Journal articles on the topic 'A-22 (Jet fighter plane)'

AbstractThis article traces the course of the Sino-U.S. negotiation in April 2001, to resolve the crisis following the collision of a U.S. surveillance aircraft with a Chinese fighter jet off of China's coast and the subsequent unauthorized emergency landing of the U.S. plane at a Chinese airfield on Hainan Island. The negotiation focused on the Chinese demand for a full apology from the United States and the U.S. resistance to this demand. The article examines the role that culture, particularly linguistic differences, played in the course of the negotiation and its eventual resolution.

Identifying the type of an approaching aircraft, should it be a helicopter, a fighter jet or a passenger plane, is an important task in both military and civilian practices. The task in question is normally done by using radar or RF signals. In this study, we suggest an alternative method that introduces the use of a still image instead of RF or radar data. The image was transformed to a binary black and white image, using a Matlab script which utilizes Image Processing Toolbox commands of Matlab, in order to extract the necessary features. The extracted image data of four different types of aircraft was fed into a three-layered feed forward artificial neural network for classification. Satisfactory results were achieved as the rate of successful classification turned out to be 97% on average.

We review non-conformal domain decomposition methods (DDMs) and their applications in solving electrically large and multi-scale electromagnetic (EM) radiation and scattering problems. In particular, a finite-element DDM, together with a finite-element tearing and interconnecting (FETI)-like algorithm, incorporating Robin transmission conditions and an edge corner penalty term , are discussed in detail. We address in full the formulations, and subsequently, their applications to problems with significant amounts of repetitions. The non-conformal DDM approach has also been extended into surface integral equation methods. We elucidate a non-conformal integral equation domain decomposition method and a generalized combined field integral equation method for modelling EM wave scattering from non-penetrable and penetrable targets, respectively. Moreover, a plane wave scattering from a composite mockup fighter jet has been simulated using the newly developed multi-solver domain decomposition method.

Attempts at reinvigorating mythical sensations of shared values and cultural identities happen particularly at times of dislocatory events in a community’s history, when ‘the national Self’ is perceived to be threatened by external forces. Such a critical moment for China was the collision between a US surveillance plane and a Chinese F-8 jet fighter on April 1, 2001, and the ensuing diplomatic standoff between the US and China. As the Chinese authorities and the state media viewed this incident in a series of ambiguous incidents involving the US, it was concluded that the collision had been the inevitable outcome of US hegemonism intended to provoke China. It is this concurrence of events, triggering feelings of disempowerment of the Self that causes recurrent flurries of heated anti-Other rhetoric. Boundaries of exclusion/inclusion along cultural, historical and political lines set up the Other as the negative mirror of the Self, which as a consequence is positively reasserted. Informed by insights from Language Pragmatics and Critical Discourse Analysis, this paper sets out to examine linguistic tools of alienation and empowerment in the Chinese official press narratives about the collision, comprising the Chinese-language Renmin Ribao, its English equivalent The People’s Daily and the English-language China Daily. It aims to trace processes of meaning generation, in particular discursive practices of an ideological nature, such as antagonistic portrayals of in- and outgroups, hegemonic exercise of power, as well as naturalized conceptualizations of contingent processes, structures and relations.

The race for speed ruled the early Jet Age on aviation. Aircraft manufacturers chased faster and faster planes in a fight for pride and capability. In the early 1970s, dreams were that the future would be supersonic, but fuel economy and unacceptable noise levels made that era never happen. After the 1973 oil crisis, the paradigm changed. The average cruise speed on newly developed aircraft started to decrease in exchange for improvements in many other performance parameters. At the same pace, the airliner’s power-plants are evolving to look more like a ducted turboprop, and less like a pure jet engine as the pursuit for the higher bypass ratios continues. However, since the birth of jet aircraft, the propeller-driven plane has lost its dominant place, associated with the idea that going back to propeller-driven airplanes, and what it represents in terms of modernity and security, has started a propeller avoidance phenomenon with travelers and thus with airlines. Today, even with the modest research effort since the 1980s, advanced propellers are getting efficiencies closer to jet-powered engines at their contemporary typical cruise speeds. This paper gives a brief overview of the performance trends in aviation since the last century. Comparison examples between aircraft designed on different paradigms are presented. The use of propellers as a reborn propulsive device is discussed.

A detailed analysis of a recent jet fighter mishap is made in terms of perceptual and attentional factors that may have contributed to or caused the mishap. The crash occurred in clear air while the fighter was maneuvering over rugged terrain of irregular and unpredictable features. There were no mechanical failures and no evidence of pilot error. The analysis concentrates on the effects of the underinformativeness of the terrain; the difficulties of perceiving distance, ground clearance, and position under these conditions; the consequences of the high gravitational forces generated by the jet just prior to impact; and the competition for the pilot's visual attention. The effects of the combinations of these various factors are then considered. Finally, specific suggestions are made for improvements in training for low-altitude flight.

Abstract Since 1987 [1, 2, 3, 4, 5] the global jet engine community is facing the historical fact that jet engine steering is gradually replacing canards and the common, often dangerous and obsolete, aerodynamic-only flight control – a fact that (i) has already affected the defense-industrial complex in the US, Russia, China, Japan, S-Korea and India, (ii) has integrated the traditional jet-engine components R&D with advanced aero-electro-physics, stealth technology, thrust vectoring aerodynamics and material science. Moreover, this military revolution is historically due to expand into the civil transport jets domain, [6, 7, 8, 9]. The historical aim of the JES-Revolution remains the same: Replace the common, stall-spin sensitive canards [6] and Aerodynamic-Only-Obsolete-Flight Control (“AOOF Control”). Invented about 100 years ago for propeller-driven air vehicles, it has already been partially replaced for failure to function in WVR-combat post-stall domain, and for the following reasons: In comparison with complete Tail-Less, Canard-Less, Stealth-JES (Figure 5 and References [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]), the common AOOF Control increases drag, weight, fuel consumption, complexity, cost, and reduces flight safety, stealth, [Low Detectability] and provides zero post-stall, WVR air combat capability while its CANARDS KILL LD & REDUCE JES. Examples of stealth fighter aircraft that have already replaced canards and AOOF-Control where JES provides at least 64 to 0 KILL-RATIO advantage over AOOF-Controlled conventional fighter aircraft: The U.S. JES F-22 and, apparently, the Russian JES-Su-T-50 & 35S, China 2016-J-31, Indian HAL AMCA & FGFA, Japanese JES IHHI ATD-X, S-Korean JES KF-X. Cf. X-44 in Figure 5. Consequently, the jet engine is no longer defined as providing only brute force forward. Instead, it successfully competes with and wins over the wrong, dominating AOOF-Control, at least as a backup flight control whose sole factual domain is currently a well-established, primary flight controller RE any post-stall, super-agility, [2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9].

ABSTRACT Objective: This study evaluated the dental, skeletal and soft tissue effects in Class II malocclusion patients treated with Distal Jet appliance, compared to an untreated control group. Methods: 44 patients with Class II malocclusion were divided into two groups: Group 1 (experimental) - 22 patients, mean age of 12.7 years, treated with the Distal Jet appliance for a mean period of 1.2 years; Group 2 (control) - 22 untreated patients, mean age of 12.2 years, followed by a mean period of 1.2 years. Lateral cephalograms were obtained before treatment (T0) and at the end of the distalization (T1).Independent t test was used to identify intergroup differences. Results: When compared to control group, the Distal Jet produced a significant increase in mandibular plane angle (0.7 ± 2.0o). The maxillary second molars presented distal inclination (6.6 ± 3.8o), distalization (1.1 ± 1.1 mm) and extrusion (1.3 ± 2.1 mm). The maxillary first molars distalized by 1.2 ± 1.4 mm. The maxillary first premolars mesialized by 3.4 ± 1.1 mm. The maxillary incisors showed slight labial tipping of 4.3 ± 4.7o and were protruded by 2.4 ± 1.7 mm. There were no significant changes in the facial profile. The overjet increased 1.5 ± 1.1 mm and overbite had no significant changes. Conclusion: The Distal Jet appliance is effective to distalize the maxillary first molars, but promotes increase in mandibular plane angle, distal inclination, extrusion and distalization of maxillary second molars, mesialization of maxillary first premolars, proclination and protrusion of maxillary incisors, and increase in overjet, when compared to a control group.

AbstractWe have imaged the H2O maser and 22, 8, & 5 GHz continuum in the nucleus of NGC 3079, using the NRAO VLBA. The maser features are distributed over ~ 2 pc along an axis aligned with the plane of the kpc–scale edge–on molecular disk. The masers are not angularly coincident with any detected continuum emission. The two brightest continuum features, which trace a parsec–scale jet, have similar spectra that peak at frequencies ν > 5 GHz. We also detected faint maser emission along the jet axis.

Abstract FA-50 aircraft is a combat version of the KAI T-50 Golden Eagle jet trainer. The development of the FA-50 combat aircraft began in October 1997.The development phase finished in January 2006, during which 6 prototypes were built. It is worth noting that in October 2012, the FA-50 was awarded a military certificate issued by the Korean MAAC (Military Aircraft Airworthiness Committee) as the first military fighter-class aircraft. On 16 September 2022, the approval ceremony for purchasing the FA-50 by the Polish Air Force took place at the 23rd Tactical Air Force Base in Mińsk Mazowiecki.

ABSTRACT We have performed a very long baseline interferometry (VLBI) survey of local (z < 0.05) ultrahard X-ray (14–195 keV) selected active galactic nuclei (AGNs) from the Swift Burst Alert Telescope (BAT) using KVN, KaVA, and VLBA. We first executed fringe surveys of 142 BAT-detected AGNs at 15 or 22 GHz. Based on the result from the fringe surveys and archival data, we find 10/279 nearby AGN (∼4 per cent) VLBI have 22 GHz flux above 30 mJy. This implies that the X-ray AGNs with a bright nuclear jet are not common. Among these 10 radio-bright AGNs, we obtained 22 GHz VLBI imaging data of our own for four targets and reprocessed archival data for six targets. We find that, although our 10 AGNs observed with VLBI span a wide range of pc-scale morphological types, they lie on a tight linear relation between accretion luminosity and nuclear jet luminosity. Our result suggests that a powerful nuclear radio jet correlates with the accretion disc luminosity. We also probed the Fundamental Plane of black hole activity at VLBI scales (e.g. few milliarcsecond). The jet luminosity and size distribution among our sample roughly fit into the proposed AGN evolutionary scenario, finding powerful jets after the blow-out phase based on the Eddington ratio (λEdd)–hydrogen column density (NH) relation. In addition, we find some hints of gas inflow or galaxy–galaxy merger in the majority of our sample. This implies that gas supply via tidal interactions in galactic scale may help the central AGN to launch a powerful parsec-scale jet.

This paper presents a power-based analysis through 3D Reynolds-averaged Navier–Stokes simulations for a typical transonic transport aircraft resented by the DLR-F6 model. Two configurations were employed in CFD simulations. The original F6 model geometry was defined as the wing body configuration, and a wake-filling actuator disc was added to the F6 model to establish the BLI configuration. This study proposes a segregated 3D computational domain in RANS simulations to track the change in power terms in the flow field so that the power conversion process can be studied and visualized. For the wing body configuration, the power-based analysis illustrated the power conversion process, showing that about 35% of the total power input remains in the form of the mechanical power of aircraft wake at the outlet plane. For the BLI configuration, 22% of the total power input was left in the form of the mechanical power of downstream flow mixed with the wake and jet at the outlet plane. This study elaborates on the error of the mechanical power imbalance, showing that the convergence in aircraft drag does not necessarily lead to a small error in 3D RANS simulations. The high value of power imbalance error is associated with the wing.

The radio-jet X-ray binary SS433 was observed at five epochs in 1998 by the very long baseline interferometry (VLBI) technique at five frequencies ranging from 1.6 to 22 GHz. The innermost region of the source on milliarcsecond scales (1 mas = 5 AU) is resolved into an eastern and a western core-jet component, well separated by the Central Radio Gap (25-30 AU projected size), where the binary stellar system is located. We suggest that the radio gap is caused by local synchrotron self-absorption and external free-free absorption in an ionized medium, which has a disk-like geometry. On 100 AU scales we observe the Equatorial Emission Region, oriented roughly perpendicularly to the jets, with variable morphology at different epochs. Both of these phenomena could be interpreted with a mass outflow from the system, concentrated in the orbital plane of the binary.

John Collier was a chemical engineer who, in his earlier career, was a specialist in two–phase flow and heat transfer. He was formerly Chairman of the UK Atomic Energy Authority (UKAEA) and was Chairman of Nuclear Electric plc when he died on 18 November 1995. John Collier was born in London on 22 January 1935. His father, Jack Collier, was a musician who was one of the country's leading double–bass players. Jack had turned down the job of lead bass with the Hallé Orchestra at the age of 20 and set out to see the world. While playing in the ship's band on a transatlantic trip he met John's mother (Edith Georgina de Ville, a passenger on the same ship) and married her soon afterwards, in 1925. John was their only child and his infant years were spent in prewar London, his father making a name for himself playing music of a wide variety. During the war, Jack Collier became a member of ENSA, the Forces' entertainment service. His attempts to protect his wife and child against the bombing seemed to be relatively unsuccessful; he moved them to Southampton, Coventry and Manchester in turn! The young John Collier, at the age of six, was actually machinegunned by a German fighter plane flying down a Southampton street. John and his mother finally returned to London just in time for the start of the V1 (flying bomb) raids. All these moves meant that John attended nine different schools during the war years–a very disruptive experience. The family was reunited again after the war but their happiness was short–lived; John's mother (Edith) had a recurrence of the cancer she had suffered towards the end of the war and died in 1948. In 1951, Jack Collier married Guinevere (Jean) Olga Northcote. By this time, he was working freelance, playing with the major London orchestras; he was much in demand. He still did some work with lighter music, particularly on the radio where he played in such programmes as ITMA (Tommy Handley) and The Goon Show (Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe and Peter Sellers), and he later played on television shows such as The Morecombe and Wise Show.

Abstract We report on a compact and spectrally intense extreme-ultraviolet (XUV) source, which is based on high-harmonic generation (HHG) driven by 395 nm pulses. In order to minimize the XUV virtual source size and to maximize the XUV flux, HHG is performed several Rayleigh lengths away from the driving laser focal plane in a high-density gas jet. As a result, a high focused XUV intensity of 5 × 1013 W cm−2 is achieved, using a beamline with a length of only two meters and a modest driving laser pulse energy of 3 mJ. The high XUV intensity is demonstrated by performing a nonlinear ionization experiment in argon, using an XUV spectrum that is dominated by a single harmonic at 22 eV. Ion charge states up to Ar3+ are observed, which requires the absorption of at least four XUV photons. The high XUV intensity and the narrow bandwidth are ideally suited for a variety of applications including photoelectron spectroscopy, the coherent control of resonant transitions and the imaging of nanoscale structures.

Abstract The media and the public often make claims regarding the excessive cost increases in the development and production of major weapon systems such as fighter planes, submarines or tanks. The purpose of this research is in assessing the cost increase of such weapon systems during their procurement periods with the help of the Paasche price index. In contrast to other approaches, which focus upon either the specific situations of single weapon systems or cost increases relative to planned budgets, we compare several projects of military services and their cost increases over time to reveal generalisable trends. For this purpose, we used a framework model that allows for performance and cost comparisons. This paper primarily emphasises the cost perspective by calculating a Paasche index for each chosen project. As a background case for our analysis, we have used the acquisition projects for major weapon systems in Germany. However, the framework model that this study employs is universally applicable. In contrast to the public perception of cost increases, we could not find any clear trend that would indicate that modern weapon systems have a significantly higher (or lower) cost increase than was the case for projects several decades before. To give brief insight into the empirical findings, the cost increase ratios of the Starfighter and Eurofighter jets have the same level, while cost increase ratios of other weapon systems (APC tanks, submarines) differ significantly (to the worse and to the better) over time. Our findings imply that there is no general trend that today the costs for weapon systems increase more/less than some decades ago. This paper calculates data only from the regarded seven cases therefore we could not question the causes for this observation on basis of our sample. However, it appears that, within a specific service or a specific vehicle type (tank, fighter jet, ship/boat), cost increases may be similar over time.

On May 5, 1967, U.S. National Security Adviser Walter W. Rostow briefed President Lyndon B. Johnson that Peru had contracted to buy twelve Mirage 5 supersonic fighter jets from France, "despite our repeated warnings of the consequences." The first planes were delivered a year later, prompting the United States to withhold development loans from Peru as directed by the Conte-Long Amendment to the 1968 Foreign Assistance Appropriations Bill. Peru was the first Latin American country (with the exception of Cuba) to equip its air force with supersonic combat aircraft, and its decision spurred a dramatic qualitative and financial escalation in regional arms procurement, thereby defeating Washington's effort to control the latter. The CIA qualified the "Mirage affair" as the "most serious issue" in U.S.-Peruvian relations at the time. The event demonstrated the growing desire of Peru and other Latin American countries to loosen the ties that bound them to Washington and exemplified France's drive to depolarize world politics during the Cold War. Demanded by the Peruvian military establishment, the Mirage deal also announced the golpe of October 1968 that ended the presidency of Fernando Belaúúnde Terry and ushered in the reformist military dictatorship of Juan Velasco Alvarado. In addition, it complicated relations between the White House, Congress, and the press in the antagonistic context of the Vietnam War. Finally, it further illustrated the diplomatic and economic stakes of military aircraft sales, as well as the appeal of the airplane as a symbol of national sovereignty and modernity.

This article reviews variable-switched reluctance (VSR) motors that are now entering mainstream use from jet fighters to washing machines. A VSR motor is generally used as a stepper motor and, if properly controlled, can be made to behave like a servomotor. Basically, the motor is a rotor and stator with a coil winding in the stator. VSR motors also provide other benefits. They can be programmed to precisely match the loads they serve, and their simple, rugged construction has no expensive magnets or squirrel cages like the ac induction motor. It can be difficult to give VSR motors a smooth torque profile, so they are used more often in place of variable speed motors than as servomotors. There are ways to control torque ripple, such as adding encoders and electronics to compensate, but these added controls could cost at least as much as what the motor itself would save. VSR motors work with relatively small air gaps. If the shaft is off-center, unbalanced tangential forces come into play, so shafts and bearing systems generally need to be of a higher quality than with other motors.

Context. 22 GHz water masers are the most intense and widespread masers in star-forming regions. They are commonly associated with protostellar winds and jets emerging from low- and high-mass young stellar objects (YSO). Aims. We wish to perform for the first time a statistical study of the location and motion of individual water maser cloudlets, characterized by typical sizes that are within a few au, with respect to the weak radio thermal emission from YSOs. Methods. For this purpose, we have been carrying out the Protostellar Outflows at the EarliesT Stages survey of a sample (38) of high-mass YSOs. The 22 GHz water maser positions and three-dimensional (3D) velocities were determined through multi-epoch Very Long Baseline Array observations with accuracies of a few milliarcsec (mas) and a few km s−1, respectively. The position of the ionized core of the protostellar wind, marking the YSO, was determined through sensitive radio continuum, multi-frequency Jansky Very Large Array observations with a typical error of ≈20 mas. Results. The statistic of the separation of the water masers from the radio continuum shows that 84% of the masers are found within 1000 au from the YSO and 45% of them are within 200 au. Therefore, we can conclude that the 22 GHz water masers are a reliable proxy for locating the position of the YSO. The distribution of maser luminosity is strongly peaked towards low values, indicating that about half of the maser population is still undetected with the current Very Long Baseline Interferometry detection thresholds of 50–100 mJy beam−1. Next-generation, sensitive (at the nJy level) radio interferometers will have the capability to exploit these weak masers for an improved sampling of the velocity and magnetic fields around the YSOs. The average direction of the water maser proper motions provides a statistically-significant estimate for the orientation of the jet emitted by the YSO: 55% of the maser proper motions are directed on the sky within an angle of 30° from the jet axis. Finally, we show that our measurements of 3D maser velocities statistically support models in which water maser emission arises from planar shocks with propagation direction close to the plane of the sky.

The paper presents an alternative to rockets general planetary vehicle (GPV) and industrial space necklace Orbit (ISN Orbit), which are a single complex necessary for the non-rocket near space exploration. The authors analyzed the conceptual design of the GPV and ISN Orbit, described their main characteristics, compared the impact of the GPV and launch vehicles on the Earthэs ecology. The principle of the GPV movement is based on centrifugal forces arising from the GPV acceleration in the plane of the equator. This is the main difference from rocket engines, which principle of operation is set up on the use of jet motion. The differentiation in the operation principles of the GPV and launch vehicles leads to serious variety in the energy required to lift the GPV to the near-Earth orbit and, accordingly, the variety in cost per payload ton. The concept of the ISN Orbit is described. The complex should serve as a basis for the removal of harmful industry to the near-Earth orbit and become a launching pad for active expansion into space. The GPV and ISN Orbit are effective means for the complex and progressive solution of environmental problems on Earth and productive implementation of space direction.

Purpose: The value of effective teaching of physical education to any learners cannot be over emphasized. Physical education is recognized by both the United Nations and World Health Organization as a fundamental in the fight against life style diseases. Learners with disability in Africa have received a raw deal when it comes to the teaching of physical education. Methodology: A desktop literature review was used for this purpose. , a systematic search was carried out using Google Scholar, Semantic Scholar, and Research Gate. This paper reviews literature from around the world in an attempt to assess what scholars consider effective teaching for learners with visual disability. Findings: The paper defines what effective teaching of physical education entail, before delving into what effective teaching of physical education for learners with visual disability is. The study assesses the props that make effecting teaching of physical education which include: the personnel involved in teaching PE, Instructional methods, the place of equipment/ facilities in teaching physical education, administrative support for the teaching of physical education and the attitudes of the learners and the staff in the teaching of physical education. This paper concludes that effective teaching entails effort and creativity for the learners with visual disability to benefit. Unique Contribution to Theory, Practice and Policy recommendation: The paper recommends an assessment of the current situation in the teaching of physical education for learner’s with visual disability. All learners should learn the same units, with modifications when necessary, typically receiving an equal amount of instruction per week as their sighted peers, or more. Training should be offered as skilled peer tutors and paraeducators can be a resource to assist with games, fitness, or other activities when needed.

Context. Although recent observations and theoretical simulations have pointed out that accretion disks and jets can be essential for the formation of stars with a mass of up to at least 20 M⊙, the processes regulating mass accretion and ejection are still uncertain. Aims. The goal of the Protostellar Outflows at the EarliesT Stages (POETS) survey is to image the disk-outflow interface on scales of 10–100 au in a statistically significant sample (36) of luminous young stellar objects (YSO), targeting both the molecular and ionized components of the outflows. Methods. The outflow kinematics is studied at milliarcsecond scales through very long baseline interferometry (VLBI) observations of the 22 GHz water masers, which are ideal test particles to measure the three-dimensional (3D) motion of shocks owing to the interaction of winds and jets with ambient gas. We employed the Jansky Very Large Array (JVLA) at 6, 13, and 22 GHz in the A- and B-Array configurations to determine the spatial structure and the spectral index of the radio continuum emission, and address its nature. Results. In about half of the targets, the water masers observed at separation ≤1000 au from the YSOs trace either or both of these kinematic structures: (1) a spatially elongated distribution oriented at close angle with the direction of collimation of the maser proper motions (PM), and (2) a linear local standard of rest (LSR) velocity (VLSR) gradient across the YSO position. The kinematic structure (1) is readily interpreted in terms of a protostellar jet, as confirmed in some targets via the comparison with independent observations of the YSO jets, in thermal (continuum and line) emissions, reported in the literature. The kinematic structure (2) is interpreted in terms of a disk-wind (DW) seen almost edge-on on the basis of several pieces of evidence: first, it is invariably directed perpendicular to the YSO jet; second, it agrees in orientation and polarity with the VLSR gradient in thermal emissions (when reported in the literature) identifying the YSO disk at scales of ≤1000 au; third, the PMs of the masers delineating the VLSR gradients hint at flow motions at a speed of 10–20 km s−1 directed at large angles with the disk midplane. In the remaining targets, the maser PMs are not collimated but rather tend to align along two almost perpendicular directions. To explain this peculiar PM distribution, and in light of the observational bias strongly favoring masers moving close to the plane of sky, we propose that, in these sources, the maser emission could originate in DW-jet systems slightly inclined (≤30°) with respect to edge-on. Magneto-centrifugally driven DWs could in general account for the observed velocity patterns of water masers.

Abstract Research purpose. Growth of illicit trade has markedly increased and caused damage to a multitude of economic, socio-economic and environmental outcomes. The purpose of this paper is to examine the impact of Hofstede’s country cultural dimensions on the attitudes towards illicit trade and the political will to counter the crime across countries. Design/Methodology/Approach. The 2018 Global Illicit Trade index published by the Economics Intelligence Unit for 62 countries is empirically analysed. Six hypotheses are built and tested across Hofstede’s six cultural dimensions. Findings. The results indicate that countries that are culturally more individualistic, have greater uncertainty avoidance and have a stronger long-term orientation have a stronger structural capacity to protect against illicit trade on average. Originality/Value/Practical implications. In reference to originality, the paper adds to the scarce research on the fight against global illicit trade and empirically explores the role that culture plays in driving the attitudes towards illicit trade and the political will to fight the crime. In reference to practical implications, anti-illicit policy initiatives are likely to be more challenging in collectivist countries with lower uncertainty avoidance and a short-term orientation. Policymakers need to tailor their anti-illicit trade efforts in these countries as these societies will not likely place the same value on countering illicit trade as the countries that are culturally more individualistic, have greater uncertainty avoidance and have a strong long-term orientation.

AbstractResearch purpose. Growth of illicit trade has markedly increased and caused damage to a multitude of economic, socio-economic and environmental outcomes. The purpose of this paper is to examine the impact of Hofstede’s country cultural dimensions on the attitudes towards illicit trade and the political will to counter the crime across countries.Design/Methodology/Approach. The 2018 Global Illicit Trade index published by the Economics Intelligence Unit for 62 countries is empirically analysed. Six hypotheses are built and tested across Hofstede’s six cultural dimensions.Findings. The results indicate that countries that are culturally more individualistic, have greater uncertainty avoidance and have a stronger long-term orientation have a stronger structural capacity to protect against illicit trade on average.Originality/Value/Practical implications. In reference to originality, the paper adds to the scarce research on the fight against global illicit trade and empirically explores the role that culture plays in driving the attitudes towards illicit trade and the political will to fight the crime. In reference to practical implications, anti-illicit policy initiatives are likely to be more challenging in collectivist countries with lower uncertainty avoidance and a short-term orientation. Policymakers need to tailor their anti-illicit trade efforts in these countries as these societies will not likely place the same value on countering illicit trade as the countries that are culturally more individualistic, have greater uncertainty avoidance and have a strong long-term orientation.

ABSTRACT We present a 2D mapping of stellar population age components, emission-line fluxes, gas excitation, and kinematics within the inner ∼200 pc of the Seyfert 2 galaxy NGC 2110. We used the Gemini North Integral Field Spectrograph (NIFS) in the J and K bands at a spatial resolution of ∼22 pc. The unresolved nuclear continuum is originated in combined contributions of young stellar population (SP; age ≤ 100 Myr), a featureless AGN continuum and hot dust emission. The young-intermediate SP (100 < age ≤ 700 Myr) is distributed in a ring-shaped structure at ≈140 pc from the nucleus, which is roughly coincident with the lowest values of the stellar velocity dispersion. In the inner ≈115 pc the old SP (age > 2 Gyr) is dominant. The [Fe ii] $\lambda \, 1.2570\, \mu$m emission-line flux distribution is correlated with the radio emission and its kinematics comprise two components, one from gas rotating in the galaxy plane and another from gas in outflow within a bicone-oriented along north–south. These outflows seem to originate in the interaction of the radio jet with the ambient gas producing shocks that are the main excitation mechanism of the [Fe ii] emission. We estimate: (1) an ionized gas mass outflow rate of ∼0.5 M⊙ yr−1 at ∼70 pc from the nucleus; and (2) a kinetic power for the outflow of only 0.05 per cent of the AGN bolometric luminosity implying weak feedback effect on the galaxy.

SUMMARYAs members of the derived teleost fish clade Scombridae, mackerel exhibit high-performance aquatic locomotion via oscillation of the homocercal forked caudal fin. We present the first quantitative flow visualization of the wake of a scombrid fish, chub mackerel Scomber japonicus (20-26cm fork length, FL), swimming steadily in a recirculating flow tank at cruising speeds of 1.2 and 2.2FLs-1. Thrust was calculated from wake measurements made separately in the horizontal (frontal) plane and vertical (parasagittal) planes using digital particle image velocimetry (DPIV)and compared with drag measurements obtained by towing the same specimens of S. japonicus post mortem.Patterns of flow indicated that the wake consisted of a series of linked elliptical vortex rings, each with central jet flow. The length of the minor axis (height) of the vortex rings was approximately equal to caudal fin span;the length of the major ring axis was dependent on swimming speed and was up to twice the magnitude of ring height. Profiles of wake velocity components were similar to theoretical profiles of vortex rings.Lift, thrust and lateral forces were calculated from DPIV measurements. At 1.2FLs-1, lift forces measured relative to the Xaxis were low in magnitude (-1±1mN, mean ± S.D., N=20)but oriented at a mean angle of 6° to the body axis. Reaction forces tend to rotate the fish about its center of mass, tipping the head down. Thus, the homocercal caudal fin of S. japonicus functions asymmetrically in the vertical plane. Pitching moments may be balanced anteriorly via lift generation by the pectoral fins. Thrust estimates for the two smallest fish based on DPIV analysis were not significantly different from drag measurements made by towing those same animals. At a speed of 1.2FLs-1,thrust magnitude was 11±6mN (mean ± S.D, N=40). Lateral force magnitudes were approximately double thrust magnitudes (22±6mN,mean ± S.D., N=20), resulting in a mean mechanical performance ratio (thrust/total force) of 0.32 at 1.2FLs-1. An increase in speed by a factor of 1.8 resulted in a mean increase in thrust by a factor of 4.4, a mean increase in lateral forces by a factor of 3, no change in the magnitude of lift produced and an increase in mean mechanical performance to 0.42. The relatively high lateral forces generated during swimming may be a necessary consequence of force production viapropagated waves of bending.

Purpose In the European project AFLoNext, active flow control (AFC) measures were adopted in the wing tip extension leading edge to suppress flow separation. It is expected that the designed wing tip extension may improve aerodynamic efficiency by about 2 per cent in terms of fuel consumption and emissions. As the leading edge of the wing tip is not protected with high-lift device, flow separation occurs earlier than over the inboard wing in the take-off/landing configuration. The aim of this study is the adoption of AFC to delay wing tip stall and to improve lift-to-drag ratio. Design/methodology/approach Several actuator locations and AFC strategies were tested with computational fluid dynamics. The first approach was “standard” one with physical modeling of the actuators, and the second one was focused on the volume forcing method. The actuators location and the forcing plane close to separation line of the reference configuration were chose to enhance the flow with steady and pulsed jet blowing. Dependence of the lift-to-drag benefit with respect to injected mass flow is investigated. Findings The mechanism of flow separation onset is identified as the interaction of slat-end and wing tip vortices. These vortices moving toward each other with increasing angle of attack (AoA) interact and cause the flow separation. AFC is applied to control the slat-end vortex and the inboard movement of the wing tip vortex to suppress their interaction. The separation onset has been postponed by about 2° of AoA; the value of ift-to-drag (L/D) was improved up to 22 per cent for the most beneficial cases. Practical implications The AFC using the steady or pulsed blowing (PB) was proved to be an effective tool for delaying the flow separation. Although better values of L/D have been reached using steady blowing, it is also shown that PB case with a duty cycle of 0.5 needs only one half of the mass flow. Originality/value Two approaches of different levels of complexity are studied and compared. The first is based on physical modeling of actuator cavities, while the second relies on volume forcing method which does not require detailed actuator modeling. Both approaches give consistent results.

Context. The disk-outflow connection is thought to play a key role in extracting excess angular momentum from a forming protostar. HH30 is a rare and beautiful example of a pre-main sequence star exhibiting a flared edge-on disk, an optical jet, and a CO molecular outflow, making this object a case study for the disk-jet-outflow paradigm. Aims. We aim to clarify the origin of the small-scale molecular outflow of HH30 and its link and impact on the accretion disk. Methods. We present ALMA 0.25″ angular resolution observations of the circumstellar disk and outflow around the T Tauri star HH30 in the dust continuum at 1.33 mm and of the molecular line transitions of 12CO(2–1) and 13CO(2–1). We performed a disk subtraction from the 12CO emission, from which we analysed the outflow properties in detail in the altitudes z ≲ 250 au. We fit the transverse position-velocity diagrams across the 12CO outflow to derive the ring positions and projected velocity components (including rotation). We use the results of these fits to discuss the origin of the CO outflow. Results. The 1.3 mm continuum emission shows a remarkable elongated morphology along PA = 31.2∘ ± 0.1∘ that has a constant brightness out to a radius of r = 75 au. The emission is marginally resolved in the transverse direction, implying an intrinsic vertical width ≤24 au and an inclination to the line-of-sight i ≥ 84.8∘. The 13CO emission is compatible with emission from a disk in Keplerian rotation, in agreement with the previous findings. The monopolar outflow, detected in 12CO, arises from the north-eastern face of the disk from a disk radius r ≤ 22 au and extends up to 5″ (or 700 au) above the disk plane. We derive a lower limit to the total mass of the CO cavity/outflow of 1.7 × 10−5 M⊙. The CO cavity morphology is that of a hollow cone with semi-opening angle ∼35∘. The derived kinematics are consistent with gas flowing along the conical surface with constant velocity of 9.3 ± 0.7 km s−1. We detect small rotation signatures (Vϕ sin i ∈ [0.1; 0.5] km s−1) in the same sense as the underlying circumstellar disk. From these rotation signatures we infer an average specific angular momentum of the outflow of 38 ± 15 au km s−1 at altitudes z ≤ 250 au. We also report the detection of small amplitude wiggling (1.2∘) of the CO axis around an average inclination to the line of sight of i = 91∘. Conclusions. The derived morphology and kinematics of the CO cavity are compatible with expectations from a slow disk wind, originating either through photo-evaporation or magneto-centrifugal processes. Under the steady assumption, we derive launching radii in the range 0.5–7 au. In that scenario, we confirm the large minimum mass flux of 9 × 10−8 M⊙ yr−1 for the CO wind. The wind would therefore extract a significant amount of the accreted mass flux through the disk and would likely play a crucial role in the disk evolution. If the CO flow originates from a steady-state disk wind, our ALMA observations rule out the 18 au binary orbital scenario previously proposed to account for the wiggling of the optical jet and favour instead a precession scenario in which the CO flow originates from a circumbinary disk around a close (separation ≤ 3.5 au) binary. Alternatively, the CO outflow could also trace the walls of a stationary cavity created by the propagation of multiple bow shocks. Detailed numerical simulations are under way to fully test the entrainment hypothesis.

Aleksandra Czechówna (1839–1923) była córką Tomasza Czecha i Aleksandry z Zielińskich. Jej „Dziennik z całego życia...” pisany przez blisko 70 lat (1856–1923), przechowywany jest w Archiwum Narodowym w Krakowie, pod sygn. 29/1582/1–29/1582/44 (sygn. dawne IT 428/1–428/44). Stanowi znakomite źródło obrazujące życie kulturalne, towarzyskie i obyczajowe miasta Krakowa w drugiej połowie XIX w. oraz w pierwszym dwudziestoleciu XX w. Zamieszczony tu tekst pochodzi z dwóch tomów „Dziennika”: tomu 41, sygn. 29/1582/41 (dawna sygn. IT 428/41) oraz tomu 42, sygn. 29/1582/42 (dawna sygn. IT 428/42). Stanowi kontynuację zapisów dotyczących trzech pierwszych lat I wojny światowej i opisuje czwarty rok toczących się walk (zob. „Krakowski Rocznik Archiwalny” 2014, t. 20, s. 111–132; 2015, t. 21, s. 133–163; 2016, t. 22, s. 139–170). Prezentowany wybór spisany został przez wnikliwą obserwatorkę tak ważnych dla Polaków wydarzeń. Autorka korzystała głównie z doniesień prasowych i urzędowych obwieszczeń, ale też posiłkowała się relacjami osób. Dlatego opis sytuacji niewątpliwie nie jest pełny, zwłaszcza w odniesieniu do sfery polityki. Dostarcza jednak szeregu informacji o wydarzeniach rozgrywających się na froncie wschodnim oraz w Krakowie. Daje obraz Wielka wojna w „Dzienniku” Aleksandry Czechówny... 215 coraz trudniejszego, pełnego trosk, wyrzeczeń i niedostatku życia codziennego mieszkańców miasta w kolejnym roku toczącej się wojny. Przynosi też opis stanu uczuć Polaków, ich nieustannej niepewności, lęków i wielkich oczekiwań związanych z przywróceniem państwowości polskiej. A. Czechównę niepokoją zwłaszcza wydarzenia w Rosji i nękają obawy, jaki mogą mieć wpływ na bieg wojny. The Great War in the “Journal” of Aleksandra Czechówna (part IV: 1 January – 29 December 1917) Aleksandra Czechówna (1839–1923) was the daughter of Tomasz Czech and Aleksandra, née Zielińska. Her “Journal from the whole life...”, written for almost 70 years (1856– 1923), is stored in the National Archives in Krakow, ref. no. 29/1582/1–29/1582/44 (former ref. no. IT 428/1–428/44). It represents a great source that depicts the cultural, social and daily life of Krakow in the second half of the 19th century, and the first two decades of the 20th century. The text placed here comes from two volumes of the “Journal”: volume 41, ref. no. 29/1582/41 (former ref. no. IT 428/41) and volume 42, ref. no. 29/1582/42 (former ref. no. IT 428/42). It represents a continuation of the entries concerning the first three years of World War I and describes the fourth year of the ongoing fight (see “Krakowski Rocznik Archiwalny” 2014, vol. 20, pp. 111–132; 2015, vol. 21, pp. 133–163; 2016, vol. 22, pp. 139–170). The presented text was written by a perceptive observer of events of great importance for Poles. The author mainly used press reports and clerical announcements, but also made use of personal accounts. The description of the situation is, therefore, incomplete, especially with regard to politics. It does, however, provide a wide range of information about the events taking place on the eastern front as well as in Krakow. It paints a picture of the increasingly difficult daily life, full of worries, sacrifices and shortages, of the residents of the city in the next year of the ongoing war. It also provides a description of the feeling of Poles, their constant uncertainty, fears and great expectations connected with recreating a Polish state. A. Czechówna was worried in particular by events in Russia and the fears concerning their potential influence on the war.

Liquid crystal on silicon (LCOS) spatial light modulator (SLM) is the most widely used optical engine for digital holography. This paper aims to provide an overview of the applications of phase-only LCOS in two-dimensional (2D) holography. It begins with a brief introduction to the holography theory along with its development trajectory, followed by the fundamental operating principle of phase-only LCOS SLMs. Hardware performance of LCOS SLMs (in terms of frame rate, phase linearity and flicker) and related experimental results are presented. Finally, potential improvements and applications are discussed for futuristic holographic displays. Full Text: PDF ReferencesM. Wolfke, Physikalische Zeitschrift 21, 495 (1920). DirectLink D. Gabor, "A New Microscopic Principle", Nature 161, 777 (1948). CrossRef H. Haken, "Laser Theory", Light and Matter 5, 14 (1970). CrossRef S. Benton, "Selected Papers on Three-dimensional displays", SPIE Press (2001). DirectLink X. 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Lato 1920 r. to rozstrzygająca faza toczącej się od początku 1919 r. wojny między odradzającą się Polską a Rosją Sowiecką. Dla Polski były to zmagania nie tylko o powrót na ziemie kresowe, ale (w lipcu i sierpniu) o utrzymanie niepodległego bytu. Po wielkich militarnych sukcesach wojsk polskich przyszły porażki. Zwycięski pochód zamienił się w odwrót. Siły polskie nie zdołały powstrzymać impetu kontruderzenia nieprzyjaciela. W sierpniu część rdzennych ziem polskich znalazła się w rękach wojsk sowieckich, na północy sięgających linii Wisły. Warszawa, stała się miastem frontowym. Niepodległość stanęła pod znakiem zapytania. O dalszym jej trwaniu zadecydowały zwycięskie bitwy nad Wisłą, Wkrą i Niemnem. Choć losy wojny rozstrzygnęli żołnierze, nie sposób przecenić w tym dziele roli społeczeństwa. W dniach najazdu, w bardzo krótkim czasie utworzyło ono sprawnie działający „front wewnętrzny”. Jego częścią byli mieszkańcy Ziemi Kaliskiej, którzy włączyli się do wielkiego narodowego zrywu na początku lipca na wołanie Rady Obrony Państwa „Do Broni”. Już kilka dni po apelu ROP najofiarniejsi w służbie ojczyzny chwytali za broń w szeregach ochotniczych. Najbardziej prężne organizacje i jednostki mobilizowały ludność do wszelkiego rodzaju ofiar i największych poświęceń. Propaganda obronna rozbrzmiewała w miastach i na wsi. Kaliszanie, którzy mieli świadomość niebezpieczeństwa nie szczędzili mienia i krwi. Kontyngent 800 ochotników (co najmniej) jest miarą patriotycznego czynu Ziemi Kaliskiej. THE LAND OF KALISZ IN THE ACT OF FORMATION “HOME FRONT” DURING THE INVASION OF BOLSHEVIK ON POLAND IN SUMMER IN 1920 The summer in 1920 was the decisive phase of Polish-Soviet War which took place from the beginning of 1919. It was the fight not only for the return to Eastern borderlands but also (especially in July and August) for independence. After the great military successes of Polish Army there came defeats. The victorious parade was changed into military retreat. The Polish Army was unable to stop the momentum of the enemy counterattack. In August the part of polish lands was gained by Soviet army northwards it reached the Vistula River. Warsaw became the front city. The independence was called into question. It last because of victorious battles upon Vistula, Wkra and Niemen. About the results of the War decided soldiers, but the role of society also should be appreciated. During the days of invasion the society in very short time creates “home front” which progressing quickly. The part of the “home front” were the residents of the land of Kalisz. The residents participated in the great national and heroic spurt at the beginning of July. The National Defence Committee asked for fight in the defence of the homeland. The braviest people joined the volunteer movement after the patriotic appeal of the National Defence Committee. The most resilient organizations and individuals mobilized people to all kinds of victims and the greatest sacrifices. The call for the defence reverberated in the cities and in the countryside. The residents of Kalisz who had the awareness of the danger were courageous to sacrifice their property, ownership and soldierly blond. Contingent of (at least) 800 volunteers) was a “measure” to be measure by no means of the patriotic act of Kalisz.

The linear stability of parallel shear flows of incompressible viscous fluids is classically described by the Orr–Sommerfeld equation in the disturbance streamfunction. This fourth-order equation is obtained by eliminating the pressure from the linearized Navier–Stokes equation. Here we consider retaining the primitive velocity-pressure formulation, as is required for general multidimensional geometries for which the streamfunction is unavailable; this affords a uniform description of one-, two-, and three-dimensional flows and their perturbations. The Orr–Sommerfeld equation is here discretized using Python and scikit- fem, in classical and primitive forms with Hermite and Mini elements, respectively. The solutions for the standard test problem of plane Poiseuille flow show the primitive formulation to be simple, clear, very accurate, and better-conditioned than the classical. References L. Allen and T. J. Bridges. Numerical exterior algebra and the compound matrix method. Numer. 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Abstract Abstract 89 Background: Patients with sickle cell disease (SCD) and pulmonary hypertension (PH) have increased mortality. Whether SCD-associated PH (SCD-PH) is predominantly a pulmonary pre-capillary (PAH) vs. post-capillary (PVH) process is an area of ongoing investigation. SCD-PH is often complicated by high cardiac output (CO) related to anemia. The transpulmonary gradient (TPG) represents a pressure differential across the pulmonary vascular bed that the right ventricle (RV) has to overcome regardless of the total volume being ejected and has been employed to determine eligibility for cardiac transplantation because it eliminates the confounding effect of CO (PVR=TPG/CO). Typically, a TPG ≥ 12 mmHg indicates significant PAH with increased risk of acute RV failure post-transplantation. With significant PAH, there is often morphologic adaptation by the RV. MRI enables accurate quantification of RV function and structure. In idiopathic PAH, RV dilation and decreased function have been correlated with poor prognosis. Thus, we hypothesize that patients with SCD and a TPG ≥ 12 mmHg would have lower functional capacity, increased mortality, and MRI evidence of RV dysfunction. Materials & Methods: Five hundred and thirty one consecutive patients (age 35.6 ± 12.6, 54% (n=284) female, 73% (n=387) HbSS phenotype) with SCD were prospectively screened for PH using echocardiography (tricuspid regurgitant jet ≥ 2.5 m/s) without any exclusion criteria. Eighty four patients (age 41 ± 13, 55% (n=46) female, 82% (n=69) HbSS phenotype, mean Hb 8.8 ± 1.7) underwent RHC, and forty-one patients (age 42 ± 15, 54% (n=22) female, 80% (n=33) HbSS phenotype, mean Hb 8.9 ± 1.8) underwent cardiac MRI (CMR) within one week of RHC. CMR sequences consisted of cine imaging and late gadolinium enhancement imaging. Results: Of the 84 catheterized patients, forty-six had a TPG ≥ 12 mmHg and 38 had a TPG < 12 mmHg. Of the 41 patients who had both RHC and CMR, twenty-one had a TPG ≥ 12 mmHg and 20 had a TPG < 12 mmHg. Those with a TPG ≥ 12 mmHg had higher mortality (median years from enrollment to death were 4.0 vs. 4.7 years with 21 (46%) deaths in the high TPG group vs. 6 (16%) deaths in the lower TPG group, p=0.008), poorer functional class (p=0.007), shorter 6-minute walk distance (p=0.003), higher pulmonary vascular resistance index (p<0.001), and lower cardiac index (p=0.001). High TPG patients demonstrated significantly more abnormal CMR markers of RV dysfunction, including lower tricuspid annular plane excursion (p=0.001) and RV ejection fraction (p=0.002). High TPG patients also showed a non-significant trend for other markers of RV dysfunction, including higher RV end-diastolic volume index (EDVI) and RV mass index (MI), and lower RV stroke volume index (SVI). Recently validated CMR markers of pulmonary hypertension including septal-to-LV-free-wall curvature ratio (p=0.013), septomarginal trabeculae mass index (p=0.002), and ventricular mass index ratio (p=0.016) were significantly different in the high TPG group. CMR eccentricity index (EI) at end-systole (ES) was significantly greater in the high TPG group (p=0.026) without a significant change between ES and ED (end-diastole), which is consistent with the finding that there is a greater degree of RV pressure overload. In the low TPG group, the EIED was greater than EIES(p=0.001), which supports anemia-related RV volume overload rather than pressure overload. Although the left ventricular (LV) ejection fraction was similar in both groups, parameters indicative of LV dilation such as LV ESVI (p=NS) and EDVI (p=0.006) were more elevated in the low TPG group. Late gadolinium enhancement (LGE) at the RV insertion points indicative of myocardial fibrosis also occurred more frequently in the higher TPG group (p=0.030). Conclusions: A TPG ≥ 12 mmHg effectively identified patients with a lower functional capacity, MRI evidence of RV dysfunction, and overall worse prognosis. The MRI pattern of RV dysfunction in the TPG ≥ 12 mmHg is consistent with RV pressure overload. The TPG, being less subject to the confounding effects of CO, further demonstrates the functional severity of pulmonary arterial disease in SCD using objective thresholds established in the cardiac transplant literature. Disclosures: Off Label Use: Gadolinium contrast is used for late gadolinium enhancement imaging. Arai:Siemens: Dr. Arai is a principal investigator on a US Government Cooperative Research and Development Agreement (CRADA). Other.

The race for speed ruled the early Jet Age on aviation. Aircraft manufacturers chased faster and faster planes in a fight for pride and capability. In the early 1970s, dreamed that the future would be supersonic, but fuel economy and not acceptable noise levels made that era never came. After the 1973 first oil crisis, the paradigm changed. The average cruise speed on newly developed aircraft started to decrease in exchange for improvements in many other performance parameters. At the same pace, the airliner’s powerplants are evolving to look more like a ducted turboprop, and less like a pure jet engine as the pursuit for the higher bypass ratios continues. However, since the birth of jet aircraft, the propeller-driven plane lost its dominant place in the market. Associated with the idea of going back to propeller-driven airplanes, and what it represented in terms of modernity and security, it started a propeller avoidance phenomenon on the travelers and thus on the airlines. Today, even with the modest research effort since the 1980s, the advanced propellers are getting closer efficiencies to the jet-powered engines at their contemporary typical cruise speeds. This paper gives a brief overview of the performance trends in aviation since the last century. Comparison examples between aircraft designed on different paradigms are presented. The use of propellers as a reborn propulsive device is discussed. Keywords: Propeller, Aircraft, Turboprop, Flight efficiency, Flight speed

The fighting in the air-to-air combat and air-to-surface combat represents a relatively new type of combat, happening for a period of only around seventy years. In these years a quick technological advancement took place and caused the development of very primitive weapons to the present beyond the visual range or point-to-shoot capabilities of nowadays aircraft. Though aerial combat fundamentals remained very similar to those in the past, seasoned only by actual combat and exercises for training purposes. Although these standards remained almost untouched, the technological advancement in aircraft design and weapon systems is immense. This applies also to the fighter jet aircraft called F-16. The F-16 is one of the most widespread fighter jets ever produced, if not the most. It is important to improve the aircraft design and its systems for navigation, orientation, and maybe most importantly, its ‘weaponry and surrounding accessories.

The breakup of a liquid jet with length-to-diameter ratio of 22 surrounded by a coaxial flow of air has been examined by a combination of high-speed photography and phase-Doppler velocimetry. The air-to-liquid momentum and kinetic energy ratios, the Reynolds number of the coaxial water and air jet flows and the exit-plane Weber number have been varied over extensive ranges and the results examined in terms of the breakup length, frequency, droplet size distributions and velocity characteristics. The photographs reveal the deterministic nature of the liquid flow at Reynolds numbers which are sufficient to guarantee turbulent flow, with the formation of a wave-like structure for a short distance followed by the formation of a liquid cluster and subsequent breakup into ligaments and droplets, with the entire process repeated in a periodic manner. Attempts are made to relate the breakup length and the frequency of the process to the air-to-liquid momentum and energy ratios, the exit Weber number and the slip velocity between the two streams at the nozzle exit. The results confirm that the ratio of the frequencies of the wave-like structures and breakup decreased with the slip velocity between the two streams and asymptotically approached a value of around one for values higher than 150 m s -1 . The photographs indicate that the droplet sizes in the sprays are due mainly to disintegration of liquid clusters produced after the initial breakup of the liquid jet and the phase Doppler measurements confirm that most of the liquid remained close to the centreline, where the mean diameter reached a maximum and the slip velocity between the droplets and the air flow was low. An atomization model based on the value of the local Weber number on the centreline of the sprays is used to explain the size characteristics of the sprays. The atomization process was affected by the air-to-liquid momentum ratio at the nozzle exit, the annular width of the coaxial atomizer, the liquid-to-air density ratio, the surface tension and the kinematic viscosity and density of the air. The rate of spread of the sprays close to the nozzle reduced with increase of the air and liquid flowrates and was affected by the initial breakup of the liquid jet and the amplitude of the wave-like structure of the liquid jet during breakup rather than by the air flow turbulence.

Background Accelerometry is an emerging option for real-time evaluation of functional capacity in patients with pulmonary arterial hypertension (PAH). This prospective pilot study assesses the relationship between functional capacity by accelerometry and right ventricular measurements on echocardiography for this high-risk cohort. Methods Patients with PAH were prospectively enrolled and underwent 6-Minute Walk Test and cardiopulmonary exercise testing. They were given a Fitbit, which collected steps and sedentary time per day. Echocardiographic data included right ventricular global longitudinal, free wall, and septal strain; tricuspid regurgitant peak velocity; tricuspid annular plane systolic excursion; tricuspid annular plane systolic velocity; right ventricular myocardial performance index; and pulmonary artery acceleration time. Pairwise correlations were performed. Results The final analysis included 22 patients aged 13 to 59 years. Tricuspid regurgitant peak velocity had a negative correlation with 6-Minute Walk Test (r = −0.58, P = .02), peak oxygen consumption on exercise testing (r = −0.56, P = .03), and average daily steps on accelerometry (r = −0.59, P = .03), but a positive correlation with median sedentary time on accelerometry (r = 0.64, P = .02). Pulmonary artery acceleration time positively correlated with peak oxygen consumption on exercise testing (r = 0.64, P = .002). There was no correlation between right ventricular strain measurements and functional capacity testing. Conclusion In this pilot study, tricuspid regurgitant jet and pulmonary artery acceleration time were the echocardiographic variables that correlated most with accelerometry data. With further echocardiographic validation, accelerometry can be a useful, noninvasive, and cost-effective tool to monitor disease progression in patients with PAH.

Purpose With its impact already felt, the construction industry worldwide is gradually reviving following the lifting up of lockdowns amid the COVID-19 pandemic. Though some articles have been written regarding its impact on the construction industry in other countries, much is yet to be known concerning the current impact in Ghana. This study aims to examine the impact of COVID-19 on Ghana’s construction industry and assess how construction companies are contributing to the fight against COVID-19. Design/methodology/approach Semi-structured interviews with nine key professionals working with D1K1 firms currently working on projects of almost similar sizes within the confines of a reputable tertiary institution in Ghana were conducted over a span of three weeks. Thematic analysis was conducted with Nvivo 12 Pro Application software. Findings From the findings, the major impact includes: a decrease in work rate, delays in payments and an increase in the cost of materials arising from border closure. On the measures by construction companies in contributing to the fight against the pandemic, findings indicated: educating the workforce on the virus, the provision of PPEs, regular and effective checks on entry and exit from the site. Practical implications The study is significant, as knowledge of the impact posed by the pandemic will provide some idea of the measures to put in place to ensure the gradual to full recovery of the industry. Originality/value The originality of this study lies in the fact that it is a pioneering study on the impact of COVID-19 on the Ghanaian construction industry.

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

Revolution seen through the eyes of VendéeThis paper aims at reviewing a publication entitled "The Franco-French Genocide. Vendée – the Department of Vengeance" by Reynald Secher. The book touches on the issue of fights between the Republicans and peasants opposing the regime of the revolutionaries. This event’s history has been hushed up. Moreover, it has effectively been removed from the national narrative. Reynald Secher propagates the process of reminding us of those facts. In this review, information on the fights will be contrasted with theories presented by other historians in order to make the reader aware of the whole process’s complexity and of many persistent inaccuracies.Materials collected by the author will be subjected to our analysis. Due to the reconstruction of events by eye-witnesses, previously an underestimated but abundant source of knowledge, the author has learned the truth about the acts of the revolutionary heroes. In Secher's work, the accuracy with which he presents all the issues becomes equally important.Special attention should be paid to the very word “genocide” and its associations. Indeed, the work is not focused on carnage. Instead, it plays a part both as a reminder that carnage did take place, and a presentation of reasons for its occurrence. Rewolucja oczami WandeiNiniejsza praca ma na celu zrecenzowanie publikacji „Ludobójstwo francusko-francuskie. Wandea - Departament Zemsty” Reynalda Sechera. Książka dotyczy walk między republikanami oraz chłopami sprzeciwiającymi się rządom rewolucjonistów. Historia o tym zdarzeniu została wyciszona i skutecznie usunięta z narracji narodowej. Reynald Secher propaguje proces „odpamiętnienie” tamtejszych wydarzeń. W niniejszej recenzji informacje na temat walk zostaną skontrastowane z teoriami prezentowanymi przez innych historyków, aby uświadomić czytelnikowi złożoność całego procesu oraz o wielu wciąż istniejących nieścisłościach.Analizie poddane zostaną zebrane przez autora materiały. Dzięki rekonstrukcji zdarzeń oczami bezpośrednich świadków wydarzeń, będącymi dotąd niedocenioną skarbnicą wiedzy, autor poznał prawdę o czynach bohaterów rewolucji. W pracy Sechera równie ważna staje się szczegółowość, z jaką przedstawia wszystkie elementy.Szczególną uwagę należy przyłożyć do samego słowa „ludobójstwo” i konotacji z nim związanych. Sednem pracy nie jest bowiem przedstawienie rzezi, ale przypomnienie, że miała ona miejsce i zaprezentowanie powodów jej zaistnienia.

0. IntroductionIf we follow the line of much literature surrounding airports and urban mobility, the emphasis often falls on the fact that these spaces are designed to handle the mega-scale and super-human pace of mass transit. Airports have rightly been associated with velocity, as zones of rapid movement managed by enormous processing systems that guide bodies and things in transit (Pascoe; Pearman; Koolhaas; Gordon; Fuller & Harley). Yet this emphasis tends to ignore the spectrum of tempos and flows that are at play in airport terminals — from stillness to the much exalted hyper-rapidity of mobilized publics in the go-go world of commercial aviation.In this photo essay I'd like to pull a different thread and ask whether it's possible to think of aeromobility in terms of “uneven, differential mobility” (Bissell 280). What would it mean to consider waiting and stillness as forms of bodily engagement operating over a number of different scales and temporalities of movement and anticipation, without privileging speed over stillness? Instead of thinking mobility and stillness as diametrically opposed, can we instead conceive of them as occupying a number of different spatio-temporal registers in a dynamic range of mobility? The following is a provisional "visual ethnography" constructed from photographs of air terminal light boxes I have taken over the last five years (in Amsterdam, London, Chicago, Frankfurt, and Miami). Arranged into a "taxonomy of differentiality", each of these images comes from a slightly different angle, mode or directionality. Each view of these still images displayed in billboard-scale light-emitting devices suggests that there are multiple dimensions of visuality and bodily experience at play in these image-objects. The airport is characterized by an abundance of what appears to be empty space. This may be due to the sheer scale of mass transport, but it also arises from a system of active and non-active zones located throughout contemporary terminals. This photo series emphasises the "emptiness" of these overlooked left-over spaces that result from demands of circulation and construction.1. We Move the WorldTo many travellers, airport gate lounges and their surrounding facilities are loaded with a variety of contradictory associations and affects. Their open warehouse banality and hard industrial sterility tune our bodies to the vast technical and commercial systems that are imbricated through almost every aspect of contemporary everyday life.Here at the departure gate the traveller's body comes to a moment's rest. They are granted a short respite from the anxious routines of check in, body scans, security, information processing, passport scanning, itineraries, boarding procedures and wayfaring the terminal. The landside processing system deposits them at this penultimate point before final propulsion into the invisible airways that pipe them into their destination. We hear the broadcasting of boarding times, check-in times, name's of people that break them away from stillness, forcing people to move, to re-arrange themselves, or to hurry up. Along the way the passenger encounters a variety of techno-spatial experiences that sit at odds with the overriding discourse of velocity, speed and efficiency that lie at the centre of our social understanding of air travel. The airline's phantasmagorical projections of itself as guarantor and enabler of mass mobilities coincides uncomfortably with the passenger's own wish-fulfilment of escape and freedom.In this we can agree with the designer Bruce Mau when he suggests that these projection systems, comprised of "openings of every sort — in schedules, in urban space, on clothes, in events, on objects, in sightlines — are all inscribed with the logic of the market” (Mau 7). The advertising slogans and images everywhere communicate the dual concept that the aviation industry can deliver the world to us on time while simultaneously porting us to any part of the world still willing to accept Diners, VISA or American Express. At each point along the way these openings exhort us to stop, to wait in line, to sit still or to be patient. The weird geographies depicted by the light boxes appear like interpenetrating holes in space and time. These travel portals are strangely still, and only activated by the impending promise of movement.Be still and relax. Your destination is on its way. 2. Attentive AttentionAlongside the panoramic widescreen windows that frame the choreography of the tarmac and flight paths outside, appear luminous advertising light boxes. Snapped tightly to grid and locked into strategic sightlines and thoroughfares, these wall pieces are filled with a rotating menu of contemporary airport haiku and ersatz Swiss graphic design.Mechanically conditioned air pumped out of massive tubes creates the atmosphere for a very particular amalgam of daylight, tungsten, and fluorescent light waves. Low-oxygen-emitting indoor plants are no match for the diesel-powered plant rooms that maintain the constant flow of air to every nook and cranny of this massive processing machine. As Rem Koolhaas puts it, "air conditioning has launched the endless building. If architecture separates buildings, air conditioning unites them" (Koolhaas). In Koolhaas's lingo, these are complex "junkspaces" unifying, colliding and coalescing a number of different circulatory systems, temporalities and mobilities.Gillian Fuller reminds us there is a lot of stopping and going and stopping in the global circulatory system typified by air-terminal-space.From the packing of clothes in fixed containers to strapping your belt – tight and low – stillness and all its requisite activities, technologies and behaviours are fundamental to the ‘flow’ architectures that organize the motion of the globalizing multitudes of today (Fuller, "Store" 63). It is precisely this functional stillness organised around the protocols of store and forward that typifies digital systems, the packet switching of network cultures and the junkspace of airports alike.In these zones of transparency where everything is on view, the illuminated windows so proudly brought to us by J C Decaux flash forward to some idealized moment in the future. In this anticipatory moment, the passenger's every fantasy of in-flight service is attended to. The ultimate in attentiveness (think dimmed lights, soft pillows and comfy blankets), this still image is captured from an improbable future suspended behind the plywood and steel seating available in the moment —more reminiscent of park benches in public parks than the silver-service imagined for the discerning traveller.3. We Know ChicagoSelf-motion is itself a demonstration against the earth-binding weight of gravity. If we climb or fly, our defiance is greater (Appleyard 180).The commercial universe of phones, cameras, computer network software, financial instruments, and an array of fancy new gadgets floating in the middle of semi-forgotten transit spaces constitutes a singular interconnected commercial organism. The immense singularity of these claims to knowledge and power loom solemnly before us asserting their rights in the Esperanto of "exclusive rollover minutes", "nationwide long distance", "no roaming charges" and insider local knowledge. The connective tissue that joins one part of the terminal to a commercial centre in downtown Chicago is peeled away, revealing techno-veins and tendrils reaching to the sky. It's a graphic view that offers none of the spectacular openness and flights of fancy associated with the transit lounges located on the departure piers and satellites. Along these circulatory ribbons we experience the still photography and the designer's arrangement of type to attract the eye and lure the body. The blobby diagonals of the telco's logo blend seamlessly with the skyscraper's ribbons of steel, structural exoskeleton and wireless telecommunication cloud.In this plastinated anatomy, the various layers of commercially available techno-space stretch out before the traveller. Here we have no access to the two-way vistas made possible by the gigantic transparent tube structures of the contemporary air terminal. Waiting within the less travelled zones of the circulatory system we find ourselves suspended within the animating system itself. In these arteries and capillaries the flow is spread out and comes close to a halt in the figure of the graphic logo. We know Chicago is connected to us.In the digital logic of packet switching and network effects, there is no reason to privilege the go over the stop, the moving over the waiting. These light box portals do not mirror our bodies, almost at a complete standstill now. Instead they echo the commercial product world that they seek to transfuse us into. What emerges is a new kind of relational aesthetics that speaks to the complex corporeal, temporal, and architectural dimensions of stillness and movement in transit zones: like "a game, whose forms, patterns and functions develop and evolve according to periods and social contexts” (Bourriaud 11). 4. Machine in the CaféIs there a possible line of investigation suggested by the fact that sound waves become visible on the fuselage of jet planes just before they break the sound barrier? Does this suggest that the various human senses are translatable one into the other at various intensities (McLuhan 180)?Here, the technological imaginary contrasts itself with the techno alfresco dining area enclosed safely behind plate glass. Inside the cafes and bars, the best businesses in the world roll out their biggest guns to demonstrate the power, speed and scale of their network coverage (Remmele). The glass windows and light boxes "have the power to arrest a crowd around a commodity, corralling them in chic bars overlooking the runway as they wait for their call, but also guiding them where to go next" (Fuller, "Welcome" 164). The big bulbous plane sits plump in its hangar — no sound barriers broken here. It reassures us that our vehicle is somewhere there in the network, resting at its STOP before its GO. Peeking through the glass wall and sharing a meal with us, this interpenetrative transparency simultaneously joins and separates two planar dimensions — machinic perfection on one hand, organic growth and death on the other (Rowe and Slutsky; Fuller, "Welcome").Bruce Mau is typical in suggesting that the commanding problem of the twentieth century was speed, represented by the infamous image of a US Navy Hornet fighter breaking the sound barrier in a puff of smoke and cloud. It has worked its way into every aspect of the design experience, manufacturing, computation and transport.But speed masks more than it reveals. The most pressing problem facing designers and citizens alike is growth — from the unsustainable logic of infinite growth in GDP to the relentless application of Moore's Law to the digital networks and devices that define contemporary society in the first world. The shift of emphasis from speed to growth as a time-based event with breaking points and moments of rupture has generated new possibilities. "Growth is nonlinear and unpredictable ... Few of us are ready to admit that growth is constantly shadowed by its constitutive opposite, that is equal partners with death” (Mau 497).If speed in part represents a flight from death (Virilio), growth invokes its biological necessity. In his classic study of the persistence of the pastoral imagination in technological America, The Machine in the Garden, Leo Marx charted the urge to idealize rural environments at the advent of an urban industrialised America. The very idea of "the flight from the city" can be understood as a response to the onslaught of technological society and it's deathly shadow. Against the murderous capacity of technological society stood the pastoral ideal, "incorporated in a powerful metaphor of contradiction — a way of ordering meaning and value that clarifies our situation today" (Marx 4). 5. Windows at 35,000 FeetIf waiting and stillness are active forms of bodily engagement, we need to consider the different layers of motion and anticipation embedded in the apprehension of these luminous black-box windows. In The Virtual Window, Anne Friedberg notes that the Old Norse derivation of the word window “emphasizes the etymological root of the eye, open to the wind. The window aperture provides ventilation for the eye” (103).The virtual windows we are considering here evoke notions of view and shelter, open air and sealed protection, both separation from and connection to the outside. These windows to nowhere allow two distinct visual/spatial dimensions to interface, immediately making the visual field more complex and fragmented. Always simultaneously operating on at least two distinct fields, windows-within-windows provide a specialized mode of spatial and temporal navigation. As Gyorgy Kepes suggested in the 1940s, the transparency of windows "implies more than an optical characteristic; it implies a broader spatial order. Transparency means a simultaneous perception of different spatial locations" (Kepes 77).The first windows in the world were openings in walls, without glass and designed to allow air and light to fill the architectural structure. Shutters were fitted to control air flow, moderate light and to enclose the space completely. It was not until the emergence of glass technologies (especially in Holland, home of plate glass for the display of commercial products) that shielding and protection also allowed for unhindered views (by way of transparent glass). This gives rise to the thesis that windows are part of a longstanding architectural/technological system that moderates the dual functions of transparency and separation. With windows, multi-dimensional planes and temporalities can exist in the same time and space — hence a singular point of experience is layered with many other dimensions. Transparency and luminosity "ceases to be that which is perfectly clear and becomes instead that which is clearly ambiguous" (Rowe and Slutsky 45). The light box air-portals necessitate a constant fluctuation and remediation that is at once multi-planar, transparent and "hard to read". They are informatic.From holes in the wall to power lunch at 35,000 feet, windows shape the manner in which light, information, sights, smells, temperature and so on are modulated in society. "By allowing the outside in and the inside out, [they] enable cosmos and construction to innocently, transparently, converge" (Fuller, "Welcome" 163). Laptop, phone, PDA and light box point to the differential mobilities within a matrix that traverses multiple modes of transparency and separation, rest and flight, stillness and speed.6. Can You Feel It?Increasingly the whole world has come to smell alike: gasoline, detergents, plumbing, and junk foods coalesce into the catholic smog of our age (Illich 47).In these forlorn corners of mobile consumption, the dynamic of circulation simultaneously slows and opens out. The surfaces of inscription implore us to see them at precisely the moment we feel unseen, unguided and off-camera. Can you see it, can you feel it, can you imagine the unimaginable, all available to us on demand? Expectation and anticipation give us something to look forward to, but we're not sure we want what's on offer.Air travel radicalizes the separation of the air traveller from ground at one instance and from the atmosphere at another. Air, light, temperature and smell are all screened out or technologically created by the terminal plant and infrastructure. The closer the traveller moves towards stillness, the greater the engagement with senses that may have been ignored by the primacy of the visual in so much of this circulatory space. Smell, hunger, tiredness, cold and hardness cannot be screened out.In this sense, the airplanes we board are terminal extensions, flying air-conditioned towers or groundscrapers jet-propelled into highways of the air. Floating above the horizon, immersed in a set of logistically ordained trajectories and pressurized bubbles, we look out the window and don't see much at all. Whatever we do see, it's probably on the screen in front of us which disconnects us from one space-time-velocity at the same time that it plugs us into another set of relations. As Koolhaas says, junkspace is "held together not by structure, but by skin, like a bubble" (Koolhaas). In these distended bubbles, the traveler momentarily occupies an uncommon transit space where stillness is privileged and velocity is minimized. The traveler's body itself is "engaged in and enacting a whole kaleidoscope of different everyday practices and forms" during the course of this less-harried navigation (Bissell 282).7. Elevator MusicsThe imaginary wheel of the kaleidoscope spins to reveal a waiting body-double occupying the projected territory of what appears to be a fashionable Miami. She's just beyond our reach, but beside her lies a portal to another dimension of the terminal's vascular system.Elevators and the networks of shafts and vents that house them, are to our buildings like veins and arteries to the body — conduits that permeate and structure the spaces of our lives while still remaining separate from the fixity of the happenings around them (Garfinkel 175). The terminal space contains a number of apparent cul-de-sacs and escape routes. Though there's no background music piped in here, another soundtrack can be heard. The Muzak corporation may douse the interior of the elevator with its own proprietary aural cologne, but at this juncture the soundscape is more "open". This functional shifting of sound from figure to ground encourages peripheral hearing, providing "an illusion of distended time", sonically separated from the continuous hum of "generators, ventilation systems and low-frequency electrical lighting" (Lanza 43).There is another dimension to this acoustic realm: “The mobile ecouteur contracts the flows of information that are supposed to keep bodies usefully and efficiently moving around ... and that turn them into functions of information flows — the speedy courier, the networking executive on a mobile phone, the scanning eyes of the consumer” (Munster 18).An elevator is a grave says an old inspector's maxim, and according to others, a mechanism to cross from one world to another. Even the quintessential near death experience with its movement down a long illuminated tunnel, Garfinkel reminds us, “is not unlike the sensation of movement we experience, or imagine, in a long swift elevator ride” (Garfinkel 191).8. States of SuspensionThe suspended figure on the screen occupies an impossible pose in an impossible space: half falling, half resting, an anti-angel for today's weary air traveller. But it's the same impossible space revealed by the airport and bundled up in the experience of flight. After all, the dimension this figures exists in — witness the amount of activity in his suspension — is almost like a black hole with the surrounding universe collapsing into it. The figure is crammed into the light box uncomfortably like passengers in the plane, and yet occupies a position that does not exist in the Cartesian universe.We return to the glossy language of advertising, its promise of the external world of places and products delivered to us by the image and the network of travel. (Remmele) Here we can go beyond Virilio's vanishing point, that radical reversibility where inside and outside coincide. Since everybody has already reached their destination, for Virilio it has become completely pointless to leave: "the inertia that undermines your corporeity also undermines the GLOBAL and the LOCAL; but also, just as much, the MOBILE and the IMMOBILE” (Virilio 123; emphasis in original).In this clinical corner of stainless steel, glass bricks and exit signs hangs an animated suspension that articulates the convergence of a multitude of differentials in one image. Fallen into the weirdest geometry in the world, it's as if the passenger exists in a non-place free of all traces. Flows and conglomerates follow one another, accumulating in the edges, awaiting their moment to be sent off on another trajectory, occupying so many spatio-temporal registers in a dynamic range of mobility.ReferencesAppleyard, Donald. "Motion, Sequence and the City." The Nature and Art of Motion. Ed. Gyorgy Kepes. New York: George Braziller, 1965. Adey, Peter. "If Mobility Is Everything Then It Is Nothing: Towards a Relational Politics of (Im)mobilities." Mobilities 1.1 (2006): 75–95. Bissell, David. “Animating Suspension: Waiting for Mobilities.” Mobilities 2.2 (2007): 277-298.Bourriaud, Nicolas. Relational Aesthetics. Trans. Simon Pleasance and Fronza Woods. Paris: Les Presses du Reel, 2002. Classen, Constance. “The Deodorized City: Battling Urban Stench in the Nineteenth Century.” Sense of the City: An Alternate Approach to Urbanism. Ed. Mirko Zardini. 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Taking into account the global conjuncture at the modern stage, innovations and cognitive thinking play a key role in the effective development of small and medium-sized businesses. The rapid development of digital technologies and the emergence of diverse digital platforms gave an impetus to the transformation of entrepreneurial behavior and the conduct of entrepreneurial activities from the real to the virtual sphere. A special sector of private business - small and medium enterprises play an important role in the development of the economy and contribute significantly to ensuring sustainable and inclusive economic growth. Small and medium-sized enterprises, with the potential of employment growth and job creation, as well as their contribution to the development and growth of the economy, can be the cornerstone of the economy of any country in the world. The impact of the COVID-19 pandemic on small businesses since December 2019 and the need to adapt to new conditions has created an urgent objective need for the introduction of digital technologies and the urgency of effective use. Any force majeure circumstances: natural disasters, wars, social conflicts, epidemics and especially global pandemics have a significant impact on the long-term development of society and people's lifestyle. While the current COVID-19 pandemic is not the first in recent history, it is the first pandemic in the era of digital entrepreneurship, where the majority of our business models and value-creating enterprises are based in one way or another on digital communication and the internet. From the 20s of the 21st century, business began to move from the traditional non-virtual model, where a physical place needed to conduct business activities, to a digital model, where web sites and e-commerce platforms are increasingly used for daily business operations. The measures to contain the COVID-19 pandemic (strict isolation, social distancing, etc.) have fundamentally changed the economic and business landscape, accelerating the transition to predominantly digital business models in many regions of the world, as firms in the small business sector sought to reduce risks and maintain operations in the face of COVID-19. In the post-pandemic world caused by Digital technologies have begun to play a key role in the development of small businesses, with the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic highlighting the relevance of its use, as digital technologies have become the focus of attention and become a driving force for economic development. Despite the rapid growth of digital entrepreneurship, the transition to the 5th and 6th technological modes, the digitalization processes were significantly accelerated by the global pandemic of COVID-19, which stimulated the development and implementation of digital technologies not only in large, but also in small and medium-sized businesses. In order to determine the main trends in the transformation of small business models during the global pandemic, it is necessary to take into account the general processes of digitization in the previous quarantine period in order to reveal the dynamics of the introduction of digital technologies in the development of small enterprises using analysis and comparative methods. To identify the main trends in the use and development of digital technologies in the field of small businesses during the global pandemic, while focusing on the main changes that have taken place in the activities of small businesses during the COVID-19 pandemic. As a result of the research, the main changes and trends that occurred in the activity of small businesses during the COVID-19 pandemic were identified, and actual conclusions were formed on the possible directions of the development of small and medium businesses in the new reality using digital technologies. The COVID-19 pandemic has contributed to the digitization of small businesses, mainly due to the forced need to switch to remote work and use digital technologies not only to keep in touch with employees, but also to maintain close contact and trust with customers. Nevertheless, managers have not yet tried actively investing financial resources in training employees, mastering digital technologies at a high level, and developing information security, because historically the main problem on the way to digitization is the lack of financial resources, which has become especially acute during the global pandemic, both in developed and developing countries. Undoubtedly, it should be taken into account that it is impossible to establish universal methods to overcome the existing barriers and develop the digital component of small business, because each company must develop its own individual strategy. Taking into account the existing digital capabilities, budget, business culture, etc. digitization of small businesses does not need to radically change business models, as digital transformation can be implemented gradually and at different levels according to changes. Along with the fight against the global pandemic crisis in different ways, the new reality has created the need for remote work and telecommunications for business. A third of small and medium enterprises turned out to be fully ready for these challenges. It should also be mentioned that as the size of the companies increases, the business infrastructure and digital technologies for effective work in remote mode (on line) are greater. In the face of a global pandemic, small business enterprises can choose three paths: accelerate digitization, digitize sales functions, and find digital partners to go to market. The decision to choose one of the three digital transformation options is determined by the current level of digital maturity, business culture and history of digital technology adoption. We believe that digitalization of sales functions is essential in any scenario. It should be noted here that the movement towards the digital future is a purely individual approach for a specific business, regardless of the unity of strategies. Along with the recommendations to be considered, the digitization of small businesses and the minimization of losses as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic require significant support from the state. In the age of digital technologies, one of the main priorities of any country in the world is the development of digital entrepreneurship and society based on cognitive skills through digital technologies. Keywords: Global Pandemic, COVID-19 pandemic, small business crisis management, digital and cognitive technologies, e-commerce, digitization. JEL Codes: M20, M21, M29

IntroductionWhat can we learn about anomaly from the strangeness of a puppet, a lifeless object, that can both bleed and die? How does the filming process of a puppet’s death engage across media and produce a new media genre that is not easily classified within traditional conventions? Why do these fighting and bleeding puppets’ scenes consistently attract audiences? This study examines how Pili puppetry (1984-present), a popular TV series depicting martial arts-based narratives and fight sequences, interacts with digital technologies and constructs a new media genre. The transmedia constitution of a virtual world not only challenges the stereotype of puppetry’s target audience but also expands the audience’s bodily imagination and desires through the visual component of death scenes. Hence, the show does not merely represent or signify an anomaly, but even creates anomalous desires and imaginary bodies.Cultural commodification and advancing technologies have motivated the convergence and displacement of traditional boundaries, genres, and media, changing the very fabric of textuality itself. By exploring how new media affect the audience’s visual reception of fighting and death, this article sheds light on understanding the metamorphoses of Taiwanese puppetry and articulates a theoretical argument regarding the show’s artistic practice to explain how its form transverses traditional boundaries. This critical exploration focusses on how the form represents bleeding puppets, and in doing so, explicates the politics of transmedia performing and viewing. Pili is an example of an anomalous media form that proliferates anomalous media viewing experiences and desires in turn.Beyond a Media Genre: Taiwanese Pili PuppetryConverging the craft technique of puppeteering and digital technology of filmmaking and animation, Pili puppetry creates a new media genre that exceeds any conventional idea of a puppet show or digital puppet, as it is something in-between. Glove puppetry is a popular traditional theatre in Taiwan, often known as “theatre in the palm” because a traditional puppet was roughly the same size as an adult’s palm. The size enabled the puppeteer to easily manipulate a puppet in one hand and be close to the audience. Traditionally, puppet shows occurred to celebrate the local deities’ birthday. Despite its popularity, the form was limited by available technology. For instance, although stories with vigorous battles were particularly popular, bleeding scenes in such an auspicious occasion were inappropriate and rare. As a live theatrical event featuring immediate interaction between the performer and the spectator, realistic bleeding scenes were rare because it is hard to immediately clean the stage during the performance. Distinct from the traditional puppet show, digital puppetry features semi-animated puppets in a virtual world. Digital puppetry is not a new concept by any means in the Western film industry. Animating a 3D puppet is closely associated with motion capture technologies and animation that are manipulated in a digitalised virtual setting (Ferguson). Commonly, the target audience of the Western digital puppetry is children, so educators sometimes use digital puppetry as a pedagogical tool (Potter; Wohlwend). With these young target audience in mind, the producers often avoid violent and bleeding scenes.Pili puppetry differs from digital puppetry in several ways. For instance, instead of targeting a young audience, Pili puppetry consistently extends the traditional martial-arts performance to include bloody fight sequences that enrich the expressiveness of traditional puppetry as a performing art. Moreover, Pili puppetry does not apply the motion capture technologies to manipulate the puppet’s movement, thus retaining the puppeteers’ puppeteering craft (clips of Pili puppetry can be seen on Pili’s official YouTube page). Hence, Pili is a unique hybrid form, creating its own anomalous space in puppetry. Among over a thousand characters across the series, the realistic “human-like” puppet is one of Pili’s most popular selling points. The new media considerably intervene in the puppet design, as close-up shots and high-resolution images can accurately project details of a puppet’s face and body movements on the screen. Consequently, Pili’s puppet modelling becomes increasingly intricate and attractive and arguably makes its virtual figures more epic yet also more “human” (Chen). Figure 1: Su Huan-Jen in the TV series Pili Killing Blade (1993). His facial expressions were relatively flat and rigid then. Reproduced with permission of Pili International Multimedia Company.Figure 2: Su Huan-Jen in the TV series Pili Nine Thrones (2003). The puppet’s facial design and costume became more delicate and complex. Reproduced with permission of Pili International Multimedia Company.Figure 3: Su Huan-Jen in the TV series Pili Fantasy: War of Dragons (2019). His facial lines softened due to more precise design technologies. The new lightweight chiffon yarn costumes made him look more elegant. The multiple-layer costumes also created more space for puppeteers to hide behind the puppet and enact more complicated manipulations. Reproduced with permission of Pili International Multimedia Company.The design of the most well-known Pili swordsman, Su Huan-Jen, demonstrates how the Pili puppet modelling became more refined and intricate in the past 20 years. In 1993, the standard design was a TV puppet with the size and body proportion slightly enlarged from the traditional puppet. Su Huan-Jen’s costumes were made from heavy fabrics, and his facial expressions were relatively flat and rigid (fig. 1). Pili produced its first puppetry film Legend of the Sacred Stone in 2000; considering the visual quality of a big screen, Pili refined the puppet design including replacing wooden eyeballs and plastic hair with real hair and glass eyeballs (Chen). The filmmaking experience inspired Pili to dramatically improve the facial design for all puppets. In 2003, Su’s modelling in Pili Nine Thrones (TV series) became noticeably much more delicate. The puppet’s size was considerably enlarged by almost three times, so a puppeteer had to use two hands to manipulate a puppet. The complex costumes and props made more space for puppeteers to hide behind the puppet and enrich the performance of the fighting movements (fig. 2). In 2019, Su’s new modelling further included new layers of lightweight fabrics, and his makeup and props became more delicate and complex (fig. 3). Such a refined aesthetic design also lends to Pili’s novelty among puppetry performances.Through the transformation of Pili in the context of puppetry history, we see how the handicraft-like puppet itself gradually commercialised into an artistic object that the audience would yearn to collect and project their bodily imagination. Anthropologist Teri Silvio notices that, for some fans, Pili puppets are similar to worship icons through which they project their affection and imaginary identity (Silvio, “Pop Culture Icons”). Intermediating with the new media, the change in the refined puppet design also comes from the audience’s expectations. Pili’s senior puppet designer Fan Shih-Ching mentioned that Pili fans are very involved, so their preferences affect the design of puppets. The complexity, particularly the layer of costumes, most clearly differentiates the aesthetics of traditional and Pili puppets. Due to the “idolisation” of some famous Pili characters, Shih-Ching has had to design more and more gaudy costumes. Each resurgence of a well-known Pili swordsman, such as Su Huan-Jen, Yi Ye Shu, and Ye Hsiao-Chai, means he has to remodel the puppet.Pili fans represent their infatuation for puppet characters through cosplay (literally “costume play”), which is when fans dress up and pretend to be a Pili character. Their cosplay, in particular, reflects the bodily practice of imaginary identity. Silvio observes that most cosplayers choose to dress as characters that are the most visually appealing rather than characters that best suit their body type. They even avoid moving too “naturally” and mainly move from pose-to-pose, similar to the frame-to-frame techne of animation. Thus, we can understand this “cosplay more as reanimating the character using the body as a kind of puppet rather than as an embodied performance of some aspect of self-identity” (Silvio 2019, 167). Hence, Pili fans’ cosplay is indicative of an anomalous desire to become the puppet-like human, which helps them transcend their social roles in their everyday life. It turns out that not only fans’ preference drives the (re)modelling of puppets but also fans attempt to model themselves in the image of their beloved puppets. The reversible dialectic between fan-star and flesh-object further provokes an “anomaly” in terms of the relationship between the viewers and the puppets. Precisely because fans have such an intimate relationship with Pili, it is important to consider how the series’ content and form configure fans’ viewing experience.Filming Bleeding PuppetsDespite its intricate aesthetics, Pili is still a series with frequent fighting-to-the-death scenes, which creates, and is the result of, extraordinary transmedia production and viewing experiences. Due to the market demand of producing episodes around 500 minutes long every month, Pili constantly creates new characters to maintain the audience’s attention and retain its novelty. So far, Pili has released thousands of characters. To ensure that new characters supersede the old ones, numerous old characters have to die within the plot.The adoption of new media allows the fighting scenes in Pili to render as more delicate, rather than consisting of loud, intense action movements. Instead, the leading swordsmen’s death inevitably takes place in a pathetic and romantic setting and consummates with a bloody sacrifice. Fighting scenes in early Pili puppetry created in the late 1980s were still based on puppets’ body movements, as the knowledge and technology of animation were still nascent and underdeveloped. At that time, the prestigious swordsman mainly relied on the fast speed of brandishing his sword. Since the early 1990s, as animation technology matured, it has become very common to see Pili use CGI animation to create a damaging sword beam for puppets to kill target enemies far away. The sword beam can fly much faster than the puppets can move, so almost every fighting scene employs CGI to visualise both sword beams and flame. The change in fighting manners provokes different representations of the bleeding and death scenes. Open wounds replace puncture wounds caused by a traditional weapon; bleeding scenes become typical, and a special feature in Pili’s transmedia puppetry.In addition to CGI animation, the use of fake blood in the Pili studio makes the performance even more realistic. Pili puppet master Ting Chen-Ching recalled that exploded puppets in traditional puppetry were commonly made by styrofoam blocks. The white styrofoam chips that sprayed everywhere after the explosion inevitably made the performance seem less realistic. By contrast, in the Pili studio, the scene of a puppet spurting blood after the explosion usually applies the technology of editing several shots. The typical procedure would be a short take that captures a puppet being injured. In its injury location, puppeteers sprinkle red confetti to represent scattered blood clots in the following shot. Sometimes the fake blood was splashed with the red confetti to make it further three-dimensional (Ting). Bloody scenes can also be filmed through multiple layers of arranged performance conducted at the same time by a group of puppeteers. Ting describes the practice of filming a bleeding puppet. Usually, some puppeteers sprinkle fake blood in front of the camera, while other puppeteers blasted the puppets toward various directions behind the blood to make the visual effects match. If the puppeteers need to show how a puppet becomes injured and vomits blood during the fight, they can install tiny pipes in the puppet in advance. During the filming, the puppeteer slowly squeezes the pipe to make the fake blood flow out from the puppet’s mouth. Such a bloody scene sometimes accompanies tears dropping from the puppet’s eyes. In some cases, the puppeteer drops the blood on the puppet’s mouth prior to the filming and then uses a powerful electric fan to blow the blood drops (Ting). Such techniques direct the blood to flow laterally against the wind, which makes the puppet’s death more aesthetically tragic. Because it is not a live performance, the puppeteer can try repeatedly until the camera captures the most ideal blood drop pattern and bleeding speed. Puppeteers have to adjust the camera distance for different bleeding scenes, which creates new modes of viewing, sensing, and representing virtual life and death. One of the most representative examples of Pili’s bleeding scenes is when Su’s best friend, Ching Yang-Zi, fights with alien devils in Legend of the Sacred Stone. (The clip of how Ching Yang-Zi fights and bleeds to death can be seen on YouTube.) Ting described how Pili prepared three different puppets of Ching for the non-fighting, fighting, and bleeding scenes (Ting). The main fighting scene starts from a low-angle medium shot that shows how Ching Yang-Zi got injured and began bleeding from the corner of his mouth. Then, a sharp weapon flies across the screen; the following close-up shows that the weapon hits Ching and he begins bleeding immediately. The successive shots move back and forth between his face and the wound in medium shot and close-up. Next, a close-up shows him stepping back with blood dripping on the ground. He then pushes the weapon out of his body to defend enemies; a final close-up follows a medium take and a long take shows the massive hemorrhage. The eruption of fluid plasma creates a natural effect that is difficult to achieve, even with 3D animation. Beyond this impressive technicality, the exceptional production and design emphasise how Pili fully embraces the ethos of transmedia: to play with multiple media forms and thereby create a new form. In the case of Pili, its form is interactive, transcending the boundaries of what we might consider the “living” and the “dead”.Epilogue: Viewing Bleeding Puppets on the ScreenThe simulated, high-quality, realistic-looking puppet designs accompanying the Pili’s featured bloody fighting sequence draw another question: What is the effect of watching human-like puppets die? What does this do to viewer-fans? Violence is prevalent throughout the historical record of human behaviour, especially in art and entertainment because these serve as outlets to fulfill a basic human need to indulge in “taboo fantasies” and escape into “realms of forbidden experience” (Schechter). When discussing the visual representations of violence and the spectacle of the sufferings of others, Susan Sontag notes, “if we consider what emotions would be desirable” (102), viewing the pain of others may not simply evoke sympathy. She argues that “[no] moral charge attaches to the representation of these cruelties. Just the provocation: can you look at this? There is the satisfaction of being able to look at the image without flinching. There is the pleasure of flinching” (41). For viewers, the boldness of watching the bloody scenes can be very inviting. Watching human-like puppets die in the action scenes similarly validates the viewer’s need for pleasure and entertainment. Although different from a human body, the puppets still bears the materiality of being-object. Therefore, watching the puppets bleeding and die as distinctly “human-like’ puppets further prevent viewers’ from feeling guilty or morally involved. The conceptual distance of being aware of the puppet’s materiality acts as a moral buffer; audiences are intimately involved through the particular aesthetic arrangement, yet morally detached. The transmedia filming of puppetry adds another layer of mediation over the human-like “living” puppets that allows such a particular experience. Sontag notices that the media generates an inevitable distance between object and subject, between witness and victim. For Sontag, although images constitute “the imaginary proximity” because it makes the “faraway sufferers” be “seen close-up on the television screen”, it is a mystification to assume that images serve as a direct link between sufferers and viewers. Rather, Sontag insists: the distance makes the viewers feel “we are not accomplices to what caused the suffering. Our sympathy proclaims our innocence as well as our impotence” (102). Echoing Sontag’s argument, Jeffrey Goldstein points out that “distancing” oneself from the mayhem represented in media makes it tolerable. Media creates an “almost real” visuality of violence, so the audience feels relatively safe in their surroundings when exposed to threatening images. Thus, “violent imagery must carry cues to its unreality or it loses appeal” (280). Pili puppets that are human-like, thus not human, more easily enable the audience to seek sensational excitement through viewing puppets’ bloody violence and eventual death on the screen and still feel emotionally secure. Due to the distance granted by the medium, viewers gain a sense of power by excitedly viewing the violence with an accompanying sense of moral exemption. Thus, viewers can easily excuse the limits of their personal responsibility while still being captivated by Pili’s boundary-transgressing aesthetic.The anomalous power of Pili fans’ cosplay differentiates the viewing experience of puppets’ deaths from that of other violent entertainment productions. Cosplayers physically bridge viewing/acting and life/death by dressing up as the puppet characters, bringing them to life, as flesh. Cosplay allows fans to compensate for the helplessness they experience when watching the puppets’ deaths on the screen. They can both “enjoy” the innocent pleasure of watching bleeding puppets and bring their adored dead idols “back to life” through cosplay. The onscreen violence and death thus provide an additional layer of pleasure for such cosplayers. They not only take pleasure in watching the puppets—which are an idealized version of their bodily imagination—die, but also feel empowered to revitalise their loved idols. Therefore, Pili cosplayers’ desires incite a cycle of life, pleasure, and death, in which the company responds to their consumers’ demands in kind. The intertwining of social, economic, and political factors thus collectively thrives upon media violence as entertainment. Pili creates the potential for new cross-media genre configurations that transcend the traditional/digital puppetry binary. On the one hand, the design of swordsman puppets become a simulation of a “living object” responding to the camera distance. On the other hand, the fighting and death scenes heavily rely on the puppeteers’ cooperation with animation and editing. Therefore, Pili puppetry enriches existing discourse on both puppetry and animation as life-giving processes. What is animated by Pili puppetry is not simply the swordsmen characters themselves, but new potentials for media genres and violent entertainment. AcknowledgmentMy hearty gratitude to Amy Gaeta for sharing her insights with me on the early stage of this study.ReferencesChen, Jasmine Yu-Hsing. “Transmuting Tradition: The Transformation of Taiwanese Glove Puppetry in Pili Productions.” Journal of the Oriental Society of Australia 51 (2019): 26-46.Ferguson, Jeffrey. “Lessons from Digital Puppetry: Updating a Design Framework for a Perceptual User Interface.” IEEE International Conference on Computer and Information Technology, 2015.Goldstein, Jeffrey. “The Attractions of Violent Entertainment.” Media Psychology 1.3 (1999): 271-282.Potter, Anna. “Funding Contemporary Children’s Television: How Digital Convergence Encourages Retro Reboot.” International Journal on Communications Management 19.2 (2017): 108-112.Schechter, Harold. Savage Pastimes: A Cultural History of Violent Entertainment. New York: St. Martin’s, 2005.Silvio, Teri. “Pop Culture Icons: Religious Inflections of the Character Toy in Taiwan.” Mechademia 3.1 (2010): 200-220.———. Puppets, Gods, and Brands: Theorizing the Age of Animation from Taiwan. Honolulu: U Hawaii P, 2019. Sontag, Susan. Regarding the Pain of Others. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2004.Ting, Chen-Ching. Interview by the author. Yunlin, Taiwan. 24 June 2019.Wohlwend, Karen E. “One Screen, Many Fingers: Young Children's Collaborative Literacy Play with Digital Puppetry Apps and Touchscreen Technologies.” Theory into Practice 54.2 (2015): 154-162.

The first time I read Hélène Cixous’s The Laugh of the Medusa I swooned. I wanted to write the whole thing out, large, and black, and pin it across an entire wall. I was 32 and vulnerable around polemic texts (I was always copying out quotes and sticking them to my walls, trying to hold onto meaning, unable to let the writing I read slip out and away). You must "write your self, your body must be heard" (Cixous 880), I read, as if for the hundredth time, even though it was the first. Those decades old words had an echoing, a resonance to them, as if each person who had read them had left their own mnemonic mark there, so that by the time they reached me, they struck, immediately, at my core (not the heart or the spine, or even the gut, but somewhere stickier; some pulsing place in amongst my organs, somewhere not touched, a space forgotten). The body that read The Laugh was so big its knees had trouble lifting it from chairs (“more body, hence more writing”, Cixous 886), and was soon to have its gallbladder taken. Its polycystic ovaries dreamed, lumpily and without much hope, of zygotes. The body that read The Laugh was a wobbling thing, sheathed in fat (as if this could protect it), with a yearning for sveltness, for muscle, for strength. Cixous sang through its cells, and called it to itself. The body that read The Laugh wrote itself back. It spoke about dungeons, and walls that had collected teenaged fists, and needles that turned it somnambulant and concave and warm until it was not. It wrote trauma in short and staggering sentences (out, get it out) as if narrative could save it from a fat-laden and static decline. Text leaked from tissue and bone, out through fingers and onto the page, and in increments so small I did not notice them, the body took its place. I was, all-of-a-sudden, more than my head. And then the body that read The Laugh performed the ultimate coup, and conceived.The body wrote then about its own birth, and the birth of its mother, and when its own children were born, of course, of course, about them. “Oral drive, anal drive, vocal drive–all these drives are our strengths, and among them is the gestation drive–all just like the desire to write: a desire to live self from within, a desire for the swollen belly, for language, for blood” (Cixous 891). The fat was gone, and in its place this other tissue, that later would be he. What I know now is that the body gets what the body wants. What I know now is that the body will tell its story, because if you “censor the body [… then] you censor breath and speech at the same time” (Cixous 880).I am trying to find a beginning. Because where is the place where I start? I was never a twinkle in my mother’s eye. It was the seventies. She was 22 and then 23–there was nothing planned about me. Her eyes a flinty green, hair long and straight. When I think of her then I remember this photo: black and white on the thick photo paper that is hard to get now. No shiny oblong spat from a machine, this paper was pulled in and out of three chemical trays and hung, dripping, in a dark red room to show me a woman in a long white t-shirt and nothing else. She stares straight out at me. On the shirt is a women’s symbol with a fist in the middle of it. Do you know the one? It might have been purple (the symbol I mean). When I think of her then I see her David Bowie teeth, the ones she hated, and a packet of Drum tobacco with Tally-Hos tucked inside, and some of the scars on her forearms, but not all of them, not yet. I can imagine her pregnant with me, the slow gait, that fleshy weight dragging at her spine and pelvis. She told me the story of my birth every year on my birthday. She remembers what day of the week the contractions started. The story is told with a kind of glory in the detail, with a relishing of small facts. I do the same with my children now. I was delivered by forceps. The dent in my skull, up above my right ear, was a party trick when I was a teenager, and an annoyance when I wanted to shave my head down to the bone at 18. Just before Jem was born, I discovered a second dent behind my left ear. My skull holds the footprint of those silver clamps. My bones say here, and here, this is where I was pulled from you. I have seen babies being born this way. They don’t slide out all sealish and purple and slippy. They are pulled. The person holding the forcep handles uses their whole body weight to yank that baby out. It makes me squirm, all that pulling, those tiny neck bones concertinaing out, the silver scoops sinking into the skull and leaving prints, like a warm spoon in dough. The urgency of separation, of the need to make two things from one. After Jem was born he lay on my chest for hours. As the placenta was birthed he weed on me. I felt the warm trickle down my side and was glad. There was nothing so right as my naked body making a bed for his. I lay in a pool of wet (blood and lichor and Jem’s little wee) and the midwives pushed towels under me so I wouldn’t get cold. He sucked. White waffle weave blankets over both of us. That bloody nest. I lay in it and rested my free hand on his vernix covered back; the softest thing I had ever touched. We basked in the warm wet. We basked. How do I sew theory into this writing? Julia Kristeva especially, whose Stabat Mater describes those early moments of holding the one who was inside and then out so perfectly that I am left silent. The smell of milk, dew-drenched greenery, sour and clear, a memory of wind, of air, of seaweed (as if a body lived without waste): it glides under my skin, not stopping at the mouth or nose but caressing my veins, and stripping the skin from the bones fills me like a balloon full of ozone and I plant my feet firmly on the ground in order to carry him, safe, stable, unuprootable, while he dances in my neck, floats with my hair, looks right and left for a soft shoulder, “slips on the breast, swingles, silver vivid blossom of my belly” and finally flies up from my navel in his dream, borne by my hands. My son (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 141). Is theory more important than this? The smell of milk (dried, it is soursweet and will draw any baby to you, nuzzling and mewling), which resides alongside the Virgin Mother and the semiotics of milk and tears. The language of fluid. While the rest of this writing, the stories not of mothers and babies, but one mother and one baby, came out smooth and fast, as soon as I see or hear or write that word, theory, I slow. I am concerned with the placement of things. I do not have the sense of being free. But if there’s anything that should come from this vain attempt to answer Cixous, to “write your self. Your body must be heard” (880), it should be that freedom and theory, boundary-lessness, is where I reside. If anything should come from this, it is the knowing that theory is the most creative pursuit, and that creativity will always speak to theory. There are fewer divisions than any of us realise, and the leakiness of bodies, of this body, will get me there. The smell of this page is of lichor; a clean but heady smell, thick with old cells and a foetus’s breath. The smell of this page is of blood and saliva and milk mixed (the colour like rotten strawberries or the soaked pad at the bottom of your tray of supermarket mince). It is a smell that you will secretly savour, breathe deeply, and then long for lemon zest or the sharpness of coffee beans to send away that angelic fug. That milk and tears have a language of their own is undeniable. Kristeva says they are “metaphors of non-language, of a ‘semiotic’ that does not coincide with linguistic communication” (Stabat Mater 143) but what I know is that these fluids were the first language for my children. Were they the first language for me? Because “it must be true: babies drink language along with the breastmilk: Curling up over their tongues while they take siestas–Mots au lait, verbae cum lacta, palabros con leche” (Wasserman quoted in Giles 223). The enduring picture I have of myself as an infant is of a baby who didn’t cry, but my mother will tell you a different story, in the way that all of us do. She will tell you I didn’t smile until I was five months old (Soli and Jem were both beaming at three months). Born six weeks premature, my muscles took longer to find their place, to assemble themselves under my skin. She will tell you I screamed in the night, because all babies do. Is this non-language? Jem was unintelligible much of the time. I felt as if I was holding a puzzle. Three o’clock in the morning, having tried breastfeeds, a bath with Nick Drake’s Pink Moon, bouncing him in a baby sling on the fitball (wedged into a corner so that if I nodded off I would hopefully swoon backwards, and the wall would wake me), walking him around and around while rocking and singing, then breastfeeding again, and still he did not sleep, and still he cried and clawed at my cheeks and shoulders and wrists and writhed; I could not guess at what it was he needed. I had never been less concerned with the self that was me. I was all breasts and milk and a craving for barbecued chicken and watermelon at three in the morning because he was drinking every ounce of energy I had. I was arms and a voice. I was food. And then I learnt other things; about let downs and waking up in pools of the stuff. Wet. Everywhere. “Lactating bodies tend towards anarchy” (Bartlett 163). Any body will tend towards anarchy – there is so much to keep in – but there are only so many openings a person can keep track of, and breastfeeding meant a kind of levelling up, meant I was as far from clean and proper as I possibly could be (Kristeva, Powers of Horror 72).In the nights I was not alone. Caren could not breastfeed him, but could do everything else, and never said I have to work tomorrow, because she knew I was working too. During waking hours I watched him constantly for those mystical tired signs, which often were hungry signs, which quickly became overtired signs. There was no figuring it out. But Soli, with Soli, I knew. The language of babies had been sung into my bones. There is a grammar in crying, a calling out and telling, a way of knowing that is older than I’ll ever be. Those tiny bodies are brimming with semiotics. Knees pulled up is belly ache, arching is tired, a look to the side I-want-that-take-me-there-not-there. There. Curling in, the whole of him, is don’t-look-at-me-now-hands-away. Now he is one he uses his hands to tell me what he wants. Sign language because I sign and so, then, does he, but also an emphatic placing of my hands on his body or toys, utensils, swings, things. In the early hours of a Wednesday morning I tried to stroke his head, to close his wide-open eyes with my fingertips. He grabbed my hand and moved it to his chest before I could alight on the bridge of his nose. And yesterday he raised his arm into the air, then got my hand and placed it into his raised hand, then stood, and led me down to the laundry to play with the dustpan and broom. His body, literally, speaks.This is the language of mothers and babies. It is laid down in the darkest part of the night. Laid down like memory, like dreams, stitched into tiredness and circled with dread adrenalin and fear. It will never stop. That baby will cry and I will stare owl-eyed into the dark and bend my cracking knees (don’t shake the baby it will only make it worse don’t shake don’t). These babies will grow into children and then adults who will never remember those screaming nights, cots like cages, a stuffed toy pushed on them as if it could replace the warmth of skin and breath (please, please, little bear, replace the warmth of skin and breath). I will never remember it, but she will. They will never remember it, but we will. Kristeva says too that mothers are in a “catastrophe of identity which plunges the proper Name into that ‘unnameable’ that somehow involves our imaginary representations of femininity, non-language, or the body” (Stabat Mater 134). A catastrophe of identity. The me and the not-me. In the night, with a wrapped baby and aching biceps, the I-was batting quietly at the I-am. The I-am is all body. Arms to hold and bathe and change him, milk to feed him, a voice to sing and soothe him. The I-was is a different beast, made of words and books, uninterrupted conversation and the kind of self-obsession and autonomy I didn’t know existed until it was gone. Old friends stopped asking me about my day. They asked Caren, who had been at work, but not me. It did not matter that she was a woman; in this, for most people we spoke to, she was the public and I was the private, her work mattered and mine did not. Later she would commiserate and I would fume, but while it was happening, it was near impossible to contest. A catastrophe of identity. In a day I had fed and walked and cried and sung and fed and rocked and pointed and read books with no words and rolled inane balls across the lounge room floor and washed and sung and fed. I had circled in and around while the sun traced its arc. I had waited with impatience for adult company. I had loved harder than I ever had before. I had metamorphosed and nobody noticed. Nobody noticed. A catastrophe of identity it was, but the noise and visibility that the word catastrophe invokes was entirely absent. And where was the language to describe this peeling inside out? I was burnished bright by those sleepless nights, by the requirement of the I-am. And in those nights I learned what my mother already knew. That having children is a form of grief. That we lose. But that we gain. At 23, what’s lost is possibility. She must have seen her writer’s life drilling down to nothing. She knew that Sylvia Plath had placed her head, so carefully on its pillow, in that gas filled place. No pungent metaphor, just a poet, a mother, who could not continue. I had my babies at 34 and 36. I knew some of what I would lose, but had more than I needed. My mother had started out with not enough, and so was left concave and edged with desperation as she made her way through inner-city Sydney’s grime, her children singing from behind her wait for me, wait for me, Mama please wait for me, I’m going just as fast as I can.Nothing could be more ‘normal’ than that a maternal image should establish itself on the site of that tempered anguish known as love. No one is spared. Except perhaps the saint or the mystic, or the writer who, by force of language, can still manage nothing more than to demolish the fiction of the mother-as-love’s-mainstay and to identify with love as it really is: a fire of tongues, an escape from representation (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 145).We transformed, she and I. She hoped to make herself new with children. A writer born of writers, the growing and birthing of our tiny bodies forced her to place pen to paper, to fight to write. She carved a place for herself with words but it kept collapsing in on her. My father’s bi-polar rages, his scrubbing evil spirits from the soles of her shoes in the middle of the night, wore her down, and soon she inhabited that maternal image anyway, in spite of all her attempts to side step it. The mad mother, the single mother, the sad mother. And yes I remember those mothers. But I also remember her holding me so hard sometimes I couldn’t breathe properly, and that some nights when I couldn’t sleep she had warm eyes and made chamomile tea, and that she called me angel. A fire of tongues, but even she, with her words, couldn’t escape from representation. I am a writer born of writers born of writers (triply blessed or cursed with text). In my scramble to not be mad or bad or sad, I still could not escape the maternal image. More days than I can count I lay under my babies wishing I could be somewhere, anywhere else, but they needed to sleep or feed or be. With me. Held captive by the need to be a good mother, to be the best mother, no saint or mystic presenting itself, all I could do was write. Whole poems sprang unbidden and complete from my pen. My love for my children, that fire of tongues, was demolishing me, and the only way through was to inhabit this vessel of text, to imbibe the language of bodies and tears and night, and make from it my boat.Those children wrote my body in the night. They taught me about desire, that unbounded scribbling thing that will not be bound by subjectivity, by me. They taught me that “the body is literally written on, inscribed, by desire and signification” (Grosz 60), and every morning I woke with ashen bones and poetry aching out through my pores, with my body writing me.This Mother ThingI maintain that I do not have to leavethe house at nightall leathery and eyelinered,all booted up and raw.I maintain that I do not miss thosesmoky rooms (wait that’s not allowed any more)where we strut and, without looking,compare tattoos.Because two years ago I had you.You with your blonde hair shining, your eyes like a creek after rain, that veinthat’s so blue on the side of your small nosethat people think you’ve been bruised.Because two years ago you cameout of me and landed here and grew. There is no going out. We (she and me) washand cook and wash and clean and love.This mother thing is the making of me but I missthose pulsing rooms,the feel of all of you pressing in onall of me.This mother thing is the making of me. And in text, in poetry, I find my home. “You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing” (Cixous 885). The mother-body writes herself, and is made new. The mother-body writes her own mother, and knows she was always-already here. The mother-body births, and breastfeeds, and turns to me in the aching night and says this: the Medusa? The Medusa is me.ReferencesBartlett, Alison. Breastwork: Rethinking Breastfeeding. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2005.Cixous, Hélène, Keith Cohen, and Paula Cohen (Trans.). "The Laugh of the Medusa." Signs 1.4 (1976): 875-93. Giles, Fiona. Fresh Milk. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2003. Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism. St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1994.Kristeva, Julia, and Leon S. Roudiez (Trans.) Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. New York: Columbia University Press, 1982.Kristeva, Julia, and Arthur Goldhammer (Trans.). "Stabat Mater." Poetics Today 6.1-2 (1985): 133-52.

If thinking about home necessitates thinking about “place, space, scale, identity and power,” as Alison Blunt and Robyn Dowling (2) suggest, then thinking about home themes in popular music makes no less a conceptual demand. Song lyrics and titles most often invoke dominant readings such as intimacy, privacy, nurture, refuge, connectedness and shared belonging, all issues found within Blunt and Dowling’s analysis. The spatial imaginary to which these authors refer takes vivid shape through repertoires of songs dealing with houses and other specific sites, vast and distant homelands, communities or, less tangibly, geographical or cultural settings where particular relationships can be found, supporting Blunt and Dowling’s major claim that home is complex, multi-scalar and multi-layered. Shelley Mallett’s claim that the term home “functions as a repository for complex, inter-related and at times contradictory socio-cultural ideas about people’s relationships with one another…and with places, spaces and things” (84) is borne out heavily by popular music where, for almost every sentiment that the term home evokes, it seems an opposite sentiment is evoked elsewhere: familiarity versus alienation, acceptance versus rejection, love versus loneliness. Making use of conceptual groundwork by Blunt and Dowling and by Mallett and others, the following discussion canvasses a range of meanings that home has had for a variety of songwriters, singers and audiences over the years. Intended as merely partial and exploratory rather than exhaustive, it provides some insights into contrasts, ironies and relationships between home and gender, diaspora and loss. While it cannot cover all the themes, it gives prominence to the major recurring themes and a variety of important contexts that give rise to these home themes. Most prominent among those songs dealing with home has been a nostalgia and yearning, while issues of how women may have viewed the home within which they have often been restricted to a narrowly defined private sphere are almost entirely absent. This serves as a reminder that, while some themes can be conducive to the medium of popular music, others may be significantly less so. Songs may speak directly of experience but not necessarily of all experiences and certainly not of all experiences equally. B. Lee Cooper claims “most popular culture ventures rely upon formula-oriented settings and phrasings to attract interest, to spur mental or emotional involvement” (93). Notions of home have generally proved both formulaic and emotionally-charged. Commonly understood patterns of meaning and other hegemonic references generally operate more successfully than alternative reference points. Those notions with the strongest cultural currency can be conveyed succinctly and denote widely agreed upon meanings. Lyrics can seldom afford to be deeply analytical but generally must be concise and immediately evocative. Despite that, this discussion will point to diverse meanings carried by songs about home. Blunt and Dowling point out that “a house is not necessarily nor automatically a home” (3). The differences are strongly apparent in music, with only a few songs relating to houses compared with homes. When Malvina Reynolds wrote in 1962 of “little boxes, on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky,” she was certainly referring to houses, not homes, thus making it easier to bypass the relationships which might have vested the inhabitants with more warmth and individuality than their houses, in this song about conformity and homogeneity. The more complex though elusive concept of home, however, is more likely to feature in love songs and to emanate from diasporal songs. Certainly these two genres are not mutually exclusive. Irish songs are particularly noteworthy for adding to the array of music written by, or representational of, those who have been forced away from home by war, poverty, strife or other circumstances. They manifest identities of displacement rather than of placement, as studied by Bronwen Walter, looking back at rather than from within their spatial imaginary. Phil Eva claims that during the 19th Century Irish émigrés sang songs of exile in Manchester’s streets. Since many in England’s industrial towns had been uprooted from their homes, the songs found rapport with street audiences and entered popular culture. For example, the song Killarney, of hazy origins but thought to date back to as early as 1850, tells of Killarney’s lakes and fells, Emerald isles and winding bays; Mountain paths and woodland dells… ...her [nature’s] home is surely there. As well as anthropomorphising nature and giving it a home, the song suggests a specifically geographic sense of home. Galway Bay, written by A. Fahy, does likewise, as do many other Irish songs of exile which link geography with family, kin and sometimes culture to evoke a sense of home. The final verse of Cliffs of Doneen gives a sense of both people and place making up home: Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while And to all the kind people I’m leaving behind To the streams and the meadows where late I have been And the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen. Earlier Irish songs intertwine home with political issues. For example, Tho’ the Last Glimpse of Erin vows to Erin that “In exile thy bosum shall still be my home.” Such exile resulted from a preference of fleeing Ireland rather than bowing to English oppression, which then included a prohibition on Irish having moustaches or certain hairstyles. Thomas Moore is said to have set the words of the song to the air Coulin which itself referred to an Irish woman’s preference for her “Coulin” (a long-haired Irish youth) to the English (Nelson-Burns). Diasporal songs have continued, as has their political edge, as evidenced by global recognition of songs such as Bayan Ko (My Country), written by José Corazon de Jesus in 1929, out of love and concern for the Philippines and sung among Filipinos worldwide. Robin Cohen outlines a set of criteria for diaspora that includes a shared belief in the possibility of return to home, evident in songs such as the 1943 Welsh song A Welcome in the Hillside, in which a Welsh word translating roughly as a yearning to return home, hiraeth, is used: We’ll kiss away each hour of hiraeth When you come home again to Wales. However, the immensely popular I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen, not of Irish origin but written by Thomas Westendorf of Illinois in 1875, suggests that such emotions can have a resonance beyond the diaspora. Anti-colonial sentiments about home can also be expressed by long-time inhabitants, as Harry Belafonte demonstrated in Island in the Sun: This is my island in the sun Where my people have toiled since time begun. Though I may sail on many a sea, Her shores will always be home to me. War brought a deluge of sentimental songs lamenting separation from home and loved ones, just as likely to be parents and siblings as sweethearts. Radios allowed wider audiences and greater popularity for these songs. If separation had brought a longing previously, the added horrors of war presented a stronger contrast between that which the young soldiers were missing and that which they were experiencing. Both the First and Second World Wars gave rise to songs long since sung which originated in such separations, but these also had a strong sense of home as defined by the nationalism that has for over a century given the contours of expectations of soldiers. Focusing on home, these songs seldom speak of the details of war. Rather they are specific about what the singers have left behind and what they hope to return to. Songs of home did not have to be written specifically for the war effort nor for overseas troops. Irving Berlin’s 1942 White Christmas, written for a film, became extremely popular with US troops during WWII, instilling a sense of home that related to familiarities and festivities. Expressing a sense of home could be specific and relate to regions or towns, as did I’m Goin’ Back Again to Yarrawonga, or it could refer to any home, anywhere where there were sons away fighting. Indeed the American Civil War song When Johnny Comes Marching Home, written by Patrick Sarsfield Gilmour, was sung by both Northerners and Southerners, so adaptable was it, with home remarkably unspecified and undescribed. The 1914 British song Keep the Home Fires Burning by Ivor Novello and Lena Ford was among those that evoked a connection between home and the military effort and helped establish a responsibility on those at home to remain optimistic: Keep the Homes fires burning While your hearts are yearning, Though your lads are far away They dream of home, There’s a silver lining Through the dark clouds shining, Turn the dark clouds inside out, Till the boys come Home. No space exists in this song for critique of the reasons for war, nor of a role for women other than that of homemaker and moral guardian. It was women’s duty to ensure men enlisted and home was rendered a private site for emotional enlistment for a presumed public good, though ironically also a point of personal hope where the light of love burned for the enlistees’ safe return. Later songs about home and war challenged these traditional notions. Two serve as examples. One is Pink Floyd’s brief musical piece of the 1970s, Bring the Boys Back Home, whose words of protest against the American war on Viet Nam present home, again, as a site of safety but within a less conservative context. Home becomes implicated in a challenge to the prevailing foreign policy and the interests that influence it, undermining the normal public sphere/private sphere distinction. The other more complex song is Judy Small’s Mothers, Daughters, Wives, from 1982, set against a backdrop of home. Small eloquently describes the dynamics of the domestic space and how women understood their roles in relation to the First and Second World Wars and the Viet Nam War. Reinforcing that “The materialities and imaginaries of home are closely connected” (Blunt and Dowling 188), Small sings of how the gold frames held the photographs that mothers kissed each night And the doorframe held the shocked and silent strangers from the fight. Small provides a rare musical insight into the disjuncture between the men who left the domestic space and those who return to it, and we sense that women may have borne much of the brunt of those awful changes. The idea of domestic bliss is also challenged, though from the returned soldier’s point of view, in Redgum’s 1983 song I Was Only Nineteen, written by group member John Schuman. It touches on the tragedy of young men thrust into war situations and the horrific after-affects for them, which cannot be shrugged off on return to home. The nurturing of home has limits but the privacy associated with the domestic sphere has often concealed the violence and mental anguish that happens away from public view. But by this time most of the songs referring to home were dominated once more by sentimental love, often borne of travel as mobility rose. Journeys help “establish the thresholds and boundaries of home” and can give rise to “an idealized, ideological and ethnocentric view of home” (Mallett 78). Where previously songsters had sung of leaving home in exile or for escape from poverty, lyrics from the 1960s onwards often suggested that work had removed people from loved ones. It could be work on a day-by-day basis, as in A Hard Day’s Night from the 1964 film of the same name, where the Beatles illuminate differences between the public sphere of work and the private sphere to which they return: When I’m home, everything seems to be alright, When I’m home feeling you holding me tight, tight, yeah and reiterated by Paul McCartney in Every Night: And every night that day is through But tonight I just want to stay in And be with you. Lyrics such as these and McCartney’s call to be taken “...home to the Mull of Kintyre,” singled him out for his home-and-hearth messages (Dempsey). But work might involve longer absences and thus more deepfelt loneliness. Simon and Garfunkel’s exemplary Homeward Bound starkly portrays a site of “away-ness”: I’m sittin’ in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination… Mundaneness, monotony and predictability contrast with the home to which the singer’s thoughts are constantly escaping. The routine is familiar but the faces are those of strangers. Home here is, again, not simply a domicile but the warmth of those we know and love. Written at a railway station, Homeward Bound echoes sentiments almost identical to those of (Leaving on a) Jet Plane, written by John Denver at an airport in 1967. Denver also co-wrote (Take Me Home) Country Roads, where, in another example of anthropomorphism as a tool of establishing a strong link, he asks to be taken home to the place I belong West Virginia, mountain momma, Take me home, Country Roads. The theme has recurred in numerous songs since, spawning examples such as Darin and Alquist’s When I Get Home, Chris Daughtry’s Home, Michael Bublé’s Home and Will Smith’s Ain’t No Place Like Home, where, in an opening reminiscent of Homeward Bound, the singer is Sitting in a hotel room A thousand miles away from nowhere Sloped over a chair as I stare… Furniture from home, on the other hand, can be used to evoke contentment and bliss, as demonstrated by George Weiss and Bob Thiele’s song The Home Fire, in which both kin and the objects of home become charged with meaning: All of the folks that I love are there I got a date with my favourite chair Of course, in regard to earlier songs especially, while the traveller associates home with love, security and tenderness, back at home the waiting one may have had feelings more of frustration and oppression. One is desperate to get back home, but for all we know the other may be desperate to get out of home or to develop a life more meaningful than that which was then offered to women. If the lot of homemakers was invisible to national economies (Waring), it seemed equally invisible to mainstream songwriters. This reflects the tradition that “Despite home being generally considered a feminine, nurturing space created by women themselves, they often lack both authority and a space of their own within this realm” (Mallett 75). Few songs have offered the perspective of the one at home awaiting the return of the traveller. One exception is the Seekers’ 1965 A World of Our Own but, written by Tom Springfield, the words trilled by Judith Durham may have been more of a projection of the traveller’s hopes and expectations than a true reflection of the full experiences of housebound women of the day. Certainly, the song reinforces connections between home and intimacy and privacy: Close the door, light the lights. We’re stayin’ home tonight, Far away from the bustle and the bright city lights. Let them all fade away, just leave us alone And we’ll live in a world of our own. This also strongly supports Gaston Bachelard’s claim that one’s house in the sense of a home is one’s “first universe, a real cosmos” (qtd. in Blunt and Dowling 12). But privacy can also be a loneliness when home is not inhabited by loved ones, as in the lyrics of Don Gibson’s 1958 Oh, Lonesome Me, where Everybody’s going out and having fun I’m a fool for staying home and having none. Similar sentiments emerge in Debbie Boone’s You Light up My Life: So many nights I’d sit by my window Waiting for someone to sing me his song. Home in these situations can be just as alienating as the “away” depicted as so unfriendly by Homeward Bound’s strangers’ faces and the “million people” who still leave Michael Bublé feeling alone. Yet there are other songs that depict “away” as a prison made of freedom, insinuating that the lack of a home and consequently of the stable love and commitment presumably found there is a sad situation indeed. This is suggested by the lilting tune, if not by the lyrics themselves, in songs such as Wandrin’ Star from the musical Paint Your Wagon and Ron Miller’s I’ve Never Been to Me, which has both a male and female version with different words, reinforcing gendered experiences. The somewhat conservative lyrics in the female version made it a perfect send-up song in the 1994 film Priscilla: Queen of the Desert. In some songs the absentee is not a traveller but has been in jail. In Tie a Yellow Ribbon round the Ole Oak Tree, an ex-inmate states “I’m comin’ home. I’ve done my time.” Home here is contingent upon the availability and forgivingness of his old girl friend. Another song juxtaposing home with prison is Tom Jones’ The Green, Green Grass of Home in which the singer dreams he is returning to his home, to his parents, girlfriend and, once again, an old oak tree. However, he awakes to find he was dreaming and is about to be executed. His body will be taken home and placed under the oak tree, suggesting some resigned sense of satisfaction that he will, after all, be going home, albeit in different circumstances. Death and home are thus sometimes linked, with home a euphemism for the former, as suggested in many spirituals, with heaven or an afterlife being considered “going home”. The reverse is the case in the haunting Bring Him Home of the musical Les Misérables. With Marius going off to the barricades and the danger involved, Jean Valjean prays for the young man’s safe return and that he might live. Home is connected here with life, safety and ongoing love. In a number of songs about home and absence there is a sense of home being a place where morality is gently enforced, presumably by women who keep men on the straight and narrow, in line with one of the women’s roles of colonial Australia, researched by Anne Summers. These songs imply that when men wander from home, their morals also go astray. Wild Rover bemoans Oh, I’ve been a wild rover for many a year, and I’ve spent all my money on whiskey and beer… There is the resolve in the chorus, however, that home will have a reforming influence. Gene Pitney’s Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa poses the dangers of distance from a wife’s influence, while displaying opposition to the sentimental yearning of so many other songs: Dearest darlin’, I have to write to say that I won’t be home anymore ‘cause something happened to me while I was drivin’ home And I’m not the same anymore Class as well as gender can be a debated issue in meanings attached to home, as evident in several songs that take a more jaundiced view of home, seeing it as a place from which to escape. The Animals’ powerful We Gotta Get Outta This Place clearly suggests a life of drudgery in a home town or region. Protectively, the lyrics insist “Girl, there’s a better life for me and you” but it has to be elsewhere. This runs against the grain of other British songs addressing poverty or a working class existence as something that comes with its own blessings, all to do with an area identified as home. These traits may be loyalty, familiarity or a refusal to judge and involve identities of placement rather than of displacement in, for instance, Gerry and the Pacemakers’ Ferry Cross the Mersey: People around every corner, they seem to smile and say “We don’t care what your name is, boy. We’ll never send you away.” This bears out Blunt and Dowling’s claim that “people’s senses of themselves are related to and produced through lived and metaphorical experiences of home” (252). It also resonates with some of the region-based identity and solidarity issues explored a short time later by Paul Willis in his study of working class youth in Britain, which help to inform how a sense of home can operate to constrict consciousness, ideas and aspirations. Identity features strongly in other songs about home. Several years after Neil Young recorded his 1970 song Southern Man about racism in the south of the USA, the group Lynyrd Skynyrd, responded with Sweet Home Alabama. While the meaning of its lyrics are still debated, there is no debate about the way in which the song has been embraced, as I recently discovered first-hand in Tennessee. A banjo-and-fiddle band performing the song during a gig virtually brought down the house as the predominantly southern audience clapped, whopped and stamped its feet. The real meanings of home were found not in the lyrics but in the audience’s response. Wally Johnson and Bob Brown’s 1975 Home Among the Gum Trees is a more straightforward ode to home, with lyrics that prescribe a set of non-commodified values. It is about simplicity and the right to embrace a lifestyle that includes companionship, leisure and an enjoyment of and appreciation of nature, all threatened seriously in the three decades since the song’s writing. The second verse in which large shopping complexes – and implicitly the consumerism they encourage – are eschewed (“I’d trade it all tomorrow for a little bush retreat where the kookaburras call”), is a challenge to notions of progress and reflects social movements of the day, The Green Bans Movement, for instance, took a broader and more socially conscientious attitude towards home and community, putting forward alternative sets of values and insisting people should have a say in the social and aesthetic construction of their neighbourhoods as well as the impacts of their labour (Mundey). Ironically, the song has gone on to become the theme song for a TV show about home gardens. With a strong yet more vague notion of home, Peter Allen’s I Still Call Australia Home, was more prone to commodification and has been adopted as a promotional song for Qantas. Nominating only the desire to travel and the love of freedom as Australian values, both politically and socially innocuous within the song’s context, this catchy and uplifting song, when not being used as an advertisement, paradoxically works for a “diaspora” of Australians who are not in exile but have mostly travelled for reasons of pleasure or professional or financial gain. Another paradox arises from the song Home on the Range, dating back to the 19th century at a time when the frontier was still a strong concept in the USA and people were simultaneously leaving homes and reminiscing about home (Mechem). Although it was written in Kansas, the lyrics – again vague and adaptable – were changed by other travellers so that versions such as Colorado Home and My Arizona Home soon abounded. In 1947 Kansas made Home on the Range its state song, despite there being very few buffalo left there, thus highlighting a disjuncture between the modern Kansas and “a home where the buffalo roam” as described in the song. These themes, paradoxes and oppositional understandings of home only scratch the surface of the wide range of claims that are made on home throughout popular music. It has been shown that home is a flexible concept, referring to homelands, regions, communities and private houses. While predominantly used to evoke positive feelings, mostly with traditional views of the relationships that lie within homes, songs also raise challenges to notions of domesticity, the rights of those inhabiting the private sphere and the demarcation between the private and public spheres. Songs about home reflect contexts and challenges of their respective eras and remind us that vigorous discussion takes place about and within homes. The challenges are changing. Where many women once felt restrictively tied to the home – and no doubt many continue to do so – many women and men are now struggling to rediscover spatial boundaries, with production and consumption increasingly impinging upon relationships that have so frequently given the term home its meaning. With evidence that we are working longer hours and that home life, in whatever form, is frequently suffering (Beder, Hochschild), the discussion should continue. In the words of Sam Cooke, Bring it on home to me! References Bacheland, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1994. Beder, Sharon. Selling the Work Ethic: From Puritan Pulpit to Corporate PR. London: Zed Books, 2000. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London: Routledge, 2006. Cohen, Robin. Global Diasporas: An Introduction. London: UCL Press, 1997. Cooper, B. Lee. “Good Timin’: Searching for Meaning in Clock Songs.” Popular Music and Society 30.1 (Feb. 2007): 93-106. Dempsey, J.M. “McCartney at 60: A Body of Work Celebrating Home and Hearth.” Popular Music and Society 27.1 (Feb. 2004): 27-40. Eva, Phil. “Home Sweet Home? The Culture of ‘Exile’ in Mid-Victorian Popular Song.” Popular Music 16.2 (May 1997): 131-150. Hochschild, Arlie. The Time Bind: When Work Becomes Home and Home Becomes Work. New York: Metropolitan/Holt, 1997. Mallett, Sonia. “Understanding Home: A Critical Review of the Literature.” The Sociological Review 52.1 (2004): 62-89. Mechem, Kirke, “The Story of ‘Home on the Range’.” Reprint from the Kansas Historical Quarterly (Nov. 1949). Topeka, Kansas: Kansas State Historical Society. 28 May 2007 http://www.emporia.edu/cgps/tales/nov2003.html>. Mundey, Jack. Green Bans and Beyond. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1981. Nelson-Burns, Lesley. Folk Music of England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales and America. 29 May 2007 http://www.contemplator.com/ireland/thoerin.html>. Summers, Anne. Damned Whores and God’s Police: The Colonization of Women in Australia. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975. Walter, Bronwen. Outsiders Inside: Whiteness, Place and Irish Women. London: Routledge, 2001. Waring, Marilyn. Counting for Nothing: What Men Value and What Women Are Worth. Wellington, NZ: Allen & Unwin, 1988. Willis, Paul. Learning to Labor: How Working Class Kids Get Working Class Jobs. New York: Columbia UP, 1977. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Varney, Wendy. "Homeward Bound or Housebound?: Themes of Home in Popular Music." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/16-varney.php>. APA Style Varney, W. (Aug. 2007) "Homeward Bound or Housebound?: Themes of Home in Popular Music," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/16-varney.php>.

“Language is inseparable from the world that provokes it”-- Don DeLillo, “In the Ruins of the Future”The attacks of 9/11 generated a public discourse of suspicion, with Osama bin Laden occupying the role of the quintessential “most wanted” for nearly a decade, before being captured and killed in May 2011. In the novel, Falling Man (DeLillo), set shortly after the attacks of September 11, Justin, the protagonist’s son, and his friends, the two Siblings, spend much of their time at the window of the Siblings’ New York apartment, “searching the skies for Bill Lawton” (74). Mishearing bin Laden’s name on the news, Robert, the younger of the Siblings, has “never adjusted his original sense of what he was hearing” (73), and so the “myth of Bill Lawton” (74) is created. In this paper, I draw on postclassical, cognitive narratology to “defamiliarise” processes undertaken by both narrator and reader (Palmer 28) in order to explore how narrative elements impact on readers’ and characters’ perceptions of the terrorist. My focus on select episodes within the novel “pursue[s] the author’s means of controlling his reader” (Booth i), and I refer to a generic reader to identify a certain intuitive reaction to the text. Assuming that “the written text imposes certain limits on its unwritten implications” (Iser 281), I trace a path from the uttered or printed word, through the reading act, to the process of meaning-making. I demonstrate how renaming the terrorist, and other language games, challenge the notion that terror can be synonymous with a locatable, destructible source by activating a suspicion towards the text in particular, and towards language in general.Falling Man tells the story of Keith who, after surviving the attacks on the World Trade Centre, shows up injured and disoriented at the apartment of his estranged wife, Lianne, and their son, Justin. The narrative, set at different periods between the day of the attacks and three years later, focuses on Keith’s and Lianne’s lives as they attempt to deal, in their own ways, with the trauma of the attacks and with the unexpected reunion of their small family. Keith disappears into games of poker and has a brief relationship with another survivor, while Lianne searches for answers in the writings of Alzheimer sufferers, in places of worship, and in conversations with her mother, Nina, and her mother’s partner, Martin, a German art-dealer with a questionable past. Each of the novel’s three parts also contains a short narrative from the perspective of Hammad, a fictional terrorist, starting with his early days in a European cell under the leadership of the real terrorist, Mohamed Atta, through the group’s activities in Florida, to his final moments aboard the plane that crashes into the World Trade Centre. DeLillo’s work is noted for treating language as central to society and culture (Weinstein). In this personalised narrative of post-9/11, DeLillo’s choices reflect his “refusal to reproduce the mass media’s representations of 9/11 the reader is used to” (Grossinger 85). This refusal is manifest not so much in an absence of well-known, mediated images or concepts, but in the reshaping and re-presenting of these images so that they appear unexpected, new, and personal (Apitzch). A notable example of such re-presentation is the Falling Man of the title, who is introduced, surprisingly, not as the man depicted in the famous photograph by Richard Drew (Leps), but a performance artist who uses the name Falling Man when staging his falls from various New York buildings. Not until the final two sentences of the novel does DeLillo fully admit the image into the narrative, and even then only as Keith’s private vision from the Tower: “Then he saw a shirt come down out of the sky. He walked and saw it fall, arms waving like nothing in this life” (246). The bin Laden/Bill Lawton substitution shows a similar rejection of recycled concepts and enables a renewed perspective towards the idea of bin Laden. Bill Lawton is first introduced as an anonymous “man” (17), later to be named Bill Lawton (73), and later still to be revealed as bin Laden mispronounced (73). The reader first learns of Bill Lawton in a conversation between Lianne and the Siblings’ mother, Isabel, who is worried about the children’s preoccupation at the window:“It has something to do with this man.”“What man?”“This name. You’ve heard it.”“This name,” Lianne said.“Isn’t this the name they sort of mumble back and forth? My kids totally don’t want to discuss the matter. Katie enforces the thing. She basically inspires fear in her brother. I thought maybe you would know something.”“I don’t think so.”“Like Justin says nothing about any of this?”“No. What man?”“What man? Exactly,” Isabel said. (17)If “the piling up of data [...] fulfils a function in the construction of an image” (Bal 85), a delayed unravelling of the bin Laden identity distorts this data-piling so that by the time the reader learns of the Bill Lawton/bin Laden link, an image of a man is already established as separate from, and potentially exclusive of, his historical identity. The segment beginning immediately after Isabel’s comment, “What man? Exactly” (17), refers to another, unidentified man with the pronoun “he” (18), as if to further sway the reader’s attention from the subject of that man’s identity. Fludernik notes that “language games” are a key feature of the postmodern text (Towards 221), adding that “techniques of linguistic emasculation serve implicitly to question a simple and naive view of the representational potential of language” (225). I propose that, in Falling Man, bin Laden is emasculated by the Bill Lawton misnomer, and is thereby conceptualised as two entities, one historical and one fictional. The name-switch activates what psychologists refer to as a “dual-process,” conscious and unconscious, that forms the reader’s experience of the narrative (Gerrig 37), creating a cognitive dissonance between the two. Much like Wittgenstein’s duck-rabbit drawing, bin Laden and Bill Lawton exist as two separate entities, occupying the same space of the idea of bin Laden, but demanding to be viewed singularly for the process of recognition to take place. Such distortion of a well-known figure conveys the sense that, in this novel, “all identities are either confused [...] or double [...] or merging [...] or failing” (Kauffman 371), or, occasionally, doing all these things simultaneously.A similar cognitive process is triggered by the introduction of aliases for all three characters that head each of the novel’s three parts. Ernst Hechinger is revealed as Martin Ridnour’s former, ‘terrorist’ identity (DeLillo, Falling 86), and performance artist David Janiak (180) as the Falling Man’s everyday name. But the bin Laden/Bill Lawton switch offers an overt juxtaposition of the historical with the fictional or, as Žižek would have it, “the Raw real” with the “virtual” (387), and allows the mutated bin Laden/Bill Lawton figure to shift, in the mind of the reader, between the two worlds, as well as form a new, blended entity.At this point, it is important to notice that two, interconnected, forms of suspicion exist in the novel. The first is invoked in the story-level towards various terrorist-characters such as Bill Lawton, Hammad, and Martin. The second form is activated when various elements within the narrative prompt the reader to treat the text itself as suspicious, triggering in the reader a cognitive reaction that mirrors that of the narrated character. One example is the “halting process” (Leps) that is forced on the reader when attempting to manoeuvre through the narrative’s anachronical arrangement that mirrors Keith’s mental perception of time and memory. Another such narrative device is the use of “unheralded pronouns” (Gerrig 50), when ‘he’ or ‘she’ is used ambiguously, often at the beginning of a chapter or segment. The use of pronouns in narrative must adhere to strict grammatical rules (Fludernik, Introduction) and when these rules are ignored, the reading pattern is affected. First, the reader of Falling Man is immersed within an element in the story, then becomes puzzled about the identity of a character, and finally re-reads the passage to gain clarity. The reader, after a while, distances somewhat from the text, scanning for alternative possibilities and approaching interpretation with a tentative sense of doubt.The conversation between the two mothers, the Bill Lawton/bin Laden split, and the use of unheralded pronouns also destabilises the relationship between person and name, and appears to create a world in which “personality has disintegrated into a mere semiotic mark” (Versluys 21). Keith’s obsession with correcting the spelling of his surname, Neudecker, “because it wasn’t him, with the name misspelled” (DeLillo, Falling 31), Lianne’s fondness of the philosopher Kierkegaard, “right down to the spelling of his name. The hard Scandian k’s and lovely doubled a” (118), her consideration of “Marko [...] with a k, whatever that might signify” (119), and Rumsey, who is told that “everything in his life would be different [...] if one letter in his name was different” (149), are a few examples of the text’s semiotic emphasis. But, while Versluys sees this tendency as emblematic of the novel’s portrayal of a decline in humanity, I suggest that the text’s preoccupation with the shape and constitution of words may work to “de-automatise” (Margolin 66) the relationship between sign and perception, rather than to denigrate the signified human. With the renamed terrorist, the reader comes to doubt not only the printed text, but also his or her automatic response to “bin Laden” as a “brand, a sort of logo which identifies and personalises the evil” (Chomsky, September 36). Bill Lawton, according to Justin, speaks in monosyllables (102), a language Justin chooses, for a time, for his own speech (66), and this also contributes to the de-automatisation of the text. The language game, in which a speaker must only use words with one syllable, began as a classroom activity “designed to teach the children something about the structure of words and the discipline required to frame clear thoughts” (66). The game also gives players, and readers, an embodied understanding of what Genette calls the gap between “being and saying” (93) that is inevitable in the production of language and narrative. Justin, who continues to play the game outside the classroom, because “it helps [him] go slow when [he] thinks” (66), finds comfort in the silent pauses that are afforded by widening the gap between thought and utterance. History in Falling Man is a collection of the private narratives of survivors, families, terrorists, artists, and the host of people that are affected by the attacks of 9/11. Justin’s character, with the linguistic and psychic code of a child, represents the way in which all participants, to some extent, choose their own antagonist, language, plot, and sequence to personalise this mega-public event. He insists that the towers did not collapse (72), but that they will, “this time coming” (102); Bill Lawton, for Justin, “has a long beard [...] speaks thirteen languages but not English except to his wives [and] has the power to poison what we eat” (74). Despite being confronted with the factual inaccuracies of his narrative, Justin resists editing his version precisely because these inaccuracies form his own, non-mediated, authentic account. They are, in a sense, a work of fiction and, paradoxically, more ‘real’ because of that. “We want to pass beyond the limits of safe understandings”, thinks Lianne, “and what better way to do it than through make-believe” (63). I have so far shown how narrative elements create a suspicion in the way characters operate within their surrounding universe, in the reader’s attitude towards the text, and, more implicitly, in the power of language to accurately represent a personal reality. Within the context of the novel’s historical setting—the period following the 9/11 attacks—the narration of the terrorist figure, as represented in Bill Lawton, Hammad, Martin, and others, may function as a response to the “binarism” of Bush’s proposal (Butler 2), epitomised in his “either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists” (Silberstein 14) approach. Within the novel’s universe, its narration of terrorist-characters works to free discourse from superficial categorisations and to provide “a counterdiscourse to the prevailing nationalistic interpretations” (Versluys 23) of the events of 9/11 by de-automatising a response to “us” and “them.” In his essay published shortly after the attacks, DeLillo notes that “the sense of disarticulation we hear in the term ‘Us and Them’ has never been so striking, at either end” (“Ruins”), and while he draws distinctions, in the same essay, with technology on ‘our’ side and religious fanaticism on ‘their’ side, I believe that the novel is less settled on the subject. The Anglicisation of bin Laden’s name, for example, suggests that Bush’s either-or-ism is, at least partially, an arbitrary linguistic construct. At a time when some social commentators have highlighted the similarity in the definitions of “terror” and “counter terror” (Chomsky, “Commentary” 610), the Bill Lawton ‘error’ works to illustrate how easily language can destabilise our perception of what is familiar/strange, us/them, terror/counter-terror, victim/perpetrator. In the renaming of the notorious terrorist, “the familiar name is transposed on the mass murderer, but in return the attributes of the mass murderer are transposed on one very like us” (Conte 570), and this reciprocal relationship forms an imagined evil that is no longer so easily locatable within the prevailing political discourse. As the novel contextualises 9/11 within a greater historical narrative (Leps), in which characters like Martin represent “our” form of militant activism (Duvall), we are invited to perceive a possibility that the terrorist could be, like Martin, “one of ours […] godless, Western, white” (DeLillo, Falling 195).Further, the idea that the suspect exists, almost literally, within ‘us’, the victims, is reflected in the structure of the narrative itself. This suggests a more fluid relationship between terrorist and victim than is offered by common categorisations that, for some, “mislead and confuse the mind, which is trying to make sense of a disorderly reality” (Said 12). Hammad is visited in three short separate sections; “on Marienstrasse” (77-83), “in Nokomis” (171-178), and “the Hudson corridor” (237-239), at the end of each of the novel’s three parts. Hammad’s narrative is segmented within Keith’s and Lianne’s tale like an invisible yet pervasive reminder that the terrorist is inseparable from the lives of the victims, habituating the same terrains, and crafted by the same omniscient powers that compose the victims’ narrative. The penetration of the terrorist into ‘our’ narrative is also perceptible in the physical osmosis between terrorist and victim, as the body of the injured victim hosts fragments of the dead terrorist’s flesh. The portrayal of the body, in some post 9/11 novels, as “a vulnerable site of trauma” (Bird, 561), is evident in the following passage, where a physician explains to Keith the post-bombing condition termed “organic shrapnel”:The bomber is blown to bits, literally bits and pieces, and fragments of flesh and bone come flying outwards with such force and velocity that they get wedged, they get trapped in the body of anyone who’s in striking range...A student is sitting in a cafe. She survives the attack. Then, months later, they find these little, like, pellets of flesh, human flesh that got driven into the skin. (16)For Keith, the dead terrorist’s flesh, lodged under living human skin, confirms the malignancy of his emotional and physical injury, and suggests a “consciousness occupied by terror” (Apitzch 95), not unlike Justin’s consciousness, occupied from within by the “secret” (DeLillo, Falling 101) of Bill Lawton.The macabre bond between terrorist and victim is fully realised in the novel’s final pages, when Hammad’s death intersects, temporally, with the beginning of Keith’s story, and the two bodies almost literally collide as Hammad’s jet crashes into Keith’s office building. Unlike Hammad’s earlier and clearly framed narratives, his final interruption dissolves into Keith’s story with such cinematic seamlessness as to make the two narratives almost indistinguishable from one another. Hammad’s perspective concludes on board the jet, as “something fell off the counter in the galley. He fastened his seatbelt” (239), followed immediately by “a bottle fell off the counter in the galley, on the other side of the aisle, and he watched it roll this way and that” (239). The ambiguous use of the pronoun “he,” once again, and the twin bottles in the galleys create a moment of confusion and force a re-reading to establish that, in fact, there are two different bottles, in two galleys; one on board the plane and the other inside the World Trade Centre. Victim and terrorist, then, share a common fate as acting agents in a single governing narrative that implicates both lives.Finally, Žižek warns that “whenever we encounter such a purely evil on the Outside, [...] we should recognise the distilled version of our own self” (387). DeLillo assimilates this proposition into the fabric of Falling Man by crafting a language that renegotiates the division between ‘out’ and ‘in,’ creating a fictional antagonist in Bill Lawton that continues to lurk outside the symbolic window long after the demise of his historical double. Some have read this novel as offering a more relative perspective on terrorism (Duvall). However, like Leps, I find that DeLillo here tries to “provoke thoughtful stillness rather than secure truths” (185), and this stillness is conveyed in a language that meditates, with the reader, on its own role in constructing precarious concepts such as ‘us’ and ‘them.’ When proposing that terror, in Falling Man, can be found within ‘us,’ linguistically, historically, and even physically, I must also add that DeLillo’s ‘us’ is an imagined sphere that stands in opposition to a ‘them’ world in which “things [are] clearly defined” (DeLillo, Falling 83). Within this sphere, where “total silence” is seen as a form of spiritual progress (101), one is reminded to approach narrative and, by implication, life, with a sense of mindful attention; “to hear”, like Keith, “what is always there” (225), and to look, as Nina does, for “something deeper than things or shapes of things” (111).ReferencesApitzch, Julia. "The Art of Terror – the Terror of Art: Delillo's Still Life of 9/11, Giorgio Morandi, Gerhard Richter, and Performance Art." Terrorism, Media, and the Ethics of Fiction: Transatlantic Perspectives on Don DeLillo. Eds. Peter Schneck and Philipp Schweighauser. London: Continuum [EBL access record], 2010. 93–110.Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narratology. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1985.Bird, Benjamin. "History, Emotion, and the Body: Mourning in Post-9/11 Fiction." Literature Compass 4.3 (2007): 561–75.Booth, Wayne C. The Rhetoric of Fiction. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1961.Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. New York: Verso, 2004.Chomsky, Noam. "Commentary Moral Truisms, Empirical Evidence, and Foreign Policy." Review of International Studies 29.4 (2003): 605–20.---. September 11. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2002.Conte, Joseph Mark. "Don Delillo’s Falling Man and the Age of Terror." MFS Modern Fiction Studies 57.3 (2011): 557–83.DeLillo, Don. Falling Man. London: Picador, 2007.---. "In the Ruins of the Future." The Guardian (22 December, 2001). ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/dec/22/fiction.dondelillo›.Duvall, John N. & Marzec, Robert P. "Narrating 9/11." MFS Modern Fiction Studies 57.3 (2011): 381–400.Fludernik, Monika. An Introduction to Narratology. Taylor & Francis [EBL access record], 2009.---. Towards a 'Natural' Narratology. Routledge, [EBL access record], 1996.Genette, Gerard. Figures of Literary Discourse. New York: Columbia U P, 1982.Gerrig, Richard J. "Conscious and Unconscious Processes in Reader's Narrative Experiences." Current Trends in Narratology. Ed. Greta Olson. Berlin: De Gruyter [EBL access record], 2011. 37–60.Grossinger, Leif. "Public Image and Self-Representation: Don Delillo's Artists and Terrorists in Postmodern Mass Society." Terrorism, Media, and the Ethics of Fiction: Transatlantic Perspectives on Don DeLillo. Eds. Peter Schneck and Philipp Schweighauser. London: Continuum [EBL access record], 2010. 81–92.Iser, Wolfgang. "The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach." New Literary History 3.2 (1972): 279–99.Kauffman, Linda S. "The Wake of Terror: Don Delillo's in the Ruins of the Future, Baadermeinhof, and Falling Man." Modern Fiction Studies 54.2 (2008): 353–77.Leps, Marie-Christine. "Falling Man: Performing Fiction." Terrorism, Media, and the Ethics of Fiction: Transatlantic Perspectives on Don DeLillo. Eds. Peter Schneck and Philipp Schweighauser. London: Continuum [EBL access record], 2010. 184–203.Margolin, Uri. "(Mis)Perceiving to Good Aesthetic and Cognitive Effect." Current Trends in Narratology. Ed. Greta Olson. Berlin: De Gruyter [EBL access record], 2011. 61–78.Palmer, Alan. "The Construction of Fictional Minds." Narrative 10.1 (2002): 28–46.Said, Edward W. "The Clash of Ignorance." The Nation 273.12 (2001): 11–13.Silberstein, Sandra. War of Words : Language Politics and 9/11. Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004.Versluys, Kristiaan. Out of the Blue: September 11 and the Novel. New York: Columbia U P, 2009.Weinstein, Arnold. Nobody's Home: Speech, Self and Place in American Fiction from Hawthorne to DeLillo. Oxford U P [EBL Access Record], 1993.Žižek, Slavoj. "Welcome to the Desert of the Real!" The South Atlantic Quarterly 101.2 (2002): 385–89.

Introduction The social roles of alcohol consumption are rich and varied, with different types of alcoholic beverages reflecting important symbolic and cultural meanings. Sparkling wine is especially notable for its association with secular and sacred celebrations. Indeed, sparkling wine is rarely drunk as a matter of routine; bottles of such wine signal special occasions, heightened by the formality and excitement associated with opening the bottle and controlling (or not!) the resultant fizz (Faith). Originating in England and France in the late 1600s, sparkling wine marked a dramatic shift in winemaking techniques, with winemakers deliberately adding “fizz” or bubbles to their product (Faith). The resulting effervescent wines were first enjoyed by the social elite of European society, signifying privilege, wealth, luxury and nobility; however, new techniques for producing, selling and distributing the wines created a mass consumer culture (Guy). Production of Australian sparkling wines began in the late nineteenth century and consumption remains popular. As a “new world” country – that is, one not located in the wine producing areas of Europe – Australian sparkling wines cannot directly draw on the same marketing traditions as those of the “old world”. One enterprising company, Treasury Wine Estates, markets a range of wines, including a sparkling variety, called 19 Crimes, that draws, not on European traditions tied to luxury, wealth and prestige, but Australia’s colonial history. Using Augmented Reality and interactive story-telling, 19 Crimes wine labels feature convicts who had committed one or more of 19 crimes punishable by transportation to Australia from Britain. The marketing of sparkling wine using convict images and convict stories of transportation have not diminished the celebratory role of consuming “bubbly”. Rather, in exploring the marketing techniques employed by the company, particularly when linked to the traditional drink of celebration, we argue that 19 Crimes, while fun and informative, nevertheless romanticises convict experiences and Australia’s convict past. Convict Heritage and Re-Appropriating the Convict Image Australia’s cultural heritage is undeniably linked to its convict past. Convicts were transported to Australia from England and Ireland over an 80-year period between 1788-1868. While the convict system in Australia was not predominantly characterised by incarceration and institutionalisation (Jones 18) the work they performed was often forced and physically taxing, and food and clothing shortages were common. Transportation meant exile, and “it was a fierce punishment that ejected men, women and children from their homelands into distant and unknown territories” (Bogle 23). Convict experiences of transportation often varied and were dependent not just on the offender themselves (for example their original crime, how willing they were to work and their behaviour), but also upon the location they were sent to. “Normal” punishment could include solitary confinement, physical reprimands (flogging) or hard labour in chain gangs. From the time that transportation ceased in the mid 1800s, efforts were made to distance Australia’s future from the “convict stain” of its past (Jones). Many convict establishments were dismantled or repurposed with the intent of forgetting the past, although some became sites of tourist visitation from the time of closure. Importantly, however, the wider political and social reluctance to engage in discourse regarding Australia’s “unsavoury historical incident” of its convict past continued up until the 1970s (Jones 26). During the 1970s Australia’s convict heritage began to be discussed more openly, and indeed, more favourably (Welch 597). Many today now view Australia’s convicts as “reluctant pioneers” (Barnard 7), and as such they are celebrated within our history. In short, the convict heritage is now something to be celebrated rather than shunned. This celebration has been capitalised upon by tourist industries and more recently by wine label 19 Crimes. “19 Crimes: Cheers to the Infamous” The Treasury Wine Estates brand launched 19 Crimes in 2011 to a target population of young men aged between 18 and 34 (Lyons). Two limited edition vintages sold out in 2011 with “virtually no promotion” (19 Crimes, “Canadians”). In 2017, 19 Crimes became the first wine to use an Augmented Reality (AR) app (the app was later renamed Living Wines Labels in 2018) that allowed customers to hover their [smart] phone in front of a bottle of the wine and [watch] mugshots of infamous 18th century British criminals come to life as 3D characters who recount their side of the story. Having committed at least one of the 19 crimes punishable by exile to Australia, these convicts now humor and delight wine drinkers across the globe. (Lirie) Given the target audience of the 19 Crimes wine was already 18-34 year old males, AR made sense as a marketing technique. Advertisers are well aware the millennial generation is “digitally empowered” and the AR experience was created to not only allow “consumers to engage with 19 Crimes wines but also explore some of the stories of Australia’s convict past … [as] told by the convicts-turned-colonists themselves!” (Lilley cited in Szentpeteri 1-2). The strategy encourages people to collect convicts by purchasing other 19 Crimes alcohol to experience a wider range of stories. The AR has been highly praised: they [the labels] animate, explaining just what went down and giving a richer experience to your beverage; engaging both the mind and the taste buds simultaneously … . ‘A fantastic app that brings a little piece of history to life’, writes one user on the Apple app store. ‘I jumped out of my skin when the mugshot spoke to me’. (Stone) From here, the success of 19 Crimes has been widespread. For example, in November 2020, media reports indicated that 19 Crimes red wine was the most popular supermarket wine in the UK (Lyons; Pearson-Jones). During the UK COVID lockdown in 2020, 19 Crimes sales increased by 148 per cent in volume (Pearson-Jones). This success is in no small part to its innovative marketing techniques, which of course includes the AR technology heralded as a way to enhance the customer experience (Lirie). The 19 Crimes wine label explicitly celebrates infamous convicts turned settlers. The website “19 Crimes: Cheers to the Infamous” incorporates ideas of celebration, champagne and bubbles by encouraging people to toast their mates: the convicts on our wines are not fiction. They were of flesh and blood, criminals and scholars. Their punishment of transportation should have shattered their spirits. Instead, it forged a bond stronger than steel. Raise a glass to our convict past and the principles these brave men and women lived by. (19 Crimes, “Cheers”) While using alcohol, and in particular sparkling wine, to participate in a toasting ritual is the “norm” for many social situations, what is distinctive about the 19 Crimes label is that they have chosen to merchandise and market known offenders for individuals to encounter and collect as part of their drinking entertainment. This is an innovative and highly popular concept. According to one marketing company: “19 Crimes Wines celebrate the rebellious spirit of the more than 160,000 exiled men and women, the rule breakers and law defying citizens that forged a new culture and national spirit in Australia” (Social Playground). The implication is that by drinking this brand of [sparkling] wine, consumers are also partaking in celebrating those convicts who “forged” Australian culture and national spirit. In many ways, this is not a “bad thing”. 19 Crimes are promoting Australian cultural history in unique ways and on a very public and international scale. The wine also recognises the hard work and success stories of the many convicts that did indeed build Australia. Further, 19 Crimes are not intentionally minimising the experiences of convicts. They implicitly acknowledge the distress felt by convicts noting that it “should have shattered their spirits”. However, at times, the narratives and marketing tools romanticise the convict experience and culturally reinterpret a difficult experience into one of novelty. They also tap into Australia’s embracement of larrikinism. In many ways, 19 Crimes are encouraging consumers to participate in larrikin behaviour, which Bellanta identifies as being irreverent, mocking authority, showing a disrespect for social subtleties and engaging in boisterous drunkenness with mates. Celebrating convict history with a glass of bubbly certainly mocks authority, as does participating in cultural practices that subvert original intentions. Several companies in the US and Europe are now reportedly offering the service of selling wine bottle labels with customisable mugshots. Journalist Legaspi suggests that the perfect gift for anyone who wants a sparkling wine or cider to toast with during the Yuletide season would be having a customisable mugshot as a wine bottle label. The label comes with the person’s mugshot along with a “goofy ‘crime’ that fits the person-appealing” (Sotelo cited in Legaspi). In 2019, Social Playground partnered with MAAKE and Dan Murphy's stores around Australia to offer customers their own personalised sticker mugshots that could be added to the wine bottles. The campaign was intended to drive awareness of 19 Crimes, and mugshot photo areas were set up in each store. Customers could then pose for a photo against the “mug shot style backdrop. Each photo was treated with custom filters to match the wine labels actual packaging” and then printed on a sticker (Social Playground). The result was a fun photo moment, delivered as a personalised experience. Shoppers were encouraged to purchase the product to personalise their bottle, with hundreds of consumers taking up the offer. With instant SMS delivery, consumers also received a branded print that could be shared so [sic] social media, driving increased brand awareness for 19 Crimes. (Social Playground) While these customised labels were not interactive, they lent a unique and memorable spin to the wine. In many circumstances, adding personalised photographs to wine bottles provides a perfect and unique gift; yet, could be interpreted as making light of the conditions experienced by convicts. However, within our current culture, which celebrates our convict heritage and embraces crime consumerism, the reframing of a mugshot from a tool used by the State to control into a novelty gift or memento becomes culturally acceptable and desirable. Indeed, taking a larrikin stance, the reframing of the mugshot is to be encouraged. It should be noted that while some prisons were photographing criminals as early as the 1840s, it was not common practice before the 1870s in England. The Habitual Criminals Act of 1869 has been attributed with accelerating the use of criminal photographs, and in 1871 the Crimes Prevention Act mandated the photographing of criminals (Clark). Further, in Australia, convicts only began to be photographed in the early 1870s (Barnard) and only in Western Australia and Port Arthur (Convict Records, “Resources”), restricting the availability of images which 19 Crimes can utilise. The marketing techniques behind 19 Crimes and the Augmented app offered by Living Wines Labels ensure that a very particular picture of the convicts is conveyed to its customers. As seen above, convicts are labelled in jovial terms such as “rule breakers”, having a “rebellious spirit” or “law defying citizens”, again linking to notions of larrikinism and its celebration. 19 Crimes have been careful to select convicts that have a story linked to “rule breaking, culture creating and overcoming adversity” (19 Crimes, “Snoop”) as well as convicts who have become settlers, or in other words, the “success stories”. This is an ingenious marketing strategy. Through selecting success stories, 19 Crimes are able to create an environment where consumers can enjoy their bubbly while learning about a dark period of Australia’s heritage. Yet, there is a distancing within the narratives that these convicts are actually “criminals”, or where their criminal behaviour is acknowledged, it is presented in a way that celebrates it. Words such as criminals, thieves, assault, manslaughter and repeat offenders are foregone to ensure that consumers are never really reminded that they may be celebrating “bad” people. The crimes that make up 19 Crimes include: Grand Larceny, theft above the value of one shilling. Petty Larceny, theft under one shilling. Buying or receiving stolen goods, jewels, and plate... Stealing lead, iron, or copper, or buying or receiving. Impersonating an Egyptian. Stealing from furnished lodgings. Setting fire to underwood. Stealing letters, advancing the postage, and secreting the money. Assault with an intent to rob. Stealing fish from a pond or river. Stealing roots, trees, or plants, or destroying them. Bigamy. Assaulting, cutting, or burning clothes. Counterfeiting the copper coin... Clandestine marriage. Stealing a shroud out of a grave. Watermen carrying too many passengers on the Thames, if any drowned. Incorrigible rogues who broke out of Prison and persons reprieved from capital punishment. Embeuling Naval Stores, in certain cases. (19 Crimes, “Crimes”) This list has been carefully chosen to fit the narrative that convicts were transported in the main for what now appear to be minimal offences, rather than for serious crimes which would otherwise have been punished by death, allowing the consumer to enjoy their bubbly without engaging too closely with the convict story they are experiencing. The AR experience offered by these labels provides consumers with a glimpse of the convicts’ stories. Generally, viewers are told what crime the convict committed, a little of the hardships they encountered and the success of their outcome. Take for example the transcript of the Blanc de Blancs label: as a soldier I fought for country. As a rebel I fought for cause. As a man I fought for freedom. My name is James Wilson and I fight to the end. I am not ashamed to speak the truth. I was tried for treason. Banished to Australia. Yet I challenged my fate and brought six of my brothers to freedom. Think that we have been nearly nine years in this living tomb since our first arrest and that it is impossible for mind or body to withstand the continual strain that is upon them. One or the other must give way. While the contrived voice of James Wilson speaks about continual strain on the body and mind, and having to live in a “living tomb” [Australia] the actual difficulties experienced by convicts is not really engaged with. Upon further investigation, it is also evident that James Wilson was not an ordinary convict, nor was he strictly tried for treason. Information on Wilson is limited, however from what is known it is clear that he enlisted in the British Army at age 17 to avoid arrest when he assaulted a policeman (Snoots). In 1864 he joined the Irish Republican Brotherhood and became a Fenian; which led him to desert the British Army in 1865. The following year he was arrested for desertion and was convicted by the Dublin General Court Martial for the crime of being an “Irish rebel” (Convict Records, “Wilson”), desertion and mutinous conduct (photo from the Wild Geese Memorial cited in The Silver Voice). Prior to transportation, Wilson was photographed at Dublin Mountjoy Prison in 1866 (Manuscripts and Archives Division), and this is the photo that appears on the Blanc de Blancs label. He arrived in Fremantle, Western Australia on 9 January 1868. On 3 June 1869 Wilson “was sentenced to fourteen days solitary, confinement including ten days on bread and water” (photo from the Wild Geese Memorial cited in The Silver Voice) for an unknown offence or breach of conduct. A few years into his sentence he sent a letter to a fellow Fenian New York journalist John Devoy. Wilson wrote that his was a voice from the tomb. For is not this a living tomb? In the tomb it is only a man’s body is good for the worms but in this living tomb the canker worm of care enters the very soul. Think that we have been nearly nine years in this living tomb since our first arrest and that it is impossible for mind or body to withstand the continual strain that is upon them. One or the other must give way. (Wilson, 1874, cited in FitzSimons; emphasis added) Note the last two lines of the extract of the letter have been used verbatim by 19 Crimes to create their interactive label. This letter sparked a rescue mission which saw James Wilson and five of his fellow prisoners being rescued and taken to America where Wilson lived out his life (Reid). This escape has been nicknamed “The Great Escape” and a memorial was been built in 2005 in Rockingham where the escape took place. While 19 Crimes have re-created many elements of Wilson’s story in the interactive label, they have romanticised some aspects while generalising the conditions endured by convicts. For example, citing treason as Wilson’s crime rather than desertion is perhaps meant to elicit more sympathy for his situation. Further, the selection of a Fenian convict (who were often viewed as political prisoners that were distinct from the “criminal convicts”; Amos) allows 19 Crimes to build upon narratives of rule breaking by focussing on a convict who was sent to Australia for fighting for what he believed in. In this way, Wilson may not be seen as a “real” criminal, but rather someone to be celebrated and admired. Conclusion As a “new world” producer of sparkling wine, it was important for 19 Crimes to differentiate itself from the traditionally more sophisticated market of sparkling-wine consumers. At a lower price range, 19 Crimes caters to a different, predominantly younger, less wealthy clientele, who nevertheless consume alcoholic drinks symbolic to the occasion. The introduction of an effervescent wine to their already extensive collection encourages consumers to buy their product to use in celebratory contexts where the consumption of bubbly defines the occasion. The marketing of Blanc de Blancs directly draws upon ideas of celebration whilst promoting an image and story of a convict whose situation is admired – not the usual narrative that one associates with celebration and bubbly. Blanc de Blancs, and other 19 Crimes wines, celebrate “the rules they [convicts] broke and the culture they built” (19 Crimes, “Crimes”). This is something that the company actively promotes through its website and elsewhere. Using AR, 19 Crimes are providing drinkers with selective vantage points that often sensationalise the reality of transportation and disengage the consumer from that reality (Wise and McLean 569). Yet, 19 Crimes are at least engaging with the convict narrative and stimulating interest in the convict past. Consumers are being informed, convicts are being named and their stories celebrated instead of shunned. Consumers are comfortable drinking bubbly from a bottle that features a convict because the crimes committed by the convict (and/or to the convict by the criminal justice system) occurred so long ago that they have now been romanticised as part of Australia’s colourful history. The mugshot has been re-appropriated within our culture to become a novelty or fun interactive experience in many social settings. For example, many dark tourist sites allow visitors to take home souvenir mugshots from decommissioned police and prison sites to act as a memento of their visit. The promotional campaign for people to have their own mugshot taken and added to a wine bottle, while now a cultural norm, may diminish the real intent behind a mugshot for some people. For example, while drinking your bubbly or posing for a fake mugshot, it may be hard to remember that at the time their photographs were taken, convicts and transportees were “ordered to sit for the camera” (Barnard 7), so as to facilitate State survelliance and control over these individuals (Wise and McLean 562). Sparkling wine, and the bubbles that it contains, are intended to increase fun and enjoyment. Yet, in the case of 19 Crimes, the application of a real-life convict to a sparkling wine label adds an element of levity, but so too novelty and romanticism to what are ultimately narratives of crime and criminal activity; thus potentially “making light” of the convict experience. 19 Crimes offers consumers a remarkable way to interact with our convict heritage. The labels and AR experience promote an excitement and interest in convict heritage with potential to spark discussion around transportation. 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