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Kikuyugrass (Pennisetum clandestinum) is a warm-season grass and invasive weed in the landscape, but can be used for golf course fairways in southern California. In 1999, a decline of kikuyugrass was observed on golf courses in southern California beginning in late summer or early autumn. Symptoms included sunken, bleached patches of turf with individual plants having chlorotic foliage and reduced vigor. Roots and stolons were often covered with dark, ectotrophic fungi, and lobed hyphopodia were visible on the stolons. On colonized roots, the cortex was rotted, and the stele showed evidence of colonization by the fungus. In March 2002, a sample of kikuyugrass exhibiting decline symptoms was obtained from a golf course fairway in Los Angeles, CA. Sections of roots and stolons were surface sterilized for 60 s in a 0.3% sodium hypochlorite solution and placed on acidified water agar. Emerging colonies were transferred to potato dextrose agar (PDA). Isolates were characteristic of Gaeumannomyces spp. (2) with dark hyphae and curled colony edges. The rDNA internal transcribed spacer (ITS) regions of two isolates (HCC-5 and -6) were amplified by polymerase chain reaction (PCR) using universal fungal rDNA primers ITS 4 (5′-TCCTCCGCTTATTGATATGC-3′) and ITS 5 (5′-GGAAGTAAAAGTCG TAACAAGG-3′) (3). PCR products were sequenced and exhibited 99% sequence identity to G. graminis var. graminis (GenBank Accession No. 87685). These isolates were grown separately on autoclaved sand and cornmeal media (1) for 21 days at 25°C. Styrofoam cups were partially filled with autoclaved medium-coarse sand, and 10 g of inoculum was spread evenly in a layer on top. This layer was covered by an additional centimeter of autoclaved sand and 5 g of kikuyugrass seed (cv. ‘AZ-1’). Both isolates were tested separately using six replicate cups per isolate. Controls were prepared using only a 10 g layer of autoclaved sand and cornmeal. Cups were misted at 1 h intervals on a greenhouse bench maintained at 25°C. Seeds germinated and emerged after ≈10 days. In cups inoculated with isolate HCC-5 or -6, dark mycelia were evident on the coleoptiles of the emerging plants. Plants were removed and washed 21 days after planting. Inoculated plants were chlorotic and had reduced root and foliar growth compared to the controls. Coleoptiles, hypocotyls, and roots were covered with dark, ectotrophic fungi with lobed hyphopodia present on the hypocotyls. In colonized roots, cortical tissue was rotted with extensive colonization of the epidermis and penetration of the fungus into the root cortex. Sections of infected root tissue were surface disinfested, placed on acidified water agar, and the resulting colonies transferred to PDA. Isolates exhibited the same colony morphology and characteristics as those previously identified as G. graminis var. graminis. To our knowledge, this is the first report of this fungus as a pathogen of kikuyugrass. References: (1) M. J. C. Asher. Ann. Appl. Biol. 70:215, 1972. (2) P. C. Cunningham. Isolation and culture. Pages 103–123 in: Biology and Control of Take All. M. J. C. Asher and P. J. Shipton, eds. Academic Press, London, 1981. (3) T. J. White et al. Amplification and direct sequencing of fungal ribosomal RNA genes for phylogenetics. Pages 315–322 in: PCR Protocols: A Guide to Methods and Applications. M. A. Innis et al. eds. Academic Press, San Diego, CA, 1990.

At the start of the twentieth century, many young Australian artists travelled abroad to expand their art education and to gain exposure to the modern art movements of Europe. Most of these artists were active members of artist associations such as the Victorian Artists Society or the New South Wales Society of Artists. Male artists from Victoria were generally also members of the Melbourne Savage Club, a club with a strong association with the arts.This paper investigates the dual function of the club, as a space where the artists felt “at home” in the familiar environment that the club offered whilst they were abroad and, at the same time, a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London would have a significant impact on male Australian artists, as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world, which enhanced their experience whilst abroad.Artists were seldom members of Australia’s early gentlemen’s clubs, however, in the late nineteenth century Melbourne, artists formed less formal social groupings with exotic names such as the Prehistoric Order of Cannibals, the Buonarotti Club, and the Ishmael Club (Mead). Melbourne artists congregated in these clubs until the Melbourne Savage Club, modelled on the London Savage Club (1857)—a club whose membership was restricted to practitioners in the performing and visual arts—opened its doors in 1894.The Melbourne Savage Club had its origins in the Metropolitan Music Club, established in the late 1880s by a group of professional and amateur musicians and music lovers. The club initially admitted musicians and people from the dramatic professions free-of-charge, however, author Randolph Bedford (1868–1941) and artist Alf Vincent (1874–1915) were not content to be treated on a different basis to the musicians and actors, and two months after Vincent joined the club, at a Special General Meeting, the club resolved to vary Rule 6, “to admit landscape or portrait painters and sculptors without entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club). At another Special General Meeting, a year later, the rule was altered to admit “recognised members of the musical, dramatic and artistic professions and sculptors without payment of entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club).This resulted in an immediate influx of prominent Victorian male artists (Williams) and the Melbourne Savage Club became their place of choice to gather and enjoy the fellowship the club offered and to share ideas in a convivial atmosphere. When the opportunity arose for them to travel to London in the early twentieth century, they met in London’s famous art clubs. Membership of the Melbourne Savage Club not only conferred rights to visit reciprocal clubs whilst in London, but also facilitated introductions to potential patrons. The London clubs were the venue of choice for visiting artists to meet their fellow artist expatriates and to share experiences and, importantly, to meet with their British counterparts, exhibit their works, and establish valuable contacts.The London Savage Club attracted many Australian expatriates. Not only is it the grandfather of London’s bohemian clubs but also it was the model for arts clubs the world over. Founded in 1857, the qualification for admission was (and still is) to be, “a working man in literature or art, and a good fellow” (Halliday vii). If a candidate met these requirements, he would be cordially received “come whence he may.” This was embodied in the club’s first rules which required applicants for membership to be from a restricted range of pursuits relating to the arts thought to be commensurate with its bohemian ideals, namely art, literature, drama, or music.The second London arts club that attracted expatriate Australian artists was the New English Arts Club, founded in 1886 by young English artists returning from studying art in Paris. Members of The New English Arts Club were influenced by the Impressionist style as opposed to the academic art shown at the Royal Academy. As a meeting place for Australia’s expatriate artists, the New English Arts Club had a particular influence, as it exposed them to significant early Modern artist members such as John Singer Sargent (1856–1925), Walter Sickert (1860–1942), William Orpen (1878–1931) and Augustus John (1878–1961) (Corbett and Perry; Thornton; Melbourne Savage Club).The third, and arguably the most popular with the expatriate Australian artists’ club, was the Chelsea Arts Club, a bohemian club formed in 1891 by local working artists looking for a place to go to “meet, talk, eat and drink” (Cross).Apart from the American-born founding member, James McNeill Whistler (1834–1903), amongst the biggest Chelsea names at the time of the influx of travelling young Australian artists were modernists Sir William Orpen, Augustus John, and John Sargent. The opportunity to mix with these leading British contemporary artists was irresistible to these antipodean artists (55).When Melbourne artist, Miles Evergood (1871–1939) arrived in London from America in 1910, he had been an active exhibiting member of the Salmagundi Club, a New York artists’ club. Almost immediately he joined the New English Arts Club and the Chelsea Arts Club. Hammer tells of him associating with “writer Israel Zangwill, sculptor Jacob Epstein, and anti-academic artists including Walter Sickert, Augustus John, John Lavery, John Singer Sargent and C.R.W. Nevison, who challenged art values in Britain at the beginning of the century” (Hammer 41).Arthur Streeton (1867–1943) used the Chelsea Arts Club as his postal address, as did many expatriate artists. The Melbourne Savage Club archives contain letters and greetings, with news from abroad, written from artist members back to their “Brother Savages” (Various).In late 1902, Streeton wrote to fellow artist and Savage Club member Tom Roberts (1856–1931) from London:I belong to the Chelsea Arts Club now, & meet the artists – MacKennel says it’s about the most artistic club (speaking in the real sense) in England. … They all seem to be here – McKennal, Longstaff, Mahony, Fullwood, Norman, Minns, Fox, Plataganet Tudor St. George Tucker, Quinn, Coates, Bunny, Alston, K, Sonny Pole, other minor lights and your old friend and admirer Smike – within 100 yards of here – there must be 30 different studios. (Streeton 94)Whilst some of the artists whom Streeton mentioned were studying at either the Royal Academy or the Slade School, it was the clubs like the Chelsea Arts Club where they were most likely to encounter fellow Australian artists. Tom Roberts was obviously attentive to Streeton’s enthusiastic account and, when he returned to London the following year to work on his commission for The Big Picture of the 1901 opening of the first Commonwealth Parliament, he soon joined. Roberts, through his expansive personality, became particularly active in London’s Australian expatriate artistic community and later became Vice-President of the Chelsea Arts Club. Along with Streeton and Roberts, other visiting Melbourne Savage Club artists joined the Chelsea Arts Club. They included, John Longstaff (1861–1941), James Quinn (1869–1951), George Coates (1869–1930), and Will Dyson (1880–1938), along with Sydney artists Henry Fullwood (1863–1930), George Lambert (1873–1930), and Will Ashton (1881–1963) (Croll 95). Smith describes the exodus to London and Paris: “It was the Chelsea Arts Club that the Heidelberg School established its last and least distinguished camp” (Smith, Smith and Heathcote 152).Streeton, who retained his Chelsea Arts Club membership when he returned for a while to Australia, wrote to Roberts in 1907, “I miss Chelsea & the Club-boys” (Streeton 107). In relation to Frederick McCubbin’s pending visit he wrote: “Prof McCubbin left here a week ago by German ‘Prinz Heinrich.’ … You’ll introduce him at the Chelsea Club and I hope they make him an Hon. Member, etc” (Streeton et al. 85). McCubbin wrote, after an evening at the Chelsea Arts Club, following a visit to the Royal Academy: “Tonight, I am dining with Australian artists in Soho, and shall be there to greet my old friends. How glad I am! Longstaff will be there, and Frank Stuart, Roberts, Fullwood, Pontin, Coates, Quinn, and Tucker’s brother, and many others from all around” (MacDonald, McCubbin and McCubbin 75). Impressed by the work of Turner he wrote to his wife Annie, following avisit to the Tate Gallery:I went yesterday with Fullwood and G. Coates and Tom Roberts for a ramble … to the Tate Gallery – a beautiful freestone building facing the river through a portico into the gallery where the lately found turners are exhibited – these are not like the greater number of pictures in the National Gallery – they represent his different periods, but are mostly in his latest style, when he had realised the quality of light (McCubbin).Clearly Turner’s paintings had a profound impression on him. In the same letter he wrote:they are mostly unfinished but they are divine – such dreams of colour – a dozen of them are like pearls … mist and cloud and sea and land, drenched in light … They glow with tender brilliancy that radiates from these canvases – how he loved the dazzling brilliancy of morning or evening – these gems with their opal colour – you feel how he gloried in these tender visions of light and air. He worked from darkness into light.The Chelsea Arts Club also served as a venue for artists to entertain and host distinguished visitors from home. These guests included; Melbourne Savage Club artist member Alf Vincent (Joske 112), National Gallery of Victoria (NGV) Trustee and popular patron of the arts, Professor Baldwin Spencer (1860–1929), Professor Frederick S. Delmer (1864–1931) and conductor George Marshall-Hall (1862–1915) (Mulvaney and Calaby 329; Streeton 111).Artist Miles Evergood arrived in London in 1910, and visited the Chelsea Arts Club. He mentions expatriate Australian artists gathering at the Club, including Will Dyson, Fred Leist (1873–1945), David Davies (1864–1939), Will Ashton (1881–1963), and Henry Fullwood (Hammer 41).Most of the Melbourne Savage Club artist members were active in the London Savage Club. On one occasion, in November 1908, Roberts, with fellow artist MacKennal in the Chair, attended the Australian Artists’ Dinner held there. This event attracted twenty-five expatriate Australian artists, all residing in London at the time (McQueen 532).These London arts clubs had a significant influence on the expatriate Australian artists for they became the “glue” that held them together whilst abroad. Although some artists travelled abroad specifically to take up places at the Royal Academy School or the Slade School, only a minority of artists arriving in London from Australia and other British colonies were offered positions at these prestigious schools. Many artists travelled to “try their luck.” The arts clubs of London, whilst similarly discerning in their membership criteria, generally offered a visiting “brother-of-the-brush” a warm welcome as a professional courtesy. They featured the familiar rollicking all-male “Smoke Nights” a feature of the Melbourne Savage Club. With a greater “artist” membership than the clubs in Australia, expatriate artists were not only able to catch up with their friends from Australia, but also they could associate with England’s finest and most progressive artists in a familiar congenial environment. The clubs were a “home away from home” and described by Underhill as, “an artistic Earl’s Court” (Underhill 99). Most importantly, the clubs were a centre for discourse, arguably even more so than were the teaching academies. Britain’s leading modernist artists were members of the Chelsea Arts Club and the New English Arts Club and mixed freely with the visiting Australian artists.Many Australian artists, such as Miles Evergood and George Bell (1878–1966), held anti-academic views similar to English club members and embraced the new artistic trends, which they would bring back to Australia. Streeton had no illusions about the relative worth of the famed institutions and the exhibitions held by clubs such as the New English. Writing to Roberts before he joins him in London, he describes the Royal Academy as having, “an inartistic atmosphere” and claims he “hasn’t the least desire to go again” (Streeton 77). His preference lay with a concurrent “International Exhibition”, which featured works by Rodin, Whistler, Condor, Degas, and others who were setting the pace rather than merely continuing the academic traditions.Architect Hardy Wilson (1881–1955) served as secretary of The Chelsea Arts Club. When he returned to Australia he brought back with him a number of British works by Streeton and Lambert for an exhibition at the Guild Hall Melbourne (Underhill 92). Artists and Bohemians, a history of the Chelsea Arts Club, makes special reference of its world-wide contacts and singles out many of its prominent Australian members for specific mention including; Sir John William (Will) Ashton OBE, later Director of the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and Will Dyson, whose illustrious career as an Australian war artist was described in some detail. Dyson’s popularity led to his later appointment as Chairman of the Chelsea Arts Club where he initiated an ambitious rebuilding program, improving staff accommodation, refurbishing the members’ areas, and adding five bedrooms for visiting members (Bross 87-90).Whilst the influence of travel abroad on Australian artists has been noted, the importance of the London Clubs has not been fully explored. These clubs offered artists a space where they felt “at home” and a familiar environment whilst they were abroad. The clubs functioned as a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London had a significant impact on male Australian artists as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world which enhanced their experience whilst abroad and influenced the direction of their art.ReferencesCorbett, David Peters, and Lara Perry, eds. English Art, 1860–1914: Modern Artists and Identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000.Croll, Robert Henderson. Tom Roberts: Father of Australian Landscape Painting. Melbourne: Robertson & Mullens, 1935.Cross, Tom. Artists and Bohemians: 100 Years with the Chelsea Arts Club. 1992. 1st ed. London: Quiller Press, 1992.Gray, Anne, and National Gallery of Australia. McCubbin: Last Impressions 1907–17. 1st ed. Parkes, A.C.T.: National Gallery of Australia, 2009.Halliday, Andrew, ed. The Savage Papers. 1867. 1st ed. London: Tinsley Brothers, 1867.Hammer, Gael. Miles Evergood: No End of Passion. Willoughby, NSW: Phillip Mathews, 2013.Joske, Prue. Debonair Jack: A Biography of Sir John Longstaff. 1st ed. Melbourne: Claremont Publishing, 1994.MacDonald, James S., Frederick McCubbin, and Alexander McCubbin. The Art of F. McCubbin. Melbourne: Lothian Book Publishing, 1916.McCaughy, Patrick. Strange Country: Why Australian Painting Matters. Ed. Paige Amor. The Miegunyah Press, 2014.McCubbin, Frederick. Papers, Ca. 1900–Ca. 1915. Melbourne.McQueen, Humphrey. Tom Roberts. Sydney: Macmillan, 1996.Mead, Stephen. "Bohemia in Melbourne: An Investigation of the Writer Marcus Clarke and Four Artistic Clubs during the Late 1860s – 1901.” PhD thesis. Melbourne: University of Melbourne, 2009.Melbourne Savage Club. Secretary. Minute Book: Melbourne Savage Club. Club Minutes (General Committee). Melbourne: Savage Archives.Mulvaney, Derek John, and J.H. Calaby. So Much That Is New: Baldwin Spencer, 1860–1929, a Biography. Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 1985.Smith, Bernard, Terry Smith, and Christopher Heathcote. Australian Painting, 1788–2000. 4th ed. South Melbourne, Vic.: Oxford University Press, 2001.Streeton, Arthur, et al. Smike to Bulldog: Letters from Sir Arthur Streeton to Tom Roberts. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1946.Streeton, Arthur, ed. Letters from Smike: The Letters of Arthur Streeton, 1890–1943. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989.Thornton, Alfred, and New English Art Club. Fifty Years of the New English Art Club, 1886–1935. London: New English Art Club, Curwen Press 1935.Underhill, Nancy D.H. Making Australian Art 1916–49: Sydney Ure Smith Patron and Publisher. South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1991.Various. Melbourne Savage Club Correspondence Book: 1902–1916. Melbourne: Melbourne Savage Club.Williams, Graeme Henry. "A Socio-Cultural Reading: The Melbourne Savage Club through Its Collections." Masters of Arts thesis. Melbourne: Deakin University, 2013.

Introduction Eating is one of the most quintessential activities of human life. Because of this primacy, eating is, as food anthropologist Sidney Mintz has observed, “not merely a biological activity, but a vibrantly cultural activity as well” (48). This article posits that the current awareness of climate change in the Western world is animating such cultural activity as the Slow Food movement and is, as a result, stimulating what could be seen as an evolutionary change in popular foodways. Moreover, this paper suggests that, in line with modelling provided by the Slow Food example, an increased awareness of the connections of climate change to the social injustices of food production might better drive social change in such areas. This discussion begins by proposing that contemporary foodways—defined as “not only what is eaten by a particular group of people but also the variety of customs, beliefs and practices surrounding the production, preparation and presentation of food” (Davey 182)—are changing in the West in relation to current concerns about climate change. Such modification has a long history. Since long before the inception of modern Homo sapiens, natural climate change has been a crucial element driving hominidae evolution, both biologically and culturally in terms of social organisation and behaviours. Macroevolutionary theory suggests evolution can dramatically accelerate in response to rapid shifts in an organism’s environment, followed by slow to long periods of stasis once a new level of sustainability has been achieved (Gould and Eldredge). There is evidence that ancient climate change has also dramatically affected the rate and course of cultural evolution. Recent work suggests that the end of the last ice age drove the cultural innovation of animal and plant domestication in the Middle East (Zeder), not only due to warmer temperatures and increased rainfall, but also to a higher level of atmospheric carbon dioxide which made agriculture increasingly viable (McCorriston and Hole, cited in Zeder). Megadroughts during the Paleolithic might well have been stimulating factors behind the migration of hominid populations out of Africa and across Asia (Scholz et al). Thus, it is hardly surprising that modern anthropogenically induced global warming—in all its’ climate altering manifestations—may be driving a new wave of cultural change and even evolution in the West as we seek a sustainable homeostatic equilibrium with the environment of the future. In 1962, Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring exposed some of the threats that modern industrial agriculture poses to environmental sustainability. This prompted a public debate from which the modern environmental movement arose and, with it, an expanding awareness and attendant anxiety about the safety and nutritional quality of contemporary foods, especially those that are grown with chemical pesticides and fertilizers and/or are highly processed. This environmental consciousness led to some modification in eating habits, manifest by some embracing wholefood and vegetarian dietary regimes (or elements of them). Most recently, a widespread awareness of climate change has forced rapid change in contemporary Western foodways, while in other climate related areas of socio-political and economic significance such as energy production and usage, there is little evidence of real acceleration of change. Ongoing research into the effects of this expanding environmental consciousness continues in various disciplinary contexts such as geography (Eshel and Martin) and health (McMichael et al). In food studies, Vileisis has proposed that the 1970s environmental movement’s challenge to the polluting practices of industrial agri-food production, concurrent with the women’s movement (asserting women’s right to know about everything, including food production), has led to both cooks and eaters becoming increasingly knowledgeable about the links between agricultural production and consumer and environmental health, as well as the various social justice issues involved. As a direct result of such awareness, alternatives to the industrialised, global food system are now emerging (Kloppenberg et al.). The Slow Food (R)evolution The tenets of the Slow Food movement, now some two decades old, are today synergetic with the growing consternation about climate change. In 1983, Carlo Petrini formed the Italian non-profit food and wine association Arcigola and, in 1986, founded Slow Food as a response to the opening of a McDonalds in Rome. From these humble beginnings, which were then unashamedly positing a return to the food systems of the past, Slow Food has grown into a global organisation that has much more future focused objectives animating its challenges to the socio-cultural and environmental costs of industrial food. Slow Food does have some elements that could be classed as reactionary and, therefore, the opposite of evolutionary. In response to the increasing homogenisation of culinary habits around the world, for instance, Slow Food’s Foundation for Biodiversity has established the Ark of Taste, which expands upon the idea of a seed bank to preserve not only varieties of food but also local and artisanal culinary traditions. In this, the Ark aims to save foods and food products “threatened by industrial standardization, hygiene laws, the regulations of large-scale distribution and environmental damage” (SFFB). Slow Food International’s overarching goals and activities, however, extend far beyond the preservation of past foodways, extending to the sponsoring of events and activities that are attempting to create new cuisine narratives for contemporary consumers who have an appetite for such innovation. Such events as the Salone del Gusto (Salon of Taste) and Terra Madre (Mother Earth) held in Turin every two years, for example, while celebrating culinary traditions, also focus on contemporary artisanal foods and sustainable food production processes that incorporate the most current of agricultural knowledge and new technologies into this production. Attendees at these events are also driven by both an interest in tradition, and their own very current concerns with health, personal satisfaction and environmental sustainability, to change their consumer behavior through an expanded self-awareness of the consequences of their individual lifestyle choices. Such events have, in turn, inspired such events in other locations, moving Slow Food from local to global relevance, and affecting the intellectual evolution of foodway cultures far beyond its headquarters in Bra in Northern Italy. This includes in the developing world, where millions of farmers continue to follow many traditional agricultural practices by necessity. Slow Food Movement’s forward-looking values are codified in the International Commission on the Future of Food and Agriculture 2006 publication, Manifesto on the Future of Food. This calls for changes to the World Trade Organisation’s rules that promote the globalisation of agri-food production as a direct response to the “climate change [which] threatens to undermine the entire natural basis of ecologically benign agriculture and food preparation, bringing the likelihood of catastrophic outcomes in the near future” (ICFFA 8). It does not call, however, for a complete return to past methods. To further such foodway awareness and evolution, Petrini founded the University of Gastronomic Sciences at Slow Food’s headquarters in 2004. The university offers programs that are analogous with the Slow Food’s overall aim of forging sustainable partnerships between the best of old and new practice: to, in the organisation’s own words, “maintain an organic relationship between gastronomy and agricultural science” (UNISG). In 2004, Slow Food had over sixty thousand members in forty-five countries (Paxson 15), with major events now held each year in many of these countries and membership continuing to grow apace. One of the frequently cited successes of the Slow Food movement is in relation to the tomato. Until recently, supermarkets stocked only a few mass-produced hybrids. These cultivars were bred for their disease resistance, ease of handling, tolerance to artificial ripening techniques, and display consistency, rather than any culinary values such as taste, aroma, texture or variety. In contrast, the vine ripened, ‘farmer’s market’ tomato has become the symbol of an “eco-gastronomically” sustainable, local and humanistic system of food production (Jordan) which melds the best of the past practice with the most up-to-date knowledge regarding such farming matters as water conservation. Although the term ‘heirloom’ is widely used in relation to these tomatoes, there is a distinctively contemporary edge to the way they are produced and consumed (Jordan), and they are, along with other organic and local produce, increasingly available in even the largest supermarket chains. Instead of a wholesale embrace of the past, it is the connection to, and the maintenance of that connection with, the processes of production and, hence, to the environment as a whole, which is the animating premise of the Slow Food movement. ‘Slow’ thus creates a gestalt in which individuals integrate their lifestyles with all levels of the food production cycle and, hence to the environment and, importantly, the inherently related social justice issues. ‘Slow’ approaches emphasise how the accelerated pace of contemporary life has weakened these connections, while offering a path to the restoration of a sense of connectivity to the full cycle of life and its relation to place, nature and climate. In this, the Slow path demands that every consumer takes responsibility for all components of his/her existence—a responsibility that includes becoming cognisant of the full story behind each of the products that are consumed in that life. The Slow movement is not, however, a regime of abstention or self-denial. Instead, the changes in lifestyle necessary to support responsible sustainability, and the sensual and aesthetic pleasure inherent in such a lifestyle, exist in a mutually reinforcing relationship (Pietrykowski 2004). This positive feedback loop enhances the potential for promoting real and long-term evolution in social and cultural behaviour. Indeed, the Slow zeitgeist now informs many areas of contemporary culture, with Slow Travel, Homes, Design, Management, Leadership and Education, and even Slow Email, Exercise, Shopping and Sex attracting adherents. Mainstreaming Concern with Ethical Food Production The role of the media in “forming our consciousness—what we think, how we think, and what we think about” (Cunningham and Turner 12)—is self-evident. It is, therefore, revealing in relation to the above outlined changes that even the most functional cookbooks and cookery magazines (those dedicated to practical information such as recipes and instructional technique) in Western countries such as the USA, UK and Australian are increasingly reflecting and promoting an awareness of ethical food production as part of this cultural change in food habits. While such texts have largely been considered as useful but socio-politically relatively banal publications, they are beginning to be recognised as a valid source of historical and cultural information (Nussel). Cookbooks and cookery magazines commonly include discussion of a surprising range of issues around food production and consumption including sustainable and ethical agricultural methods, biodiversity, genetic modification and food miles. In this context, they indicate how rapidly the recent evolution of foodways has been absorbed into mainstream practice. Much of such food related media content is, at the same time, closely identified with celebrity mass marketing and embodied in the television chef with his or her range of branded products including their syndicated articles and cookbooks. This commercial symbiosis makes each such cuisine-related article in a food or women’s magazine or cookbook, in essence, an advertorial for a celebrity chef and their named products. Yet, at the same time, a number of these mass media food celebrities are raising public discussion that is leading to consequent action around important issues linked to climate change, social justice and the environment. An example is Jamie Oliver’s efforts to influence public behaviour and government policy, a number of which have gained considerable traction. Oliver’s 2004 exposure of the poor quality of school lunches in Britain (see Jamie’s School Dinners), for instance, caused public outrage and pressured the British government to commit considerable extra funding to these programs. A recent study by Essex University has, moreover, found that the academic performance of 11-year-old pupils eating Oliver’s meals improved, while absenteeism fell by 15 per cent (Khan). Oliver’s exposé of the conditions of battery raised hens in 2007 and 2008 (see Fowl Dinners) resulted in increased sales of free-range poultry, decreased sales of factory-farmed chickens across the UK, and complaints that free-range chicken sales were limited by supply. Oliver encouraged viewers to lobby their local councils, and as a result, a number banned battery hen eggs from schools, care homes, town halls and workplace cafeterias (see, for example, LDP). The popular penetration of these ideas needs to be understood in a historical context where industrialised poultry farming has been an issue in Britain since at least 1848 when it was one of the contributing factors to the establishment of the RSPCA (Freeman). A century after Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle (published in 1906) exposed the realities of the slaughterhouse, and several decades since Peter Singer’s landmark Animal Liberation (1975) and Tom Regan’s The Case for Animal Rights (1983) posited the immorality of the mistreatment of animals in food production, it could be suggested that Al Gore’s film An Inconvenient Truth (released in 2006) added considerably to the recent concern regarding the ethics of industrial agriculture. Consciousness-raising bestselling books such as Jim Mason and Peter Singer’s The Ethics of What We Eat and Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma (both published in 2006), do indeed ‘close the loop’ in this way in their discussions, by concluding that intensive food production methods used since the 1950s are not only inhumane and damage public health, but are also damaging an environment under pressure from climate change. In comparison, the use of forced labour and human trafficking in food production has attracted far less mainstream media, celebrity or public attention. It could be posited that this is, in part, because no direct relationship to the environment and climate change and, therefore, direct link to our own existence in the West, has been popularised. Kevin Bales, who has been described as a modern abolitionist, estimates that there are currently more than 27 million people living in conditions of slavery and exploitation against their wills—twice as many as during the 350-year long trans-Atlantic slave trade. Bales also chillingly reveals that, worldwide, the number of slaves is increasing, with contemporary individuals so inexpensive to purchase in relation to the value of their production that they are disposable once the slaveholder has used them. Alongside sex slavery, many other prevalent examples of contemporary slavery are concerned with food production (Weissbrodt et al; Miers). Bales and Soodalter, for example, describe how across Asia and Africa, adults and children are enslaved to catch and process fish and shellfish for both human consumption and cat food. Other campaigners have similarly exposed how the cocoa in chocolate is largely produced by child slave labour on the Ivory Coast (Chalke; Off), and how considerable amounts of exported sugar, cereals and other crops are slave-produced in certain countries. In 2003, some 32 per cent of US shoppers identified themselves as LOHAS “lifestyles of health and sustainability” consumers, who were, they said, willing to spend more for products that reflected not only ecological, but also social justice responsibility (McLaughlin). Research also confirms that “the pursuit of social objectives … can in fact furnish an organization with the competitive resources to develop effective marketing strategies”, with Doherty and Meehan showing how “social and ethical credibility” are now viable bases of differentiation and competitive positioning in mainstream consumer markets (311, 303). In line with this recognition, Fair Trade Certified goods are now available in British, European, US and, to a lesser extent, Australian supermarkets, and a number of global chains including Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonalds, Starbucks and Virgin airlines utilise Fair Trade coffee and teas in all, or parts of, their operations. Fair Trade Certification indicates that farmers receive a higher than commodity price for their products, workers have the right to organise, men and women receive equal wages, and no child labour is utilised in the production process (McLaughlin). Yet, despite some Western consumers reporting such issues having an impact upon their purchasing decisions, social justice has not become a significant issue of concern for most. The popular cookery publications discussed above devote little space to Fair Trade product marketing, much of which is confined to supermarket-produced adverzines promoting the Fair Trade products they stock, and international celebrity chefs have yet to focus attention on this issue. In Australia, discussion of contemporary slavery in the press is sparse, having surfaced in 2000-2001, prompted by UNICEF campaigns against child labour, and in 2007 and 2008 with the visit of a series of high profile anti-slavery campaigners (including Bales) to the region. The public awareness of food produced by forced labour and the troubling issue of human enslavement in general is still far below the level that climate change and ecological issues have achieved thus far in driving foodway evolution. This may change, however, if a ‘Slow’-inflected connection can be made between Western lifestyles and the plight of peoples hidden from our daily existence, but contributing daily to them. Concluding Remarks At this time of accelerating techno-cultural evolution, due in part to the pressures of climate change, it is the creative potential that human conscious awareness brings to bear on these challenges that is most valuable. Today, as in the caves at Lascaux, humanity is evolving new images and narratives to provide rational solutions to emergent challenges. As an example of this, new foodways and ways of thinking about them are beginning to evolve in response to the perceived problems of climate change. The current conscious transformation of food habits by some in the West might be, therefore, in James Lovelock’s terms, a moment of “revolutionary punctuation” (178), whereby rapid cultural adaption is being induced by the growing public awareness of impending crisis. It remains to be seen whether other urgent human problems can be similarly and creatively embraced, and whether this trend can spread to offer global solutions to them. References An Inconvenient Truth. Dir. Davis Guggenheim. Lawrence Bender Productions, 2006. Bales, Kevin. Disposable People: New Slavery in the Global Economy. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004 (first published 1999). Bales, Kevin, and Ron Soodalter. The Slave Next Door: Human Trafficking and Slavery in America Today. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009. Carson, Rachel. Silent Spring. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962. Chalke, Steve. “Unfinished Business: The Sinister Story behind Chocolate.” The Age 18 Sep. 2007: 11. Cunningham, Stuart, and Graeme Turner. The Media and Communications in Australia Today. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2002. Davey, Gwenda Beed. “Foodways.” The Oxford Companion to Australian Folklore. Ed. Gwenda Beed Davey, and Graham Seal. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1993. 182–85. Doherty, Bob, and John Meehan. “Competing on Social Resources: The Case of the Day Chocolate Company in the UK Confectionery Sector.” Journal of Strategic Marketing 14.4 (2006): 299–313. Eshel, Gidon, and Pamela A. Martin. “Diet, Energy, and Global Warming.” Earth Interactions 10, paper 9 (2006): 1–17. Fowl Dinners. Exec. Prod. Nick Curwin and Zoe Collins. Dragonfly Film and Television Productions and Fresh One Productions, 2008. Freeman, Sarah. Mutton and Oysters: The Victorians and Their Food. London: Gollancz, 1989. Gould, S. J., and N. Eldredge. “Punctuated Equilibrium Comes of Age.” Nature 366 (1993): 223–27. (ICFFA) International Commission on the Future of Food and Agriculture. Manifesto on the Future of Food. Florence, Italy: Agenzia Regionale per lo Sviluppo e l’Innovazione nel Settore Agricolo Forestale and Regione Toscana, 2006. Jamie’s School Dinners. Dir. Guy Gilbert. Fresh One Productions, 2005. Jordan, Jennifer A. “The Heirloom Tomato as Cultural Object: Investigating Taste and Space.” Sociologia Ruralis 47.1 (2007): 20-41. Khan, Urmee. “Jamie Oliver’s School Dinners Improve Exam Results, Report Finds.” Telegraph 1 Feb. 2009. 24 Aug. 2009 < http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/educationnews/4423132/Jamie-Olivers-school-dinners-improve-exam-results-report-finds.html >. Kloppenberg, Jack, Jr, Sharon Lezberg, Kathryn de Master, G. W. Stevenson, and John Henrickson. ‘Tasting Food, Tasting Sustainability: Defining the Attributes of an Alternative Food System with Competent, Ordinary People.” Human Organisation 59.2 (Jul. 2000): 177–86. (LDP) Liverpool Daily Post. “Battery Farm Eggs Banned from Schools and Care Homes.” Liverpool Daily Post 12 Jan. 2008. 24 Aug. 2009 < http://www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk/liverpool-news/regional-news/2008/01/12/battery-farm-eggs-banned-from-schools-and-care-homes-64375-20342259 >. Lovelock, James. The Ages of Gaia: A Biography of Our Living Earth. New York: Bantam, 1990 (first published 1988). Mason, Jim, and Peter Singer. The Ethics of What We Eat. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2006. McLaughlin, Katy. “Is Your Grocery List Politically Correct? Food World’s New Buzzword Is ‘Sustainable’ Products.” The Wall Street Journal 17 Feb. 2004. 29 Aug. 2009 < http://www.globalexchange.org/campaigns/fairtrade/coffee/1732.html >. McMichael, Anthony J, John W Powles, Colin D Butler, and Ricardo Uauy. “Food, Livestock Production, Energy, Climate Change, and Health.” The Lancet 370 (6 Oct. 2007): 1253–63. Miers, Suzanne. “Contemporary Slavery”. A Historical Guide to World Slavery. Ed. Seymour Drescher, and Stanley L. Engerman. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Mintz, Sidney W. Tasting Food, Tasting Freedom: Excursions into Eating, Culture, and the Past. Boston: Beacon Press, 1994. Nussel, Jill. “Heating Up the Sources: Using Community Cookbooks in Historical Inquiry.” History Compass 4/5 (2006): 956–61. Off, Carol. Bitter Chocolate: Investigating the Dark Side of the World's Most Seductive Sweet. St Lucia: U of Queensland P, 2008. Paxson, Heather. “Slow Food in a Fat Society: Satisfying Ethical Appetites.” Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture 5.1 (2005): 14–18. Pietrykowski, Bruce. “You Are What You Eat: The Social Economy of the Slow Food Movement.” Review of Social Economy 62:3 (2004): 307–21. Pollan, Michael. The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals. New York: The Penguin Press, 2006. Regan, Tom. The Case for Animal Rights. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983. Scholz, Christopher A., Thomas C. Johnson, Andrew S. Cohen, John W. King, John A. Peck, Jonathan T. Overpeck, Michael R. Talbot, Erik T. Brown, Leonard Kalindekafe, Philip Y. O. Amoako, Robert P. Lyons, Timothy M. Shanahan, Isla S. Castañeda, Clifford W. Heil, Steven L. Forman, Lanny R. McHargue, Kristina R. Beuning, Jeanette Gomez, and James Pierson. “East African Megadroughts between 135 and 75 Thousand Years Ago and Bearing on Early-modern Human Origins.” PNAS: Proceedings of the National Academy of the Sciences of the United States of America 104.42 (16 Oct. 2007): 16416–21. Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Doubleday, Jabber & Company, 1906. Singer, Peter. Animal Liberation. New York: HarperCollins, 1975. (SFFB) Slow Food Foundation for Biodiversity. “Ark of Taste.” 2009. 24 Aug. 2009 < http://www.fondazioneslowfood.it/eng/arca/lista.lasso >. (UNISG) University of Gastronomic Sciences. “Who We Are.” 2009. 24 Aug. 2009 < http://www.unisg.it/eng/chisiamo.php >. Vileisis, Ann. Kitchen Literacy: How We Lost Knowledge of Where Food Comes From and Why We Need to Get It Back. Washington: Island Press/Shearwater Books, 2008. Weissbrodt, David, and Anti-Slavery International. Abolishing Slavery and its Contemporary Forms. New York and Geneva: Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, United Nations, 2002. Zeder, Melinda A. “The Neolithic Macro-(R)evolution: Macroevolutionary Theory and the Study of Culture Change.” Journal of Archaeological Research 17 (2009): 1–63.

Saturday, 24 July 1971, Tower Mill Hotel The man jiggles the brick, gauges its weight. His stout hand, a flash of his watch dial, the sleeve rolled back, muscles on the upper arm bundled tight. His face half-erased by the dark. There’s something going on beneath the surface that Murray can’t grasp. He thinks of the three witches in Polanski’s Macbeth, huddled together on the beach, digging a circle in the sand with bare hands, unwrapping their filthy bundle. A ritual. The brick’s in the air and it’s funny but Murray expected it to spin but it doesn’t, it holds its position, arcs forward, as though someone’s taken the sky and pulled it sideways to give the impression of movement, like those chase scenes in the Punch and Judy shows you don’t see anymore. The brick hits the cement and fractures. Red dust on cops’ shined shoes. Murray feels the same sense of shock he’d felt, sitting in the sagging canvas seat at one of his film nights, recognising the witches’ bundle, a severed human arm, hacked off just before the elbow; both times looking so intently, he had no distance or defence when the realisation came. ‘What is it?’ says Lan. Murray points to the man who threw the brick but she is looking the other way, at a cop in a white riot helmet, head like a globe, swollen up as though bitten. Lan stands on Murray’s feet to see. The pig yells through a megaphone: ‘You’re occupying too much of the road. It’s illegal. Step back. Step back.’ Lan’s back is pressed against Murray’s stomach; her bum fits snugly to his groin. He resists the urge to plant his cold hands on her warm stomach, to watch her squirm. She turns her head so her mouth is next to his ear, says, ‘Don’t move.’ She sounds winded, her voice without force. He’s pinned to the ground by her feet. Again, ‘Step back. Step back.’ Next to him, Roger begins a chant. ‘Springboks,’ he yells, the rest of the crowd picking up the chant, ‘out now!’ ‘Springboks!’ ‘Out now!’ Murray looks up, sees a hand pressed against the glass in one of the hotel’s windows, quickly withdrawn. The hand belongs to a white man, for sure. It must be one of the footballers, although the gesture is out of keeping with his image of them. Too timid. He feels tired all of a sudden. But Jacobus Johannes Fouché’s voice is in his head, these men—the Springboks—represent the South African way of life, and the thought of the bastard Bjelke inviting them here. He, Roger and Lan were there the day before when the footballers pulled up outside the Tower Mill Hotel in a black and white bus. ‘Can you believe the cheek of those bastards?’ said Roger when they saw them bounding off the bus, legs the span of Murray’s two hands. A group of five Nazis had been lined up in front of the glass doors reflecting the city, all in uniform: five sets of white shirts and thin black ties, five sets of khaki pants and storm-trooper boots, each with a red sash printed with a black and white swastika tied around their left arms, just above the elbow. The Springboks strode inside, ignoring the Nazi’s salute. The protestors were shouting. An apple splattered wetly on the sidewalk. Friday, 7 April 1972, St Lucia Lan left in broad daylight. Murray didn’t know why this upset him, except that he had a vague sense that she should’ve gone in the night time, under the cover of dark. The guilty should sneak away, with bowed heads and faces averted, not boldly, as though going for an afternoon walk. Lan had pulled down half his jumpers getting the suitcase from the top of the cupboard. She left his clothes scattered across the bedroom, victims of an explosion, an excess of emotion. In the two days after Lan left, Murray scours the house looking for some clue to where she was, maybe a note to him, blown off the table in the wind, or put down and forgotten in the rush. Perhaps there was a letter from her parents, bankrupt, demanding she return to Vietnam. Or a relative had died. A cousin in the Viet Cong napalmed. He finds a packet of her tampons in the bathroom cupboard, tries to flush them down the toilet, but they keep floating back up. They bloat; the knotted strings make them look like some strange water-dwelling creature, paddling in the bowl. He pees in the shower for a while, but in the end he scoops the tampons back out again with the holder for the toilet brush. The house doesn’t yield anything, so he takes to the garden, circles the place, investigates its underbelly. The previous tenant had laid squares of green carpet underneath, off-cuts that met in jagged lines, patches of dirt visible. Murray had set up two sofas, mouldy with age, on the carpeted part, would invite his friends to sit with him there, booze, discuss the state of the world and the problem with America. Roger rings in the afternoon, says, ‘What gives? We were supposed to have lunch.’ Murray says, ‘Lan’s left me.’ He knows he will cry soon. ‘Oh Christ. I’m so sorry,’ says Roger. Murray inhales, snuffs up snot. Roger coughs into the receiver. ‘It was just out of the blue,’ says Murray. ‘Where’s she gone?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘She didn’t say anything?’ ‘No,’ says Murray. ‘She could be anywhere. Maybe you should call the police, put in a missing report,’ says Roger. ‘I’m not too friendly with the cops,’ says Murray, and coughs. ‘You sound a bit crook. I’ll come over,’ says Roger. ‘That’d be good,’ says Murray. Roger turns up at the house an hour later, wearing wide pants and a tight collared shirt with thick white and red stripes. He’s growing a moustache, only cuts his hair when he visits his parents. Murray says, ‘I’ll make us a cuppa.’ Roger nods, sits down at the vinyl table with his hands resting on his knees. He says, ‘Are you coming to 291 on Sunday?’ 291 St Paul’s Terrace is the Brisbane Communist Party’s headquarters. Murray says, ‘What’s on?’ ‘Billy needs someone to look after the bookshop.’ Murray gives Roger a mug of tea, sits down with his own mug between his elbows, and cradles his head in his hands so his hair falls over his wrists. After a minute, Roger says, ‘Does her family know?’ Murray makes a strange noise through his hands. ‘I don’t even know how to contact them,’ he says. ‘She wrote them letters—couldn’t afford to phone—but she’s taken everything with her. The address book. Everything.’ Murray knows nothing of the specifics of Lan’s life before she met him. She was the first Asian he’d ever spoken to. She wore wrap-around skirts that changed colour in the sun; grew her hair below the waist; sat in the front row in class and never spoke. He liked the shape of her calf as it emerged from her skirt. He saw her on the great lawn filming her reflection in a window with a Sony Portapak and knew that he wanted her more than anything. Murray seduced her by saying almost nothing and touching her as often as he could. He was worried about offending her. What reading he had done made him aware of his own ignorance, and his friend in Psych told him that when you touch a girl enough — especially around the aureole — a hormone is released that bonds them to you, makes them sad when you leave them or they leave you. In conversation, Murray would put his hand on Lan’s elbow, once on the top of her head. Lan was ready to be seduced. Murray invited her to a winter party in his backyard. They kissed next to the fire and he didn’t notice until the next morning that the rubber on the bottom of his shoe melted in the flames. She moved into his house quickly, her clothes bundled in three plastic bags. He wanted her to stay in bed with him all day, imagined he was John Lennon and she Yoko Ono. Their mattress became a soup of discarded clothes, bread crumbs, wine stains, come stains, ash and flakes of pot. He resented her when she told him that she was bored, and left him, sheets pulled aside to reveal his erection, to go to class. Lan tutored high-schoolers for a while, but they complained to their mothers that they couldn’t understand her accent. She told him her parents wanted her to come home. The next night he tidied the house, and cooked her dinner. Over the green peas and potato—Lan grated ginger over hers, mixed it with chili and soy sauce, which she travelled all the way to Chinatown on a bus to buy—Murray proposed. They were married in the botanic gardens, surrounded by Murray’s friends. The night before his father called him up and said, ‘It’s not too late to get out of it. You won’t be betraying the cause.’ Murray said, ‘You have no idea what this means to me,’ and hung up on him. Sunday, 9 April 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray perches on the backless stool behind the counter in The People’s Bookshop. He has the sense he is on the brink of something. His body is ready for movement. When a man walks into the shop, Murray panics because Billy hadn’t shown him how to use the cash register. He says, ‘Can I help?’ anyway. ‘No,’ says the man. The man walks the length of the shelves too fast to read the titles. He stops at a display of Australiana on a tiered shelf, slides his hand down the covers on display. He pauses at Crocodile Hunt. The cover shows a drawing of a bulky crocodile, scaled body bent in an S, its jaws under the man’s thumb. He picks it up, examines it. Murray thinks it odd that he doesn’t flip it over to read the blurb. He walks around the whole room once, scanning the shelves, reaches Murray at the counter and puts the book down between them. Murray picks it up, turns it over, looking for a price. It’s stuck on the back in faded ink. He opens his mouth to tell the man how much, and finds him staring intently at the ceiling. Murray looks up too. A hairline crack runs along the surface and there are bulges in the plaster where the wooden framework’s swollen. It’s lower than Murray remembers. He thinks that if he stood on his toes he could reach it with the tips of his fingers. Murray looks down again to find the man staring at him. Caught out, Murray mutters the price, says, ‘You don’t have it in exact change, do you?’ The man nods, fumbles around in his pocket for a bit and brings out a note, which he lays at an angle along the bench top. He counts the coins in the palm of his hand. He makes a fist around the coins, brings his hand over the note and lets go. The coins fall, clinking, over the bench. One spins wildly, rolls past Murray’s arm and across the bench. Murray lets it fall. He recognises the man now; it is the act of release that triggers the memory, the fingers spread wide, the wrist bent, the black watch band. This is the man who threw the brick in the Springbok protest. Dead set. He looks up again, expecting to see the same sense of recognition in the man, but he is walking out of the shop. Murray follows him outside, leaving the door open and the money still on the counter. The man is walking right along St Paul’s Terrace. He tucks the book under his arm to cross Barry Parade, as though he might need both hands free to wave off the oncoming traffic. Murray stands on the other side of the road, unsure of what to do. When Murray came outside, he’d planned to hail the man, tell him he recognised him from the strike and was a fellow comrade. They give discounts to Communist Party members. Outside the shop, it strikes him that perhaps the man is not one of them at all. Just because he was at the march doesn’t make him a communist. Despite the unpopularity of the cause —‘It’s just fucking football,’ one of Murray’s friends had said. ‘What’s it got to do with anything?’— there had been many types there, a mixture of labour party members; unionists; people in the Radical Club and the Eureka Youth League; those not particularly attached to anyone. He remembers again the brick shattered on the ground. It hadn’t hit anyone, but was an incitement to violence. This man is dangerous. Murray is filled again with nervous energy, which leaves him both dull-witted and super-charged, as though he is a wind-up toy twisted tight and then released, unable to do anything but move in the direction he’s facing. He crosses the road about five metres behind the man, sticks to the outer edge of the pavement, head down. If he moves his eyes upwards, while still keeping his neck lowered, he can see the shoes of the man, his white socks flashing with each step. The man turns the corner into Brunswick Street. He stops at a car parked in front of the old Masonic Temple. Murray walks past fast, unsure of what to do next. The Temple’s entry is set back in the building, four steps leading up to a red door. Murray ducks inside the alcove, looks up to see the man sitting in the driver’s seat pulling out the pages of Crocodile Hunt and feeding them through the half wound-down window where they land, fanned out, on the road. When he’s finished dismembering the book, the man spreads the page-less cover across the back of the car. The crocodile, snout on the side, one eye turned outwards, stares out into the street. The man flicks the ignition and drives, the pages flying out and onto the road in his wake. Murray sits down on the steps of the guild and smokes. He isn’t exactly sure what just happened. The man must have bought the book just because he liked the picture on the front of the cover. But it’s odd though that he had bothered to spend so much just for one picture. Murray remembers how he had paced the shop and studiously examined the ceiling. He’d given the impression of someone picking out furniture for the room, working out the dimensions so some chair or table would fit. A cough. Murray looks up. The man’s standing above him, his forearm resting on the wall, elbow bent. His other arm hangs at his side, hand bunched up around a bundle of keys. ‘I wouldn’t of bothered following me, if I was you,’ the man says. ‘The police are on my side. Special branch are on my side.’ He pushes himself off the wall, stands up straight, and says, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Tuesday April 19, 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray brings his curled fist down on the door. It opens with the force of his knock and he feels like an idiot for even bothering. The hallway’s dark. Murray runs into a filing cabinet, swears, and stands in the centre of the corridor, with his hand still on the cabinet, calling, ‘Roger! Roger!’ Murray told Roger he’d come here when he called him. Murray was walking back from uni, and on the other side of the road to his house, ready to cross, he saw there was someone standing underneath the house, looking out into the street. Murray didn’t stop. He didn’t need to. He knew it was the man from the bookshop, the Nazi. Murray kept walking until he reached the end of the street, turned the corner and then ran. Back on campus, he shut himself in a phone box and dialed Roger’s number. ‘I can’t get to my house,’ Murray said when Roger picked up. ‘Lock yourself out, did you?’ said Roger. ‘You know that Nazi? He’s back again.’ ‘I don’t get it,’ said Roger. ‘It doesn’t matter. I need to stay with you,’ said Murray. ‘You can’t. I’m going to a party meeting.’ ‘I’ll meet you there.’ ‘Ok. If you want.’ Roger hung up. Now, Roger stands framed in the doorway of the meeting room. ‘Hey Murray, shut up. I can hear you. Get in here.’ Roger switches on the hallway light and Murray walks into the meeting room. There are about seven people, sitting on hard metal chairs around a long table. Murray sits next to Roger, nods to Patsy, who has nice breasts but is married. Vince says, ‘Hi, Murray, we’re talking about the moratorium on Friday.’ ‘You should bring your pretty little Vietnamese girl,’ says Billy. ‘She’s not around anymore,’ says Roger. ‘That’s a shame,’ says Patsy. ‘Yeah,’ says Murray. ‘Helen Dashwood told me her school has banned them from wearing moratorium badges,’ says Billy. ‘Far out,’ says Patsy. ‘We should get her to speak at the rally,’ says Stella, taking notes, and then, looking up, says, ‘Can anyone smell burning?’ Murray sniffs, says ‘I’ll go look.’ They all follow him down the hall. Patsy says, behind him, ‘Is it coming from the kitchen?’ Roger says, ‘No,’ and then the windows around them shatter. Next to Murray, a filing cabinet buckles and twists like wet cardboard in the rain. A door is blown off its hinges. Murray feels a moment of great confusion, a sense that things are sliding away from him spectacularly. He’s felt this once before. He wanted Lan to sit down with him, but she said she didn’t want to be touched. He’d pulled her to him, playfully, a joke, but he was too hard and she went limp in his hands. Like she’d been expecting it. Her head hit the table in front of him with a sharp, quick crack. He didn’t understand what happened; he had never experienced violence this close. He imagined her brain as a line drawing with the different sections coloured in, like his Psych friend had once showed him, except squashed in at the bottom. She had recovered, of course, opened her eyes a second later to him gasping. He remembered saying, ‘I just want to hold you. Why do you always do this to me?’ and even to him it hadn’t made sense because he was the one doing it to her. Afterwards, Murray had felt hungry, but couldn’t think of anything that he’d wanted to eat. He sliced an apple in half, traced the star of seeds with his finger, then decided he didn’t want it. He left it, already turning brown, on the kitchen bench. Author’s Note No one was killed in the April 19 explosion, nor did the roof fall in. The bookstore, kitchen and press on the first floor of 291 took the force of the blast (Evans and Ferrier). The same night, a man called The Courier Mail (1) saying he was a member of a right wing group and had just bombed the Brisbane Communist Party Headquarters. He threatened to bomb more on Friday if members attended the anti-Vietnam war moratorium that day. He ended his conversation with ‘Heil Hitler.’ Gary Mangan, a known Nazi party member, later confessed to the bombing. He was taken to court, but the Judge ruled that the body of evidence was inadmissible, citing a legal technicality. Mangan was not charged.Ian Curr, in his article, Radical Books in Brisbane, publishes an image of the Communist party quarters in Brisbane. The image, entitled ‘After the Bomb, April 19 1972,’ shows detectives interviewing those who were in the building at the time. One man, with his back to the camera, is unidentified. I imagined this unknown man, in thongs with the long hair, to be Murray. It is in these gaps in historical knowledge that the writer of fiction is free to imagine. References “Bomb in the Valley, Then City Shots.” The Courier Mail 20 Apr. 1972: 1. Curr, Ian. Radical Books in Brisbane. 2008. 24 Jun. 2011 < http://workersbushtelegraph.com.au/2008/07/18/radical-books-in-brisbane/ >. Evans, Raymond, and Carole Ferrier. Radical Brisbane: An Unruly History. Brisbane: Vulgar Press, 2004.

In a recent book, the neuroscientist Antonio Damasio used the phrase “No body, never mind” to sum up the ways in which Spinoza prefigured much recent neurobiology in his conception of a psychophysical parallelism. As Damasio (213) explains, Spinoza “is stating that the idea of an object in a given mind cannot occur without the existence of the body; or without the occurrence of certain modifications on that body as caused by the object, No body, never mind”. Given that education is generally understood as a cognitive process with a focus on the mind at the expense of the body, Spinoza’s insights are particularly interesting. We tend to forget the bodily dimension of learning; how, as children beginning to write, we had to labour over forming letters, using the appropriate pen grip and sitting correctly. While the physicality of literate practice may have long since been obscured by the habituation of these skills, at times we are still reminded of the visceral nature of learning, such as, when we have to apply ourselves to a task but lack the motivation to do so. I know that I develop an unsettled feeling, a certain restlessness, that seems to pervade my body leading me to engage in a range of diversionary tactics such as ringing a friend, making a coffee or rechecking my email. I don’t seem to be able to muster the physical effort to apply myself; I simply lack the necessary interest to start work. To the psychologist, Silvan Tomkins, interest is crucial. Coupled with excitement, it is one of the nine affects he identifies as innate to humans. He explains, “without interest the development of thinking and the conceptual apparatus would be seriously impaired” (Tomkins 343). As an affect, interest has a physiological basis and it is with this that I want to engage. Drawing briefly on an empirical study related to these issues in primary school classrooms, I want to examine how interest is generated by the particular practices that teachers employ. While my focus is the early years of school, this study has relevance to all levels of education. With innovation in this area conceived in terms of on-line delivery (Brabazon) and student-directed learning, contemporary pedagogy is witnessing a marginalisation of the teacher (McWilliam). What I want to do here is to reassert the importance of their role by demonstrating how teachers can engender interest and to consider the ways this affects student learning. In his discussion of interest, Tomkins begins by making reference to Darwin’s work on emotions, a term Tomkins avoids in favour of affect (1). He points out that while Darwin managed to catalogue surprise and meditation, he neglected to include interest within his typology. Tomkins feels this omission was a result of Darwin misinterpreting the affect, viewing the interest and excitement he invested in his work as simply a function of thinking. Darwin’s mistake was to fuse the corporeal with the cognitive or, rather, to collapse the former into the latter, ignoring how thought arises, as Spinoza points out, from some impact or modification of the body. This should not be understood in terms of simple causality or an account of the interaction between body and mind. As Spinoza (2) explains, “the body cannot determine the mind to thinking and the mind cannot determine the body to motion, to rest, or to anything else”. As far as Spinoza was concerned, the mind and the body are one and the same thing (7S). They exist in an isomorphic relation which allows for an analytic distinction to be made between the two. Spinoza’s ontology meshes nicely with Tomkins’ notion of affect. As Gibbs (340) writes in her account of Tomkins, he “makes clear that there can be no ‘pure cognition’ no cognition uncontaminated by the richness of the sensate experience, including affective experience”. Thought, therefore, can be understood as a product of affect; a function of our bodily reactions to everyday experience. While there is considerable complementarity between Spinoza and Tomkins in terms of affect and conceptions of the mind/body relation, what I find particularly useful about Spinoza is that in his discussion of affect he makes a distinction between what he calls affectus and affectio. The former refers to the force or the impact of an affecting body; the latter denotes the actual state of the affected body: affect as process and product (Deleuze 49). This seems a useful distinction in theorising pedagogy as it provides a mechanism for understanding how what teachers do in classrooms impacts upon students’ bodies and minds. The notion of affectio also seems to imply that affects are not fleeting – having only transitory effect – although they may be. Rather, it suggests affects can accumulate to become dispositions providing, at one and the same time, the content of mind and the impetus for action. Although never providing any detailed elaboration of these ideas, the early 20th century Russian psychologist, Lev Vygotsky, displayed a similar interest in affect. A leading figure in the field of child language development, Vygotsky (Collected Works 50) was interested in the relationship between intellect and affect. He remarked that, “Among the most basic defects of traditional approaches to the study of psychology has been the isolation of the intellectual from the volitional and affective aspects of consciousness”. Vygotsky was critical of psychology’s neglect of the body and found Spinoza’s psychophysical parallelism and his notion of affect useful in explaining how consciousness functions as an embodied phenomenon (Vygotsky, Emotions). Within education, however, Vygotsky is best known for his theory of the Zone of Proximal Development (ZPD) which refers to the gap between children’s actual development determined by independent problem solving and their potential development achieved when assisted (Vygotsky, Thought 187). The form of assistance Vygotsky intended was not simply that which results from peer collaboration. Although he felt the support of more knowledgeable peers could be beneficial, he placed strong emphasis on the role of the teacher and the power of instruction (Vygotsky, Thought 157). This relationship between affect and the ZPD is particularly interesting yet, due to his untimely death, this was something Vygotsky was never able to pursue. It seems possible, however, that the enhanced performance a child achieves when assisted could be related to the interest that a teacher induces given, as Tomkins explains, that interest has “a physiological function as an aid to sustained effort” (Tomkins 33). It was these ideas that came to mind as I was interviewing one of fifteen teachers as part of a study into teaching desire. As less and less emphasis seems to be placed on whole-class instruction, with a preference for independent and group-based learning, I was keen to investigate which pedagogic modes teachers considered the most effective and which gave them the greatest sense of satisfaction. I began by asking teachers about their practice and having them identify their pedagogy as being either more teacher or student-directed. As with most of the teachers in the study, Nerida, a Year 2 teacher, saw her approach to teaching as more student-directed or progressivist in design. She displayed a reluctance to foreground her role in the classroom and her involvement in her students’ learning. As the interview progressed, however, and she began to discuss specific examples of her practice, it became clear that her desire to teach was more obviously realised through whole-class instruction; the actual performance of teaching and engaging with students. She took great delight in describing a lesson on syllable poems that had taken place on the day of the interview. She explained, today it was just one of those lessons where it was like, ‘Wow’, I wish everyday was like that. And, we made one up together and they were coming up with all these fantastic descriptive words and this whole year I’ve been drumming it into them. She then provided more detail about her role in the lesson: Well, we made it quite fun. Like I was hopping in and out of them and walking in amongst them and I‘m going, ‘Okay, what’s another descriptive word about this?’, and then they would all cheer and I’d write it on the board. And do you know what I mean? I suppose it is your personality that comes through. In explaining the effect of the lesson on both herself and the class, she pointed out that you have the same feeling I think as the kids because they are excited about a particular activity, or a particular experience and you think ‘Oh’! You are excited for them because what you wanted them to learn is what they’re actually learning … Yeah. And so they did it and it was just like you could see the kids’ faces. I mean I know it’s like the cliché thing but you could just tell that they were so into it. In her account of this lesson Nerida effectively captures the way in which her pedagogy impacts upon her students. In teaching the class she was not only assisting them to arrive at a bank of words they could use in their own poems, with this input acting as an aid to cognition, the highly performative nature of her delivery imbued her students with the interest to engage in the task, with the arousal of this affect providing additional stimulus for academic endeavour. To Nerida, this interest was displayed on her students’ faces, the site on which Tomkins explains, affect is most clearly evident. While Nerida is probably referring to the students’ wide-eyed smiles, an expression of their joy at her performance, Tomkins points out how a faraway look may also be diagnostic of interest signalling an individual is tracking a memory or idea and is engaged in exploring her/his own thoughts (Tomkins 339). This point is significant in relation to criticisms of teacher-directed learning as passive pedagogy. It suggests that even without the kind of enthusiastic delivery that Nerida provides, instruction can be interesting with passivity indicating cognitive activity rather than a lack of engagement in learning. The interest that Nerida encourages in her students also seems a function of contagion. Tomkins (297) and more recently Brennan explore this aspect of affect and it seems of particular relevance within a classroom context. The intercorporeal dynamic of teacher and students is heightened with a mass of bodies participating in a common activity. Interest is intensified by the corporate nature of learning which, given Nerida’s comments, seemed to provide the necessary stimulus for students to then complete their work on an individual basis. It is important to note, however, that it is not only this single performance by Nerida that enables her students to successfully complete their work. Their interest needs to be sustained and this is dependent on students already possessing the ability to complete the task. Interest and ability operate in tandem and it is the accumulation of interest that supplies the necessary effort to acquire ability. In addition to igniting her students’ interest, Nerida supplied the foundation whereby this affect would prove effective. As she explains, “this whole year I’ve been drumming it into them”. Students could write expressive poems as they had embodied the knowledge to do so and the pedagogy their teacher employed ensured they had the interest required to apply what they had learned. The affects that Nerida generated have a corporeal basis and it is this affective transaction between teacher and student that provided the impetus for learning. In theorising pedagogy it is useful to consider the bodily nature of learning and to engage with what Damasio points out, namely, “No body, never mind”. References Brabazon, Tara. Digital Hemlock. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2002. Brennan, Teresa. The Transmission of Affect. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 2004. Damasio, Antonio. Looking for Spinoza: Joy, Sorrow and the Feeling Brain. London: William Heinemann, 2003. Deleuze, Gilles. Spinoza: Practical Philosophy. Trans. Robert Hurley. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1988. Gibbs, Anna. “Disaffected.” Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies 16.3 (2002): 335-41. McWilliam, Erica. “Admitting Impediments: Or Things to Do with Bodies in the Classroom.” Cambridge Journal of Education 26.2 (1996): 367-78. Probyn, Elspeth. Blush, Faces of Shame. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2005. Spinoza, Baruch. “The Ethics.” In E. Curley (Ed. & Trans.), A Spinoza Reader: The Ethics and Other Works: Benedict de Spinoza. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1994. Tomkins, Silvan. Affect, Imagery and Consciousness. New York: Springer, 1962. Vygotsky, Lev. “Spinoza’s Theory of the Emotions in Light of Contemporary Psychoneurology.” Society Studies in Philosophy 10 (1972): 362-82. Vygotsky, Lev. “The Problem and the Method of Investigation.” In R.W. Rieber & A.S. Carton, eds., The Collected Works of L.S. Vygotsky 1 (1987): 43-51. Vygotsky, Lev. Thought and Language. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT P, 1996. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Watkins, Megan. "No Body, Never Mind: Interest, Affect and Classroom Practice." M/C Journal 8.6 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/06-watkins.php>. APA Style Watkins, M. (Dec. 2005) "No Body, Never Mind: Interest, Affect and Classroom Practice," M/C Journal, 8(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/06-watkins.php>.

AbstractThis introduction summarizes chapters of Part II. In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_9, Yamamoto (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:88–96, 2018) has compared between the street method, the asset valuation adopted for the imposition of property tax in Japan, and the computer-assisted mass appraisal (CAMA) method generally adopted in North America focusing on education and training of valuators. In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_10, Yamazaki (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:97–101, 2018) argues that one of the major causes for relatively low density use of land in the city in Japan is the land tax system. He focuses on property tax and examines defects of the tax from view of economist. In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_11, Kobayashi (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:129–138, 2018), taking an actual example, has examined difference between precise legal interpretation of ‘exemption from real estate acquisition tax due to purpose of use’ and taxation practices conducted by local administrative bodies. In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_12, Shirakawa and Okoshi (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:88–96, 2017) have shown that the real estate companies were committed to transactions as dual agencies to whatsoever degree, and analyzed attributes of real estate brokerage companies which are able to be dual agencies and how such dual agency affects contract price.In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_13, Ueno (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:97–105, 2017) has analyzed impacts of the macroeconomic conditions on the land price gradient curves which are estimated using real estate data of the Tokyo Metropolitan Area in 1970, 1976, 1985, 1988, 1994, 2008, 2010, and 2016. In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_14, Komatsu (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:110–118, 2017) has analyzed impacts that refurbishment of existing apartment has on possible increase in rent using the multinomial probit model and the Tobit model. In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_15, Hanazato (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:119–128, 2017) has shown that around 90% of condominium reconstruction cases are predictable using the estimated discriminant function in terms of objective real estate data only. In Chap. 10.1007/978-981-15-8848-8_16, Ota et al. (Jpn J Real Estate Sci 31:109–119, 2018) have analyzed determinants of rent for rental house, office, and shop within 10-min walking distance from Shibuya Station in Tokyo. Multiple regression analyses are conducted and have shown that space syntax (SS) measures (Hillier and Hanson, The Social Logic of Space. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1984) significantly affect rent as well as conventional location attributes.

Abstract The following is a select list of secondary materials recommended for those interested in reading more about the sonnets included in this book. Bhattacharyya, Arunodoy. The Sonnet and the Major English Romantic Poets. Calcutta: Firma KLM Private Limited, 1976. Cooper, Howard. “William Lisle Bowles: A .Viltshire Parson and his Place in Literary History.” The Hatcher Review 3 (1989): 316-22. Curran, Stuart. Poetic Form and British Romanticism. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986. Feldman, Paula R. British Women Poets of the Romantic Era: An Anthology. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997.

Abstract Author: Euripides (ca. 485–406 b.c.e.), one of the most famous of the Athenian playwrights, wrote a number of plays that feature Greek women: Medea, Androm ache, Hecuba, Helen, Electra, Iphigenia at Aulis, and Iphigenia in Tauris. He devoted one of the last of his plays, The Bacchae (which posthumously brought him victory at the festival known as the Dionysia in 406 b.c.e.), to the origins and character of women’s worship of the Thracian god Dionysos. Modern scholars have continued to wrestle with the correspondence between Euripides’ representation of Bacchic worship, set in ancient Thebes, and practices current in the late fifth to early fourth centuries b.c.e. (including Athens and elsewhere). Much of Euripides’ description is not significantly at odds with other ancient sources. translation: W. Arrowsmith, The Bacchae, in David Grene and Richmond Lattimore, eds., Greek Tragedies, vol. 3 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960). text: OCT (G. Murray, 1901–13); E. R. Dodds, Euripides’ “Bacchae,” 2d ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970). additional text and translation: LCL (Arthur S. Way, 1912, vol. 3; David Kovacs, 2002). additional translations: There are many English translations of The Bacchae. Recent ones include David Franklin, Euripides’ “Bacchae”: A New Translation and Commentary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); Reginald Gibbons and Charles Segal, Euripides’ “Bakhai” (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001); and C. K. Williams, “The Bacchae” of Euripides: A New Version (New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1990). Also of interest is G. S. Kirk, The Bacchae (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1970). bibliography: Blessings, 36–49; Susan Guettel Cole, “New Evidence for the Mysteries of Dionysos,” GRBS 21 (1980): 223–38; Synnove Des Bouvrie, “Euripides’ Bakkhai and Maenadism,” Classica et Mediaevalia 48 (1997): 75–114; A. Henrichs, “Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina,” HSCP 82 (1978): 121–60; Eva Keuls, The Reign of the Phallus (New York: Harper and Row, 1985); Valdis Leinieks, The City of Dionysos: A Study of Euripides’ “Bakchai” (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1996); Deborah Lyons, Gender and Immortality: Heroines in Ancient Greek Myth and Cult (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz, Anxiety Veiled: Euripides and the Traffic in Women (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993).

Abstract Uganda is a country of 28 million people in east Africa, bordered by the Democratic Republic of the Congo to its west, Sudan to its north, Kenya to its east and Tanzania and Rwanda to its south. Uganda achieved independence from the United Kingdom in 1962, but most of its independence has been spent in political turmoil. Idi Amin’s rule from 1971 to 1979 resulted in the killing of over 300,000 of his opponents. His successor, Milton Obotoe, oversaw the murder of an additional 100,000 people. Finally, in 1986, a guerilla army lead by the current President, Yoweri Museveni, took power and established a one party, or as some call it non-party, state, but with a free press. The current constitution was enacted in 1995, followed by the first democratic elections. Most recently, Museveni amended the Ugandan constitution and, in February 2006, won a 3rd term as president.

By the time he served in World War I, Dos Passos was well-versed in classical and contemporary visual art and a practiced painter. The war revealed to him how organizations and forces—such as governments, corporations, the press, and the military—could subvert individual self-determination, so he brought his visual aesthetics to bear on his early writing to seek artistic methods that could combine non-verbal aesthetics with political ideas, could transcend current literary forms, and could move readers to engaged interaction and activism. Like his early anti-war novels One Man’s Initiation: 1917 (1920) and Three Soldiers (1921), his experimental plays and set designing with the New Playwrights Theatre group, which he co-founded in New York in the mid-1920s, responded to the expanded aesthetic potentials of modernism. His early dramas, such as The Garbage Man (1927), reflect his increasing awareness that the theater had to create an innovative, immersive experience to compete as a cultural and political force with film, which was rapidly assuming unparalleled power as public entertainment both in the U.S. and Russia.

Abstract In early 1989, the China Daily printed an apprehensive account of the ongoing reform experiments in urban housing. Under the headline ‘Reform in housing at crossroads’, the author noted that ‘progress over the whole country last year [1988] failed to meet government expectations. Many large cities, including some provincial capitals, have been less than enthusiastic about implementing reform’ (31 January 1989). This worrying observation, increasingly found in the official Chinese press, is revealing because it was made just one year after the State Council announced in early 1988 its decision to enforce housing reforms in all urban areas in China within three years (Tong Zengyen 1988: 11). It signifies the existence of major difficulties in extending reform programmes beyond a few cities and hints at some fundamental flaws in the overall approach and policy design of the current reform programmes.

Abstract There were five people with a chance of becoming Radio Four ‘s new Controller in 1976. One was Ronald Mason, the Head of Programmes in BBC Northern Ireland, who was keen to leave a troubled Belfast for a London posting. Two others worked in Television: Brian Wenham, the 38-year-old head of Current Affairs, and Monica Sims, the 50-year-old head of Children ‘s Programmes, a former editor of Woman ‘s Hour and the candidate tipped as a clear front-runner in the press.

Abstract Mainline Protestantism is the current focus of significant scholarly attention; the popular press has also been attracted by what it calls the shift “from mainline to sideline”, or “those mainline blues.” Oddly, few so far have addressed the situation of women in the mainline or asked what it may have to tell us about the mainline’s widely analyzed “decline.” As a category of analysis, gender has been so overlooked in attempts to understand the mainline that little attention has been given even to the proposition, formulated as early as 1977, of the feminization of American Protestantism achieved by the alliance between an influential sector of Northeast American women and their clerical mentors. Nor has an opinion on the prominence of women among the mainline missionaries been ventured.

This chapter outlines the design of the current study. It discusses my underlying logic for scoping energy system change with theory-building in the form of (1) a framework on intervention that operationalizes insights from the previous chapter and (2) conceptual models of structural readiness. A brief review then follows of related, global developments to provide broader context for the cases. The chapter concludes with a preview of the transitions that will be discussed in depth in subsequent chapters. This book draws on my research of four national energy system transitions covering the period since 1970. I selected a timeframe that reflected a common context of international events which preceded as well as followed the oil shocks of 1973 and 1979. Such framing allowed me to trace policy and technology learning over multiple decades for different cases. I completed field work for this project primarily between 2010 and 2012, with updates continuing through to the time this book went to press. I selected cases from more than 100 countries in the International Energy Agency (IEA) databases. The ones that I chose represented countries which demonstrated an increase of 100% or more in domestic production of a specific, low carbon energy and the displacement of at least 15 percentage points in the energy mix by this same, low carbon energy relative to traditional fuels for the country and sector of relevance. I utilized adoption and displacement metrics to consider both absolute and relative changes. Final cases reflect a diversity of energy types and, to some extent, differences in the socio-economic and geographic attributes of the countries. The technologies represent some of the more economically-competitive substitutes for fossil fuels. It’s important to emphasize that the number of cases was neither exhaustive nor fully representative. Instead, the cases reflect an illustrative group of newer, low carbon energy technologies for in depth evaluation. Each of the cases shares certain, basic similarities. These include a national energy system comprised of actors, inputs, and outputs with systemic architecture connecting the constituent parts in a complex network of energy-centered flows over time—including extraction, production, sale, delivery, regulation, and consumption.

When, in 1978, the poet, critic, and editor Geoffrey Grigson (1905–85) was asked by the Times Literary Supplement which journals had influenced him when young, he answered that one magazine, Antiquity, founded and edited then by O. G. S. Crawford, still seems to me to have been the flower of all periodicals familiar to me in my day. In that treasury, so decently laid out (and so well printed . . . ), prehistory, and history, rather as it was understood by Marc Bloch in France, and later by W. G. Hoskins, and imagination, received a stimulus such as no periodical administered to literature. Antiquity was begun in 1927 by the field archaeologist O. G. S. Crawford (1886–1957) as a quarterly review aiming to disseminate the findings of a new generation of archaeologists in an accessible style and a visually attractive format. For Grigson, this journal most fitted the bill, in the late 1920s and 1930s, of what he calls the ‘periodical of Utopia’ that Tolstoy had called for in 1858. Tolstoy wanted a journal proclaiming the ‘independence and eternity of art’, where art would be saved from the politics that was engulfing nineteenth-century Russia, threatening to destroy or defile art. Such a journal was Grigson’s ideal, too. Drawing an implicit parallel between Tolstoy’s Moscow of 1858 and politicized interwar Britain, he decried the endemic admixture of politics with art in the periodical press at this time, when every ‘shrewd editor’ had an ‘axe to grind’. One of his favourites, the New Republic, while excellent, ‘came under the curse . . . which ordains that most literary journalism in our language must be for ever mixed with politics’. T. S. Eliot’s journal The Criterion was tainted by the same ‘curse’: ‘covert politics’, claimed Grigson, ‘slightly defiled its superiority’. Only in Antiquity, it seems, could Grigson discern art—‘independent and eternal’—without the defiling politics or the dullness that accompanied it in other journals and weeklies. Only in a publication that did not claim to deal with art could he find what he was looking for, as he viewed this archaeological journal through the lens of poetry. Antiquity, he wrote, made ‘all the past with firework colours burn’—a line he borrowed from Wyndham Lewis’s poem about Sir Thomas Browne’s antiquarian tract Urne Buriall.

The modern movement of cross-cultural psychology began in the mid-1960s. Shortly after those earlier activities, two conferences were building blocks in helping to develop and institutionalize the field. The first was a NATO-sponsored conference held in Istanbul in 1971. Organized by Lee J. Cronbach and Pieter J. D. Drenth, it resulted in a book that they edited, <em>Mental tests and cultural adaptation</em> (Mouton Press, 1972). The second was the inaugural IACCP conference held in Hong Kong in 1972. It was organized by John Dawson and resulted in the first IACCP proceedings volume, <em>Readings in cross-cultural psychology </em>(Dawson and Lonner, published by the University of Hong Kong Press in 1974) In addition, a number of other activities spanning the mid-1960s to the early 1970s were important in setting the stage for the rapid ascent of contemporary culture-oriented psychology. For example, the <em>Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology</em> was inaugurated in 1970. Unit 1 of IACCP’s <em>Online Readings in Psychology and Culture</em> contains further information about the first half century of IACCP (IACCP.org).

In most large citrus processing plants world-wide, the peel is made into cattle feed. The peel is shredded, mixed with lime, allowed to react, and pressed. The liquid from the pressing is evaporated and recycled into the peel or sold as molasses. The press cake is dried in single pass, direct fired rotary dryers with co-current flow of heating gasses and product. Paper published with permission.

The Muslim Youth Movement of Malaysia (ABIM) is an Islamic organisation legally established in 1972. From 1971 until now, ABIM is very concern to international issues, especially the Israeli-Palestinian issue. This article discusses the influence and impact of ABIM in fighting for the liberation of Palestine (1971-2020). ABIM has always called on those responsible for Palestinian independence and the freedom of its people from the grip of Israel. Although various peace negotiations have been held between Israel and Palestine internationally, concrete solutions have not been reached. The objective to be achieved is to analyze ABIM’s involvement in resolving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The methodology used is primary source research in the National Archives of Malaysia and the ABIM Archive. Apart from that, an interview with the President of ABIM, Mr. Muhammad Faisal Abdul Aziz was also held. The results of the study found that ABIM is consistent and active in fighting for this issue. This proves that the voice of NGOs can influence and impact decisions at the national and international levels such as the United Nations (UN). The volume of voice that is always displayed by ABIM is able to give awareness to the leaders and the people of Malaysia that this issue is not just a religious issue but this issue is a universal issue involving humanitarian values. ABIM has held press conferences, sent memorandum, held demonstrations, peaceful rallies, boycotts of American-Israeli goods and set up a Palestinian Aid Fund to raise the issue. ABIM's official paper, 'Risalah' also played a role in disseminating current Palestinian issues by publishing articles from original sources on the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) and developments in Palestine, especially in the 1970s. This is because resources at the time were very limited and Western media published biased and untrue news.

We offer a model of dual rod pathways that incorporate recent psychophysical, physiological, and anatomical work. Flicker sensitivity studies suggest that one rod pathway, π0, has greater absolute sensitivity but poorer high temporal frequency responses than the other pathway, π0 (Conner, 1982; Connor and MacLeod, 1977; Sharpe, Stockman, and MacLeod, in press). The dual pathways may arise from differential electrical coupling of rods and cones via gap junctions as a function of adaptation level (Yang and Wu, 1989), so that π0 signals travel through rod pathways and π0 signals travel through cone pathways (Smith, Freed, and Sterling, 1986) before being recombined at ganglion cells or beyond. So far, the importance of dual rod pathways for processing other than temporal information is unclear. Our model of dual rod pathways generalizes their role to incremental and spatial processing and makes testable predictions to challenge the model. Predictions include more conelike spatial sensitivity for π0, differential dependence of π0 and π0 increment sensitivity on spatial and temporal parameters, and different interactions of cone signals with π0 and π0 in detection and adaptation. Support for the model comes in part from kinks in increment t.v.i. curves observed in various labs at –2 to 0 log scot td (the same as for flicker data).

The Visual Evoked Potential (VEP) has been used by a number of investigators for non-invasive assessment of the development of visual acuity in human infants. In all these studies, visual acuity develops to near adult levels during the first year of life. Close inspection of these growth curves reveals an interesting difference in the apparent rate of acuity development during the first year. Data from studies which have used the pattern onset/offset mode of stimulus presentation (Marg et. al., 1976; de Vries-Khoe and Spekreijse, 1982) indicate that acuity develops rapidly at a rate of 0.5 octaves/month from an initial level of 1 to 2 c/deg. Our studies using the contrast reversal presentation mode (Norcia and Tyler, in press) indicate a growth rate of only 0.25 octaves/month, but from an initially higher level -- around 4 to 5 c/deg. We thus decided to test the same infants on the two different acuity tasks. A difference between the two presentation modes would have important implications for the choice of the best presentation mode for use in clinical testing, as well as for theories of acuity development.

In 1984 HM King Charles III, then HRH The Prince of Wales, gave the infamous speech to the RIBA in which he was critical of a proposed new extension to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The fervour unleashed in the press signified a unique moment when architecture, conservation, planning and development became a much – and still – talked about part of the public discourse in Britain. Conservation theory had dictated since its early guidelines of practice that new additions to historic works should be clearly distinguished from their original host or the existing environment. Historicism, imitating the existing architecture within an urban setting was taboo, a notion that went back to Ruskin and the anti-scrape lobby of Morris. Unravelling the events of the 1980s, however, reveals that the desire to copy past forms as a means of retaining the past maintained an ongoing and strong legacy. It had become a method of seeking refuge from the failures of modernism and the divergence between traditional and modern forms, language and techniques. Openly acknowledged that modernism was anti- historic and anti-urban, classicism and medieval towns and forms offered the example of outdoor rooms and a predominance of solids over voids. For the then Prince and his many followers, including vast members of the public, the use of a traditional architectural style as infill in a classically inspired building setting was “good” design practice. At this point, ironically, the retreat to historicism also comprised not only mimicking traditional details but also their playful reinterpretation through an esoteric postmodernism. But the topic of new into old had become confused: the critical issue was one of urban design and not the language of infill architecture. Three case studies within the historic core of the City of London, the basis of criticism in Charles’ speeches of 1984 and 1987, will be explored through the popular press in order to understand their lessons and relevance to the complexity of current contemporary conflicts in historic urban areas.

Urban planners, politicians and citizens need comprehensive and clear information in order to conduct or get involved into successful evidence based planning and policy making. The objective to improve the quality of planning outcomes both at the local and regional level necessitates in creation of design mechanisms which could help planners verify and support their approach with quantitative analyses and simulation tools. While this sort of problems has already been explored for a while, with an abundant literature on the topic, there still remains a lot to say, especially when it comes to evaluation of plans, such as local plans of urban development, general plans, studies for the municipalities or larger, inter-municipal associations. Along with the implementation of INSPIRE Directive in Europe, data for these analyses, so far patchy and incomplete, becomes slowly but progressively available. The use of quantitative analyses may refer to several aspects of physical form, such as connectivity, continuity of ecological systems, conciseness of built structures and urban boundary, analyses of the morphology of urban tissue, etc. Completed with the qualitative description and enriched with the socio-cultural preconditions assessment they may give a comprehensive picture both of the current and the planned state. The current paper presents an experience of mapping typologies of residential structures in the settlements neighbouring Lodz, Poland, with the objective to assess the existing densities and planned development capacities against the backdrop of demographic dynamics in these region.References Berghauser-Pont, M. and Haupt, P. (2010) Space, Density and Urban Form (Technische Universiteit Delft, Delft). Faludi, A. and Waterhout, B. (2006) ‘Introducing Evidence-Based Planning’, disP Plan. Rev. 165, pp.4–13. Laconte, P. (2016) ‘Introduction: assessing the assessments’, in Laconte, P. and Gossop, C. (eds.) Sustainable Cities. Assessing the Performance and Practice of Urban Environments. (I.B. Tauris, London, New York) 1–14. Newman, P. and Kenworthy, J. (1999) Sustainability and cities: overcoming automobile dependence (University of Chicago Press, Chicago). Rapoport, A. (1975) ‘Toward a Redefinition of Density’, Environment and Behavior 7(2), 133–158.

In spatial, social and cultural pluralism, the questions of human intentionality and socio-spatial emergence remain central to social theory (Portugali 2000, p.142). The correlation between individual preferences, values and intentions, and actual behaviour and actions, is subject to Portugali’s theory of self-organisation (2000). Compared to Gidden’s structuralism, which focuses on society and groups, the point of departure for Portugali (2000) are individuals and their personal choices. The key feature in how complex systems `self-organise', is that they `interpret', the information that comes from the environment (Portugali 2006). The current study explores the urban environment formerly inhabited, and largely constructed, by Jews in two central Polish districts: Mazovia and Lodz, before the tragedy of the Holocaust. While the Jewish presence lasted from the 11th century until the outbreak of World War II, the most intensive development took place in the 19th century, together with the civilisation changes introduced by industrialisation. Embracing the everyday habits of Jewish citizens endows the neighbourhood structures they once inhabited with long gone meanings, the information layer which once helped organise everyday life. The main thesis reveals that Jewish communities in pre-war Poland represented an example of a self-organising society, one which could be considered a prototype of contemporary postmodern cultural complexity. The mapping of this complexity at the scale of a neighbourhood is a challenge, a method for which is addressed in the current paper. The above considerations are in line with the empirical studies of the relations between Jews and Poles, especially in large cities, where more complex socio-cultural processes could have occurred. References: Eco, U. (1997) ‘Function and Sign: The Semiotics of Architecture’, in Leich, N. (ed.) Rethinking Architecture: A reader in cultural theory (Routledge Taylor &amp; Francis Group, London) 182–202. Hillier, B. and Hanson, J. (2003) The Social Logic of Space (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge). Marshall, S. (2009) Cities, Design and Evolution (Routledge, Abingdon, New York). Portugali, J. (2000) Self-Organization and the City, (Springer-Verlag, Berlin Heidelberg). Portugali, J. (2006) ‘Complexity theory as a link between space and place’, Environment and Planning A 38(4) 647–664.

Recombinant tissue-type plasminogen activator(rt-PA) contains a plasmin sensitive peptide bond domain between amino acids (AAs) 275 and 276. Since the single chain form of rt-PA is rapidly clipped to the two chain form during thrombolysis, one way to determine the relative activities of single chain and two chain rt-PA is to produce a mutant which no longer has this clip site; therefore, a single AA substitution was made at position 275, replacing Glu for Arg (Tate, et al., Biochemistry 1987, in Press). The thrombolytic activity of this mutant (Glu275) was compared to the activity of the wild type rt-PA (Arg275) in a new primate thrombolysis model.An arterio-venous shunt model (Hotchkiss et al, this meeting) was used. Various doses of the rt-PAs were infused over a 90 min period with 10% of the total dose administered as an initial bolus. The rate and extent of thrombolysis were quantitated by the measurement of radioactivity remaining in the thrombus at 15, 30, 60 and 90 min, using an external probe. Data were collected from 5 cyncmolgus monkeys (male 5 to 6 kg). The dose response curves were used to determine the ED40 (dose for 40% clot lysis). The ED40 for Arg275 and Glu275 wire 870 and 680 (ugAg)r respectively. The plasna concentrations of rt-PA were measured at plateau for various doses and the regression of the plasma concentrations (Y,ng/ml) versus the dose rates (X, ug/kg/min) was calculated. The regression equations were; Y=28+51X and Y=39+113X for Arg275 and Glu275, respectively. This indicates that the clearance rate of Glu275 is 2.2 fold slower than Arg275.These experiments were also performed in rabbits. The ED40 for Arg275 and Glu275 were 740 and 660 (ug/kg) respectively. The Glu275 was cleared more slowly, having a 1.7 fold slower clearance rate.These results support the conclusion, that the "one chain" Glu275 rt-PA is still active in vivo and that it is slightly more potent than the wild type in these animal models. Some of this increase in potency is apparently due to a slower clearance rate for the Glu275 rt-PA.

The morphological approach in the reading of the Territorial City Maria Gagliardi Escuela Técnica Superior de Arquitectura de Barcelona, UPC. Av. Diagonal, 649. 08028 Barcelona E-mail: bissolati27@hotmail.it Keywords (3-5): Territorial city, territorial grid, accumulation process, relief of innovative elements. Conference topics and scale: City transformations The crisis of the traditional city, with its morphological characteristics, has been largely debated. The new urban phenomenon has almost always been described as antithetical; by contrary this article interrogates the possibility of reading a continuity between the traditional and the contemporary city. The article brings forth the concept that the territory can be described as an urban phenomenon result of a change of scale of the city, and offers the definition of the contemporary city as Territorial City (Città-Territorio). The article recovers this term introduced in the 70’s by the Italian morphological school, to emphasize the continuity with the European traditional morphological schools, taking advantage of its learnings, to compare the traditional city, with the contemporary city. The relevance of a morphological approach in the study of the contemporary Territorial City is discussed through an excursus of the main European schools’ contributions, with a particular schematization due to geographical areas. From the synthesis of these references emerges a basis for the definition of a Taxonomy organised around tree main elements that constitute the urban grid. Moreover, the article proposes a methodology for the analysis of the Territorial City that use the Taxonomy as reading tool; this method, illustrated through his experimentation on the Metropolitan Region of Barcelona, is of particular relevance towards the interpretation of the dynamics that have characterised the morphology of the current urban phenomenon, describing its aggregation logics and decomposing the historical-procedural continuum. References Caniggia, G., &amp; Maffei, G. L. (1979). Composizione architettonica e tipologia edilizia - Lettura dell’edilizia di base. (Venezia: Marsilio). Conzen, M. R. G. (1960). Alnwick, Northumberland: A Study in Town Plan Analysis. (London: Institute of British Geographers). Hillier, B., &amp; Hanson, J. (1984). The Social logic of space. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Gagliardi, M. (2016). La Nuova Trama Territoriale: morfogenesi e logiche aggregative. Il caso di Barcellona (settore della Regione Metropolitana tra Sant Martì e Matarò). (Doctoral dissertation) Universitat Politecnica de Catalunya - La Sapienza Università di Roma. Dir. Font Arellano, A.; Bianchi, G.

At their most basic level taxes carry, in the words of Schumpeter ([1918] 1991), “the thunder of history” (p. 101). They say something about the ever-changing structures of social, economic, and political life. Taxes offer a blueprint, in both symbolic and concrete terms, for uncovering the most fundamental arrangements in society – stratification included. The historical retellings captured within these data highlight the politics of taxation in Alabama from 1856 to 1901, including conflicts over whom money is expended upon as well as struggles over who carries their fair share of the tax burden. The selected timeline overlaps with the formation of five of six constitutions adopted in the State of Alabama, including 1861, 1865, 1868, 1875, and 1901. Having these years as the focal point makes for an especially meaningful case study, given how much these constitutional formations made the state a site for much political debate. These data contain 5,121 pages of periodicals from newspapers throughout the state, including: Alabama Sentinel, Alabama State Intelligencer, Alabama State Journal, Athens Herald, Daily Alabama Journal, Daily Confederation, Elyton Herald, Mobile Daily Tribune, Mobile Tribune, Mobile Weekly Tribune, Morning Herald, Nationalist, New Era, Observer, Tuscaloosa Observer, Tuskegee News, Universalist Herald, and Wilcox News and Pacificator. The contemporary relevance of these historical debates manifests in Alabama’s current constitution which was adopted in 1901. This constitution departs from well-established conventions of treating the document as a legal framework that specifies a general role of governance but is firm enough to protect the civil rights and liberties of the population. Instead, it stands more as a legislative document, or procedural straightjacket, that preempts through statutory material what regulatory action is possible by the state. These barriers included a refusal to establish a state board of education and enact a tax structure for local education in addition to debt and tax limitations that constrained government capacity more broadly. Prohibitive features like these are among the reasons that, by 2020, the 1901 Constitution has been amended nearly 1,000 times since its adoption. However, similar procedural barriers have been duplicated across the U.S. since (e.g., California’s Proposition 13 of 1978). Reference: Schumpeter, Joseph. [1918] 1991. “The Crisis of the Tax State.” Pp. 99-140 in The Economics and Sociology of Capitalism, edited by Richard Swedberg. Princeton University Press.