that the middle- to upper-classes formed the majority of lifestyle migrants, the migrating musicians identified by this study were mostly low-income earners seeking a combination of music work and other types of employment outside the music industry. There have been studies that have explored and critically reviewed the theoretical frameworks behind lifestyle migration (Benson and Osbaldiston) including the examination of issues and the motivation to ‘lifestyle migrate’. What is interesting in this current study is the focus of discussion on the post-migration effects. Study participants believe that most of the musicians who move into their region leave soon afterwards because of their disillusionment with the local music industry. Despite the lure of musical jobs through the tourism and hospitality industry, local musicians in Cairns tend to believe there is less work than imagined. Pub rock duos and DJs have taken most of the performance opportunities, which makes it hard for new musicians to compete.The study also reveals that Cairns jazz musicians consider it more difficult to find and collaborate with quality newcomers. This may be attributed to the smaller jazz communities’ demand for players of specific instruments. One participant explained, “There’s another bass player that just moved here, but he only plays by ear, so when people want to play charts and new songs, he can’t do it so it's hard finding the right guys up here at times (interviewee 2, 23 Aug. 2016).” Cairns and Mackay participants agreed that the difficulty of finding and retaining quality musicians in the region impacted on the ability of certain groups to be sustainable. One participant added, “It’s such a small pool of musicians, at the moment, I've got a new project ready to go and I've got two percussionists, but I need a bass player, but there is no bass player that I'm willing to work with (interviewee 3, 24 Aug. 2016).” The same participant has been fortunate over the years, performing with a different local group whose members have permanently stayed in the Cairns region, however, forging new musical pathways and new groups seemed challenging due to the lack of musical skills in some of the potential musicians.In Mackay, the study revealed a smaller influx of new musicians to the region, and study participants experienced the same difficulties forming groups and retaining members as their Cairns counterparts. One participant, who found it difficult to run a Big Band as well as a smaller jazz ensemble because of the transient population, claimed that many local musicians were lured to metropolitan centres for university or work.Study participants in both Northern centres appeared to have developed a tolerance and adaptability for their regional challenges. While this article does not aim to suggest a solution to the issues they described, one interesting finding that emerged in both Cairns and Mackay was the musicians’ ability to minimise some of the effects of the transient population. Some musicians found that it was more manageable to sustain a band by forming smaller groups such as duos, trios and quartets. An example was observed in Mackay, where one participant’s Big Band was a standard seventeen-piece group. The loss of players was a constant source of anxiety for the performers. Changing to a smaller ensemble produced a sense of sustainability that satisfied the group. In Cairns, one participant found that if the core musicians in the group (bass, drums and vocals) were permanent local residents, they could manage to use musicians passing through the region, which had minimal impact on the running of the group. For example, the Latin band will have different horn players sit in from time to time. When those performers leave, the impact on the group is minimal because the rhythm section is comprised of long-term Cairns residents.Venue Conditions Heat UpAt the Cape York Hotel in Cairns, musicians and audience members claimed that it was uncomfortable to perform or attend Sunday afternoon jazz gigs during the Cairns summer due to the high temperatures and non air-conditioned venues. This impact of the physical environment on the service process in a venue was first modelled and coined the ‘Servicescape’ by Bitner (57). The framework, which includes physical dimensions like temperature, noise, space/function and signage, has also been further investigated in other literature (Minor et al.; Kubacki; Turley and Fugate). This model is relevant to this study because it clearly affects the musician’s ability to perform music in the Northern climate and attract audiences. One of the regular musicians at the Cape York Hotel commented: So you’re thinking, ‘Well, I’m starting to create something here, people are starting to show up’, but then you see it just dwindling away and then you get two or three weeks of hideously hot weather, and then like last Sunday, by the time I went on in the first set, my shirt was sticking to me like tissue paper… I set up a gig, a three-hour gig with my trio, and if it’s air conditioned you’re likely to get people but if it’s like the Cape York, which is not air conditioned, and you’re out in the beer garden with a tin roof over the top with big fans, it’s hideous‘. (Interviewee 4, 24 Aug. 2016)The availability of venues that offer live jazz is limited in both regions. The issue was twofold: firstly, the limited availability of a larger venue to cater for the ensembles was deemed problematic; and secondly, the venue manager needed to pay for the services of the club, which contributed to its running costs. In Cairns, the Cape York Hotel has provided the local CJC with an outdoor beer garden as a venue for their regular Sunday performances since 2015. The president of the CJC commented on the struggle for the club to find a suitable venue for their musicians and patrons. The club has had residencies in multiple venues over the last thirty years with varying success. It appears that the club has had to endure these conditions in order to provide their musicians and audiences an outlet for jazz performance. This dedication to their art form and sense of resilience appears to be a regular theme for these Northern jazz musicians.Minor et al. (7) recommended that live music organisers needed to consider offering different physical environments for different events (7). For example, a venue that caters for a swing band might include a dance floor for potential dancers or if a venue catered for a sit down jazz show, the venue might like to choose the best acoustic environment to best support the sound of the ensemble. The research showed that customers have different reasons for attending events, and in relation to the Cape York Hotel, the majority of the customers were the CJC members who simply wanted to enjoy their jazz club performances in an air conditioned environment with optimal acoustics as the priority. Although not ideal, the majority of the CJC members still attended during the summer months and endured the high temperatures due to a lack of venue suitability.Parochial MindsetsOne of the challenging issues faced by many of the participants in both regions was the perceived cultural divide between jazz aficionados and general patrons at many venues. While larger centres in Australia have enjoyed an international reputation as creative hubs for jazz such as Melbourne and Sydney (Shand), the majority of participants in this study believed that a significant portion of the general public is quite parochial in their views on various musical styles including jazz. Coined the ‘bogan factor’, one participant explained, “I call it the bogan factor. Do you think that's an academic term? It is now” (interviewee 5, 17 Feb. 2016). They also commented on dominant cultural choices of residents in these regions: “It's North Queensland, it's a sport orientated, 4WD dominated place. Culturally they are the main things that people are attracted to” (interviewee 5, 17 Feb. 2016). These cultural preferences appear to affect the performance opportunities for the participants in Cairns and Mackay.Waitt and Gibson explored how the Wollongong region was chosen as an area for investigation to see if city size mattered for creativity and creativity-led regeneration (1224). With the ‘Creative Class’ framework in mind (Florida), the researchers found that Wollongong’s primarily blue-collar industrial identity was a complex mixture of cultural pursuits including the arts, sport and working class ideals (Waitt and Gibson 1241). This finding is consistent with the comments of study participants from Cairns and Mackay who believed that the identities of their regions were strongly influenced by sport and industries like mining and farming. One Mackay participant added, “I think our culture, in itself, would need to change to turn more people to jazz. I can’t see that happening. That’s Australia. You’re fighting against 200 years of sport” (interviewee 6, 12 Feb. 2016). Performing in Mackay or Cairns in venues that attract various demographics can make it difficult for musicians playing jazz. A Cairns participant added, “As Ingrid James once told me, ‘It's North Queensland, you’ve got an audience of tradesman, they don't get it’. It's silly to think it's going to ever change” (interviewee 7, 26 Aug. 2016). One Mackay participant believed that the lack of appreciation for jazz in regional areas was largely due to a lack of exposure to the art form. Most people grow up listening to other styles of music in their households.Another participant made the point that regardless of the region’s cultural and leisure-time preferences, if a jazz band is playing in a football club, you must expect it to be unpopular. Many of the research participants emphasised that playing in a suitable venue is paramount for developing a consistent and attentive audience. Choosing a venue that values and promotes the style of jazz music that the musicians are performing could help to attract more jazz fans and therefore build a sustainable jazz community.Refreshingly, this study revealed that musicians in both regions showed considerable resilience in dealing with the issue of parochial mindsets, and they have implemented methods to help educate their audiences. The audience plays a significant part in the development and future of a jazz community (Becker; Martin). For the Central Queensland Conservatorium of Music in Mackay, part of the ethos of the institution is to provide music performance and educational opportunities to the region. One of the lecturers who made a significant contribution to the design of the ensemble program had a clear vision to combine jazz and popular music styles in order to connect with a regional audience. He explained, “The popular music strand of the jazz program and what we called the commercial ensembles was very much birthed out of that concept of creating a connection with the community and making us more accessible in the shortest amount of time, which then enabled us to expose people to jazz” (interviewee 8, 20 Mar. 2016).In a similar vein, several Cairns musicians commented on how they engaged with their audiences through education. Some musicians attempted to converse with the patrons on the comparative elements of jazz and non-jazz styles, which helped to instil some appreciation in patrons with little jazz knowledge. One participant cited that although not all patrons were interested in an education at a pub, some became regular attendees and showed greater appreciation for the different jazz styles. These findings align with other studies (Radbourne and Arthurs; Kubacki; Kubacki et al.), who found that audiences tend to return to arts organizations or events more regularly if they feel connected to the experience (Kubacki et al. 409).ConclusionThe Cairns and Mackay jazz musicians who were interviewed in this study revealed some innovative approaches for sustaining their art form in North Queensland. The participants discussed creative solutions for minimising the influence of a transient musician population as well as overcoming some of the parochial mindsets in the community through education. The North Queensland summer months proved to be a struggle for musicians and audience members alike in Cairns in particular, but resilience and commitment to the music and the social network of jazz performers seemed to override this obstacle. Although this article presents just a subset of the findings from a study of the development and sustainability of the jazz communities in Mackay and Cairns, it opens the way for further investigation into the unique issues faced. Deeper understanding of these issues could contribute to the ongoing development and sustainability of jazz communities in regional Australia.ReferencesAustralian Bureau of Statistics. "Mackay (Statistical Area 2), Cairns (R) (Statistical Local Area), Census 2016." Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics.———. "Perspectives on Regional Australia: Population Growth and Turnover in Local Government Areas (Lgas), 2006-2011." Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics.Becker, H. Art Worlds. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1982.Benson, Michaela, and Nick Osbaldiston. "Toward a Critical Sociology of Lifestyle Migration: Reconceptualizing Migration and the Search for a Better Way of Life." The Sociological Review 64.3 (2016): 407-23.Bitner, Mary Jo. "Servicescapes: The Impact of Physical Surroundings on Customers and Employees." The Journal of Marketing (1992): 57-71. Charmaz, K. Constructing Grounded Theory. 2nd ed. Thousand Oaks, California: Sage, 2014. Chessher, A. "Australian Jazz Musician-Educators: An Exploration of Experts' Approaches to Teaching Jazz." Sydney: University of Sydney, 2009. Clare, J. Bodgie Dada and the Cult of Cool: Jazz in Australia since the 1940s. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 1995. Conradson, David, and Alan Latham. "Transnational Urbanism: Attending to Everyday Practices and Mobilities." Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 31.2 (2005): 227-33. Curtis, Rebecca Anne. "Australia's Capital of Jazz? The (Re)creation of Place, Music and Community at the Wangaratta Jazz Festival." Australian Geographer 41.1 (2010): 101-16. Florida, Richard. The Rise of the Creative Class: And How It’s Transforming Work, Leisure, Community and Everyday Life. Melbourne, Victoria: Pluto Press Australia, 2003. Gibson, Chris. "Migration, Music and Social Relations on the NSW Far North Coast." Transformations 2 (2002): 1-15. ———. "Rural Transformation and Cultural Industries: Popular Music on the New South Wales Far North Coast." Australian Geographical Studies 40.3 (2002): 337-56. Johnson, Bruce. The Inaudible Music: Jazz, Gender and Australian Modernity. Strawberry Hills, NSW: Currency Press, 2000. Kubacki, Krzysztof. "Jazz Musicians: Creating Service Experience in Live Performance." International Journal of Contemporary Hospitality Management 20.4 (2008): 401- 13. ———, et al. "Comparing Nightclub Customers’ Preferences in Existing and Emerging Markets." International Journal of Hospitality Management 26.4 (2007): 957-73. Luckman, S., et al. "Life in a Northern (Australian) Town: Darwin's Mercurial Music Scene." Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies 22.5 (2008): 623-37. ———, Chris Gibson, and Tess Lea. "Mosquitoes in the Mix: How Transferable Is Creative City Thinking?" Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 30.1 (2009): 70-85. Martin, Peter J. "The Jazz Community as an Art World: A Sociological Perspective." Jazz Research Journal 2.1 (2005): 5-13. McGuiness, Lucian. "A Case for Ethnographic Enquiry in Australian Jazz." Sydney: University of Sydney, 2010.Minor, Michael S., et al. "Rock On! An Elementary Model of Customer Satisfaction with Musical Performances." Journal of Services Marketing 18.1 (2004): 7-18. Mitchell, A. "Jazz on the Far North Queensland Resort Circuit: A Musician's Perspective." Proceedings of the History & Future of Jazz in the Asia-Pacific Region. Eds. P. Hayward and G. Hodges. Vol. 1. Hamilton Island, Australia: Central Queensland Conservatorium of Music, 2004. Nikolsky, T. "The Development of the Australian Jazz Real Book." Melbourne: RMIT University, 2012. Radbourne, Jennifer, and Andy Arthurs. "Adapting Musicology for Commercial Outcomes." 9th International Conference on Arts and Cultural Management (AIMAC 2007), 2007.Rechniewski, Peter. The Permanent Underground: Australian Contemporary Jazz in the New Millennium. Platform Papers 16. Redfern, NSW: Currency House, 2008. Rolfe, John, et al. "Lessons from the Social and Economic Impacts of the Mining Boom in the Bowen Basin 2004-2006." Australasian Journal of Regional Studies 13.2 (2007): 134-53. Salazar, Noel B. "Migrating Imaginaries of a Better Life … until Paradise Finds You." Understanding Lifestyle Migration. Springer, 2014. 119-38. Shand, J. Jazz: The Australian Accent. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2009.Stake, Robert E. "Qualitative Case Studies." The Sage Handbook of Qualitative Research. Eds. Norman K. Denzin and Yvonna S. Lincoln. 3rd ed. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2005. 443-66. Stevens, Timothy. "The Red Onion Jazz Band at the 1963 Australian Jazz Convention." Musicology Australia 24.1 (2001): 35-61. Thorp, Justine. "Tourism in Cairns: Image and Product." Journal of Australian Studies 31.91 (2007): 107-13. Turley, L., and D. Fugate. "The Multidimensional Nature of Service Facilities." Journal of Services Marketing 6.3 (1992): 37-45. Waitt, G., and C. Gibson. "Creative Small Cities: Rethinking the Creative Economy in Place." Urban Studies 46.5-6 (2009): 1223-46. Whiteoak, J. "'Jazzing’ and Australia's First Jazz Band." Popular Music 13.3 (1994): 279-95.

In Feminist theory: from margin to center, bell hooks puts into question the works by reformist feminists who happens to be mostly white, privileged women. She insists that these reformists do not address the plight of other oppressed women who were subjugated not only by their sex alone but by other factors such as race and class. Consequently, she proposes a cultural criticism that investigates the systems of domination in place through a disruption and deconstruction of cultural productions. This paper aims to critically evaluate hooks’ radical feminism and cultural criticism, and show its philosophical heritage through an engagement with the key ideas of critical theory and postmodernism. References Ackerly, Brooke A. Political theory and feminist social criticism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Adorno, Theodor W., and Anson G. Rabinbach. “Culture industry reconsidered.” New German Critique 6 (1975): 12-19. Ahmed, Sara. Differences that matter: Feminist theory and postmodernism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Anderson, Pamela Sue. “Feminism and philosophy.” In Gamble, Sarah, ed. The Routledge companion to feminism and postfeminism. London: Routledge, 2006, 117-124. Berger, Arthur Asa. Cultural criticism: a primer of key concepts. California: Sage Publications, 1995. Brezina, Corona. Sojourner Truth’s “ain't I a woman?” speech: A primary source investigation. New York: The Rosen Publishing Group, 2005. Bronner, Stephen Eric, and Douglas Kellner, eds. Critical theory and society: A reader. New York: Psychology Press, 1989. Brooks, Ann. Postfeminisms: feminism, cultural theory and cultural forms. London: Routledge, 1997. Cavallaro, Dani. Critical and cultural theory. London: The Athlone Press, 2001. Cott, Nancy F. The grounding of modern feminism. Boston, Mass.: Yale University Press, 1987. del Guadalupe Davidson, Maria, and George Yancy, eds. Critical perspectives on bell hooks. London: Routledge, 2009. Devereux, Cecily. “New woman, new world: maternal feminism and the new imperialism in the white settler colonies.” In Women's studies international forum, vol. 22, no. 2, pp. 175-184. Pergamon, 1999. Dicker, Rory, and Alison Piepmeier, eds. Catching a wave: Reclaiming feminism for the 21st century. Northeastern University Press, 2016. Foucault, Michel. The history of sexuality: An introduction. Vintage, 1990. Friedan, Betty. The feminine mystique. New York: WW Norton & Company, 2010. Gamble, Sarah, ed. The Routledge companion to feminism and postfeminism. London: Routledge, 2006. Genz, Stéphanie and Benjamin Brabon. Postfeminism: cultural texts and theories. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009. Geuss, Raymond. The idea of a critical theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981. hooks, bell. Outlaw culture: resisting representations. London: Routledge, 2006. __________. Salvation: Black people and love. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. __________. Yearning: Race, Gender, and Cultural Politics. Boston, Mass.: South and Press, 1990. __________. Feminist theory: from margin to center. Boston, Mass.: South End Press, 1984. __________. Ain't I a woman: Black women and feminism. Boston, Mass.: South End Press, 1981. Horkheimer, Max. Between philosophy and social science: selected early writings. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995. Leitch, Vincent B., and William E. Cain, eds. The Norton anthology of theory and criticism. New York: WW Norton & Company, 2010. McLaren, Peter, and Nathalia E. Jaramillo. “Borderlines: bell hooks and the Pedagogy of Revolutionary Change.” In Critical Perspectives on bell hooks, pp. 31-47. Routledge, 2009. Kellner, Douglas. Baudrillard: A critical reader. Massachusetts: Basil Blackwell Inc., 1995. May, Tim, and Jason Powell. Situating social theory. London: McGraw-Hill Education, 2008. Nussbaum, Martha C. “Human Functioning and Social Justice: In Defense of Aristotelian Essentialism.” Political Theory 20, no. 2 (1992): 202-46. Rush, Fred, ed. The Cambridge companion to critical theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Guy-Sheftall, Beverly. "Forty Years of Women’s Studies." Ms. Magazine online. Spring Issue. http://www. msmagazine. com/womensstudies/FourtyYears.asp (2009). Walters, Suzanna Danuta. Material girls: Making sense of feminist cultural theory. California: University of California Press, 1995. Watkins, S. Craig, and Rana A. Emerson. “Feminist media criticism and feminist media practices.” The ANNALS of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 571, no. 1 (2000): 151-166. Wolf, Naomi. The beauty myth: How images of beauty are used against women. New York: Random House, 1991.

This single and critical case study evaluated a faith-based natural family planning program's salient features using a framework on implementation fidelity. Multiple focus group discussions were conducted, with three groups of stakeholders (n=100), to gather qualitative data on their knowledge and experience of the program. Overall, the findings showed that the program primarily adhered to the essential elements of implementation fidelity, such as content, frequency, duration, and coverage prescribed by its designers. Three lessons were drawn to address some issues that have influenced the degree of fidelity in which the program was implemented. The first is the need to secure adequate and sustained human and financial resources. The second is the need to strengthen its partnership with government and non-government organizations that have provided them with much-needed assistance. Finally, there is also the need to provide extensive training, materials, and support to its service providers to preserve their morale and interest. Other faith-based organizations may hold this case as an indicator of how and why an NFP program works and the extent to which the need for family planning can be met adapted to their local conditions and needs. References Arbuckle, Gerald A. Refounding the Church: Dissent for Leadership. Quezon City: Claretian Publications. 1993. Arevalo, Marcos. "Expanding the Availability and improving the delivery of natural family planning services and fertility awareness education: providers' perspectives. Adv Contracept. Jun-Sep 1997; 13(2-3):275-81. Arévalo, Marcos, Victoria Jennings, and Irit Sinai. "Efficacy of a new method of family planning: the Standard Days Method." Contraception 65, no. 5 (2002): 333-338.Arévalo, Marcos, Irit Sinai, and Victoria Jennings. "A fixed formula to define the fertile window of the menstrual cycle as the basis of a simple method of natural family planning." Contraception 60, no. 6 (1999): 357-360. Atun, Jenna (2013). Religiosity and Contraceptive Use among Filipino Youth. Philippine Center for Population and Development. (2013) Accessed April 15, 2019, from http://www.pcpd.ph/.../religiosity-and-contraceptive-use- Authority, P. S. ICF Philippines national demographic and health survey 2017. Quezon City, Philippines, and Rockville, Maryland, USA: PSA and ICF, 2018. Authority, Philippine Statistics. "Philippine statistics authority." Accessed from Philippine Statistics Authority Web site: https://psa. gov. ph/vegetable-root-crops-main/tomato (2018). Authority, P. S. “Philippine statistics authority.” Accessed July 20, 2019, from Philippine Statistics Authority Web site: https://psa. gov. ph/vegetable-root-crops-main/tomato.(2016) Authority, P. 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Like any genre or mode, the Gothic is malleable, changing according to time and place. This is particularly apparent when what is considered Gothic in one era is compared with that of another. The giant helmet that falls from the sky in Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto (1764) is a very different threat to the ravenous vampires that stalk the novels of Anne Rice, just as Ann Radcliffe’s animated portraits may not inspire anxiety for a contemporary reader of Stephen King. The mutability of Gothic is also apparent across various versions of national Gothic that have emerged, with the specificities of place lending Gothic narratives from countries such as Ireland, Scotland and Australia a distinctive flavour. In New Zealand, the Gothic is most commonly associated with Pakeha artists exploring extreme psychological states, isolation and violence. Instead of the haunted castles, ruined abbeys and supernatural occurrences of classic Gothics of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, such as those produced by writers as diverse as Charles Brockden Brown, Matthew Lewis, Edgar Allen Poe, Radcliffe, Bram Stoker and Walpole, New Zealand Gothic fiction tends to focus on psychological horror, taking its cue, according to Jenny Lawn, from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), which ushered in a tendency in the Gothic novel to explore the idea of a divided consciousness. Lawn observes that in New Zealand “Our monsters tend to be interior: they are experiences of intense psychological states, often with sexual undertones within isolated nuclear families” (“Kiwi Gothic”). Kirsty Gunn’s novella Rain (1994), which focuses on a dysfunctional family holidaying in an isolated lakeside community, exemplifies the tendency of New Zealand Gothic to omit the supernatural in favour of the psychological, with its spectres being sexual predation, parental neglect and the death of an innocent. Bronwyn Bannister’s Haunt (2000) is set primarily in a psychiatric hospital, detailing various forms of psychiatric disorder, as well as the acts that spring from them, such as one protagonist’s concealment for several years of her baby in a shed, while Noel Virtue’s The Redemption of Elsdon Bird (1987) is another example, with a young character’s decision to shoot his two younger siblings in the head as they sleep in an attempt to protect them from the religious beliefs of his fundamentalist parents amply illustrating the intense psychological states that characterise New Zealand Gothic. Although there is no reason why Gothic literature ought to include the supernatural, its omission in New Zealand Gothic does point to a confusion that Timothy Jones foregrounds in his suggestion that “In the absence of the trappings of established Gothic traditions – castles populated by fiendish aristocrats, swamps draped with Spanish moss and possessed by terrible spirits” New Zealand is “uncertain how and where it ought to perform its own Gothic” (203). The anxiety that Jones notes is perhaps less to do with where the New Zealand Gothic should occur, since there is an established tradition of Gothic events occurring in the bush and on the beach, while David Ballantyne’s Sydney Bridge Upside Down (1968) uses a derelict slaughterhouse as a version of a haunted castle and Maurice Gee successfully uses a decrepit farmhouse as a Gothic edifice in The Fire-Raiser (1986), but more to do with available ghosts. New Zealand Gothic literature produced in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries certainly tends to focus on the psychological rather than the supernatural, but earlier writing that utilises the Gothic mode is far more focused on spooky events and ghostly presences. There is a tradition of supernatural Gothic in New Zealand, but its representations of Maori ghosts complicates the processes through which contemporary writers might build on that tradition. The stories in D. W. O. Fagen’s collection Tapu and Other Tales of Old New Zealand (1952) illustrate the tendency in colonial New Zealand literature to represent Maori in supernatural terms expressive both of anxieties surrounding Maori agency and indigeneity, as well as Western assumptions regarding Maori culture. In much colonial Gothic, Maori ghosts, burial grounds and the notion of tapu express settler anxieties while also working to contain those anxieties by suggesting the superstitious and hence backward nature of indigenous culture. In Fagan’s story “Tapu”, which first appeared in the Bulletin in 1912, the narrator stumbles into a Maori burial ground where he is confronted by the terrible sight of “two fleshless skeletons” that grin and appear “ghastly in the dim light” (37). The narrator’s desecration of land deemed tapu fills him with “a sort of nameless terror at nothing, a horror of some unknown impending fate against which it was useless to struggle and from which there was no escape” (39). This expresses a sense of the authenticity of Maori culture, but the narrator’s thought “Was there any truth in heathen devilry after all?” is quickly superseded by the relegation of Maori culture as “ancient superstitions” (40). When the narrator is approached by a tohunga following his breach of tapu, his reaction is outrage: "Here was I – a fairly decent Englishman, reared in the Anglican faith and living in the nineteenth century – hindered from going about my business, outcast, excommunicated, shunned as a leper, my servant dying, all on account of some fiendish diablerie of heathen fetish. The affair was preposterous, incredible, ludicrous" (40). Fagan’s story establishes a clear opposition between Western rationalism and “decency”, and the “heathen fetishes” associated with Maori culture, which it uses to infuse the story with the thrills appropriate to Gothic fiction and which it ultimately casts as superstitious and uncivilised. F. E. Maning’s Old New Zealand (1863) includes an episode of Maori women grieving that is represented in terms that would not be out of place in horror. A group of women are described as screaming, wailing, and quivering their hands about in a most extraordinary manner, and cutting themselves dreadfully with sharp flints and shells. One old woman, in the centre of the group, was one clot of blood from head to feet, and large clots of coagulated blood lay on the ground where she stood. The sight was absolutely horrible, I thought at the time. She was singing or howling a dirge-like wail. In her right hand she held a piece of tuhua, or volcanic glass, as sharp as a razor: this she placed deliberately to her left wrist, drawing it slowly upwards to her left shoulder, the spouting blood following as it went; then from the left shoulder downwards, across the breast to the short ribs on the right side; then the rude but keen knife was shifted from the right hand to the left, placed to the right wrist, drawn upwards to the right shoulder, and so down across the breast to the left side, thus making a bloody cross on the breast; and so the operation went on all the time I was there, the old creature all the time howling in time and measure, and keeping time also with the knife, which at every cut was shifted from one hand to the other, as I have described. She had scored her forehead and cheeks before I came; her face and body was a mere clot of blood, and a little stream was dropping from every finger – a more hideous object could scarcely be conceived. (Maning 120–21) The gory quality of this episode positions Maori as barbaric, but Patrick Evans notes that there is an incident in Old New Zealand that grants authenticity to indigenous culture. After being discovered handling human remains, the narrator of Maning’s text is made tapu and rendered untouchable. Although Maning represents the narrator’s adherence to his abjection from Maori society as merely a way to placate a local population, when a tohunga appears to perform cleansing rituals, the narrator’s indulgence of perceived superstition is accompanied by “a curious sensation […] like what I fancied a man must feel who has just sold himself, body and bones, to the devil. For a moment I asked myself the question whether I was not actually being then and there handed over to the powers of darkness” (qtd. in Evans 85). Evans points out that Maning may represent the ritual as solely performative, “but the result is portrayed as real” (85). Maning’s narrator may assert his lack of belief in the tohunga’s power, but he nevertheless experiences that power. Such moments of unease occur throughout colonial writing when assertions of European dominance and rational understanding are undercut or threatened. Evans cites the examples of the painter G. F. Angus whose travels through the native forest of Waikato in the 1840s saw him haunted by the “peculiar odour” of rotting vegetation and Edward Shortland whose efforts to remain skeptical during a sacred Maori ceremony were disturbed by the manifestation of atua rustling in the thatch of the hut in which it was occurring (Evans 85). Even though the mysterious power attributed to Maori in colonial Gothic is frequently represented as threatening, there is also an element of desire at play, which Lydia Wevers highlights in her observation that colonial ghost stories involve a desire to assimilate or be assimilated by what is “other.” Wevers singles out for discussion the story “The Disappearance of Letham Crouch”, which appeared in the New Zealand Illustrated Magazine in 1901. The narrative recounts the experiences of an overzealous missionary who is received by Maori as a new tohunga. In order to learn more about Maori religion (so as to successfully replace it with Christianity), Crouch inhabits a hut that is tapu, resulting in madness and fanaticism. He eventually disappears, only to reappear in the guise of a Maori “stripped for dancing” (qtd. in Wevers 206). Crouch is effectively “turned heathen” (qtd. in Wevers 206), a transformation that is clearly threatening for a Christian European, but there is also an element of desirability in such a transformation for a settler seeking an authentic New Zealand identity. Colonial Gothic frequently figures mysterious experiences with indigenous culture as a way for the European settler to essentially become indigenous by experiencing something perceived as authentically New Zealand. Colonial Gothic frequently includes the supernatural in ways that are complicit in the processes of colonisation that problematizes them as models for contemporary writers. For New Zealanders attempting to produce a Gothic narrative, the most immediately available tropes for a haunting past are Maori, but to use those tropes brings texts uncomfortably close to nineteenth-century obsessions with Maori skeletal remains and a Gothicised New Zealand landscape, which Edmund G. C. King notes is a way of expressing “the sense of bodily and mental displacement that often accompanied the colonial experience” (36). R. H. Chapman’s Mihawhenua (1888) provides an example of tropes particularly Gothic that remain a part of colonial discourse not easily transferable into a bicultural context. Chapman’s band of explorers discover a cave strewn with bones which they interpret to be the remains of gory cannibalistic feasts: Here, we might well imagine, the clear waters of the little stream at our feet had sometime run red with the blood of victims of some horrid carnival, and the pale walls of the cavern had grown more pale in sympathy with the shrieks of the doomed ere a period was put to their tortures. Perchance the owners of some of the bones that lay scattered in careless profusion on the floor, had, when strong with life and being, struggled long and bravely in many a bloody battle, and, being at last overcome, their bodies were brought here to whet the appetites and appease the awful hunger of their victors. (qtd. in King) The assumptions regarding the primitive nature of indigenous culture expressed by reference to the “horrid carnival” of cannibalism complicate the processes through which contemporary writers could meaningfully draw on a tradition of New Zealand Gothic utilising the supernatural. One answer to this dilemma is to use supernatural elements not specifically associated with New Zealand. In Stephen Cain’s anthology Antipodean Tales: Stories from the Dark Side (1996) there are several instances of this, such as in the story “Never Go Tramping Alone” by Alyson Cresswell-Moorcock, which features a creature called a Gravett. As Timothy Jones’s discussion of this anthology demonstrates, there are two problems arising from this unprecedented monster: firstly, the story does not seem to be a “New Zealand Gothic”, which a review in The Evening Post highlights by observing that “there is a distinct ‘Kiwi’ feel to only a few of the stories” (Rendle 5); while secondly, the Gravatt’s appearance in the New Zealand landscape is unconvincing. Jones argues that "When we encounter the wendigo, a not dissimilar spirit to the Gravatt, in Ann Tracy’s Winter Hunger or Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, we have a vague sense that such beings ‘exist’ and belong in the American or Canadian landscapes in which they are located. A Gravatt, however, has no such precedent, no such sense of belonging, and thus loses its authority" (251). Something of this problem is registered in Elizabeth Knox’s vampire novel Daylight (2003), which avoids the problem of making a vampire “fit” with a New Zealand landscape devoid of ancient architecture by setting all the action in Europe. One of the more successful stories in Cain’s collection demonstrates a way of engaging with a specifically New Zealand tradition of supernatural Gothic, while also illustrating some of the potential pitfalls in utilising colonial Gothic tropes of menacing bush, Maori burial caves and skeletal remains. Oliver Nicks’s “The House” focuses on a writer who takes up residence in an isolated “little old colonial cottage in the bush” (8). The strange “odd-angled walls”, floors that seem to slope downwards and the “subterranean silence” of the cottage provokes anxiety in the first-person narrator who admits his thoughts “grew increasingly dark and chaotic” (8). The strangeness of the house is only intensified by the isolation of its surroundings, which are fertile but nevertheless completely uninhabited. Alone and unnerved by the oddness of the house, the narrator listens to the same “inexplicable night screeches and rustlings of the bush” (9) that furnish so much New Zealand Gothic. Yet it is not fear inspired by the menacing bush that troubles the narrator as much as the sense that there was more in this darkness, something from which I felt a greater need to be insulated than the mild horror of mingling with a few wetas, spiders, bats, and other assorted creepy-crawlies. Something was subtlely wrong here – it was not just the oddness of the dimensions and angles. Everything seemed slightly off, not to add up somehow. I could not quite put my finger on whatever it was. (10) When the narrator escapes the claustrophobic house for a walk in the bush, the natural environment is rendered in spectral terms. The narrator is engulfed by the “bare bones of long-dead forest giants” (11) and “crowding tree-corpses”, but the path he follows in order to escape the “Tree-ghosts” is no more comforting since it winds through “a strange grey world with its shrouds of hanging moss, and mist” (12). In the midst of this Gothicised environment the narrator is “transfixed by the intersection of two overpowering irrational forces” when something looms up out of the mist and experiences “irresistible curiosity, balanced by an equal and opposite urge to turn and run like hell” (12). The narrator’s experience of being deep in the threatening bush continues a tradition of colonial writing that renders the natural environment in Gothic terms, such as H. B. Marriot Watson’s The Web of the Spider: A Tale of Adventure (1891), which includes an episode that sees the protagonist Palliser become lost in the forest of Te Tauru and suffer a similar demoralization as Nicks’s narrator: “the horror of the place had gnawed into his soul, and lurked there, mordant. He now saw how it had come to be regarded as the home of the Taniwha, the place of death” (77). Philip Steer points out that it is the Maoriness of Palliser’s surroundings that inspire his existential dread, suggesting a certain amount of settler alienation, but “Palliser’s survival and eventual triumph overwrites this uncertainty with the relegation of Maori to the past” (128). Nicks’s story, although utilising similar tropes to colonial fiction, attempts to puts them to different ends. What strikes such fear in Nicks’s narrator is a mysterious object that inspires the particular dread known as the uncanny: I gave myself a stern talking to and advanced on the shadow. It was about my height, angular, bony and black. It stood as it now stands, as it has stood for centuries, on the edge of a swamp deep in the heart of an ancient forest high in this remote range of hills forming a part of the Southern Alps. As I think of it I cannot help but shudder; it fills me even now with inexplicable awe. It snaked up out of the ground like some malign fern-frond, curving back on itself and curling into a circle at about head height. Extending upwards from the circle were three odd-angled and bent protuberances of unequal length. A strange force flowed from it. It looked alien somehow, but it was man-made. Its power lay, not in its strangeness, but in its unaccountable familiarity; why did I know – have I always known? – how to fear this… thing? (12) This terrible “thing” represents a return of the repressed associated with the crimes of colonisation. After almost being devoured by the malevolent tree-like object the narrator discovers a track leading to a cave decorated with ancient rock paintings that contains a hideous wooden creature that is, in fact, a burial chest. Realising that he has discovered a burial cave, the narrator is shocked to find more chests that have been broken open and bones scattered over the floor. With the discovery of the desecrated burial cave, the hidden crimes of colonisation are brought to light. Unlike colonial Gothic that tends to represent Maori culture as threatening, Nicks’s story represents the forces contained in the cave as a catalyst for a beneficial transformative experience: I do remember the cyclone of malign energy from the abyss gibbering and leering; a flame of terror burning in every cell of my body; a deluge of shrieking unreason threatening to wash away the bare shred that was left of my mind. Yet even as each hellish new dimension yawned before me, defying the limits even of imagination, the fragments of my shattered sanity were being drawn together somehow, and reassembled in novel configurations. To each proposition of demonic impossibility there was a surging, answering wave of kaleidoscopic truth. (19) Although the story replicates colonial writing’s tendency to represent indigenous culture in terms of the irrational and demonic, the authenticity and power of the narrator’s experience is stressed. When he comes to consciousness following an enlightenment that sees him acknowledging that the truth of existence is a limitless space “filled with deep coruscations of beauty and joy” (20) he knows what he must do. Returning to the cottage, the narrator takes several days to search the house and finally finds what he is looking for: a steel box that contains “stolen skulls” (20). The narrator concludes that the “Trophies” (20) buried in the collapsed outhouse are the cause for the “Dark, inexplicable moods, nightmares, hallucinations – spirits, ghosts, demons” that “would have plagued anyone who attempted to remain in this strange, cursed region” (20). Once the narrator returns the remains to the burial cave, the inexplicable events cease and the once-strange house becomes an ideal home for a writer seeking peace in which to work. The colonial Gothic mode in New Zealand utilises the Gothic’s concern with a haunting past in order to associate that past with the primitive and barbaric. By rendering Maori culture in Gothic terms, such as in Maning’s blood-splattered scene of grieving or through the spooky discoveries of bone-strewn caves, colonial writing compares an “uncivilised” indigenous culture with the “civilised” culture of European settlement. For a contemporary writer wishing to produce a New Zealand supernatural horror, the colonial Gothic is a problematic tradition to work from, but Nicks’s story succeeds in utilising tropes associated with colonial writing in order to reverse its ideologies. “The House” represents European settlement in terms of barbarity by representing a brutal desecration of sacred ground, while indigenous culture is represented in positive, if frightening, terms of truth and power. Colonial Gothic’s tendency to associate indigenous culture with violence, barbarism and superstition is certainly replicated in Nicks’s story through the frightening object that attempts to devour the narrator and the macabre burial chests shaped like monsters, but ultimately it is colonial violence that is most overtly condemned, with the power inhabiting the burial cave being represented as ultimately benign, at least towards an intruder who means no harm. More significantly, there is no attempt in the story to explain events that seem outside the understanding of Western rationality. The story accepts as true what the narrator experiences. Nevertheless, in spite of the explicit engagement with the return of repressed crimes associated with colonisation, Nicks’s engagement with the mode of colonial Gothic means there is a replication of some of its underlying notions relating to settlement and belonging. The narrator of Nicks’s story is a contemporary New Zealander who is placed in the position of rectifying colonial crimes in order to take up residence in a site effectively cleansed of the sins of the past. Nicks’s narrator cannot happily inhabit the colonial cottage until the stolen remains are returned to their rightful place and it seems not to occur to him that a greater theft might underlie the smaller one. Returning the stolen skulls is represented as a reasonable action in “The House”, and it is a way for the narrator to establish what Linda Hardy refers to as “natural occupancy,” but the notion of returning a house and land that might also be termed stolen is never entertained, although the story’s final sentence does imply the need for the continuing placation of the powerful indigenous forces that inhabit the land: “To make sure that things stay [peaceful] I think I may just keep this story to myself” (20). The fact that the narrator has not kept the story to himself suggests that his untroubled occupation of the colonial cottage is far more tenuous than he might have hoped. References Ballantyne, David. Sydney Bridge Upside Down. Melbourne: Text, 2010. Bannister, Bronwyn. Haunt. Dunedin: University of Otago Press, 2000. Calder, Alex. “F. E. Maning 1811–1883.” Kotare 7. 2 (2008): 5–18. Chapman, R. H. Mihawhenua: The Adventures of a Party of Tourists Amongst a Tribe of Maoris Discovered in Western Otago. Dunedin: J. Wilkie, 1888. Cresswell-Moorcock, Alyson. “Never Go Tramping Along.” Antipodean Tales: Stories from the Dark Side. Ed. Stephen Cain. Wellington: IPL Books, 1996: 63-71. Evans, Patrick. The Long Forgetting: Postcolonial Literary Culture in New Zealand. Christchurch: Canterbury University Press, 2007. Fagan, D. W. O. Tapu and Other Tales of Old New Zealand. Wellington: A. H. & A. W. Reed, 1952. Gee, Maurice. The Fire-Raiser. Auckland: Penguin, 1986. Gunn, Kirsty. Rain. New York: Grove Press, 1994. Hardy, Linda. “Natural Occupancy.” Meridian 14.2 (October 1995): 213-25. Jones, Timothy. The Gothic as a Practice: Gothic Studies, Genre and the Twentieth Century Gothic. PhD thesis. Wellington: Victoria University, 2010. King, Edmund G. C. “Towards a Prehistory of the Gothic Mode in Nineteenth-Century Zealand Writing,” Journal of New Zealand Literature 28.2 (2010): 35-57. “Kiwi Gothic.” Massey (Nov. 2001). 8 Mar. 2014 ‹http://www.massey.ac.nz/~wwpubafs/magazine/2001_Nov/stories/gothic.html›. Maning, F. E. Old New Zealand and Other Writings. Ed. Alex Calder. London: Leicester University Press, 2001. Marriott Watson, H. B. The Web of the Spider: A Tale of Adventure. London: Hutchinson, 1891. Nicks, Oliver. “The House.” Antipodean Tales: Stories from the Dark Side. Ed. Stephen Cain. Wellington: IPL Books, 1996: 8-20. Rendle, Steve. “Entertaining Trip to the Dark Side.” Rev. of Antipodean Tales: Stories from the Dark Side, ed. Stephen Cain. The Evening Post. 17 Jan. 1997: 5. Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. Ed. Patrick Nobes. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. Steer, Philip. “History (Never) Repeats: Pakeha Identity, Novels and the New Zealand Wars.” Journal of New Zealand Literature 25 (2007): 114-37. Virtue, Noel. The Redemption of Elsdon Bird. New York: Grove Press, 1987. Walpole, Horace. The Castle of Otranto. London: Penguin, 2010. Wevers, Lydia. “The Short Story.” The Oxford History of New Zealand Literature in English. Ed. Terry Sturm. Auckland: Oxford University Press, 1991: 203–70.

If Continental social theory emerges from a climate of intensely cold winters and short mild summers, how does Australia (or any nation defined by its large masses of aridity) function as an environment in which to produce critical theory and new knowledge? Climate and weather are intrinsic to ambience, but what impact might they have on the conditions of producing academic work? How is ambience relevant to thinking and writing and research? Is there an ambient epistemology? This paper argues that the ambient is an unacknowledged factor in the production of critical thinking, and draws on examples of academics locating their writing conditions as part of their thinking. This means paying attention to the embodied work of thinking, and so I locate myself in order to explore what it might mean to acknowledge the conditions of intellectual work. Consequently I dwell on the impact of heat and light as qualities specific to where I work, but (following Bolt) I also argue that they are terms that are historically associated with new knowledge. Language, then, is already a factor in shaping the way we can think through such conditions, and the narratives available to write about them. Working these conditions into critical narratives may involve mobilising fictional tropes, and may not always be ambient, but they are potent in the academic imaginary and impact the ways in which we can think through location. Present Tense As I sit in Perth right now in a balmy 27 degrees Celsius with the local afternoon sea-breeze (fondly known as the Fremantle Doctor) clearing the stuffiness and humidity of the day, environmental conditions are near perfect for the end of summer. I barely notice them. Not long ago though, it was over 40 degrees for three days in a row. These were the three days I had set aside to complete an academic paper, the last days available before the university opened and normal work would resume. I’d arranged to have the place to myself, but I hadn’t arranged for cooling technologies. As I immersed myself in photocopies and textbooks the intellectual challenges and excitement were my preoccupation. It was hot, but I was almost unreceptive to recognising the discomforts of the weather until sweat began to drip onto pages and keyboards. A break in the afternoon for a swim at the local beach was an opportunity to clarify and see the bigger picture, and as the temperature began to slide into the evening cool it was easier to stay up late working and then sleep in late. I began to work around the weather. What impact does this have on thinking and writing? I remember it as a haze. The paper though, still seems clear and reasoned. My regimen might be read as working despite the weather, but I wonder if the intensity of the heat extends thinking in different directions—to go places where I wouldn’t have imagined in an ambiently cooled office (if I had one). The conditions of the production of knowledge are often assumed to be static, stable and uninteresting. Even if your work is located in exciting Other places, the ‘writing up’ is expected to happen ‘back home’, after the extra-ordinary places of fieldwork. It can be written in the present tense, for a more immediate reading experience, but the writing cannot always happen at the same time as the events being described, so readers accept the use of present tense as a figment of grammar that cannot accommodate the act of writing. When a writer becomes aware of their surroundings and articulates those conditions into their narrative, the reader is lifted out of the narrative into a metaframe; out of the body of writing and into the extra-diegetic. In her essay “Me and My Shadow” (1987), Jane Tompkins writes as if ‘we’ the reader are in the present with her as she makes connections between books, experiences, memories, feelings, and she also provides us with a writing scene in which to imagine her in the continuous present: It is a beautiful day here in North Carolina. The first day that is both cool and sunny all summer. After a terrible summer, first drought, then heat-wave, then torrential rain, trees down, flooding. Now, finally, beautiful weather. A tree outside my window just brushed by red, with one fully red leaf. (This is what I want you to see. A person sitting in stockinged feet looking out of her window – a floor to ceiling rectangle filled with green, with one red leaf. The season poised, sunny and chill, ready to rush down the incline into autumn. But perfect, and still. Not going yet.) (128)This is a strategy, part of the aesthetics and politics of Tompkins’s paper which argues for the way the personal functions in intellectual thinking and writing even when we don’t recognise or acknowledge it. A little earlier she characterises herself as vulnerable because of the personal/professional nexus: I don’t know how to enter the debate [over epistemology] without leaving everything else behind – the birds outside my window, my grief over Janice, just myself as a person sitting here in stockinged feet, a little bit chilly because the windows are open, and thinking about going to the bathroom. But not going yet. (126)The deferral of autumn and going to the bathroom is linked through the final phrase, “not going yet”. This is a kind of refrain that draws attention to the aesthetic architecture of locating the self, and yet the reference to an impending toilet trip raised many eyebrows. Nancy Millar comments that “these passages invoke that moment in writing when everything comes together in a fraction of poise; that fragile moment the writing in turn attempts to capture; and that going to the bathroom precisely, will end” (6). It spoils the moment. The aesthetic green scene with one red leaf is ruptured by the impending toilet scene. Or perhaps it is the intimacy of bodily function that disrupts the ambient. And yet the moment is fictional anyway. There must surely always be some fiction involved when writing about the scene of writing, as writing usually takes more than one take. Gina Mercer takes advantage of this fictional function in a review of a collection of women’s poetry. Noting the striking discursive differences between the editor’s introduction and the poetry collected in the volume, she suggestively accounts for this by imagining the conditions under which the editor might have been working: I suddenly begin to imagine that she wrote the introduction sitting at her desk in twin-set and pearls, her feet constricted by court shoes – but that the selection took place at home with her lying on a large beautifully-linened bed bestrewn by a cat and the poems… (4)These imaginary conditions, Mercer implies, impact on the ways we do our intellectual work, or perhaps different kinds of work require different conditions. Mercer not only imagines the editor at work, but also suggests her own preferred workspace when she mentions that “the other issue I’ve been pondering as I lay on my bed in a sarong (yes it’s hot here already) reading this anthology, has been the question of who reads love poetry these days?” (4). Placing herself as reader (of an anthology of love poetry) on the bed in a sarong in a hot climate partially accounts for the production of the thinking around this review, but probably doesn’t include the writing process. Mercer’s review is written in epistolary form, signaling an engagement with ‘the personal’, and yet that awareness of form and setting performs a doubling function in which scenes are set and imagination is engaged and yet their veracity doesn’t seem important, and may even be part of the fiction of form. It’s the idea of working leisurely that gains traction in this review. Despite the capacity for fiction, I want to believe that Jane Tompkins was writing in her study in North Carolina next to a full-length window looking out onto a tree. I’m willing to suspend my disbelief and imagine her writing in this place and time. Scenes of Writing Physical conditions are often part of mythologising a writer. Sylvia Plath wrote the extraordinary collection of poems that became Ariel during the 1962/63 London winter, reputed to have been the coldest for over a hundred years (Gifford 15). The cold weather is given a significant narrative role in the intensity of her writing and her emotional desperation during that period. Sigmund Freud’s writing desk was populated with figurines from his collection of antiquities looking down on his writing, a scene carefully replicated in the Freud Museum in London and reproduced in postcards as a potent staging of association between mythology, writing and psychoanalysis (see Burke 2006). Writer’s retreats at the former residences of writers (like Varuna at the former home of Eleanor Dark in the Blue Mountains, and the Katherine Susannah Pritchard Centre in the hills outside of Perth) memorialise the material conditions in which writers wrote. So too do pilgrimages to the homes of famous writers and the tourism they produce in which we may gaze in wonder at the ordinary places of such extraordinary writing. The ambience of location is one facet of the conditions of writing. When I was a doctoral student reading Continental feminist philosophy, I used anything at hand to transport myself into their world. I wrote my dissertation mostly in Townsville in tropical Queensland (and partly in Cairns, even more tropical), where winter is blue skies and mid-twenties in temperature but summers are subject to frequent build-ups in pressure systems, high humidity, no breeze and some cyclones. There was no doubt that studying habits were affected by the weather for a student, if not for all the academics who live there. Workplaces were icily air-conditioned (is this ambient?) but outside was redolent with steamy tropical evenings, hot humid days, torrential downpours. When the weather breaks there is release in blood pressure accompanying barometer pressure. I was reading contemporary Australian literature alongside French feminist theories of subjectivity and their relation through écriture féminine. The European philosophical and psychoanalytic tradition and its exquisitely radical anti-logical writing of Irigaray, Cixous and Kristeva seemed alien to my tropical environs but perversely seductive. In order to get ‘inside’ the theoretical arguments, my strategy was to interpolate myself into their imagined world of writing, to emulate their imagined conditions. Whenever my friend went on a trip, I caretook her 1940s unit that sat on a bluff and looked out over the Coral Sea, all whitewashed and thick stone, and transformed it into a French salon for my intellectual productivity. I played Edith Piaf and Grace Jones, went to the grocer at the bottom of the hill every day for fresh food and the French patisserie for baguettes and croissants. I’d have coffee brewing frequently, and ate copious amounts of camembert and chocolate. The Townsville flat was a Parisian salon with French philosophers conversing in my head and between the piles of book lying on the table. These binges of writing were extraordinarily productive. It may have been because of the imagined Francophile habitus (as Bourdieu understands it); or it may have been because I prepared for the anticipated period of time writing in a privileged space. There was something about adopting the fictional romance of Parisian culture though that appealed to the juxtaposition of doing French theory in Townsville. It intensified the difference but interpolated me into an intellectual imaginary. Derrida’s essay, “Freud and the Scene of Writing”, promises to shed light on Freud’s conditions of writing, and yet it is concerned moreover with the metaphoric or rather intellectual ‘scene’ of Freudian ideas that form the groundwork of Derrida’s own corpus. Scenic, or staged, like Tompkins’s framed window of leaves, it looks upon the past as a ‘moment’ of intellectual ferment in language. Peggy Kamuf suggests that the translation of this piece of Derrida’s writing works to cover over the corporeal banishment from the scene of writing, in a move that privileges the written trace. In commenting, Kamuf translates Derrida herself: ‘to put outside and below [metre dehors et en bas] the body of the written trace [le corps de la trace écrite].’ Notice also the latter phrase, which says not the trace of the body but the body of the trace. The trace, what Derrida but before him also Freud has called trace or Spur, is or has a body. (23)This body, however, is excised, removed from the philosophical and psychoanalytic imaginary Kamuf argues. Australian philosopher Elizabeth Grosz contends that the body is “understood in terms that attempt to minimize or ignore altogether its formative role in the production of philosophical values – truth, knowledge, justice” (Volatile 4): Philosophy has always considered itself a discipline concerned primarily or exclusively with ideas, concepts, reason, judgment – that is, with terms clearly framed by the concept of mind, terms which marginalize or exclude considerations of the body. As soon as knowledge is seen as purely conceptual, its relation to bodies, the corporeality of both knowers and texts, and the ways these materialities interact, must become obscure. (Volatile 4)In the production of knowledge then, the corporeal knowing writing body can be expected to interact with place, with the ambience or otherwise in which we work. “Writing is a physical effort,” notes Cixous, and “this is not said often enough” (40). The Tense Present Conditions have changed here in Perth since the last draft. A late summer high pressure system is sitting in the Great Australian Bite pushing hot air across the desert and an equally insistent ridge of low pressure sits off the Indian Ocean, so the two systems are working against each other, keeping the weather hot, still, tense, taut against the competing forces. It has been nudging forty degrees for a week. The air conditioning at work has overloaded and has been set to priority cooling; offices are the lowest priority. A fan blasts its way across to me, thrumming as it waves its head from one side to the other as if tut-tutting. I’m not consumed with intellectual curiosity the way I was in the previous heatwave; I’m feeling tired, and wondering if I should just give up on this paper. It will wait for another time and journal. There’s a tension with chronology here, with what’s happening in the present, but then Rachel Blau DuPlessis argues that the act of placing ideas into language inevitably produces that tension: Chronology is time depicted as travelling (more or less) in a (more or less) forward direction. Yet one can hardly write a single sentence straight; it all rebounds. Even its most innocent first words – A, The, I, She, It – teem with heteroglossias. (16)“Sentences structure” DuPlessis points out, and grammar necessitates development, chronological linearity, which affects the possibilities for narrative. “Cause and effect affect” DuPlessis notes (16), as do Cixous and Irigaray before her. Nevertheless we must press on. And so I leave work and go for a swim, bring my core body temperature down, and order a pot of tea from the beach café while I read Barbara Bolt in the bright afternoon light. Bolt is a landscape painter who has spent some time in Kalgoorlie, a mining town 800km east of Perth, and notes the ways light is used as a metaphor for visual illumination, for enlightening, and yet in Kalgoorlie light is a glare which, far from illuminating, blinds. In Kalgoorlie the light is dangerous to the body, causing cancers and cataracts but also making it difficult to see because of its sheer intensity. Bolt makes an argument for the Australian light rupturing European thinking about light: Visual practice may be inconceivable without a consideration of light, but, I will argue, it is equally ‘inconceivable’ to practice under European notions of light in the ‘glare’ of the Australian sun. Too much light on matter sheds no light on the matter. (204)Bolt frequently equates the European notions of visual art practice that, she claims, Australians still operate under, with concomitant concepts of European philosophy, aesthetics and, I want to add, epistemology. She is particularly adept at noting the material impact of Australian conditions on the body, arguing that, the ‘glare’ takes apart the Enlightenment triangulation of light, knowledge, and form. In fact, light becomes implicated bodily, in the facts of the matter. My pterygiums and sun-beaten skin, my mother and father’s melanomas, and the incidence of glaucoma implicate the sun in a very different set of processes. From my optic, light can no longer be postulated as the catalyst that joins objects while itself remaining unbent and unimplicated … (206).If new understandings of light are generated in Australian conditions of working, surely heat is capable of refiguring dominant European notions as well. Heat is commonly associated with emotions and erotics, even through ideas: heated debate, hot topics and burning issues imply the very latest and most provocative discussions, sizzling and mercurial. Heat has a material affect on corporeality also: dehydrating, disorienting, dizzying and burning. Fuzzy logic and bent horizons may emerge. Studies show that students learn best in ambient temperatures (Pilman; Graetz), but I want to argue that thought and writing can bend in other dimensions with heat. Tensions build in blood pressure alongside isometric bars. Emotional and intellectual intensities merge. Embodiment meets epistemology. This is not a new idea; feminist philosophers like Donna Haraway have been emphasizing the importance of situated knowledge and partial perspective for decades as a methodology that challenges universalism and creates a more ethical form of objectivity. In 1987 Haraway was arguing for politics and epistemologies of location, positioning, and situating, where partiality and not universality is the condition of being heard to make rational knowledge claims. These are claims on people’s lives. I am arguing for the view from a body, always a complex contradictory structuring and structured body versus the view from above, from nowhere, from simplicity. (Haraway 588)Working in intellectual conditions when the specificities of ambience is ignored, is also, I suggest, to work in a privileged space, in which there are no distractions like the weather. It is also to work ‘from nowhere, from simplicity’ in Haraway’s words. It is to write from within the pure imaginary space of the intellect. But to write in, and from, weather conditions no matter what they might be is to acknowledge the affect of being-in-the-world, to recognise an ontological debt that is embodied and through which we think. I want to make a claim for the radical conditions under which writing can occur outside of the ambient, as I sit here sweating over theory again. Drawing attention to the corporeal conditions of the scene of writing is a way of situating knowledge and partial perspective: if I were in Hobart where snow still lies on Mount Wellington I may well have a different perspective, but the metaphors of ice and cold also need transforming into productive and generative conditions of particularised knowledge. To acknowledge the location of knowledge production suggests more of the forces at work in particular thinking, as a bibliography indicates the shelf of books that have inflected the written product. This becomes a relation of immanence rather than transcendence between the subject and thought, whereby thinking can be understood as an act, an activity, or even activism of an agent. This is proposed by Elizabeth Grosz in her later work where she yokes together the “jagged edges” (Time 165) of Deleuze and Irigaray’s work in order to reconsider the “future of thought”. She calls for a revision of meaning, as Bolt does, but this time in regard to thought itself—and the task of philosophy—asking whether it is possible to develop an understanding of thought that refuses to see thought as passivity, reflection, contemplation, or representation, and instead stresses its activity, how and what it performs […] can we deromanticize the construction of knowledges and discourses to see them as labor, production, doing? (Time 158)If writing is to be understood as a form of activism it seems fitting to conclude here with one final image: of Gloria Anzaldua’s computer, at which she invites us to imagine her writing her book Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987), a radical Chicana vision for postcolonial theory. Like Grosz, Anzaldua is intent on undoing the mind/body split and the language through which the labour of thinking can be articulated. This is where she writes her manifesto: I sit here before my computer, Amiguita, my altar on top of the monitor with the Virgen de Coatalopeuh candle and copal incense burning. My companion, a wooden serpent staff with feathers, is to my right while I ponder the ways metaphor and symbol concretize the spirit and etherealize the body. (75) References Anzaldua, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, 1987. Bolt, Barbara. “Shedding Light for the Matter.” Hypatia 15.2 (2000): 202-216. Bourdieu, Pierre. The Logic of Practice. Cambridge: Polity, 1990. [1980 Les Edition de Minuit] Burke, Janine. The Gods of Freud: Sigmund Freud’s Art Collection. Milsons Point: Knopf, 2006. Cixous, Hélène, and Mireille Calle-Gruber. Rootprints: Memory and Life Writing. London: Routledge, 1997. [1994 Photos de Racine]. Derrida, Jacques, and Jeffrey Mehlman. "Freud and the Scene of Writing." Yale French Studies 48 (1972): 74-117. DuPlessis, Rachel Blau. Blue Studios: Poetry and Its Cultural Work. Tuscaloosa: Alabama UP, 2006. Gifford, Terry. Ted Hughes. Abingdon: Routledge, 2009. Graetz, Ken A. “The Psychology of Learning Environments.” Educause Review 41.6 (2006): 60-75. Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies: Towards a Corporeal Feminism. St Leonards: Allen & Unwin, 1994. Grosz, Elizabeth. Time Travels: Feminism, Nature, Power. St Leonards: Allen & Unwin, 2005. Haraway, Donna. “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective.” Feminist Studies 14.3 (1988): 575-99. Kamuf, Peggy. “Outside in Analysis.” Mosaic 42.4 (2009): 19-34. Mercer, Gina. “The Days of Love Are Lettered.” Review of The Oxford Book of Australian Love Poems, ed. Jennifer Strauss. LiNQ 22.1 (1995): 135-40. Miller, Nancy K. Getting Personal: Feminist Occasions and Other Autobiographical Acts. New York: Routledge, 1991. Pilman, Mary S. “The Effects of Air Temperature Variance on Memory Ability.” Loyola University Clearinghouse, 2001. ‹http://clearinghouse.missouriwestern.edu/manuscripts/306.php›. Tompkins, Jane. “Me and My Shadow.” New Literary History 19.1 (1987): 169-78.

My father killed the boar when he was 16. He’d dreamed of killing the boar for some time. My father’s brother had killed a boar when he was only fifteen. My father’s brother was five years older than him. Like most big brothers, he treated his little brother with intolerant contempt. He’d been saying for months that my father would never kill a boar. He was too weak. He was a girl. He was useless. And, just the day before, he told him he was so worthless he better finish the fence on the bottom paddock before dusk or he could expect a kicking. The family farm was gradually being cleared from the bush and the fencing slow and arduous. My father finished the fence. My father was very good with his hands and in truth a much better fencer than his brother, which didn’t help matters between them. That night my father didn’t go to sleep in the room he shared with his brother. Instead he went out into the bush past the bottom paddock, where the boars roamed, his rifle strapped over his shoulder and a knife in his ankle scabbard. The cleared ground was rough and uneven, a broken landscape created by the eruptions and outpourings of the volcanoes Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe and Tongariro. In the bush, the terrain was even rougher, jagged rises and deep gullies, all ripe with the verdant vegetation flourishing on the rich volcanic soil. My father found himself a niche in a cliff on the edge of the bush above a small clearing near the creek. He huddled there in his woollen coat and dungarees and waited. He’d brought the dogs with him and they drove the boar out of the bush and into the clearing among the tree ferns just before dawn. By then my father was hunched on a rock, out of the way. The dogs worried the boar. They grabbed its tail, snapped at its balls, sank their teeth into its legs. The boar fought back. It lashed at them with its tusks. It caught one and tossed it into a tree fern, the dog yelping from the pain of its ripped rib cage. The boar roared, stomping and rooting. The dogs continued to circle. My father had waited all night in the cold, his rifle loaded and the safety catch off. My father was a very good shot. Better than his brother. That was why his parents had splurged on his birthday gift and bought him a .303 rifle. His brother had a .22, but he couldn’t shoot pigeons or ducks. My father, though, could use his brother’s gun to bring down a brace of ducks. Another reason his brother treated him like a piece of dirt. But out in the bush he couldn’t shoot the boar for fear of killing one of the dogs. He slipped the catch on and laid the gun down beside him. He took a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He waited until the boar was facing away from him, dogs in front and behind it. He jumped from the rock, and kicked the boar’s right hind leg out. The boar went down. My father threw himself on its back and plunged the knife in between the shoulders. Deep, to cut the spine and throat. The boar squealed, thrashed and subsided. My father thrust himself upright, knife still in blood-soaked hand, and stood away from the boar. The boar rolled over, the dogs still nipping at it. My father used the knife again, slashing deep across the boar’s throat. It screamed and lunged at him with head and tusks. He leapt away, falling over one of the dogs. The boar didn’t die straight away. It thrashed about on the ground, snorting and sighing at first, then whimpering as blood gushed out, steamed on the cold ground and coagulated in the crushed ferns. Eventually it was just panting, and slowly at that. Finally it was dead. My father shooed the dogs away. He cut off the boar’s balls and pizzle and tossed them to the dogs. He slit the boar from arse to belly and began the process of removing its warm innards, first working with the bladder to attempt to keep its contents from having too much contact with his game. His hands reached right inside to disentangle the intestines. His shirt and jacket were soaked with its blood. His hands were greasy with blood and shit. He washed himself as best as he could in the freezing water of the creek. He manoeuvred the boar so that it was half sitting on the ground then he lowered himself down and backed between the boar’s front legs, his head under its chin. Taking the weight of the beast on his shoulders, he slowly stood and began to trudge out of the bush and through the rough paddocks towards his family home on the top of the rise. The dogs kept him company for a bit, but the lure of home was too much for them and they took off up the hill in a barking frenzy. All except the one that had been tossed by the boar. It slunk at his heels, blood on its flank where the tusk had ripped through. His father and brother were waiting for him on the veranda. His brother glared and yelled at him because he had missed the morning milking of the cows, but his father told him to take the boar to the meat shack. This was behind the house. It was a rough weatherboard structure on the cool, south-side. It was secure against dogs and vermin and big enough to hang several carcases. A sheep and legs of ham were already there. The shack had a smooth stone floor with drainage channels grooved into it. My father laid the boar on the floor of the shack. He cut the hock of each hind leg just behind the tendon to make a space for the gambrel hook. He inserted the hook then used the hoist in the shack to raise the boar up to the rail that ran down the centre of the room and from which the meat hung. My father then began to skin the boar, stripping back the black bristled outer flesh as much as possible in one piece. Once it was scrubbed of the bristles and tanned, the skin would be soft and supple, suitable for a purse or for covering a saddle. He washed the carcass. Later, when the day’s farm work was over, the whole family would work on preparing and preserving the boar. His mother had already fired up the copper to boil water for the cleaning and salting. Lastly, he sawed off the boar’s head. He placed it on the butcher’s block in the shack and worked at the tusks. On this big beast the tusks were almost five inches long, curved and very sharp. They were much larger than the tusks from his brother’s boar. Once he had the tusks out of the boar’s mouth, he stripped of all but his underpants and washed himself as best as he could at the tap of the water tank at the back of the house. The water was icy and there was a stiff breeze from the snow on the mountains. It was still winter. But my father hardly noticed. He was still warm from the blood of the boar and the sight of his brother’s face when he had seen the size of it. Two months later, he took the tusks into the town of Taumaranui. He sought advice from the jeweller in the main street, who had made a speciality of working with tusks. The jeweller was known all over the King Country. The jeweller talked about how the tusks might be mounted. He suggested a band of gold, edges engraved with delicate leaves, to join the tusks base to base, so that the points formed a semicircle. Just below the points, he suggested two gold bands joined with a delicate gold chain, from which the tusks could be hung. And that is what my father agreed to. The jeweller took one month then my father claimed his tusks and took them home to mount on his bedroom wall, where his brother was forced to see them every day. My father signed up for the Air Force when he was 18. He wanted to fly away from his brother and the cows and the fencing and digging the rocks out of the paddock and that is exactly what he did. He learned to fly, something he’d dreamed of doing, same as he had dreamed of killing a boar. My father was a great dreamer. He left the tusks at home with his mother. She took them out of the bedroom them and placed them on the wall of the family room to remind her of him. His brother would turn them back to front. My father sent home photographs of himself: one from Cairo with him in tropical gear, sparkling eyes and a jaunty smile under his new moustache; another from Waddingham in his Sergeant pilot’s uniform standing with his crew in front of their Lancaster as it is loaded with bombs; a last one from an unknown place but he is wearing his Flying Officer’s uniform for he had been promoted and there are ribbons on his chest, too, but his eyes do not shine and he does not smile. As they arrived from the other side of the world in the slow mail his mother placed these photographs on the sideboard in the family room under my father’s tusks. In a mood after the Sunday roast his brother would turn them face down, saying my father wouldn’t be coming back so why did he have to be reminded of him. But he did come back, which even his brother had to acknowledge. He was 23. He was a shell of the boy who had killed the boar. He had been gutted by the war, though he showed no outward signs of the mutilation. It was all within, deep within, embedded in him like tusks in the jaw of a boar. My father began studying to be a veterinarian when he was 25. As part of his repatriation package, he was paid to study at the University of Sydney. He took the tusks down from his mother’s wall and packed them into one of the suitcases he and my mother took with them on the flying boat to Sydney. The tusks hung on the wall of the semi in Enmore they lived in for the five years he studied. Then after he had graduated they went back across the Tasman and my father began his work with animals. The animals received his ministrations with passive indifference and helped resolve the horror in his head, an unremitting memory of the perilous flights under attack across black skies and terrain, the fires unleashed by the phosphorous bombs released from his plane’s bomb bay let alone the destruction from other ordnance, the morning briefings after what was left of the squadron had returned and he learned which of his mates was no longer. He drank a bit. Maybe too much, but nobody ever sat down with him and talk about what he had been through. He had some medals and his old flying jacket and it was expected that he just get on with life. Which he did, overall. Once my parents were back in New Zealand, he set up practice in Waikato, with dairy cattle his most frequent patients. The Waikato district lies to the north of the King Country where my father had killed the boar. His family were not so far away, but he didn’t visit them that often. His brother was running things down there. His brother held vets in contempt and made that clear on the rare occasions my father did visit. Then his father, my grandfather, died. The farm went to his older brother as was the custom of those times. His widowed mother moved up to Auckland, so my father had no reason to visit the farm or his brother any more. Maybe it was only a matter of moving away from his brother but he lost and found himself in Australia. Maybe it was also the fact that a few years after he had made the move, the phone rang one night and he found he was talking to his brother’s wife. His brother had shot himself down in the bottom paddock that morning. It seems my father’s brother was never a very good farmer. From that time on my father mellowed, relaxed and began to enjoy himself. The tusks, though, were always on his bedside table, reminding him of that night he spent out in the bush and killed the boar. My father died three weeks before he was to turn 80. His death was long and painful to those of us who had to watch it, though for him it was ameliorated by painkillers and palliative care given him. It was my job to arrange the details of his funeral. Since his death was no surprise, all of his family, his three sons and his two daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters and his great grand children as well, had already gathered to say goodbye to him. But everybody was now under pressure to get back to jobs and other commitments. I spoke to the undertakers. They arranged the funeral the day following my father’s death in their own chapel. My mother wanted an open casket so my father had to be dressed in his best clothes. My mother and I selected the clothes and I took them to the undertakers. The next morning, before the ceremony, the undertakers called me and asked me to come to their rooms behind the chapel. They asked me to check that my father looked as much as we wanted him to look. He lay in the coffin, only his head and hands showing, the rest of him expertly trussed and dressed for this last display. His hair was neatly brushed and there was a bristle or two of whiskers on his cheek and chin. His eyes were closed and the skin on his face waxy, but cold from wherever he had been stored. I kissed him on his forehead. Then I placed the tusks on his chest, just under his neck and over the tie and jacket my mother had decided he should wear. My father was ready. I drove my mother down to the chapel just before 2 pm. She and I were the last people to be seated. We were both to sit in the front row. She walked straight up the aisle past the other mourners to my father’s coffin and she stood there for a moment looking at her husband of nearly sixty years. She stretched out her arm and stroked the tusks on his chest. Then she turned and I reached out and guided her to her seat. “He’ll like having them,” she whispered to me. Then we sang “There’s a hole in the bucket”. My father always liked that song. The crematorium was miles away. My father travelled there alone. Just as he had faced the boar. References De Hek, Danny. “Hunting regions—King Country: The home of wild pig hunting in New Zealand.” New Zealand’s Information Network 16 Aug. 2010 . Dick, Tim. “The boar wars.” WAtoday.com.au 13 Nov. 2008. 16 Aug. 2010 . Rushmer, Miles. “Bush surfing: That’s a New Zealand pig hunt.” ESPN Outdoors 28 Apr. 2005. 16 Aug. 2010 . Walrond, Carl. “Pig hunting.” Te Ara: The Encyclopaedia of New Zealand 1 Mar. 2009. 16 Aug. 2010 .