Articles de revues sur le sujet « Grasso bruno »

Biografias e emails dos colaboradores desta edição: Andrea Luiza Fontes Resende de Souza Bruna Bosi Moreira Bruna Leticia Marinho Pereira Iure Paiva Heverton Lopes Rezende Jéssica Maria Grassi Marcos Alan S. V. Ferreira Mauricio Santoro Rocha Max Sarney A. Silva Rodrigo Ismael Francisco Maia Simone Maciel Cuiabano Tomaz Espósito Neto

Lyme disease is the most common vector borne-disease in the United States (US). While the majority of the Lyme disease patients can be cured with 2–4 weeks antibiotic treatment, about 10–20% of patients continue to suffer from persisting symptoms. While the cause of this condition is unclear, persistent infection was proposed as one possibility. It has recently been shown that B. burgdorferi develops dormant persisters in stationary phase cultures that are not killed by the current Lyme antibiotics, and there is interest in identifying novel drug candidates that more effectively kill such forms. We previously identified some highly active essential oils with excellent activity against biofilm and stationary phase B. burgdorferi. Here, we screened another 35 essential oils and found 10 essential oils (Allium sativum L. bulbs, Pimenta officinalis Lindl. berries, Cuminum cyminum L. seeds, Cymbopogon martini var. motia Bruno grass, Commiphora myrrha (T. Nees) Engl. resin, Hedychium spicatum Buch.-Ham. ex Sm. flowers, Amyris balsamifera L. wood, Thymus vulgaris L. leaves, Litsea cubeba (Lour.) Pers. fruits, Eucalyptus citriodora Hook. leaves) and the active component of cinnamon bark cinnamaldehyde (CA) at a low concentration of 0.1% have strong activity against stationary phase B. burgdorferi. At a lower concentration of 0.05%, essential oils of Allium sativum L. bulbs, Pimenta officinalis Lindl. berries, Cymbopogon martini var. motia Bruno grass and CA still exhibited strong activity against the stationary phase B. burgdorferi. CA also showed strong activity against replicating B. burgdorferi, with a MIC of 0.02% (or 0.2 μg/mL). In subculture studies, the top five essential oil hits Allium sativum L. bulbs, Pimenta officinalis Lindl. berries, Commiphora myrrha (T. Nees) Engl. resin, Hedychium spicatum Buch.-Ham. ex Sm. flowers, and Litsea cubeba (Lour.) Pers. fruits completely eradicated all B. burgdorferi stationary phase cells at 0.1%, while Cymbopogon martini var. motia Bruno grass, Eucalyptus citriodora Hook. leaves, Amyris balsamifera L. wood, Cuminum cyminum L. seeds, and Thymus vulgaris L. leaves failed to do so as shown by visible spirochetal growth after 21-day subculture. At concentration of 0.05%, only Allium sativum L. bulbs essential oil and CA sterilized the B. burgdorferi stationary phase culture, as shown by no regrowth during subculture, while Pimenta officinalis Lindl. berries, Commiphora myrrha (T. Nees) Engl. resin, Hedychium spicatum Buch.-Ham. ex Sm. flowers and Litsea cubeba (Lour.) Pers. fruits essential oils all had visible growth during subculture. Future studies are needed to determine if these highly active essential oils could eradicate persistent B. burgdorferi infection in vivo.

This study analyzed the performance of the Brunt (1932), Swinbank, (1963), Idso and Jackson (1969), Brutsaert (1975), Idso (1981), and Bignami et al. (1995) methods to estimate atmospheric emissivity under grass-dominated savannas (known as campo sujo Cerrado), in the region of Baixada Cuiabana. The estimates were compared with data obtained by energy balance equation in two seasons, dry season (May to August), and wet season (September to December) of 2009. The Swinbank and Idso and Jackson methods, that consider only air temperature, show better performances for the wet season. However, methods that consider water vapor pressure and air temperature (Brunt, Brutsaert, Bignami and Idso) show good performances for the dry season. The Idso and Brutsaert methods show the highest index of agreement and are recommended to estimate atmospheric emissivity for the region.

El presente artículo tiene como objetivo central comprender el despliegue narrativo que ofrecen los tapices elaborados con la técnica quilt (tela sobre tela) por un grupo de mujeres del municipio de Mampuján, víctimas del conflicto armado en Colombia. También pretende evidenciar el papel mediador e intermediador que pueden jugar los tapices como objetos estéticos-artísticos de los procesos de reconstrucción de memoria histórica dentro del entramado relacional en el que son figurados, al evidenciar formas de aprehensión y representación de las lógicas relacionales que fueron planteadas por el conflicto armado en diferentes territorios de Colombia. Como unidad de análisis se eligió el tapiz Gracias por unirse alrededor de un sueño. Los referentes analíticos son la teoría del actor red de Bruno Latour y la metáfora del pliegue de Gilles Deleuze. Además, el análisis de contenido valida la conjunción de las tramas narrativas (de acuerdo con Paul Ricoeur) empleando como técnica analítica y de visualización la producción de grafos narrativos.

El hongo Pleurotus ostreatus también llamado seta ostra es ampliamente cultivado por su valor nutricional, así como, por sus diferentes beneficios a la salud que se le otorgan y por su valor en remediación. El laboratorio N° 11 de la Universidad de Ingeniería del Perú está cultivando P. ostreatus haciendo uso de residuos de la pulpa de café como sustrato. El presente trabajo describe la identificación de los fitoconstituyentes mayoritarios en las fracciones apolares del extracto bruto orgánico de la seta ostra. Después de la transesterificación de una fracción rica en ácidos grasos, fue identificado el éster metílico del ácido palmítico como el mayoritario y de una segunda fracción fueron identificados los esteroides 5α,8α-epidioxi-24(R)-metilcolesta-6en-3β-ol y 5α,8α-epidioxi-22E-ergosta-6,22-dien-3β-ol. La identificación de los metabolitos se realizó por análisis de cromatografía gaseosa acoplado a espectrómetro de masas y por resonancia magnética nuclear de hidrógeno y de carbono 13.

I conducted a survey of aculeate Hymenoptera in urban and suburban gardens of Brno-city in August 2015. For my survey, I selected three individual gardens, and in each of them chose three type of microhabitats: tree, grass and patch. I used yellow pan traps for taxon sampling. Using this method, I recorded 382 specimens belonging to 76 species. Subsequently, the basic indices of species diversity in individual gardens were calculated, and statistical analyses of individual gardens and various microhabitats were created. I report large differences between the Aculeata taxa found in urban and suburban gardens. Habitat preferences of species between microhabitats were discovered as well. Furthermore, I report 14 species mentioned in the Red List of threatened species of the Czech Republic (Straka 2005a,b) (hereinafter referred to as Red List); as well as one invasive species Isodontia mexicana (Saussure, 1867) and one species Pison atrum Spinola, 1808 recently reported as new for the Czech Republic (reported after the publication of the Red List itself).

El enfoque de clúster refiere a una agrupación de organizaciones productivas que poseen caracteres comunes y ejercen de hecho ciertas acciones conjuntas. El sistema de valor de la soja generó en 2011 el 64% del valor bruto de producción nacional de cultivos y explicó el 47% del producto bruto geográfico chaqueño. Este trabajo describe las características del sistema de valor de la producción sojera del Chaco con el fin de determinar el beneficio que representaría la instalación de un clúster. Es un estudio descriptivo, exploratorio y predominantemente cualitativo con datos de fuentes secundarias y bibliográficas. El Chaco se caracteriza por un sistema de valor incompleto dado que existen eslabones ausentes o débiles. La etapa primaria contiene 16 semilleros especializados, 4 fábricas de maquinarias agrícolas y un sector de fertilizantes. La producción en campo y el acopio se concentran en la zona del oeste Chaqueño. La etapa secundaria, un eslabón débil, comprende dos grados de industrialización en origen, el primero incluye 1 molinera, 1 procesadora de aceite y 2 de pellets; el segundo 1 planta de mezclado de biodiesel, sin producción farmacéutica ni alimenticia. La etapa de comercialización, abastece principalmente al mercado externo. En 2011 el 29,38% de las exportaciones correspondía al complejo sojero, mayormente de poroto. En conclusión, siendo la etapa primaria decisiva en la economía chaqueña es recomendable potenciar su competitividad mediante políticas públicas como también la reactivación y sostenimiento del puerto de Barranqueras. Además, dada la fortaleza del sistema productivo argentino, el Chaco está en condiciones de replicarlo impulsando explotaciones sojeras sustentables cohesionadas en un clúster productivo.

RésuméCette étude s'est intéressée à l'identification des différents écotypes de la race Barbarine, principale race ovine à queue grasse en Tunisie. Un inventaire national a été conduit dans les différents étages bioclimatiques du pays allant du Nord subhumide jusqu'au Sud Saharien, en passant par le Centre semi-aride. Les principaux résultats ont permis de mettre en évidence au sein de cette race 10 écotypes différents:1. Quatre écotypes au Nord, de grand format à tête rousse, de grand format à tête noire, à robe noire, et de type “Sardi” à museau, “lunettes” et membres noirs.2. Quatre écotypes au Centre, de format moyen avec dominance de la tête rousse, à tête rousse avec une liste frontale blanche, à tête claire tirant vers le blanc et à tête rousse et à queue arquée.3. Deux écotypes au Sud, de petit format à tête rousse, et de type “Sagâa” avec une tête blanche, un museau et des “lunettes” de couleur brune. Cette diversité d'écotypes au sein de la race Barbarine constitue un apport nouveau aux connaissances des races ovines autochtones. Jusqu'à maintenant, seuls deux écotypes, à tête rousse et tête noire, étaient répertoriés au sein de la race Barbarine.

Within the period of 2008–2011, changes in soil structure were studied in two selected localities: one of them was situated in vineyards of the University Training Farm of Mendel University in Žabčice near Brno, the other was in vineyards situated in the cadastre of wine-growing municipality Velké Bílovice. Established were altogether three variants of experiments with application of crushed grapevine wood (chips): Variant 1 – control; Variant 2 – crushed grapevine wood ploughed down to the depth of 0.10 m; Variant 3 – crushed grapevine wood + grass spread on the soil surface as a mulch. Grapevine canes were crushed to chips using a special agricultural machinery while the soil in inter-rows was processed using conventional tilling machines. The obtained results showed that the best coefficient of structurality (expressing the degree of destruction of soil structure) was recorded in Variants 2 in both localities. Considering values of this coefficient it could be concluded that just this variant showed a positive effect on soil structure. This variant reduced the compaction of soil caused by the movement of agricultural machines in vineyard inter-rows Crushed grapevine waste wood can therefore compensate losses of organic matter in soil. Better values of structurality coefficient were recorded in the locality Žabčice.

Abstract The paper analyzes crisis situations solved by The Fire Rescue Service of the South Moravian Region (FRS) in the city of Brno during 24 weeks between 7th April 2013 and 20th September 2013. The article deals briefly with all FRS actions and then focuses on fires. The open-access database of FRS is used for analysis. It is accessed from a database of the innovative web application StreetAlert, which allows users to learn about current fire brigade actions in the specified distance from the mobile phone. The data are processed in PostgreSQL and then spatial analysis is performed using the most detailed administrative division of the city – basic settlement units. As this division of urban space is used also in the most recent Czech census (2011), it is possible to use sociodemographic statistical data for comparison. The article identifies spatial regularities in the distribution of fires, describes the structure of the fires in terms of the type of event (fires of waste, fires of grass and forest, fires of buildings), discovers their possible dependence on the specific characteristics of urban space, finds potentially dangerous places (kernel density analysis), draws valid conclusions applicable to similar settlements, and shows the possible use of the data for local government. The main benefit of the research lies in revealing the spatial distribution of the examined phenomena.

Las plantas son fuentes de moléculas biológicamente activas que pueden ser utilizadas para el tratamiento de diferentes afecciones. Solanum granuloso-leprosum, conocida como “hu’i moneha”, es una especie nativa del Paraguay, cuyas propiedades farmacológicas y composición química son aún desconocidas. Sin embargo, popularmente esta planta se utiliza como calmante, para aliviar la tos, depurar la sangre, tratar dolores orales, como los causados por las caries. Es por ello que, ante el desconocimiento de sus propiedades farmacológicas, este trabajo de investigación tuvo por objetivo evaluar la actividad antibacteriana del extracto vegetal de las hojas de Solanum granuloso-leprosum, así se llevó a cabo una investigación de tipo experimental, con diseño en bloques al azar, donde se utilizó la técnica de disco difusión frente a Staphylococcus aureus ATCC 25923, Staphylococcus epidermidis ATCC 12228, Escherichia coli ATCC 25922, Salmonella typhimurium ATCC 13311 y Pseudomonas aeruginosa ATCC 27853, sometiéndolas a distintas concentraciones del extracto etanólico (2000, 1000, 500 y 250 μg.mL-1).En cuanto a los resultados, no se observó halos de inhibición en ninguna de las concentraciones ensayadas, una causa probable podría ser que el extracto bruto es aparentemente rico en ácidos grasos y ésteres. Finalmente, se concluye que el extracto de las hojas no demostró actividad antibacteriana frente a las cepas utilizadas en las condiciones ensayadas. Sin embargo, deben realizarse otras investigaciones variando el tipo de extracto con relación a la polaridad con el fin de elucidar otras posibles actividades biológicas y así ampliar la información científica sobre las propiedades terapéuticas de la especie estudiada.

Las plantas son fuentes de moléculas biológicamente activas que pueden ser utilizadas para el tratamiento de diferentes afecciones. Solanum granuloso-leprosum, conocida como “hu’i moneha”, es una especie nativa del Paraguay, cuyas propiedades farmacológicas y composición química son aún desconocidas. Sin embargo, popularmente esta planta se utiliza como calmante, para aliviar la tos, depurar la sangre, tratar dolores orales, como los causados por las caries. Es por ello que, ante el desconocimiento de sus propiedades farmacológicas, este trabajo de investigación tuvo por objetivo evaluar la actividad antibacteriana del extracto vegetal de las hojas de Solanum granuloso-leprosum, así se llevó a cabo una investigación de tipo experimental, con diseño en bloques al azar, donde se utilizó la técnica de disco difusión frente a Staphylococcus aureus ATCC 25923, Staphylococcus epidermidis ATCC 12228, Escherichia coli ATCC 25922, Salmonella typhimurium ATCC 13311 y Pseudomonas aeruginosa ATCC 27853, sometiéndolas a distintas concentraciones del extracto etanólico (2000, 1000, 500 y 250 μg.mL-1).En cuanto a los resultados, no se observó halos de inhibición en ninguna de las concentraciones ensayadas, una causa probable podría ser que el extracto bruto es aparentemente rico en ácidos grasos y ésteres. Finalmente, se concluye que el extracto de las hojas no demostró actividad antibacteriana frente a las cepas utilizadas en las condiciones ensayadas. Sin embargo, deben realizarse otras investigaciones variando el tipo de extracto con relación a la polaridad con el fin de elucidar otras posibles actividades biológicas y así ampliar la información científica sobre las propiedades terapéuticas de la especie estudiada.

Las microempresas son de gran importancia para las economías del mundo por su capacidad de generar empleos y contribuir al producto interno bruto, favoreciendo el sistema productivo nacional. Sin embargo, también son altamente vulnerables a los diferentes escenarios socioeconómicos que surgen de sus diferentes entornos, así como a la formación en planificación financiera de sus operadores (gerentes, administradores o propietarios) quienes son parte central de la expectativa de vida de estas empresas. así como su crecimiento.La relevancia del operador se analiza mediante la prueba estadística chi-cuadrado relacionando variedades de planificación financiera como crédito, liquidez, endeudamiento, costos de bienes y servicios, toma de decisiones sobre la edad, educación y formación profesional en la planificación financiera del operador la microempresa. Mediante escala tipo Likert se formularon 124 encuestas, cada una con 22 ítems relacionados con el perfil de los operadores y los recursos de planificación financiera antes mencionado, mostrando así registros numéricos cuantificables que contienen las respuestas de los microempresarios entrevistados. A partir del análisis estadístico con la prueba de chi-cuadrado se determinaron los grados de dependencia entre variables, encontrando que la formación profesional en el campo de la planificación financiera del operador de la microempresa es determinante en la supervivencia, existencia o esperanza de vida, la cual es de 5.7 , inferior a la media nacional.

Grassi, Bruno, Claudio Marconi, Michael Meyer, Michel Rieu, and Paolo Cerretelli. Gas exchange and cardiovascular kinetics with different exercise protocols in heart transplant recipients. J. Appl. Physiol. 82(6): 1952–1962, 1997.—Metabolic and cardiovascular adjustments to various submaximal exercises were evaluated in 82 heart transplant recipients (HTR) and in 35 control subjects (C). HTR were tested 21.5 ± 25.3 (SD) mo (range 1.0–137.1 mo) posttransplantation. Three protocols were used: protocol A consisted of 5 min of rectangular 50-W load repeated twice, 5 min apart [5 min rest, 5 min 50 W ( Ex 1), 5 min recovery, 5 min 50 W ( Ex 2)]; protocol B consisted of 5 min of rectangular load at 25, 50, or 75 W; protocol Cconsisted of 15 min of rectangular load at 25 W. Breath-by-breath pulmonary ventilation (V˙e), O2 uptake (V˙o 2), and CO2 output (V˙co 2) were determined. During protocol A, beat-by-beat cardiac output (Q˙) was estimated by impedance cardiography. The half times ( t 1/2) of the on- and off-kinetics of the variables were calculated. In all protocols, t 1/2 values forV˙o 2 on-,V˙e on-, andV˙co 2 on-kinetics were higher (i.e., the kinetics were slower) in HTR than in C, independently of workload and of the time posttransplantation. Also, t 1/2 Q˙ on- was higher in HTR than in C. In protocol A, no significant difference of t 1/2 V˙o 2on- was observed in HTR between Ex 1 (48 ± 9 s) and Ex 2 (46 ± 8 s), whereas t 1/2Q˙ on- was higher during Ex 1 (55 ± 24 s) than during Ex 2 (47 ± 15 s). In all protocols and for all variables, the t 1/2 off-values were higher in HTR than in C. In protocol C, no differences of steady-stateV˙e,V˙o 2, andV˙co 2 were observed in both groups between 5, 10, and 15 min of exercise. We conclude that 1) in HTR, a “priming” exercise, while effective in speeding up the adjustment of convective O2 flow to muscle fibers during a second on-transition, did not affect theV˙o 2 on-kinetics, suggesting that the slower V˙o 2 on- in HTR was attributable to peripheral (muscular) factors; 2) the dissociation between Q˙ on- andV˙o 2 on-kinetics in HTR indicates that an inertia of muscle metabolic machinery is the main factor dictating theV˙o 2on-kinetics; and 3) theV˙o 2 off-kinetics was slower in HTR than in C, indicating a greater alactic O2 deficit in HTR and, therefore, a sluggish muscleV˙o 2 adjustment.

PRODUÇÃO FORRAGEIRA E EFICIÊNCIA DE UTILIZAÇÃO DA ÁGUA DO CAPIM SUDÃO SUBMETIDO A DIFERENTES LÂMINAS DE IRRIGAÇÃO1 WELLINGTON MEZZOMO2; MARCIA XAVIER PEITER3; ADROALDO DIAS ROBAINA4; JARDEL HENRIQUE KIRCHNER5; ROGÉRIO RICALDE TORRES6 e BRUNA DALCIN PIMENTA7 1 Trabalho retirado da tese intitulada: “Viabilidade técnica e econômica da produção de forragem do capim sudão irrigado por aspersão convencional”, do autor Wellington Mezzomo2 2 Eng. Agrônomo, Mestre, Doutorando no Programa de Pós-Graduação em Engenharia Agrícola, UFSM, Avenida Roraima, nº 1000, bairro Camobi, Santa Maria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 97195-000, wellingtonmezzomo@gmail.com. 3 Eng. Agrônoma, Doutora, Professora Associada do Departamento de Engenharia Rural, UFSM, Avenida Roraima, nº 1000, bairro Camobi, Santa Maria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 97195-000, mpeiter@gmail.com. 4 Eng. Agrônomo, Doutor, Professor Titular do Departamento de Engenharia Rural, UFSM, Avenida Roraima, nº 1000, bairro Camobi, Santa Maria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 97195-000, diasrobaina@gmail.com. 5 Eng. Agrônomo, Doutor, Professor do Instituto Federal de Educação, Ciência e Tecnologia do Rio Grande do Sul, Rua Nelsi Ribas Fritsch, nº 1111, bairro Esperança, Ibirubá, RS, Brasil, CEP: 98200-000, jardel.kirchner@ibiruba.ifrs.edu.br 6 Eng. Agrônomo, Doutor, Professor do Instituto Federal de Educação, Ciência e Tecnologia do Rio Grande do Sul, Rua Eng. João Viterbo de Oliveira, nº 3061, Zona Rural, Vacaria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 95219-899, rogerio.torres@vacaria.ifrs.edu.br. 7 Eng. Agrônoma, Mestre, Professora do Instituto Federal de Educação, Ciência e Tecnologia do Rio Grande do Sul, Rua Nelsi Ribas Fritsch, nº 1111, bairro Esperança, Ibirubá, RS, Brasil, CEP: 98200-000, bruna.pimenta@ibiruba.ifrs.edu.br. 1 RESUMO As pastagens cultivadas são a forma mais prática e viável economicamente para alimentação bovina, entretanto, na região sul do Brasil no período de primavera-verão a qualidade e a disponibilidade forrageira decaem em razão da irregularidade pluvial, fazendo-se necessária a utilização da irrigação. O capim Sudão (Sorghum sudanense (Piper) Stapf), cultivar BRS Estribo vem se destacando em relação as demais gramíneas de verão, porém o suprimento hídrico ótimo ainda é desconhecido, pois as pesquisas divergem sobre os resultados. O objetivo, foi avaliar a produtividade do capim Sudão sob diferentes lâminas e determinar a eficiência na utilização da água em dois anos de cultivo (2015/2016 e 2016/2017). Os experimentos foram conduzidos na Universidade Federal de Santa Maria, baixo o delineamento experimental em blocos ao acaso com cinco lâminas de água, 25, 50, 75, 100 e 125% da evapotranspiração de referência (ETo) e tratamento testemunha sem irrigação, todos com quatro repetições. Houve diferença estatisticamente significativa para os distintos tratamentos, sendo determinado a máxima eficiência técnica para produção de massa seca e eficiência de utilização da água, no Ano 1 as lâminas de água foram 103,1% e 73,6% da ETo respectivamente e no Ano 2 foram as lâminas com 120,8% e 95,6% da ETo. Keywords: evapotranspiração de referência, massa seca, BRS Estribo. MEZZOMO, W.; PEITER, M. X.; ROBAINA, A. D.; KIRCHNER, J. H.; TORRES, R. R.; PIMENTA, B. D. FORAGE PRODUCTION AND EFFICIENCY IN THE UTILIZATION OF WATER IN SUDAN GRASS SUBMITTED TO DIFFERENT IRRIGATION DEPTHS 2 ABSTRACT Cultivated pastures are the most practical and economically viable way to feed cattle, however, in southern Brazil, during spring-summer, forage quality and availability decline due to rainfall irregularity, irrigation is required. Sudan grass (Sorghum sudanense (Piper) Stapf), cultivar BRS Estribo has been outstanding in relation to the other summer grasses, however the optimal water supply is still unknown, as research diverges about the results. The objective was to evaluate the yield of Sudan grass under different depths and to determine the efficiency in the utilization of water, in two years of cultivation (2015/2016 and 2016/2017). The experiments were conducted at the Federal University of Santa Maria, under a randomized block design with five water depths, 25, 50, 75, 100 and 125% of reference evapotranspiration and control treatment without irrigation, all with four repetitions. There was a statistically significant difference for the different treatments, being determined the maximum efficiency technique for dry mass production and efficiency in the utilization of water, in Year 1 the water depths were 103.1% and 73.6% of ETo respectively, and in Year 2 depths were 120.8% and 95.6% of ETo. Keywords: reference evapotranspiration, dry mass, BRS Estribo.

The aim of this contribution was either to confirm or refuse the supposition that there are soils on the volcanic effusive rocks in the Bruntál district which can be assigned to the referential group of Andosols. The conditions for the genesis of Andosols are described and the diagnostic criteria of the andic process are defined both according to the principles of the WBR/FAO 2006 classification and according to the Slovak MKSPS 2000 classification system. In the Czech classification system, the diagnostics of Andosols has not yet been described or defined because their occurrence on the territory of the Czech Republic has not been confirmed till now. On the Velký Roudný volcanic dome (780 m), samples from two profiles were taken and described: one from below the summit as a sample of forest soil, and the other from the terraced, grass-covered foot of the hill, formerly used as a ploughed land. The samples from the two profiles were processed, and analyses were carried out according to both the classification systems mentioned above. The results of the analyses were subsequently evaluated. It was discovered that both evaluated profiles conformed to most of the diagnostic characteristics of andic development according to both WRB 2006 and the Slovak 2000 classification systems. Both evaluated profiles could be then classified – according to WRB 2006 – as Vitric Andosol (Dystric) and Vitric – Umbric Andosol (Dystric, Colluvic), respectivelly; according to Slovak Classification System as Andic Cambisols. The occurrence of soils with andic development in the Czech Republic was thus confirmed. The conclusion drawn by some authors (eg. in US Taxonomy) that a higher content of volcanic glass and a substrate of andesite type are not an indispensable condition for the creation of soils classified as Andosols was also confirmed. Likewise, according to the WRB criteria, a melanic humus horizon is not a necessary condition. Because of the difficulties in distinguishing the types, the Czech classification system recommends that a humic andic horizon should be evaluated as molic. We assume that in some cases it could be better classified as umbric. A preliminary proposal has been put forward to insert the Andozem soil types in Taxonomic Soil Classification System of the Czech Republic: Haplic Andosol, Vitric Andosol, Lithic Andosol, Umbric Andosol, but the properties and criteria of those soils will have to be defined precisely. One problem which will also have to be resolved is how to allocate the profiles displaying andic properties either to the proposed subtype of Cambic Andosol or to the subtype of Andic Cambisol (outside the referential class of Andsols). This issue is, indeed, not dealt with satisfactorily either by the Slovak system or the worldwide WRB 2006 classification, either.

In the spring of 2007, switchgrass accessions and cultivars Alamo, Kanlow, SL-93-2001, and NSL 2001-1 (lowland), Blackwell (upland), and Grenville, Falcon, and Miami (unknown ploidy levels) were sown at the East Tennessee Research and Extension Center in Knoxville for evaluation and controlled hybridizations. In July and August of 2007, uredinia were observed primarily on the upper leaf surfaces, and to a lesser extent on the undersides of leaves, of switchgrass cvs. Alamo, Blackwell, Grenville, Falcon, Kanlow, and Miami. Uredinia were observed on all cultivars and accessions in 2008. Dimensions of spores are reported as mean ± standard deviation. Uredinia were epiphyllous, adaxial, caulicolous, oblong, and the color of cinnamon brown. Urediniospores were globose to broadly ellipsoid, 26.0 ± 3.0 × 23.2 ± 2.4 μm, with a wall that was cinnamon brown, 1.5 to 2.0 μm thick, finely echinulate with three to four equatorial pores, corresponding to Puccinia emaculata Schw. (3). Abundant teliospores were isolated from Grenville, Falcon, and Blackwell, with fewer teliospores isolated from Alamo. Telia were epiphyllous, adaxial, and caulicolous, densely crowded to scattered, oblong, and dark brown to black. Teliospores were dark brown, two-celled, ellipsoid to oblong, 33.6 ± 4.8 μm long with an apical cell width of 17.5 ± 1.2 μm and basal cell width of 15.9 ± 2.5 μm. Teliospore walls were 1.5 to 2.0 μm wide at the sides and 4 to 6 μm apically. Pedicels were brown or colorless and up to approximately one length of the teliospore, 28.5 ± 7.4 μm. Teliospore morphology confirmed the identification of this rust as P. emaculata (3), which has been reported to infect upland and lowland populations of switchgrass (2). A 2,109-bp fragment containing the internal transcribed spacer (ITS) 1, 5.8S, ITS 2, and D1/D2 region of the large subunit ribosomal DNA was sequenced for a specimen on ‘Falcon’ (GenBank Accession No. EU915294 and BPI No. 878722) from two overlapping PCR fragments amplified with primers PRITS1F (L. A. Castlebury, unpublished data) and ITS4B (1) for one fragment and Rust5.8SF (L. A. Castlebury, unpublished data) and LR7 (4) for the second fragment. No sequences of P. emaculata were available for comparison; however, BLAST searches of the ITS resulted in hits to P. asparagi DC (527 of 576, 91%) and P. andropogonis Schw. (523 of 568, 92%) placing this fungus in the genus Puccinia Pers. The alternate hosts of this rust are species of the Euphorbiaceae (2,3), which are ubiquitous in this area although the aecial stage has not been observed. To our knowledge, this is the first report of P. emaculata on switchgrass in Tennessee. Given the highly susceptible response of certain varieties of switchgrass to this rust in field plots, reduction in total biomass in large acreages is likely and long-standing fields of this perennial grass will compound the problem. References: (1) M. Gardes and T. D. Bruns. Mol. Ecol. 2:113, 1993. (2) D. M. Gustafson et al. Crop Sci. 43:755, 2003. (3) P. Ramachar and G. Cummins. Mycopathol. Mycol. Appl. 25:7, 1965. (4) R. Vilgalys and M. Hester. J. Bacteriol. 172:4238, 1990.

Background:Rheumatoid arthritis (RA) is associated with an increased risk of non-Hodgkin B-cell lymphoma (B-cell NHL).Objectives:1)To study the characteristics of B-cell NHL complicating RA2)To identify the factors associated with their occurrence.Methods:A multi-centre case-control study was performed in France. Cases were patients with RA fulfilling the ACR-EULAR 2010 criteria, who developed a B-cell NHL after the diagnosis of RA. Cases were reported following a call for observations by the “Club Rhumatismes et Inflammation” network, registries from the French society of Rheumatology (AIR, ORA and REGATE) and the ESPOIR cohort. For each case, 2 control patients were drawn at random from patients in the ESPOIR cohort with RA fulfilling the ACR-EULAR 2010 criteria; cases and controls were matched on age (age at lymphoma diagnosis for cases and age at the 10-year ESPOIR visit for controls). Patients with associated Sjögren’s syndrome were excluded. Cases and controls characteristics were compared for parameters associated with the occurrence of lymphoma.Results:A total of 54 cases were included and matched to 108 controls. Lymphomas were mostly diffuse large B-cell lymphomas (n=26, 48.2%)(Figure 1). EBV positivity was found in 4 cases among 27 tested (14.8%). Cases had a mean age of 63.5 years (SD=10.9), and had a mean RA duration of 12.4 years (SD=10.5) at the time of diagnosis of lymphoma; there was no significant difference with controls (p=0.47 and p=0.40 respectively). The mean duration of follow-up after the diagnosis of lymphoma was 5.2 years (SD=5.8). In univariate analysis, factors associated with occurrence of B-cell NHL were: male gender (OR=3.3, 95%CI: 1.7-6.7), positive ACPA (OR=5.1, 95%CI: 2.0-15.7), positive Rheumatoid Factor (RF) (OR=3.9, 95%CI=1.6-12.2), erosions on X-rays (OR=15.4, 95%CI: 6.9-37.7) and DAS28 (OR=2.0, 95%CI: 1.5-2.7). Methotrexate, TNF-blockers and the number of previous biologics were not associated with the occurrence of B-cell NHL. Hydroxychloroquine and sulfasalazine were more frequent in cases versus control, which could be linked to a date bias. Erosions and DAS28 remained significant in multivariate analysis(Table 1).Conclusion:This study revealed an association between markers of activity (DAS28), severity (erosions) and autoimmune B-cell activation (RF and ACPA) and the risk of B-cell NHL in patients with RA, supporting the continuum between autoimmunity and lymphomagenesis in RA.Figure 1.lymphomas histologyTable 1.association between RA characteristics and B-cell NHL in univariate and multivariate analysisVariablesCases (N=54)Controls (N=108)Univariate analysisMultivariate analysisOR (95%CI)p-valueOR (95%CI)p-valueMale gender, N (%)27 (50.0)25 (23.2)3.3(1.7-6.7)0.00062.2(0.8-6.1)0.13Positive ACPA, N (%)49 (90.7)71 (65.7)5.1(2.0-15.7)0.0006--Positive RF, N (%)49 (90.7)77 (71.3)3.9(1.6-12.2)0.005--Positive RF or ACPA, N (%)49 (90.7)80 (74.1)3.4(1.3-10.6)0.012.9(0.7-15.0)0.16Erosions on X-rays, N (%)44 (81.5)26 (24.1)15.4(6.9-37.7)< 0.00019.8(3.8-28.2)< 0.0001DAS28 at B-cell NHL diagnosis/at the 10th year visit*, mean(SD)4.1 (1.6)2.6 (1.4)2.0(1.5-2.7)< 0.00011.9(1.3-2.8)0.0007*B-cell NHL diagnosis for cases, 10thyear visit for controlsDisclosure of Interests:Joanna KEDRA: None declared, Raphaèle Seror Consultant of: BMS UCB Pfizer Roche, Philippe Dieudé: None declared, Arnaud Constantin: None declared, ERIC TOUSSIROT: None declared, Elias Kfoury: None declared, Charles Masson: None declared, Divi Cornec: None declared, Jean-Jacques Dubost: None declared, Laurent Marguerie: None declared, Sebastien Ottaviani: None declared, Franck Grados: None declared, Rakiba Belkhir: None declared, olivier fain: None declared, Philippe Goupille Grant/research support from: AbbVie, Amgen, Biogen, BMS, Celgene, Chugai, Lilly, Janssen, Medac, MSD France, Nordic Pharma, Novartis, Pfizer, Sanofi and UCB, Consultant of: AbbVie, Amgen, Biogen, BMS, Celgene, Chugai, Lilly, Janssen, Medac, MSD France, Nordic Pharma, Novartis, Pfizer, Sanofi and UCB, Speakers bureau: AbbVie, Amgen, Biogen, BMS, Celgene, Chugai, Lilly, Janssen, Medac, MSD France, Nordic Pharma, Novartis, Pfizer, Sanofi and UCB, Christelle Sordet: None declared, Bruno Fautrel Grant/research support from: AbbVie, Lilly, MSD, Pfizer, Consultant of: AbbVie, Biogen, BMS, Boehringer Ingelheim, Celgene, Lilly, Janssen, Medac MSD France, Nordic Pharma, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, Sanofi Aventis, SOBI and UCB, Peggy Philippe: None declared, Muriel PIPERNO: None declared, Bernard Combe Grant/research support from: Novartis, Pfizer, Roche-Chugai, Consultant of: AbbVie; Gilead Sciences, Inc.; Janssen; Eli Lilly and Company; Pfizer; Roche-Chugai; Sanofi, Speakers bureau: Bristol-Myers Squibb; Gilead Sciences, Inc.; Eli Lilly and Company; Merck Sharp & Dohme; Pfizer; Roche-Chugai; UCB, Olivier Lambotte Consultant of: BMS France, MSD, Astra Zeneca, Incyte, Christophe Richez Consultant of: Abbvie, Amgen, Mylan, Pfizer, Sandoz and UCB., Jérémie SELLAM: None declared, Thomas Sene: None declared, Guillaume Denis: None declared, Thierry Lequerre: None declared, Xavier Mariette Consultant of: BMS, Gilead, Medimmune, Novartis, Pfizer, Servier, UCB, Gaetane Nocturne: None declared

Objective: The present study aims to expose through a literature review the cleft lip and/or cleft palate (CL/CP) and its treatment in a multidisciplinary approach. Methodology: This literature review was conducted by the leading health databases: Pubmed (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed). The keywords for the textual search were: Cleft Lip; Cleft Palate; Dental Staff; Classification; Embryology. The inclusion criteria were: literature on the subject under study, literature of the last years, english language, laboratory and clinical studies and systematic review. Literature Review: Fissures can be defined by a space at the junction between two bones, usually where there would be a suture. Orofacial clefts are part of the congenital facial anomalies resulted from the non-junction of the embryonic facial processes. These changes occur due to an alteration in the migratory velocity of the neural crest cells, in charge of the phenomenon of fusion of the facial prominences between the 6th and 9thweek of embryonic life. Conclusion: The treatment of patients with orofacial clefts requires the approach of a multidisciplinary team that involves physicians in the area of plastic surgery, otorhinolaryngology, pediatrics, geneticists, dentists, prosthetics, nurses and speech pathologists, focusing on patient prevention, recovery and rehabilitation. However, further studies are needed for a better understanding of the subject and the steps that should be applied for each particular case.Descriptors: Cleft Lip; Cleft Palate; Dental Staff; Classification; Embryology.ReferencesShaw WC, Brattström V, Mølsted K, Prahl-Andersen B, Roberts CT, Semb G. The Eurocleft study: intercenter study of treatment outcome in patients with complete cleft lip and palate. Part 5: discussion and conclusions. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2005;42(1):93-8. Friede H, Lilja J. The Eurocleft Study: Intercenter study of treatment outcome in patients with complete cleft lip and palate. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2005;42(4):453-54.Rosenstein SW, Grasseschi M, Dado D. The Eurocleft Study: Intercenter study of treatment outcome in patients with complete cleft lip and palate. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2005;42(4):453.Semb G, Brattström V, Mølsted K, Prahl-Andersen B, Zuurbier P, Rumsey N, Shaw WC. The Eurocleft study: intercenter study of treatment outcome in patients with complete cleft lip and palate. Part 4: relationship among treatment outcome, patient/parent satisfaction, and the burden of care. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2005;42(1):83-92. Watkins SE, Meyer RE, Strauss RP, Aylsworth AS. Classification, epidemiology, and genetics of orofacial clefts. Clin Plast Surg. 2014;41(2):149-63. Coleman JR Jr, Sykes JM. The embryology, classification, epidemiology, and genetics of facial clefting. Facial Plast Surg Clin North Am. 2001;9(1):1-13.Pengelly RJ, Arias L, Martínez J, Upstill-Goddard R, Seaby EG, Gibson J, Ennis S, Collins A, Briceño I. Deleterious coding variants in multi-case families with non-syndromic cleft lip and/or palate phenotypes. Sci Rep. 2016;6:30457.Ren Y, Steegman R, Dieters A, Jansma J, Stamatakis H. Bone-anchored maxillary protraction in patients with unilateral complete cleft lip and palate and Class III malocclusion. Clin Oral Investig. 2019;23(5):2429-2441.Alberconi TF, Siqueira GLC, Sathler R, Kelly KA, Garib DG. Assessment of Orthodontic Burden of Care in Patients With Unilateral Complete Cleft Lip and Palate. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2018;55(1):74-78.Eriguchi M, Watanabe A, Suga K, Nakano Y, Sakamoto T, Sueishi K, Uchiyama T. Growth of Palate in Unilateral Cleft Lip and Palate Patients Undergoing Two-stage Palatoplasty and Orthodontic Treatment. Bull Tokyo Dent Coll. 2018;59(3):183-91.Smane L, Pilmane M. Evaluation of the presence of MMP-2, TIMP-2, BMP2/4, and TGFβ3 in the facial tissue of children with cleft lip and palate. Acta Med Litu. 2018;25(2):86-94. AlHayyan WA, Pani SC, AlJohar AJ, AlQatami FM. The Effects of Presurgical Nasoalveolar Molding on the Midface Symmetry of Children with Unilateral Cleft Lip and Palate: A Long-term Follow-up Study. Plast Reconstr Surg Glob Open. 2018;6(7):e1764. Thakur S, Singh A, Thakur NS, Diwana VK. Achievement in Nasal Symmetry after Cheiloplasty in Unilateral Cleft Lip and Palate Infants Treated with Presurgical Nasoalveolar Molding. Contemp Clin Dent. 2018;9(3):357-60. Turri de Castro Ribeiro T, Petri Feitosa MC, Almeida Penhavel R, Zanda RS, Janson G, Mazzottini R, Garib DG. Extreme maxillomandibular discrepancy in unilateral cleft lip and palate: Longitudinal follow-up in a patient with mandibular prognathism. Am J Orthod Dentofacial Orthop. 2018;154(2):294-304. Perillo L, Vitale M, d'Apuzzo F, Isola G, Nucera R, Matarese G. Interdisciplinary approach for a patient with unilateral cleft lip and palate. Am J Orthod Dentofacial Orthop. 2018;153(6):883-94. Hoffmannova E, Moslerová V, Dupej J, Borský J, Bejdová Š, Velemínská J. Three-dimensional development of the upper dental arch in unilateral cleft lip and palate patients after early neonatal cheiloplasty. Int J Pediatr Otorhinolaryngol. 2018;109:1-6. Tan ELY, Kuek MC, Wong HC, Ong SAK, Yow M. Secondary Dentition Characteristics in Children With Nonsyndromic Unilateral Cleft Lip and Palate: A Retrospective Study. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2018;55(4):582-89. Rodrigues R, Fernandes MH, Monteiro AB, Furfuro R, Sequeira T, Silva CC, Manso MC. SPINA classification of cleft lip and palate: A suggestion for a complement. Arch Pediatr. 2018;25(7):439-41. Ortiz-Posadas MR, Vega-Alvarado L, Maya-Behar J. A new approach to classify cleft lip and palate. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2001;38(6):545-50.Spina V, Psillakis JM, Lapa FS, Ferreira MC. Classificação das fissuras lábio-palatinas. Sugestão de modificação [Classification of cleft lip and cleft palate. Suggested changes]. Rev Hosp Clin Fac Med Sao Paulo. 1972;27(1):5-6. Allori AC, Mulliken JB, Meara JG, Shusterman S, Marcus JR. Classification of Cleft Lip/Palate: Then and Now. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2017;54(2):175-88. Spina V. A proposed modification for the classification of cleft lip and cleft palate. Cleft Palate J. 1973;10:251-2. Yun-Chia Ku M, Lo LJ, Chen MC, Wen-Ching Ko E. Predicting need for orthognathic surgery in early permanent dentition patients with unilateral cleft lip and palate using receiver operating characteristic analysis. Am J Orthod Dentofacial Orthop. 2018;153(3):405-14. Garib D, Yatabe M, de Souza Faco RA, Gregório L, Cevidanes L, de Clerck H. Bone-anchored maxillary protraction in a patient with complete cleft lip and palate: A case report. Am J Orthod Dentofacial Orthop. 2018;153(2):290-97. De Stefani A, Bruno G, Balasso P, Mazzoleni S, Baciliero U, Gracco A. Teeth agenesis evaluation in an Italian sample of complete unilateral and bilateral cleft lip and palate patients. Minerva Stomatol. 2018;67(4):156-64. Chang SY, Lonic D, Pai BC, Lo LJ. Primary Repair in Patients With Unilateral Complete Cleft of Lip and Primary Palate: Assessment of Outcomes. Ann Plast Surg. 2018;80(2S Suppl 1):S2-6.Vura N, Gaddipati R, Palla Y, Kumar P. An Intraoral Appliance to Retract the Protrusive Premaxilla in Bilateral Cleft Lip Patients Presenting Late for Primary Lip Repair. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2018;55(4):622-25.Massie JP, Bruckman K, Rifkin WJ, Runyan CM, Shetye PR, Grayson B, Flores RL. The Effect of Nasoalveolar Molding on Nasal Airway Anatomy: A 9-Year Follow-up of Patients With Unilateral Cleft Lip and Palate. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2018;55(4):596-601. Jabbari F, Wiklander L, Reiser E, Thor A, Hakelius M, Nowinski D. Secondary Alveolar Bone Grafting in Patients Born With Unilateral Cleft Lip and Palate: A 20-Year Follow-up. Cleft Palate Craniofac J. 2018;55(2):173-79.Jones CM, Roth B, Mercado AM, Russell KA, Daskalogiannakis J, Samson TD, Hathaway RR, Smith A, Mackay DR, Long RE Jr. The Americleft Project: Comparison of Ratings Using Two-Dimensional Versus Three-Dimensional Images for Evaluation of Nasolabial Appearance in Patients With Unilateral Cleft Lip and Palate. J Craniofac Surg. 2018;29(1):105-8. Gatti GL, Freda N, Giacomina A, Montemagni M, Sisti A. Cleft Lip and Palate Repair. J Craniofac Surg. 2017;28(8):1918-24.

<p>Cuerpo y alma son conceptos antinómicos que permiten establecer un juego de analogías donde decir cuerpo supone también decir lo real, ser, finitud, lo mortal, o el trabajo del entendimiento, mientras alma denota a su vez lo ideal, pensar, la infinitud, la inmortalidad, o el órgano de la razón. Con todo, seguir esta pista, la de ver grados distintos de conceptos opuestos recíprocamente, es tanto como conformarse con ver en el vínculo de los términos correlativos una «turbia unidad» meramente analítica. La cuestión por tanto es si ha de haber una unidad absoluta que pueda extraerse de la inseparabilidad de estos conceptos. A partir de este punto se deja introducir el concepto de centro. Sólo cuanto más se habita este centro, el hombre logra quedar incluido en esta unidad absoluta, y ser más auténticamente hombre.</p><p> </p>

Penelitian bertujuan untuk mengetahui kualitas kecernaan, produksi gas dan metana setelah mengalami penambahan tepung biji sorgum dan esktrak tanin dari tepung biji sorgum (TBS) pada pakan ternak sapi secara in vitro. Penelitian menggunakan Rancangan Acak Lengkap (RAL) dengan 3 jenis perlakuan dengan 4 ulangan yaitu P0 = Rumput gajah (kontrol), P1=Rumput gajah + 0,15% TBS,dan P2=Rumput gajah + 0,15% ekstrak tanin dari TBS. Variabel yang diukur dan diamati meliputi kecernaan bahan kering, konsentrasi N-Amonia, VFA, produksi gas kumulatif dan gas metana bruto (CH4). Hasil penelitian menunjukkan bahwa penambahan tepung biji sorgum dan ekstrak tanin dari tepung biji sorgum terhadap kecernaan bahan kering, VFA total, dan produksi gas metan tidak berbeda nyata jika dibandingkan dengan perlakuan lainnya. Namun, berbeda nyata terhadap konsentrasi N-Amonia dan produksi gas kumulatif jika dibandingkan dengan perlakuan lainnya. Berdasarkan hasil penelitian dapat disimpulkan bahwa perlakuan dengan penambahan tepung biji sorgum dan ekstrak taninnya mampu menurunkan produksi gas kumulatif serta mempertahankan kualitas kecernaan namun belum mampu menurunkan emisi metana.Kata kunci : Ekstrak tanin, biji sorgum, produksi gas, metan, in vitro.ABSTRACTThe study aimed to determine the quality of digestibility, gas and methane production after experiencing addition of sorghum seed flour and tannin extract from sorghum seed flour (FFB) in cattle feed in vitro. The study used a Completely Randomized Design (CRD) with 3 types of treatment with 4 replications, P0 = Elephant grass (control), P1 = Elephant grass + 0.15% TBS, and P2 = Elephant grass + 0.15% tannin extract from FFB. The measured and observed variables included dry matter digestibility, N-Ammonia concentration, VFA, cumulative gas production and gross methane gas (CH4). The results showed that the addition of sorghum seed flour and tannin extract from sorghum seed flour to dry matter digestibility, total VFA, and methane gas production were not significantly different when compared with other treatments. However, it was significantly different from N-Ammonia concentration and cumulative gas production when compared to other treatments. Based on the results of the study it can be concluded that the treatment with the addition of sorghum seed flour and tannin extract is able to reduce cumulative gas production and maintain digestive quality but has not been able to reduce methane emissions.Key words: Beef, black tea, marinade, papaya, pineapple

Abstract A new distribution map is provided for Ustilago segetum (Bull.) Roussel var. avenae (Pers.) Brun. Hosts: Oats (Avena sativa and oat grass (Arrhenatherum elatius). Information is given on the geographical distribution in Africa, Angola, Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya, Libya, Madagascar, Morocco, South Africa, Tanzania, Tunisia, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Asia, Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, Burma, China, Gansu, Hebei, Heilongjiang, Henan, Jiangsu, Jilin, Liaoning, Shanxi, Shaanxi, Sichuan, Zhejiang, Georgia, India, Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, New Delhi, Himachal Pradesh, Iran, Iraq, Israel, Japan, Kazakhstan, Kirgistan, Korea, Lebanon, Mongolia, Pakistan, Philippines, Russia, European region, Azov-Black sea, Caucasus, Caucasus region, Central Asia, Siberia, Far East, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Turkestan, Turkey, Australasia & Oceania, Australia, New South Wales, Queensland, South Australia, Victoria, Western Australia, Tasmania, Hawaii, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Europe, Austria, Bulgaria, Cyprus, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Corsica, Germany, Greece, Crete, Hungary, Italy, Irish Republic, Latvia, Lithuania, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, UK, England, Scotland, Wales, Northetn Ireland, Yugoslavia, North America, Bermuda, Canada, British Columbia, Alberta, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Nfld, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, Saskatchewan, Mexico, USA, Alaska, Alabama, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Iowa, Massachussetts, Minnesota, Mississippi, New Jersey, New Mexico, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Oregon, South Carolina, South Dakota, Texas, Virginia, Wyoming, Idaho, New York, Pennsylvania, Central America & West Indies, Guatemala, Puerto Rico, South America, Argentina, Brazil, Rio Grande do Sul, Chile, Colombia, Peru, Uruguay, Venezuela.

Authenticity is the value of our times. From reality television and self-help literature to expectations to find the “real you” in work, love and relationships, authenticity pervades contemporary social and cultural life (Vannini and Williams). In contemporary Western culture the ideal of living authentically, of being “true to yourself,” is ubiquitous. Authenticity is “taken for granted” as an absolute value in a multitude of areas, from music, to travel to identity (Lindholm 1). We seek to perform authentically, to consume authentic products and to be authentic people. To describe something as inauthentic is the critic's cruellest barb, implying that the product or person under review is contrived, insincere, or at worst, soulless.The prevalence of authenticity is linked to what Charles Taylor (26) calls the “massive subjective turn of modern culture.” As religion and other traditional forms of authority weaken in modern secular societies, individuals need to draw on their inner resources to find answers to life’s big questions. It is in this context that ethical ideals of authenticity—wrapped in notions of self-discovery, self-fulfilment and personal improvement—come to play a central role in modern Western culture. While Taylor posits that authenticity can be a worthwhile moral ideal, it has tended to get a bad wrap in much cultural diagnosis. From Lasch to Bauman, authenticity is routinely linked to narcissism and declining care for others.For this issue of M/C Journal we wanted to develop a more nuanced conception of authenticity that moved outside abstracted theoretical accounts such as those provided by Taylor, Lasch and Bauman. We wanted to curate an issue that captured the concrete and situated ways in which authenticity is mobilised in everyday life and use this to interrogate the meaning and consequences of authenticity for contemporary living. In aiming to do this, the issue builds upon a one-day symposium—Cultures of Authenticity—we organised in our roles as co-conveners of The Australian Sociological Association (TASA) Cultural Sociology group. The symposium was held at Flinders University City campus in Adelaide on 28 November 2014 and supported by TASA thematic group funding.Building on the focus of the symposium, we invited papers for this issue of M/C Journal to analyse the role of authenticity in late-modern life and its real world meanings, applications and consequences. We asked for papers to investigate the significance of authenticity across diverse areas of media and culture. The result is an exciting collection of articles that address authenticity from a variety of angles that draw upon established and innovative empirical sources, including blogs, internet forums, reality TV, radio transcripts, interviews and focus-groups. Our feature article by Patrick Williams and Xiang Goh offers an emotionally powerful account of how discourses of authenticity are constructed on a breast cancer Internet forum. Using qualitative research methods, the article analyses two key dimensions of authenticity: 1) the existential, which focuses on cancer patients’ ability to face crisis and death; and 2) the interactional, which focuses on the collaborative making of the authentic cancer survivor.Nicholas Hookway and Akane Kanai also use online mediums to excavate contemporary applications of authenticity. Hookway uses blog data to show the prevalence of “being true to yourself” as a contemporary moral ideal, but suggests that the version of authenticity produced by the bloggers tends to miss the relational basis of self and morality. Kanai engages with the topic of authenticity as it applies to Tumblr blogs, arguing that they produce a concept of authenticity constituted in tension between individuality and belonging.The following three papers address the significance of authenticity in relation to work, religion and authenticity. Sara James shows that constructions of authentic selfhood in relation to work can offer existential answers to questions of meaning in disenchanted times. Steve Taylor looks at how authenticity as originality is claimed by alternative Christian communities and appropriated by mainstream groups in the UK while Ramon Menendez Domingo explores the different meanings that individuals from diverse ethnic backgrounds associate with being authentic. The next two papers address the production of authenticity in chat-based radio and reality TV. Kate Ames uses Kyle Sandilands to examine authentic performance in the chat-based radio genre, before Ava Parsemain moves our attention to how authenticity as truthfulness is deployed as a pedagogical strategy in the SBS show Who Do You Think You Are.Amy Bauder and David Inglis then close out the issue with analyses of country music and wine. Focusing on Bob Corbett and the Roo Grass Band, Bauder offers an ethnographic account of the role of authenticity in country music, arguing that family is used as a central vehicle to authenticate the genre. Inglis book-ends the issue by challenging readers to consider authenticity in wine production and consumption not simply as a social construction.Highlighting the importance of developing specific accounts of authenticity, Inglis argues that unlike the example of country music, authenticity in wine is never solely a cultural fabrication. Specifically, Inglis urges us to consider the importance of terroir to authenticity, not simply as the branding of place but also the physical and chemical components involved in wine making. Inglis’s paper was a fitting way to close the issue—it not only highlights the importance of authenticity as a modern value it also underscores the importance of historising the concept, demonstrating that demand for “authentic” wine is not just a modern value but one that has ancient roots.Putting together such a project involves the support and cooperation of a large numbers of people. Thanks to the authors for their wonderful contributions, the reviewers for their generous comments and The Australian Sociological Association, Flinders University and the Australian Cultural Sociology group for your support and advice. Thank you to Axel Bruns and the M/C Journal team for supporting not only this issue but also providing an exciting avenue to share new research and ideas. This is an on-going project but we feel this issue makes an important contribution to the operationalisation and application of authenticity to the study of self, culture and society. We hope you agree.ReferencesBauman, Zygmunt. Liquid Modernity. Cambridge: Polity, 2000.Lasch, Christopher. The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations. New York: W.W. Norton and Co, 1979.Lindholm, Charles. Culture and Authenticity. Malden: Blackwell, 2008.Taylor, Charles. Ethics of Authenticity. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1991.Vannini, Phillip, and J. Patrick Williams, eds. Authenticity in Culture, Self, and Society. Ashgate, 2009.

In 2013, the Capricornia Arts Mob (CAM), an Indigenous collective of artists situated in Rockhampton, central Queensland, Australia, successfully tendered for one of three public art projects that were grouped under the title Flood Markers (Roberts; Roberts and Mackay; Robinson and Mackay). Commissioned as part of the Queensland Government's Community Development and Engagement Initiative, Flood Markers aims to increase awareness of Rockhampton’s history, with particular focus on the Fitzroy River and the phenomena of flooding. Honouring Land Connections is CAM’s contribution to the project and consists of several “memory poles” that stand alongside the Fitzroy River in Toonooba Park. Rockhampton lies on Dharumbal Country with Toonooba being the Dharumbal name for the Fitzroy River and the inspiration for the work due to its cultural significance to the Aboriginal people of that region. The name Toonooba, as well as other images and icons including boomerangs, spears, nets, water lily, and frogs, amongst others, are carved, burnt, painted and embedded into the large ironbark poles. These stand with the river on one side and the colonial infrastructure of Rockhampton on the other (see fig. 1, 2 and 3).Figure 1 Figure 2Figure 3Within this article, we discuss Honouring Land Connections as having two main functions which contribute to its significance as Indigenous cultural expression and identity affirmation. Firstly, the memory poles (as well as the process of sourcing materials and producing the final product) are a manifestation of Country and a representation of its stories and lived memories. Honouring Land Connections provides a means for Aboriginal people to revel in Country and maintain connections to a vital component of their being as Indigenous. Secondly, by revealing Indigenous stories, experiences, and memories, Honouring Land Connections emphasises Indigenous voices and perspectives within a place dominated by Eurocentric outlooks and knowledges. Toonooba provides the backdrop on which the complexities of cultural and identity formation within settler-colonial spaces are highlighted whilst revelling in continuous Indigenous presence.Flood Markers as ArtArtists throughout the world have used flood markers as a means of visual expression through which to explore and reveal local histories, events, environments, and socio-cultural understandings of the relationships between persons, places, and the phenomena of flooding. Geertz describes art as a social text embedded within wider socio-cultural systems; providing insight into cultural, social, political, economic, gendered, religious, ethnic, environmental, and biographical contexts. Flood markers are not merely metric tools used for measuring the height of a river, but rather serve as culture artefacts or indexes (Gell Art and Agency; Gell "Technology of Enchantment") that are products and producers of socio-culture contexts and the memories and experiences embedded within them. Through different methods, mediums, and images, artists have created experiential and intellectual spaces where those who encounter their work are encouraged to engage their surroundings in thought provoking and often-new ways.In some cases, flood markers have brought attention to the “character and natural history” of a particular place, where artists such as Louise Lavarack have sought to provoke consciousness of the movement of water across flood plains (Lavarack). In other works, flood markers have served as memorials to individuals such as Gilbert White whose daughter honoured his life and research through installing a glass spire at Boulder Creek, Colorado in 2011 (White). Tragedies such as Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in 2005 have also been commemorated through flood markers. Artist Christopher Saucedo carved 1,836 waves into a freestanding granite block; each wave representing a life lost (University of New Orleans). The weight of the granite symbolises the endurance and resilience of those who faced, and will continue to face, similar forces of nature. The Pillar of Courage erected in 2011 in Ipswich, Queensland, similarly contains the words “resilience, community, strength, heroes, caring and unity” with each word printed on six separate sections of the pillar, representing the six major floods that have hit the region (Chudleigh).Whilst these flood markers provide valuable insights into local histories, specific to each environmental and socio-cultural context, works such as the Pillar of Courage fail to address Indigenous relationships to Country. By framing flooding as a “natural disaster” to be overcome, rather than an expression of Country to be listened to and understood, Euro and human-centric perspectives are prioritised over Indigenous ways of knowing and being. Indigenous knowledges however encourages a reorientation of Eurocentric responses and relationships to Country, and in doing so challenge compartmentalised views of “nature” where flooding is separated from land and Country (Ingold Perception; Seton and Bradley; Singer). Honouring Land Connections symbolises the voice and eternal presence of Toonooba and counters presentations of flooding that depict it as historian Heather Goodall (36) once saw “as unusual events of disorder in which the river leaves its proper place with catastrophic results.”Country To understand flooding from Indigenous perspectives it is first necessary to discuss Country and apprehend what it means for Indigenous peoples. Country refers to the physical, cosmological, geographical, relational, and emotional setting upon which Indigenous identities and connections to place and kin are embedded. Far from a passive geographic location upon which interactions take place, Country is an active and responsive agent that shapes and contextualises social interactions between and amongst all living beings. Bob Morgan writes of how “Country is more than issues of land and geography; it is about spirituality and identity, knowing who we are and who we are connected to; and it helps us understand how all living things are connected.” Country is also an epistemological frame that is filled with knowledge that may be known and familiarised whilst being knowledge itself (Langton "Sacred"; Rose Dingo; Yunupingu).Central to understanding Country is the fact that it refers to a living being’s spiritual homeland which is the ontological place where relationships are formed and maintained (Yunupingu). As Country nurtures and provides the necessities for survival and prosperity, Indigenous people (but also non-Indigenous populations) have moral obligations to care for Country as kin (Rose Nourishing Terrains). Country is epistemic, relational, and ontological and refers to both physical locations as well as modes of “being” (Heidegger), meaning it is carried from place to place as an embodiment within a person’s consciousness. Sally Morgan (263) describes how “our country is alive, and no matter where we go, our country never leaves us.” Country therefore is fluid and mobile for it is ontologically inseparable to one’s personhood, reflected through phrases such as “I am country” (B. Morgan 204).Country is in continuous dialogue with its surroundings and provides the setting upon which human and non-human beings; topographical features such as mountains and rivers; ancestral beings and spirits such as the Rainbow Snake; and ecological phenomena such as winds, tides, and floods, interact and mutually inform each other’s existence (Rose Nourishing Terrains). For Aboriginal people, understanding Country requires “deep listening” (Atkinson; Ungunmerr), a responsive awareness that moves beyond monological and human-centric understandings of the world and calls for deeper understandings of the mutual and co-dependant relationships that exist within it. The awareness of such mutuality has been discussed through terms such as “kincentrism” (Salmón), “meshworks” (Ingold Lines), “webs of connection” (Hokari), “nesting” (Malpas), and “native science” (Cajete). Such concepts are ways of theorising “place” as relational, physical, and mental locations made up of numerous smaller interactions, each of which contribute to the identity and meaning of place. Whilst each individual agent or object retains its own autonomy, such autonomy is dependent on its wider relation to others, meaning that place is a location where “objectivity, subjectivity and inter-subjectivity converge” (Malpas 35) and where the very essence of place is revealed.Flooding as DialogueWhen positioned within Indigenous frameworks, flooding is both an agent and expression of Toonooba and Country. For the phenomenon to occur however, numerous elements come into play such as the fall of rain; the layout of the surrounding terrain; human interference through built weirs and dams; and the actions and intervention of ancestral beings and spirits. Furthermore, flooding has a direct impact on Country and all life within it. This is highlighted by Dharumbal Elder Uncle Billy Mann (Fitzroy Basin Association "Billy Mann") who speaks of the importance of flooding in bringing water to inland lagoons which provide food sources for Dharumbal people, especially at times when the water in Toonooba is low. Such lagoons remain important places for fishing, hunting, recreational activities, and cultural practices but are reliant on the flow of water caused by the flowing, and at times flooding river, which Uncle Mann describes as the “lifeblood” of Dharumbal people and Country (Fitzroy Basin Association "Billy Mann"). Through her research in the Murray-Darling region of New South Wales, Weir writes of how flooding sustains life though cycles that contribute to ecological balance, providing nourishment and food sources for all beings (see also Cullen and Cullen 98). Water’s movement across land provokes the movement of animals such as mice and lizards, providing food for snakes. Frogs emerge from dry clay plains, finding newly made waterholes. Small aquatic organisms flourish and provide food sources for birds. Golden and silver perch spawn, and receding waters promote germination and growth. Aboriginal artist Ron Hurley depicts a similar cycle in a screen-print titled Waterlily–Darambal Totem. In this work Hurley shows floodwaters washing away old water lily roots that have been cooked in ant bed ovens as part of Dharumbal ceremonies (UQ Anthropology Museum). The cooking of the water lily exposes new seeds, which rains carry to nearby creeks and lagoons. The seeds take root and provide food sources for the following year. Cooking water lily during Dharumbal ceremonies contributes to securing and maintaining a sustainable food source as well as being part of Dharumbal cultural practice. Culture, ecological management, and everyday activity are mutually connected, along with being revealed and revelled in. Aboriginal Elder and ranger Uncle Fred Conway explains how Country teaches Aboriginal people to live in balance with their surroundings (Fitzroy Basin Association "Fred Conway"). As Country is in constant communication, numerous signifiers can be observed on land and waterscapes, indicating the most productive and sustainable time to pursue certain actions, source particular foods, or move to particular locations. The best time for fishing in central Queensland for example is when Wattles are in bloom, indicating a time when fish are “fatter and sweeter” (Fitzroy Basin Association "Fred Conway"). In this case, the Wattle is 1) autonomous, having its own life cycle; 2) mutually dependant, coming into being because of seasonal weather patterns; and 3) an agent of Country that teaches those with awareness how to respond and benefit from its lessons.Dialogue with Country As Country is sentient and responsive, it is vital that a person remains contextually aware of their actions on and towards their surroundings. Indigenous peoples seek familiarity with Country but also ensure that they themselves are known and familiarised by it (Rose Dingo). In a practice likened to “baptism”, Langton ("Earth") describes how Aboriginal Elders in Cape York pour water over the head of newcomers as a way of introducing them to Country, and ensuring that Country knows those who walk upon it. These introductions are done out of respect for Country and are a way of protecting outsiders from the potentially harmful powers of ancestral beings. Toussaint et al. similarly note how during mortuary rites, parents of the deceased take water from rivers and spit it back into the land, symbolising the spirit’s return to Country.Dharumbal man Robin Hatfield demonstrates the importance of not interfering with the dialogue of Country through recalling being told as a child not to disturb Barraru or green frogs. Memmott (78) writes that frogs share a relationship with the rain and flooding caused by Munda-gadda, the Rainbow Snake. Uncle Dougie Hatfield explains the significance of Munda-gadda to his Country stating how “our Aboriginal culture tells us that all the waterways, lagoons, creeks, rivers etc. and many landforms were created by and still are protected by the Moonda-Ngutta, what white people call the Rainbow Snake” (Memmott 79).In the case of Robin Hatfield, to interfere with Barraru’s “business” is to threaten its dialogue with Munda-gadda and in turn the dialogue of Country in form of rain. In addition to disrupting the relational balance between the frog and Munda-gadda, such actions potentially have far-reaching social and cosmological consequences. The rain’s disruption affects the flood plains, which has direct consequences for local flora and transportation and germination of water lily seeds; fauna, affecting the spawning of fish and their movement into lagoons; and ancestral beings such as Munda-gadda who continue to reside within Toonooba.Honouring Land Connections provided artists with a means to enter their own dialogue with Country and explore, discuss, engage, negotiate, and affirm aspects of their indigeneity. The artists wanted the artwork to remain organic to demonstrate honour and respect for Dharumbal connections with Country (Roberts). This meant that materials were sourced from the surrounding Country and the poles placed in a wave-like pattern resembling Munda-gadda. Alongside the designs and symbols painted and carved into the poles, fish skins, birds, nests, and frogs are embalmed within cavities that are cut into the wood, acting as windows that allow viewers to witness components of Country that are often overlooked (see fig. 4). Country therefore is an equal participant within the artwork’s creation and continuing memories and stories. More than a representation of Country, Honouring Land Connections is a literal manifestation of it.Figure 4Opening Dialogue with Non-Indigenous AustraliaHonouring Land Connections is an artistic and cultural expression that revels in Indigenous understandings of place. The installation however remains positioned within a contested “hybrid” setting that is informed by both Indigenous and settler-colonial outlooks (Bhabha). The installation for example is separated from the other two artworks of Flood Markers that explore Rockhampton’s colonial and industrial history. Whilst these are positioned within a landscaped area, Honouring Land Connections is placed where the grass is dying, seating is lacking, and is situated next to a dilapidated coast guard building. It is a location that is as quickly left behind as it is encountered. Its separation from the other two works is further emphasised through its depiction in the project brief as a representation of Rockhampton’s pre-colonial history. Presenting it in such a way has the effect of bookending Aboriginal culture in relation to European settlement, suggesting that its themes belong to a time past rather than an immediate present. Almost as if it is a revelation in and of itself. Within settler-colonial settings, place is heavily politicised and often contested. In what can be seen as an ongoing form of colonialism, Eurocentric epistemologies and understandings of place continue to dominate public thought, rhetoric, and action in ways that legitimise White positionality whilst questioning and/or subjugating other ways of knowing, being, and doing (K. Martin; Moreton-Robinson; Wolfe). This turns places such as Toonooba into agonistic locations of contrasting and competing interests (Bradfield). For many Aboriginal peoples, the memories and emotions attached to a particular place can render it as either comfortable and culturally safe, or as unsafe, unsuitable, unwelcoming, and exclusionary (Fredericks). Honouring Land Connections is one way of publicly asserting and recognising Toonooba as a culturally safe, welcoming, and deeply meaningful place for Indigenous peoples. Whilst the themes explored in Honouring Land Connections are not overtly political, its presence on colonised/invaded land unsettles Eurocentric falsities and colonial amnesia (B. Martin) of an uncontested place and history in which Indigenous voices and knowledges are silenced. The artwork is a physical reminder that encourages awareness—particularly for non-Indigenous populations—of Indigenous voices that are continuously demanding recognition of Aboriginal place within Country. Similar to the boomerangs carved into the poles representing flooding as a natural expression of Country that will return (see fig. 5), Indigenous peoples continue to demand that the wider non-Indigenous population acknowledge, respect, and morally responded to Aboriginal cultures and knowledges.Figure 5Conclusion Far from a historic account of the past, the artists of CAM have created an artwork that promotes awareness of an immediate and emerging Indigenous presence on Country. It creates a space that is welcoming to Indigenous people, allowing them to engage with and affirm aspects of their living histories and cultural identities. Through sharing stories and providing “windows” into Aboriginal culture, Country, and lived experiences (which like the frogs of Toonooba are so often overlooked), the memory poles invite and welcome an open dialogue with non-Indigenous Australians where all may consider their shared presence and mutual dependence on each other and their surroundings.The memory poles are mediatory agents that stand on Country, revealing and bearing witness to the survival, resistance, tenacity, and continuity of Aboriginal peoples within the Rockhampton region and along Toonooba. Honouring Land Connections is not simply a means of reclaiming the river as an Indigenous space, for reclamation signifies something regained after it has been lost. What the memory poles signify is something eternally present, i.e. Toonooba is and forever will be embedded in Aboriginal Country in which we all, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, human and non-human, share. The memory poles serve as lasting reminders of whose Country Rockhampton is on and describes the life ways of that Country, including times of flood. Through celebrating and revelling in the presence of Country, the artists of CAM are revealing the deep connection they have to Country to the wider non-Indigenous community.ReferencesAtkinson, Judy. Trauma Trails, Recreating Song Lines: The Transgenerational Effects of Trauma in Indigenous Australia. Spinifex Press, 2002.Bhabha, Homi, K. The Location of Culture. Taylor and Francis, 2012.Bradfield, Abraham. "Decolonizing the Intercultural: A Call for Decolonizing Consciousness in Settler-Colonial Australia." Religions 10.8 (2019): 469.Cajete, Gregory. Native Science: Natural Laws of Interdependence. 1st ed. Clear Light Publishers, 2000.Chudleigh, Jane. "Flood Memorial Called 'Pillar of Courage' Unveiled in Goodna to Mark the Anniversary of the Natural Disaster." The Courier Mail 2012. 16 Jan. 2020 <http://www.couriermail.com.au/questnews/flood-memorial-called-pillar-of-courage-unveiled-in-goodna-to-mark-the-anniversary-of-the-natural-disaster/news-story/575b1a8c44cdd6863da72d64f9e96f2d>.Cullen, Peter, and Vicky Cullen. This Land, Our Water: Water Challenges for the 21st Century. ATF P, 2011.Fitzroy Basin Association. "Carnarvon Gorge with Fred Conway." 8 Dec. 2010 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbOP60JOfYo>.———. "The Fitzroy River with Billy Mann." 8 Dec. 2019 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=00ELbpIUa_Y>.Fredericks, Bronwyn. "Understanding and Living Respectfully within Indigenous Places." Indigenous Places: World Indigenous Nations Higher Education Consortium Journal 4 (2008): 43-49.Geertz, Clifford. "Art as a Cultural System." MLN 91.6 (1976): 1473-99.Gell, Alfred. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Clarendon P, 1998.———. "The Technology of Enchantment and the Enchantment of Technology." Anthropology, Art, and Aesthetics, eds. J. Coote and A. Shelton. Clarendon P, 1992. 40-63.Goodall, Heather. "The River Runs Backwards." Words for Country: Landscape & Language in Australia, eds. Tim Bonyhady and Tom Griffiths. U of New South Wales P, 2002. 30-51.Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. 1st English ed. SCM P, 1962.Hokari, Minoru. Gurindji Journey: A Japanese Historian in the Outback. U of New South Wales P, 2011.Ingold, Tim. Lines: A Brief History. Routledge, 2007.———. The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling & Skill. Routledge, 2000.Langton, Marcia. "Earth, Wind, Fire and Water: The Social and Spiritual Construction of Water in Aboriginal Societies." Social Archaeology of Australian Indigenous Societies, eds. Bruno David et al. Aboriginal Studies P, 2006. 139-60.———. "The Edge of the Sacred, the Edge of Death: Sensual Inscriptions." Inscribed Landscapes: Marking and Making Place, eds. Bruno David and M. Wilson. U of Hawaii P, 2002. 253-69.Lavarack, Louise. "Threshold." 17 Jan. 2019 <http://www.louiselavarack.com.au/>.Malpas, Jeff. Place and Experience: A Philosophical Topography. Cambridge UP, 1999.Martin, Brian. "Immaterial Land." Carnal Knowledge: Towards a 'New Materialism' through the Arts, eds. E. Barret and B. Bolt. Tauris, 2013. 185-04.Martin, Karen Lillian. Please Knock before You Enter: Aboriginal Regulation of Outsiders and the Implications for Researchers. Post Pressed, 2008.Memmott, Paul. "Research Report 10: Aboriginal Social History and Land Affiliation in the Rockhampton-Shoalwater Bay Region." Commonwealth Commission of Inquiry, Shoalwater Bay Capricornia Coast, Queensland: Research Reports, ed. John T. Woodward. A.G.P.S., 1994. 1-107.Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. The White Possessive: Property, Power, and Indigenous Sovereignty. U of Minnesota P, 2015.Morgan, Bob. "Country – a Journey to Cultural and Spiritual Healing." Heartsick for Country: Stories of Love, Spirit and Creation, eds. S. Morgan et al. Freemantle P, 2008: 201-20.Roberts, Alice. "Flood Markers Unveiled on Fitzroy." ABC News 5 Mar. 2014. 10 Mar. 2014 <https://www.abc.net.au/local/photos/2014/03/05/3957151.htm>.Roberts, Alice, and Jacquie Mackay. "Flood Artworks Revealed on Fitzroy Riverbank." ABC Capricornia 29 Oct. 2013. 5 Jan. 20104 <http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2013/10/29/3879048.htm?site=capricornia>.Robinson, Paul, and Jacquie Mackay. "Artwork Portray Flood Impact." ABC Capricornia 29 Oct. 2013. 5 Jan. 2014 <http://www.abc.net.au/lnews/2013-10-29/artworks-portray-flood-impact/5051856>.Rose, Deborah Bird. Dingo Makes Us Human: Life and Land in an Aboriginal Australian Culture. Cambridge UP, 1992.———. Nourishing Terrains: Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness. Australian Heritage Commission, 1996.Salmón, Enrique. 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If thinking about home necessitates thinking about “place, space, scale, identity and power,” as Alison Blunt and Robyn Dowling (2) suggest, then thinking about home themes in popular music makes no less a conceptual demand. Song lyrics and titles most often invoke dominant readings such as intimacy, privacy, nurture, refuge, connectedness and shared belonging, all issues found within Blunt and Dowling’s analysis. The spatial imaginary to which these authors refer takes vivid shape through repertoires of songs dealing with houses and other specific sites, vast and distant homelands, communities or, less tangibly, geographical or cultural settings where particular relationships can be found, supporting Blunt and Dowling’s major claim that home is complex, multi-scalar and multi-layered. Shelley Mallett’s claim that the term home “functions as a repository for complex, inter-related and at times contradictory socio-cultural ideas about people’s relationships with one another…and with places, spaces and things” (84) is borne out heavily by popular music where, for almost every sentiment that the term home evokes, it seems an opposite sentiment is evoked elsewhere: familiarity versus alienation, acceptance versus rejection, love versus loneliness. Making use of conceptual groundwork by Blunt and Dowling and by Mallett and others, the following discussion canvasses a range of meanings that home has had for a variety of songwriters, singers and audiences over the years. Intended as merely partial and exploratory rather than exhaustive, it provides some insights into contrasts, ironies and relationships between home and gender, diaspora and loss. While it cannot cover all the themes, it gives prominence to the major recurring themes and a variety of important contexts that give rise to these home themes. Most prominent among those songs dealing with home has been a nostalgia and yearning, while issues of how women may have viewed the home within which they have often been restricted to a narrowly defined private sphere are almost entirely absent. This serves as a reminder that, while some themes can be conducive to the medium of popular music, others may be significantly less so. Songs may speak directly of experience but not necessarily of all experiences and certainly not of all experiences equally. B. Lee Cooper claims “most popular culture ventures rely upon formula-oriented settings and phrasings to attract interest, to spur mental or emotional involvement” (93). Notions of home have generally proved both formulaic and emotionally-charged. Commonly understood patterns of meaning and other hegemonic references generally operate more successfully than alternative reference points. Those notions with the strongest cultural currency can be conveyed succinctly and denote widely agreed upon meanings. Lyrics can seldom afford to be deeply analytical but generally must be concise and immediately evocative. Despite that, this discussion will point to diverse meanings carried by songs about home. Blunt and Dowling point out that “a house is not necessarily nor automatically a home” (3). The differences are strongly apparent in music, with only a few songs relating to houses compared with homes. When Malvina Reynolds wrote in 1962 of “little boxes, on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky,” she was certainly referring to houses, not homes, thus making it easier to bypass the relationships which might have vested the inhabitants with more warmth and individuality than their houses, in this song about conformity and homogeneity. The more complex though elusive concept of home, however, is more likely to feature in love songs and to emanate from diasporal songs. Certainly these two genres are not mutually exclusive. Irish songs are particularly noteworthy for adding to the array of music written by, or representational of, those who have been forced away from home by war, poverty, strife or other circumstances. They manifest identities of displacement rather than of placement, as studied by Bronwen Walter, looking back at rather than from within their spatial imaginary. Phil Eva claims that during the 19th Century Irish émigrés sang songs of exile in Manchester’s streets. Since many in England’s industrial towns had been uprooted from their homes, the songs found rapport with street audiences and entered popular culture. For example, the song Killarney, of hazy origins but thought to date back to as early as 1850, tells of Killarney’s lakes and fells, Emerald isles and winding bays; Mountain paths and woodland dells… ...her [nature’s] home is surely there. As well as anthropomorphising nature and giving it a home, the song suggests a specifically geographic sense of home. Galway Bay, written by A. Fahy, does likewise, as do many other Irish songs of exile which link geography with family, kin and sometimes culture to evoke a sense of home. The final verse of Cliffs of Doneen gives a sense of both people and place making up home: Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while And to all the kind people I’m leaving behind To the streams and the meadows where late I have been And the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen. Earlier Irish songs intertwine home with political issues. For example, Tho’ the Last Glimpse of Erin vows to Erin that “In exile thy bosum shall still be my home.” Such exile resulted from a preference of fleeing Ireland rather than bowing to English oppression, which then included a prohibition on Irish having moustaches or certain hairstyles. Thomas Moore is said to have set the words of the song to the air Coulin which itself referred to an Irish woman’s preference for her “Coulin” (a long-haired Irish youth) to the English (Nelson-Burns). Diasporal songs have continued, as has their political edge, as evidenced by global recognition of songs such as Bayan Ko (My Country), written by José Corazon de Jesus in 1929, out of love and concern for the Philippines and sung among Filipinos worldwide. Robin Cohen outlines a set of criteria for diaspora that includes a shared belief in the possibility of return to home, evident in songs such as the 1943 Welsh song A Welcome in the Hillside, in which a Welsh word translating roughly as a yearning to return home, hiraeth, is used: We’ll kiss away each hour of hiraeth When you come home again to Wales. However, the immensely popular I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen, not of Irish origin but written by Thomas Westendorf of Illinois in 1875, suggests that such emotions can have a resonance beyond the diaspora. Anti-colonial sentiments about home can also be expressed by long-time inhabitants, as Harry Belafonte demonstrated in Island in the Sun: This is my island in the sun Where my people have toiled since time begun. Though I may sail on many a sea, Her shores will always be home to me. War brought a deluge of sentimental songs lamenting separation from home and loved ones, just as likely to be parents and siblings as sweethearts. Radios allowed wider audiences and greater popularity for these songs. If separation had brought a longing previously, the added horrors of war presented a stronger contrast between that which the young soldiers were missing and that which they were experiencing. Both the First and Second World Wars gave rise to songs long since sung which originated in such separations, but these also had a strong sense of home as defined by the nationalism that has for over a century given the contours of expectations of soldiers. Focusing on home, these songs seldom speak of the details of war. Rather they are specific about what the singers have left behind and what they hope to return to. Songs of home did not have to be written specifically for the war effort nor for overseas troops. Irving Berlin’s 1942 White Christmas, written for a film, became extremely popular with US troops during WWII, instilling a sense of home that related to familiarities and festivities. Expressing a sense of home could be specific and relate to regions or towns, as did I’m Goin’ Back Again to Yarrawonga, or it could refer to any home, anywhere where there were sons away fighting. Indeed the American Civil War song When Johnny Comes Marching Home, written by Patrick Sarsfield Gilmour, was sung by both Northerners and Southerners, so adaptable was it, with home remarkably unspecified and undescribed. The 1914 British song Keep the Home Fires Burning by Ivor Novello and Lena Ford was among those that evoked a connection between home and the military effort and helped establish a responsibility on those at home to remain optimistic: Keep the Homes fires burning While your hearts are yearning, Though your lads are far away They dream of home, There’s a silver lining Through the dark clouds shining, Turn the dark clouds inside out, Till the boys come Home. No space exists in this song for critique of the reasons for war, nor of a role for women other than that of homemaker and moral guardian. It was women’s duty to ensure men enlisted and home was rendered a private site for emotional enlistment for a presumed public good, though ironically also a point of personal hope where the light of love burned for the enlistees’ safe return. Later songs about home and war challenged these traditional notions. Two serve as examples. One is Pink Floyd’s brief musical piece of the 1970s, Bring the Boys Back Home, whose words of protest against the American war on Viet Nam present home, again, as a site of safety but within a less conservative context. Home becomes implicated in a challenge to the prevailing foreign policy and the interests that influence it, undermining the normal public sphere/private sphere distinction. The other more complex song is Judy Small’s Mothers, Daughters, Wives, from 1982, set against a backdrop of home. Small eloquently describes the dynamics of the domestic space and how women understood their roles in relation to the First and Second World Wars and the Viet Nam War. Reinforcing that “The materialities and imaginaries of home are closely connected” (Blunt and Dowling 188), Small sings of how the gold frames held the photographs that mothers kissed each night And the doorframe held the shocked and silent strangers from the fight. Small provides a rare musical insight into the disjuncture between the men who left the domestic space and those who return to it, and we sense that women may have borne much of the brunt of those awful changes. The idea of domestic bliss is also challenged, though from the returned soldier’s point of view, in Redgum’s 1983 song I Was Only Nineteen, written by group member John Schuman. It touches on the tragedy of young men thrust into war situations and the horrific after-affects for them, which cannot be shrugged off on return to home. The nurturing of home has limits but the privacy associated with the domestic sphere has often concealed the violence and mental anguish that happens away from public view. But by this time most of the songs referring to home were dominated once more by sentimental love, often borne of travel as mobility rose. Journeys help “establish the thresholds and boundaries of home” and can give rise to “an idealized, ideological and ethnocentric view of home” (Mallett 78). Where previously songsters had sung of leaving home in exile or for escape from poverty, lyrics from the 1960s onwards often suggested that work had removed people from loved ones. It could be work on a day-by-day basis, as in A Hard Day’s Night from the 1964 film of the same name, where the Beatles illuminate differences between the public sphere of work and the private sphere to which they return: When I’m home, everything seems to be alright, When I’m home feeling you holding me tight, tight, yeah and reiterated by Paul McCartney in Every Night: And every night that day is through But tonight I just want to stay in And be with you. Lyrics such as these and McCartney’s call to be taken “...home to the Mull of Kintyre,” singled him out for his home-and-hearth messages (Dempsey). But work might involve longer absences and thus more deepfelt loneliness. Simon and Garfunkel’s exemplary Homeward Bound starkly portrays a site of “away-ness”: I’m sittin’ in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination… Mundaneness, monotony and predictability contrast with the home to which the singer’s thoughts are constantly escaping. The routine is familiar but the faces are those of strangers. Home here is, again, not simply a domicile but the warmth of those we know and love. Written at a railway station, Homeward Bound echoes sentiments almost identical to those of (Leaving on a) Jet Plane, written by John Denver at an airport in 1967. Denver also co-wrote (Take Me Home) Country Roads, where, in another example of anthropomorphism as a tool of establishing a strong link, he asks to be taken home to the place I belong West Virginia, mountain momma, Take me home, Country Roads. The theme has recurred in numerous songs since, spawning examples such as Darin and Alquist’s When I Get Home, Chris Daughtry’s Home, Michael Bublé’s Home and Will Smith’s Ain’t No Place Like Home, where, in an opening reminiscent of Homeward Bound, the singer is Sitting in a hotel room A thousand miles away from nowhere Sloped over a chair as I stare… Furniture from home, on the other hand, can be used to evoke contentment and bliss, as demonstrated by George Weiss and Bob Thiele’s song The Home Fire, in which both kin and the objects of home become charged with meaning: All of the folks that I love are there I got a date with my favourite chair Of course, in regard to earlier songs especially, while the traveller associates home with love, security and tenderness, back at home the waiting one may have had feelings more of frustration and oppression. One is desperate to get back home, but for all we know the other may be desperate to get out of home or to develop a life more meaningful than that which was then offered to women. If the lot of homemakers was invisible to national economies (Waring), it seemed equally invisible to mainstream songwriters. This reflects the tradition that “Despite home being generally considered a feminine, nurturing space created by women themselves, they often lack both authority and a space of their own within this realm” (Mallett 75). Few songs have offered the perspective of the one at home awaiting the return of the traveller. One exception is the Seekers’ 1965 A World of Our Own but, written by Tom Springfield, the words trilled by Judith Durham may have been more of a projection of the traveller’s hopes and expectations than a true reflection of the full experiences of housebound women of the day. Certainly, the song reinforces connections between home and intimacy and privacy: Close the door, light the lights. We’re stayin’ home tonight, Far away from the bustle and the bright city lights. Let them all fade away, just leave us alone And we’ll live in a world of our own. This also strongly supports Gaston Bachelard’s claim that one’s house in the sense of a home is one’s “first universe, a real cosmos” (qtd. in Blunt and Dowling 12). But privacy can also be a loneliness when home is not inhabited by loved ones, as in the lyrics of Don Gibson’s 1958 Oh, Lonesome Me, where Everybody’s going out and having fun I’m a fool for staying home and having none. Similar sentiments emerge in Debbie Boone’s You Light up My Life: So many nights I’d sit by my window Waiting for someone to sing me his song. Home in these situations can be just as alienating as the “away” depicted as so unfriendly by Homeward Bound’s strangers’ faces and the “million people” who still leave Michael Bublé feeling alone. Yet there are other songs that depict “away” as a prison made of freedom, insinuating that the lack of a home and consequently of the stable love and commitment presumably found there is a sad situation indeed. This is suggested by the lilting tune, if not by the lyrics themselves, in songs such as Wandrin’ Star from the musical Paint Your Wagon and Ron Miller’s I’ve Never Been to Me, which has both a male and female version with different words, reinforcing gendered experiences. The somewhat conservative lyrics in the female version made it a perfect send-up song in the 1994 film Priscilla: Queen of the Desert. In some songs the absentee is not a traveller but has been in jail. In Tie a Yellow Ribbon round the Ole Oak Tree, an ex-inmate states “I’m comin’ home. I’ve done my time.” Home here is contingent upon the availability and forgivingness of his old girl friend. Another song juxtaposing home with prison is Tom Jones’ The Green, Green Grass of Home in which the singer dreams he is returning to his home, to his parents, girlfriend and, once again, an old oak tree. However, he awakes to find he was dreaming and is about to be executed. His body will be taken home and placed under the oak tree, suggesting some resigned sense of satisfaction that he will, after all, be going home, albeit in different circumstances. Death and home are thus sometimes linked, with home a euphemism for the former, as suggested in many spirituals, with heaven or an afterlife being considered “going home”. The reverse is the case in the haunting Bring Him Home of the musical Les Misérables. With Marius going off to the barricades and the danger involved, Jean Valjean prays for the young man’s safe return and that he might live. Home is connected here with life, safety and ongoing love. In a number of songs about home and absence there is a sense of home being a place where morality is gently enforced, presumably by women who keep men on the straight and narrow, in line with one of the women’s roles of colonial Australia, researched by Anne Summers. These songs imply that when men wander from home, their morals also go astray. Wild Rover bemoans Oh, I’ve been a wild rover for many a year, and I’ve spent all my money on whiskey and beer… There is the resolve in the chorus, however, that home will have a reforming influence. Gene Pitney’s Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa poses the dangers of distance from a wife’s influence, while displaying opposition to the sentimental yearning of so many other songs: Dearest darlin’, I have to write to say that I won’t be home anymore ‘cause something happened to me while I was drivin’ home And I’m not the same anymore Class as well as gender can be a debated issue in meanings attached to home, as evident in several songs that take a more jaundiced view of home, seeing it as a place from which to escape. The Animals’ powerful We Gotta Get Outta This Place clearly suggests a life of drudgery in a home town or region. Protectively, the lyrics insist “Girl, there’s a better life for me and you” but it has to be elsewhere. This runs against the grain of other British songs addressing poverty or a working class existence as something that comes with its own blessings, all to do with an area identified as home. These traits may be loyalty, familiarity or a refusal to judge and involve identities of placement rather than of displacement in, for instance, Gerry and the Pacemakers’ Ferry Cross the Mersey: People around every corner, they seem to smile and say “We don’t care what your name is, boy. We’ll never send you away.” This bears out Blunt and Dowling’s claim that “people’s senses of themselves are related to and produced through lived and metaphorical experiences of home” (252). It also resonates with some of the region-based identity and solidarity issues explored a short time later by Paul Willis in his study of working class youth in Britain, which help to inform how a sense of home can operate to constrict consciousness, ideas and aspirations. Identity features strongly in other songs about home. Several years after Neil Young recorded his 1970 song Southern Man about racism in the south of the USA, the group Lynyrd Skynyrd, responded with Sweet Home Alabama. While the meaning of its lyrics are still debated, there is no debate about the way in which the song has been embraced, as I recently discovered first-hand in Tennessee. A banjo-and-fiddle band performing the song during a gig virtually brought down the house as the predominantly southern audience clapped, whopped and stamped its feet. The real meanings of home were found not in the lyrics but in the audience’s response. Wally Johnson and Bob Brown’s 1975 Home Among the Gum Trees is a more straightforward ode to home, with lyrics that prescribe a set of non-commodified values. It is about simplicity and the right to embrace a lifestyle that includes companionship, leisure and an enjoyment of and appreciation of nature, all threatened seriously in the three decades since the song’s writing. The second verse in which large shopping complexes – and implicitly the consumerism they encourage – are eschewed (“I’d trade it all tomorrow for a little bush retreat where the kookaburras call”), is a challenge to notions of progress and reflects social movements of the day, The Green Bans Movement, for instance, took a broader and more socially conscientious attitude towards home and community, putting forward alternative sets of values and insisting people should have a say in the social and aesthetic construction of their neighbourhoods as well as the impacts of their labour (Mundey). Ironically, the song has gone on to become the theme song for a TV show about home gardens. With a strong yet more vague notion of home, Peter Allen’s I Still Call Australia Home, was more prone to commodification and has been adopted as a promotional song for Qantas. Nominating only the desire to travel and the love of freedom as Australian values, both politically and socially innocuous within the song’s context, this catchy and uplifting song, when not being used as an advertisement, paradoxically works for a “diaspora” of Australians who are not in exile but have mostly travelled for reasons of pleasure or professional or financial gain. Another paradox arises from the song Home on the Range, dating back to the 19th century at a time when the frontier was still a strong concept in the USA and people were simultaneously leaving homes and reminiscing about home (Mechem). Although it was written in Kansas, the lyrics – again vague and adaptable – were changed by other travellers so that versions such as Colorado Home and My Arizona Home soon abounded. In 1947 Kansas made Home on the Range its state song, despite there being very few buffalo left there, thus highlighting a disjuncture between the modern Kansas and “a home where the buffalo roam” as described in the song. These themes, paradoxes and oppositional understandings of home only scratch the surface of the wide range of claims that are made on home throughout popular music. It has been shown that home is a flexible concept, referring to homelands, regions, communities and private houses. While predominantly used to evoke positive feelings, mostly with traditional views of the relationships that lie within homes, songs also raise challenges to notions of domesticity, the rights of those inhabiting the private sphere and the demarcation between the private and public spheres. Songs about home reflect contexts and challenges of their respective eras and remind us that vigorous discussion takes place about and within homes. The challenges are changing. Where many women once felt restrictively tied to the home – and no doubt many continue to do so – many women and men are now struggling to rediscover spatial boundaries, with production and consumption increasingly impinging upon relationships that have so frequently given the term home its meaning. With evidence that we are working longer hours and that home life, in whatever form, is frequently suffering (Beder, Hochschild), the discussion should continue. In the words of Sam Cooke, Bring it on home to me! References Bacheland, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1994. Beder, Sharon. Selling the Work Ethic: From Puritan Pulpit to Corporate PR. London: Zed Books, 2000. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London: Routledge, 2006. Cohen, Robin. Global Diasporas: An Introduction. London: UCL Press, 1997. Cooper, B. Lee. “Good Timin’: Searching for Meaning in Clock Songs.” Popular Music and Society 30.1 (Feb. 2007): 93-106. Dempsey, J.M. “McCartney at 60: A Body of Work Celebrating Home and Hearth.” Popular Music and Society 27.1 (Feb. 2004): 27-40. Eva, Phil. “Home Sweet Home? The Culture of ‘Exile’ in Mid-Victorian Popular Song.” Popular Music 16.2 (May 1997): 131-150. Hochschild, Arlie. The Time Bind: When Work Becomes Home and Home Becomes Work. New York: Metropolitan/Holt, 1997. Mallett, Sonia. “Understanding Home: A Critical Review of the Literature.” The Sociological Review 52.1 (2004): 62-89. Mechem, Kirke, “The Story of ‘Home on the Range’.” Reprint from the Kansas Historical Quarterly (Nov. 1949). Topeka, Kansas: Kansas State Historical Society. 28 May 2007 http://www.emporia.edu/cgps/tales/nov2003.html>. Mundey, Jack. Green Bans and Beyond. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1981. Nelson-Burns, Lesley. Folk Music of England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales and America. 29 May 2007 http://www.contemplator.com/ireland/thoerin.html>. Summers, Anne. Damned Whores and God’s Police: The Colonization of Women in Australia. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975. Walter, Bronwen. Outsiders Inside: Whiteness, Place and Irish Women. London: Routledge, 2001. Waring, Marilyn. Counting for Nothing: What Men Value and What Women Are Worth. Wellington, NZ: Allen & Unwin, 1988. Willis, Paul. Learning to Labor: How Working Class Kids Get Working Class Jobs. New York: Columbia UP, 1977. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Varney, Wendy. "Homeward Bound or Housebound?: Themes of Home in Popular Music." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/16-varney.php>. APA Style Varney, W. (Aug. 2007) "Homeward Bound or Housebound?: Themes of Home in Popular Music," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/16-varney.php>.

By the time you read this, it will be wrong. Things seemed to be moving so fast in these first days after airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the Pennsylvania earth. Each certainty is as carelessly dropped as it was once carelessly assumed. The sounds of lower Manhattan that used to serve as white noise for residents—sirens, screeches, screams—are no longer signs without a referent. Instead, they make folks stare and stop, hurry and hustle, wondering whether the noises we know so well are in fact, this time, coefficients of a new reality. At the time of writing, the events themselves are also signs without referents—there has been no direct claim of responsibility, and little proof offered by accusers since the 11th. But it has been assumed that there is a link to US foreign policy, its military and economic presence in the Arab world, and opposition to it that seeks revenge. In the intervening weeks the US media and the war planners have supplied their own narrow frameworks, making New York’s “ground zero” into the starting point for a new escalation of global violence. We want to write here about the combination of sources and sensations that came that day, and the jumble of knowledges and emotions that filled our minds. Working late the night before, Toby was awoken in the morning by one of the planes right overhead. That happens sometimes. I have long expected a crash when I’ve heard the roar of jet engines so close—but I didn’t this time. Often when that sound hits me, I get up and go for a run down by the water, just near Wall Street. Something kept me back that day. Instead, I headed for my laptop. Because I cannot rely on local media to tell me very much about the role of the US in world affairs, I was reading the British newspaper The Guardian on-line when it flashed a two-line report about the planes. I looked up at the calendar above my desk to see whether it was April 1st. Truly. Then I got off-line and turned on the TV to watch CNN. That second, the phone rang. My quasi-ex-girlfriend I’m still in love with called from the mid-West. She was due to leave that day for the Bay Area. Was I alright? We spoke for a bit. She said my cell phone was out, and indeed it was for the remainder of the day. As I hung up from her, my friend Ana rang, tearful and concerned. Her husband, Patrick, had left an hour before for work in New Jersey, and it seemed like a dangerous separation. All separations were potentially fatal that day. You wanted to know where everyone was, every minute. She told me she had been trying to contact Palestinian friends who worked and attended school near the event—their ethnic, religious, and national backgrounds made for real poignancy, as we both thought of the prejudice they would (probably) face, regardless of the eventual who/what/when/where/how of these events. We agreed to meet at Bruno’s, a bakery on La Guardia Place. For some reason I really took my time, though, before getting to Ana. I shampooed and shaved under the shower. This was a horror, and I needed to look my best, even as men and women were losing and risking their lives. I can only interpret what I did as an attempt to impose normalcy and control on the situation, on my environment. When I finally made it down there, she’d located our friends. They were safe. We stood in the street and watched the Towers. Horrified by the sight of human beings tumbling to their deaths, we turned to buy a tea/coffee—again some ludicrous normalization—but were drawn back by chilling screams from the street. Racing outside, we saw the second Tower collapse, and clutched at each other. People were streaming towards us from further downtown. We decided to be with our Palestinian friends in their apartment. When we arrived, we learnt that Mark had been four minutes away from the WTC when the first plane hit. I tried to call my daughter in London and my father in Canberra, but to no avail. I rang the mid-West, and asked my maybe-former novia to call England and Australia to report in on me. Our friend Jenine got through to relatives on the West Bank. Israeli tanks had commenced a bombardment there, right after the planes had struck New York. Family members spoke to her from under the kitchen table, where they were taking refuge from the shelling of their house. Then we gave ourselves over to television, like so many others around the world, even though these events were happening only a mile away. We wanted to hear official word, but there was just a huge absence—Bush was busy learning to read in Florida, then leading from the front in Louisiana and Nebraska. As the day wore on, we split up and regrouped, meeting folks. One guy was in the subway when smoke filled the car. Noone could breathe properly, people were screaming, and his only thought was for his dog DeNiro back in Brooklyn. From the panic of the train, he managed to call his mom on a cell to ask her to feed “DeNiro” that night, because it looked like he wouldn’t get home. A pregnant woman feared for her unborn as she fled the blasts, pushing the stroller with her baby in it as she did so. Away from these heart-rending tales from strangers, there was the fear: good grief, what horrible price would the US Government extract for this, and who would be the overt and covert agents and targets of that suffering? What blood-lust would this generate? What would be the pattern of retaliation and counter-retaliation? What would become of civil rights and cultural inclusiveness? So a jumble of emotions came forward, I assume in all of us. Anger was not there for me, just intense sorrow, shock, and fear, and the desire for intimacy. Network television appeared to offer me that, but in an ultimately unsatisfactory way. For I think I saw the end-result of reality TV that day. I have since decided to call this ‘emotionalization’—network TV’s tendency to substitute analysis of US politics and economics with a stress on feelings. Of course, powerful emotions have been engaged by this horror, and there is value in addressing that fact and letting out the pain. I certainly needed to do so. But on that day and subsequent ones, I looked to the networks, traditional sources of current-affairs knowledge, for just that—informed, multi-perspectival journalism that would allow me to make sense of my feelings, and come to a just and reasoned decision about how the US should respond. I waited in vain. No such commentary came forward. Just a lot of asinine inquiries from reporters that were identical to those they pose to basketballers after a game: Question—‘How do you feel now?’ Answer—‘God was with me today.’ For the networks were insistent on asking everyone in sight how they felt about the end of las torres gemelas. In this case, we heard the feelings of survivors, firefighters, viewers, media mavens, Republican and Democrat hacks, and vacuous Beltway state-of-the-nation pundits. But learning of the military-political economy, global inequality, and ideologies and organizations that made for our grief and loss—for that, there was no space. TV had forgotten how to do it. My principal feeling soon became one of frustration. So I headed back to where I began the day—The Guardian web site, where I was given insightful analysis of the messy factors of history, religion, economics, and politics that had created this situation. As I dealt with the tragedy of folks whose lives had been so cruelly lost, I pondered what it would take for this to stop. Or whether this was just the beginning. I knew one thing—the answers wouldn’t come from mainstream US television, no matter how full of feelings it was. And that made Toby anxious. And afraid. He still is. And so the dreams come. In one, I am suddenly furloughed from my job with an orchestra, as audience numbers tumble. I make my evening-wear way to my locker along with the other players, emptying it of bubble gum and instrument. The next night, I see a gigantic, fifty-feet high wave heading for the city beach where I’ve come to swim. Somehow I am sheltered behind a huge wall, as all the people around me die. Dripping, I turn to find myself in a media-stereotype “crack house” of the early ’90s—desperate-looking black men, endless doorways, sudden police arrival, and my earnest search for a passport that will explain away my presence. I awake in horror, to the realization that the passport was already open and stamped—racialization at work for Toby, every day and in every way, as a white man in New York City. Ana’s husband, Patrick, was at work ten miles from Manhattan when “it” happened. In the hallway, I overheard some talk about two planes crashing, but went to teach anyway in my usual morning stupor. This was just the usual chatter of disaster junkies. I didn’t hear the words, “World Trade Center” until ten thirty, at the end of the class at the college I teach at in New Jersey, across the Hudson river. A friend and colleague walked in and told me the news of the attack, to which I replied “You must be fucking joking.” He was a little offended. Students were milling haphazardly on the campus in the late summer weather, some looking panicked like me. My first thought was of some general failure of the air-traffic control system. There must be planes falling out of the sky all over the country. Then the height of the towers: how far towards our apartment in Greenwich Village would the towers fall? Neither of us worked in the financial district a mile downtown, but was Ana safe? Where on the college campus could I see what was happening? I recognized the same physical sensation I had felt the morning after Hurricane Andrew in Miami seeing at a distance the wreckage of our shattered apartment across a suburban golf course strewn with debris and flattened power lines. Now I was trapped in the suburbs again at an unbridgeable distance from my wife and friends who were witnessing the attacks first hand. Were they safe? What on earth was going on? This feeling of being cut off, my path to the familiar places of home blocked, remained for weeks my dominant experience of the disaster. In my office, phone calls to the city didn’t work. There were six voice-mail messages from my teenaged brother Alex in small-town England giving a running commentary on the attack and its aftermath that he was witnessing live on television while I dutifully taught my writing class. “Hello, Patrick, where are you? Oh my god, another plane just hit the towers. Where are you?” The web was choked: no access to newspapers online. Email worked, but no one was wasting time writing. My office window looked out over a soccer field to the still woodlands of western New Jersey: behind me to the east the disaster must be unfolding. Finally I found a website with a live stream from ABC television, which I watched flickering and stilted on the tiny screen. It had all already happened: both towers already collapsed, the Pentagon attacked, another plane shot down over Pennsylvania, unconfirmed reports said, there were other hijacked aircraft still out there unaccounted for. Manhattan was sealed off. George Washington Bridge, Lincoln and Holland tunnels, all the bridges and tunnels from New Jersey I used to mock shut down. Police actions sealed off the highways into “the city.” The city I liked to think of as the capital of the world was cut off completely from the outside, suddenly vulnerable and under siege. There was no way to get home. The phone rang abruptly and Alex, three thousand miles away, told me he had spoken to Ana earlier and she was safe. After a dozen tries, I managed to get through and spoke to her, learning that she and Toby had seen people jumping and then the second tower fall. Other friends had been even closer. Everyone was safe, we thought. I sat for another couple of hours in my office uselessly. The news was incoherent, stories contradictory, loops of the planes hitting the towers only just ready for recycling. The attacks were already being transformed into “the World Trade Center Disaster,” not yet the ahistorical singularity of the emergency “nine one one.” Stranded, I had to spend the night in New Jersey at my boss’s house, reminded again of the boundless generosity of Americans to relative strangers. In an effort to protect his young son from the as yet unfiltered images saturating cable and Internet, my friend’s TV set was turned off and we did our best to reassure. We listened surreptitiously to news bulletins on AM radio, hoping that the roads would open. Walking the dog with my friend’s wife and son we crossed a park on the ridge on which Upper Montclair sits. Ten miles away a huge column of smoke was rising from lower Manhattan, where the stunning absence of the towers was clearly visible. The summer evening was unnervingly still. We kicked a soccer ball around on the front lawn and a woman walked distracted by, shocked and pale up the tree-lined suburban street, suffering her own wordless trauma. I remembered that though most of my students were ordinary working people, Montclair is a well-off dormitory for the financial sector and high rises of Wall Street and Midtown. For the time being, this was a white-collar disaster. I slept a short night in my friend’s house, waking to hope I had dreamed it all, and took the commuter train in with shell-shocked bankers and corporate types. All men, all looking nervously across the river toward glimpses of the Manhattan skyline as the train neared Hoboken. “I can’t believe they’re making us go in,” one guy had repeated on the station platform. He had watched the attacks from his office in Midtown, “The whole thing.” Inside the train we all sat in silence. Up from the PATH train station on 9th street I came onto a carless 6th Avenue. At 14th street barricades now sealed off downtown from the rest of the world. I walked down the middle of the avenue to a newspaper stand; the Indian proprietor shrugged “No deliveries below 14th.” I had not realized that the closer to the disaster you came, the less information would be available. Except, I assumed, for the evidence of my senses. But at 8 am the Village was eerily still, few people about, nothing in the sky, including the twin towers. I walked to Houston Street, which was full of trucks and police vehicles. Tractor trailers sat carrying concrete barriers. Below Houston, each street into Soho was barricaded and manned by huddles of cops. I had walked effortlessly up into the “lockdown,” but this was the “frozen zone.” There was no going further south towards the towers. I walked the few blocks home, found my wife sleeping, and climbed into bed, still in my clothes from the day before. “Your heart is racing,” she said. I realized that I hadn’t known if I would get back, and now I never wanted to leave again; it was still only eight thirty am. Lying there, I felt the terrible wonder of a distant bystander for the first-hand witness. Ana’s face couldn’t tell me what she had seen. I felt I needed to know more, to see and understand. Even though I knew the effort was useless: I could never bridge that gap that had trapped me ten miles away, my back turned to the unfolding disaster. The television was useless: we don’t have cable, and the mast on top of the North Tower, which Ana had watched fall, had relayed all the network channels. I knew I had to go down and see the wreckage. Later I would realize how lucky I had been not to suffer from “disaster envy.” Unbelievably, in retrospect, I commuted into work the second day after the attack, dogged by the same unnerving sensation that I would not get back—to the wounded, humbled former center of the world. My students were uneasy, all talked out. I was a novelty, a New Yorker living in the Village a mile from the towers, but I was forty-eight hours late. Out of place in both places. I felt torn up, but not angry. Back in the city at night, people were eating and drinking with a vengeance, the air filled with acrid sicklysweet smoke from the burning wreckage. Eyes stang and nose ran with a bitter acrid taste. Who knows what we’re breathing in, we joked nervously. A friend’s wife had fallen out with him for refusing to wear a protective mask in the house. He shrugged a wordlessly reassuring smile. What could any of us do? I walked with Ana down to the top of West Broadway from where the towers had commanded the skyline over SoHo; downtown dense smoke blocked the view to the disaster. A crowd of onlookers pushed up against the barricades all day, some weeping, others gawping. A tall guy was filming the grieving faces with a video camera, which was somehow the worst thing of all, the first sign of the disaster tourism that was already mushrooming downtown. Across the street an Asian artist sat painting the street scene in streaky black and white; he had scrubbed out two white columns where the towers would have been. “That’s the first thing I’ve seen that’s made me feel any better,” Ana said. We thanked him, but he shrugged blankly, still in shock I supposed. On the Friday, the clampdown. I watched the Mayor and Police Chief hold a press conference in which they angrily told the stream of volunteers to “ground zero” that they weren’t needed. “We can handle this ourselves. We thank you. But we don’t need your help,” Commissioner Kerik said. After the free-for-all of the first couple of days, with its amazing spontaneities and common gestures of goodwill, the clampdown was going into effect. I decided to go down to Canal Street and see if it was true that no one was welcome anymore. So many paths through the city were blocked now. “Lock down, frozen zone, war zone, the site, combat zone, ground zero, state troopers, secured perimeter, national guard, humvees, family center”: a disturbing new vocabulary that seemed to stamp the logic of Giuliani’s sanitized and over-policed Manhattan onto the wounded hulk of the city. The Mayor had been magnificent in the heat of the crisis; Churchillian, many were saying—and indeed, Giuliani quickly appeared on the cover of Cigar Afficionado, complete with wing collar and the misquotation from Kipling, “Captain Courageous.” Churchill had not believed in peacetime politics either, and he never got over losing his empire. Now the regime of command and control over New York’s citizens and its economy was being stabilized and reimposed. The sealed-off, disfigured, and newly militarized spaces of the New York through which I have always loved to wander at all hours seemed to have been put beyond reach for the duration. And, in the new post-“9/11” post-history, the duration could last forever. The violence of the attacks seemed to have elicited a heavy-handed official reaction that sought to contain and constrict the best qualities of New York. I felt more anger at the clampdown than I did at the demolition of the towers. I knew this was unreasonable, but I feared the reaction, the spread of the racial harassment and racial profiling that I had already heard of from my students in New Jersey. This militarizing of the urban landscape seemed to negate the sprawling, freewheeling, boundless largesse and tolerance on which New York had complacently claimed a monopoly. For many the towers stood for that as well, not just as the monumental outposts of global finance that had been attacked. Could the American flag mean something different? For a few days, perhaps—on the helmets of firemen and construction workers. But not for long. On the Saturday, I found an unmanned barricade way east along Canal Street and rode my bike past throngs of Chinatown residents, by the Federal jail block where prisoners from the first World Trade Center bombing were still being held. I headed south and west towards Tribeca; below the barricades in the frozen zone, you could roam freely, the cops and soldiers assuming you belonged there. I felt uneasy, doubting my own motives for being there, feeling the blood drain from my head in the same numbing shock I’d felt every time I headed downtown towards the site. I looped towards Greenwich Avenue, passing an abandoned bank full of emergency supplies and boxes of protective masks. Crushed cars still smeared with pulverized concrete and encrusted with paperwork strewn by the blast sat on the street near the disabled telephone exchange. On one side of the avenue stood a horde of onlookers, on the other television crews, all looking two blocks south towards a colossal pile of twisted and smoking steel, seven stories high. We were told to stay off the street by long-suffering national guardsmen and women with southern accents, kids. Nothing happening, just the aftermath. The TV crews were interviewing worn-out, dust-covered volunteers and firemen who sat quietly leaning against the railings of a park filled with scraps of paper. Out on the West Side highway, a high-tech truck was offering free cellular phone calls. The six lanes by the river were full of construction machinery and military vehicles. Ambulances rolled slowly uptown, bodies inside? I locked my bike redundantly to a lamppost and crossed under the hostile gaze of plainclothes police to another media encampment. On the path by the river, two camera crews were complaining bitterly in the heat. “After five days of this I’ve had enough.” They weren’t talking about the trauma, bodies, or the wreckage, but censorship. “Any blue light special gets to roll right down there, but they see your press pass and it’s get outta here. I’ve had enough.” I fronted out the surly cops and ducked under the tape onto the path, walking onto a Pier on which we’d spent many lazy afternoons watching the river at sunset. Dust everywhere, police boats docked and waiting, a crane ominously dredging mud into a barge. I walked back past the camera operators onto the highway and walked up to an interview in process. Perfectly composed, a fire chief and his crew from some small town in upstate New York were politely declining to give details about what they’d seen at “ground zero.” The men’s faces were dust streaked, their eyes slightly dazed with the shock of a horror previously unimaginable to most Americans. They were here to help the best they could, now they’d done as much as anyone could. “It’s time for us to go home.” The chief was eloquent, almost rehearsed in his precision. It was like a Magnum press photo. But he was refusing to cooperate with the media’s obsessive emotionalism. I walked down the highway, joining construction workers, volunteers, police, and firemen in their hundreds at Chambers Street. No one paid me any attention; it was absurd. I joined several other watchers on the stairs by Stuyvesant High School, which was now the headquarters for the recovery crews. Just two or three blocks away, the huge jagged teeth of the towers’ beautiful tracery lurched out onto the highway above huge mounds of debris. The TV images of the shattered scene made sense as I placed them into what was left of a familiar Sunday afternoon geography of bike rides and walks by the river, picnics in the park lying on the grass and gazing up at the infinite solidity of the towers. Demolished. It was breathtaking. If “they” could do that, they could do anything. Across the street at tables military policeman were checking credentials of the milling volunteers and issuing the pink and orange tags that gave access to ground zero. Without warning, there was a sudden stampede running full pelt up from the disaster site, men and women in fatigues, burly construction workers, firemen in bunker gear. I ran a few yards then stopped. Other people milled around idly, ignoring the panic, smoking and talking in low voices. It was a mainly white, blue-collar scene. All these men wearing flags and carrying crowbars and flashlights. In their company, the intolerance and rage I associated with flags and construction sites was nowhere to be seen. They were dealing with a torn and twisted otherness that dwarfed machismo or bigotry. I talked to a moustachioed, pony-tailed construction worker who’d hitched a ride from the mid-west to “come and help out.” He was staying at the Y, he said, it was kind of rough. “Have you been down there?” he asked, pointing towards the wreckage. “You’re British, you weren’t in World War Two were you?” I replied in the negative. “It’s worse ’n that. I went down last night and you can’t imagine it. You don’t want to see it if you don’t have to.” Did I know any welcoming ladies? he asked. The Y was kind of tough. When I saw TV images of President Bush speaking to the recovery crews and steelworkers at “ground zero” a couple of days later, shouting through a bullhorn to chants of “USA, USA” I knew nothing had changed. New York’s suffering was subject to a second hijacking by the brokers of national unity. New York had never been America, and now its terrible human loss and its great humanity were redesignated in the name of the nation, of the coming war. The signs without a referent were being forcibly appropriated, locked into an impoverished patriotic framework, interpreted for “us” by a compliant media and an opportunistic regime eager to reign in civil liberties, to unloose its war machine and tighten its grip on the Muslim world. That day, drawn to the river again, I had watched F18 fighter jets flying patterns over Manhattan as Bush’s helicopters came in across the river. Otherwise empty of air traffic, “our” skies were being torn up by the military jets: it was somehow the worst sight yet, worse than the wreckage or the bands of disaster tourists on Canal Street, a sign of further violence yet to come. There was a carrier out there beyond New York harbor, there to protect us: the bruising, blustering city once open to all comers. That felt worst of all. In the intervening weeks, we have seen other, more unstable ways of interpreting the signs of September 11 and its aftermath. Many have circulated on the Internet, past the blockages and blockades placed on urban spaces and intellectual life. Karl-Heinz Stockhausen’s work was banished (at least temporarily) from the canon of avant-garde electronic music when he described the attack on las torres gemelas as akin to a work of art. If Jacques Derrida had described it as an act of deconstruction (turning technological modernity literally in on itself), or Jean Baudrillard had announced that the event was so thick with mediation it had not truly taken place, something similar would have happened to them (and still may). This is because, as Don DeLillo so eloquently put it in implicit reaction to the plaintive cry “Why do they hate us?”: “it is the power of American culture to penetrate every wall, home, life and mind”—whether via military action or cultural iconography. All these positions are correct, however grisly and annoying they may be. What GK Chesterton called the “flints and tiles” of nineteenth-century European urban existence were rent asunder like so many victims of high-altitude US bombing raids. As a First-World disaster, it became knowable as the first-ever US “ground zero” such precisely through the high premium immediately set on the lives of Manhattan residents and the rarefied discussion of how to commemorate the high-altitude towers. When, a few weeks later, an American Airlines plane crashed on take-off from Queens, that borough was left open to all comers. Manhattan was locked down, flown over by “friendly” bombers. In stark contrast to the open if desperate faces on the street of 11 September, people went about their business with heads bowed even lower than is customary. Contradictory deconstructions and valuations of Manhattan lives mean that September 11 will live in infamy and hyper-knowability. The vengeful United States government and population continue on their way. Local residents must ponder insurance claims, real-estate values, children’s terrors, and their own roles in something beyond their ken. New York had been forced beyond being the center of the financial world. It had become a military target, a place that was receiving as well as dispatching the slings and arrows of global fortune. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.1 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php>. Chicago Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby, "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 1 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. (2002) A Day That Will Live In … ?. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(1). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]).