Journal articles on the topic 'Autonomous eruption'

The impaction of permanent maxillary canine is a common clinical occurrence, and it is observed in 2% of patients who require orthodontic treatment. This case report describes a new orthodontic-surgical approach through the use of CO2 laser, for the exposure of the palatally impacted canines. A 13-year-old female referred to our observation to make an orthodontic examination because of the maxillary primary canines’ persistence in upper arch. Orthopanoramic X-ray showed impaction of both permanent maxillary canines. The family history revealed that the patient’s mother had the same orthodontic problem. Cone Beam Computer Tomography (CBCT) was requested to plan the surgical-orthodontic treatment. Surgical exposure of the impacted canines was performed using a CO2 laser and subsequent periodontal pack application. No orthodontic devices were applied for impacted teeth traction on dental arch. Canines’ movement was monitored at 1, 8 and 16 weeks post-surgery with photo and intraoral scanner CS3500 (CS3500®, Carestream Health, Atlanta, GA, USA). When canine crowns were completely erupted on palatal side, the alignment in the arch with indirect bonding technique was performed. Complete disimpaction of canine crowns was obtained in only four months. As reported in the literature, this case confirms that impacted canines’ exposure to CO2 laser has advantages if compared with traditional surgery: no bleeding during and after the procedure, decontaminant effect on the surgical area, no suture, and a fast spontaneous eruption. Conclusions: The pre-orthodontic uncovering and autonomous eruption of palatally impacted maxillary canines provides simplified, predictable, and more aesthetic outcomes. Furthermore, a significant positive factor is that there is no need to carry out the orthodontic traction of the impacted element, undoubtedly better compliance by the patient during the next alignment phase with the fix orthodontic appliance.

Objective The aim of this study was to investigate the changes of the mesiodistal axial inclination of the maxillary lateral teeth relative to the functional occlusal plane (FOP) on panoramic radiographs in patients with Angle Class I maxillary anterior crowding with high canines during the mixed dentition stage. Materials and Methods Panoramic radiographs were used to measure the mesiodistal axial inclination of the teeth before orthodontic treatment in Cases 1 and 2. The long axes of the teeth were determined according to the previous study by Ursi et al. Finally, the angles between the long axes of teeth and the FOP were measured. Results The first premolar and canine showed mesial tipping in the alveolar bone during eruption. The crown of the second premolar was located close to the apex of the first molar and showed excessive mesial inclination relative to the long axis of the second deciduous molar. Before orthodontic treatment, considerable autonomous changes in the mesiodistal inclination were found in the canine and the second premolar in the maxillary alveolar bone during eruption. With respect to the first molar, the mesiodistal inclination was invariable, or the angle was almost 90° without any significant change during the observation period. Conclusions Based on the results of this study, two new findings are described. Autonomous changes in the inclination of the mesiodistal maxillary teeth were observed during exfoliation, particularly in the canine and second premolars. In addition, the eruption of the maxillary lateral teeth influenced the neighboring teeth, whereas the first molar maintained an environmentally defined position.

Background: The permanent maxillary canine is the most impacted tooth after third molars. There are many possible surgical techniques to approach impacted canines. The literature reports that high-intensity laser therapies (HILTs) can be used for opercolectomy of an impacted tooth. The aim of this study is to propose a new orthodontic-surgical approach using a laser for the disinclusion of palatally impacted canines. Methods: Nine patients presented maxillary primary canine persistence in the dental arch. Orthopanoramic X-ray and cone beam computed tomography (CBCT) showed the impaction of permanent maxillary canines. Surgical exposure was performed using a diode laser (Raffaello, DMT, Lissone, Italy, 980 nm + 645 nm). No orthodontic devices were applied for impacted tooth traction. Canine movement was monitored at 1, 8, 16 weeks post-surgery with photos and a CS3500 intraoral scanner (Carestream Dental, Atlanta USA) to evaluate their autonomous eruption. Results: No complications were observed. In all the cases, complete disimpaction of the treated canines was obtained in only four months. Conclusions: Impacted canine exposure with a diode laser has many advantages if compared with traditional surgery. The pre-orthodontic exposure and autonomous eruption of impacted canines provided simplified and predictable outcomes. The absence of traction and the reduced time for orthodontic treatment increased compliance during the orthodontic alignment.

The article considers the distribution of different ages volcanic formations of Elbrus volcano, PaleoElbrus and autonomous eruption centers within the modern volcanic structure of Elbrus and its environs. The proposed generation sequence of these volcanogenic formations is shown, which was established using the geomorphological method by the morphology of the lava flows’ surface, as well as by the ratio of volcanogenic formations to each other, with Quaternary deposits of other genetic types, and with landforms.

AbstractTerrorist attacks in the North Caucasus and the eruption of many other ethnic conflicts in the post-Soviet space cause the fear that the old Ossetian-Ingush confrontation may also re-emerge. Ossetians are the only indigenous Christian ethnic group in the predominantly Sunni Muslim North Caucasus. They have fought a war with the Ingush over the Prigorodnyj district, which was part of the Chechen-Ingush Autonomous Republic inhabited mainly by the Ingush before they were deported by Stalin in the early 1940s. After their return, the punished Muslim Ingush have tried in vain to regain their territory, which has ultimately resulted in a bloody war in the early 1990s. Unlike the other wars in the former Soviet republics, this was not a vertical conflict. The present paper tries to analyse the historical background and roots of the antagonism between the two neighbouring North Caucasian peoples.

After the eruption of civil strife in Syria and Iraq, widespread violence and harassment, mainly by jihadist groups, came to substantiate fears for the extinction of the Christians. Various jihadist groups have perpetrated an ongoing ethnic cleansing of Christians. The paper will examine another alternative to co-optation, a survival strategy that has developed among the Christians in Iraq and Syria, that of armed resistance and the organisation of militias. This militarisation trend reveals serious inner-communal disagreements. Caught among regional antagonisms and suspicious of the ascendent Sunni, Shia and Kurdish political aspirations and nationalisms, the idea of self-determination and self-government in an autonomous zone around Nineveh seems the best alternative to state co-optation. The paper will also look into the evolving relationship of the Christian communities with the state, the Muslim majorities, the other non-Muslim communities and the international community in a system of overlapping authority and multiple loyalty in the region.

Wildfires erupt annually around the world causing serious loss of life and property damage. Despite the rapid progress of science and technology, there are no effective means to forecast wildfires. Various wildfire monitoring systems are deployed in different countries, most depend on photos or videos to identify features of wildfire after the first outbreak, while the delay of confirmation varies with technology. An autonomous forest wildfire early warning system is presented in this paper, which employs a state-of-the-art unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) to fly around a forest regularly according to established routes and strict procedures, to collect environmental data from sensors installed on trees, to monitor and predict wildfire, then provide early warning before eruption if a danger emerges. Bluetooth Low Energy (BLE) is employed to exchange data between UAV and the host of sensors. The collected monitoring data, such as temperature and humidity, is effective to reflect the real condition of the forest, which could result in early warning of wildfires. The application of this system in the environment will enhance the ability of wildfire prediction for the community.

The interaction between epithelial and mesenchymal tissues plays a critical role in the development of organs such as teeth, lungs, and hair. During tooth development, fibroblast growth factor (FGF) signaling is critical for regulating reciprocal epithelial and mesenchymal interactions. FGF signaling requires FGF ligands and their receptors (FGFRs). In this study, we investigated the role of epithelial FGF signaling in tooth development, using the Cre-loxp system to create tissue-specific inactivation of Fgfr1 in mice. In K14-Cre;Fgfr1 fl/fl mice, the apical sides of enamel-secreting ameloblasts failed to adhere properly to each other, although ameloblast differentiation was unaffected at early stages. Prior to eruption, enamel structure was compromised in the K14-Cre;Fgfr1 fl/fl mice and displayed severe enamel defects that mimic amelogenesis imperfecta (AI), with a rough, irregular enamel surface. These results suggest that there is a cell-autonomous requirement for FGF signaling in the dental epithelium during enamel formation. Loss of Fgfr1 affects ameloblast organization at the enamel-secretory stage and, hence, the formation of enamel.

In April 2019 Hong Kong government introduced an extradition bill that would allow extraditions to mainland China. The introduction of the extradition bill resulted in an eruption of mass level peaceful protests across Hong Kong, which turned out to be more violent later on. On the other side, the protests in Kashmir erupted out after the Modi led Indian government revoked the special autonomous status of Kashmir on the 5th of August, 2019. A sudden and momentous decision to eliminate article 370 enrage the Kashmiri people being deprived of their rights resulting in massive protest across the valley. In the context of modern information and communication systems, the present study is designed to examine the protest paradigm in the international news coverage of Kashmir and Hong Kong's recent protests in tweets of international news agencies. Theoretically, the study takes roots from protest paradigm and international news flow. Methodologically, we employed content analysis method. Firstly, content analysis of purposively selected tweets of four international news agencies, AFP, AP, Reuters, and Xinhua, was performed. Secondly, we used visualization technique to examine the framing of international protests by employing news framing, and protest paradigm. Findings reveal that Protest paradigm is supported in context of international disputes due to the vested interests of global powers as well as the dominated agenda of international news agencies.

Fumaroles represent evidence of volcanic activity, emitting steam and volcanic gases at temperatures between 70 and 100 ∘ C . Due to the well-known advantages of thermoelectricity, such as reliability, reduced maintenance and scalability, the present paper studies the possibilities of thermoelectric generators, devices based on solid-state physics, to directly convert fumaroles heat into electricity due to the Seebeck effect. For this purpose, a thermoelectric generator composed of two bismuth-telluride thermoelectric modules and heat pipes as heat exchangers was installed, for the first time, at Teide volcano (Canary Islands, Spain), where fumaroles arise in the surface at 82 ∘ C . The installed thermoelectric generator has demonstrated the feasibility of the proposed solution, leading to a compact generator with no moving parts that produces a net generation between 0.32 and 0.33 W per module given a temperature difference between the heat reservoirs encompassed in the 69–86 ∘ C range. These results become interesting due to the possibilities of supplying power to the volcanic monitoring stations that measure the precursors of volcanic eruptions, making them completely autonomous. Nonetheless, in order to achieve this objective, corrosion prevention measures must be taken because the hydrogen sulfide contained in the fumaroles reacts with steam, forming sulfuric acid.

In rough terrains, such as landslides or volcanic eruptions, it is extremely complex to plan safe trajectories for an Unmanned Ground Vehicle (UGV), since both robot stability and path execution feasibility must be guaranteed. In this paper, we present a complete solution for the autonomous navigation of ground vehicles in the mentioned scenarios. The proposed solution integrates three different aspects. The first is the coverage path planning for the definition of UAV trajectories for aerial imagery acquisition. The collected images are used for the photogrammetric reconstruction of the considered area. The second aspect is the adoption of a flock of UAVs to implement the coverage in a parallel way. In fact, when non-coverable zones are present, decomposition of the whole area to survey is performed. A solution to assign the different regions among the flying vehicles composing the team is presented. The last aspect is the path planning of the ground vehicle by means of a traversability analysis performed on the terrain 3D model. The computed paths are optimal in terms of the difficulty of moving across the rough terrain. The results of each step within the overall approach are shown.

Objective: Volcanic eruptions are a serious threat to the environment. In order to assess more accurately the state of a volcanic zone, spatially distributed me­asurements are required.
 Methodology: An electronic nose (eNose), a quad­copter drone with gas, temperature, and humidity sensors was developed. The drone was assembled with 3D printed parts and tested for properties like structural rigidity. The eNose samples gases, manages a sensor array, acquires data, extracts features, and classifies them with suitable classification algorithms.
 Results: The eNose drone system provides a versati­le technology for autonomous monitoring of diverse environments. A logarithmic calibration curve was observed for the CO sensor.
 Conclusions: The implementation of a eNose drone system and its application to the detection and study of gases in volcanic areas would be innovative in Argentina. The system can access remote dangerous areas and is versatile. Different gas sensors like H2S or SO2 can be added.

AbstractThe presence of volcanic ash in the signal path between a GPS satellite and a ground-based receiver strongly correlates with a decrease in GPS signal strength. This effect has been seen in data collected from GPS sites located near active volcanoes; however, the sparse placement of existing GPS sites limits the applicability of this technique as an ash plume detection method to relatively few well-instrumented volcanoes. This deficiency has motivated the development of a low-cost distributed sensor system based on navigation-grade GPS receivers, which can take advantage of attenuated GPS signals to increase the quality and availability of real-time ash plume observations during an eruption. This GPS-based system has been designed specifically to meet remote sensing needs while operating autonomously in difficult conditions and minimizing on-site infrastructure requirements. Prototypes of this system have undergone long-term testing and the data collected from this testing have been used to develop the additional processing steps necessary to account for the different behavior of navigation grade GPS equipment compared to the geodetic equipment used at existing GPS sites.

Although there is an important lack of commercial thermoelectric applications mainly due to their low efficiency, there exist some cases in which thermoelectric generators are the best option thanks to their well-known advantages, such as reliability, lack of maintenance and scalability. In this sense, the present paper develops a novel thermoelectric application in order to supply power to volcanic monitoring stations, making them completely autonomous. These stations become indispensable in any volcano since they are able to predict eruptions. Nevertheless, they present energy supply difficulties due to the absence of power grid, the remote access, and the climatology. As a solution, this work has designed a new integral system composed of thermoelectric generators with high efficiency heat exchangers, and its associated electronics, developed thanks to Internet of Things (IoT) technologies. Thus, the heat emitted from volcanic fumaroles is transformed directly into electricity with thermoelectric generators with passive heat exchangers based on phase change, leading to a continuous generation without moving parts that powers different sensors, the information of which is emitted via LoRa. The viability of the solution has been demonstrated both at the laboratory and at a real volcano, Teide (Canary Islands, Spain), where a compact prototype has been installed in an 82 °C fumarole. The results obtained during more than eight months of operation prove the robustness and durability of the developed generator, which has been in operation without maintenance and under several kinds of meteorological conditions, leading to an average generation of 0.49 W and a continuous emission over more than 14 km.

Rapid implementation of Information and Communication Technology in manufacturing enables the industrial processes to evolve as smart for mass customization, making it something unique and spectacular with the ways of adapting to work facilitated with better communication approaches, and novel classifications in manufacturing are changing the terminology of the Industrial Upheaval. The key impact factor offers a cutting edge to compete with the application of the IoT. Thus facilitating functional requirements to unravel towards the encounters erupting from the technological disruption. The enhancing parameter in novel manufacturing uses digital format information, which supports the content interstellar by considering the people's needs on the dependable data and the progress in the information and communication infrastructure. The potential of people being linked with mobile devices to admittance knowledge sources, bourgeoned by emergent technology, influences the Industry 4.0 to unceasing growth in the IoT, Cloud computing, autonomous vehicles, Big Data, Augmented/Virtual Reality, 3-D printing, energy storage, nanotechnology, robotics, Artificial intelligence, materials science, biotechnology, and quantum computing. Smart Manufacturing is an inclusive strategy, which authorizes the production and generation Ecology to catapult the demand-supply equations on a physical goods/service perspective. This inclusive growth trajectory positions the future of industries to evolve towards industry 4.0. This necessitates the importance of skills and quality as the important parameter for providing cutting-edge deliverables to industries. While preparing themselves for employability in the future, potential and prospective students need to pick and equip themselves with industry 4.0 competent skills for a better opportunity.

Abstract It is a common mistake to believe that identity deals with history, our memory, and our roots. While the center of identity-related processes is quite different, it cannot certainly ignore objective reality, and the individual’s past. The inflationary use of the term dates only half a century back. Before that (except for administration) rarely was there any question of identity posed, because the individual was defined mainly by the institutional frameworks that determined him. The question of identity might have emerged gradually, as the gap widened, in the case of an individuality willing to be asserting itself as autonomous. First and foremost, it emerges out of subjectivity at work, with the purpose of making meaning which, in turn, is no longer conferred only by the social position occupied. It is an ever changing meaning, and in every instance a necessary condition of action. This is so because in a society dominated by reflexivity and critical thinking, the individual is persistently compelled to get involved in a cognitive functioning of the opposite type, in order to be able to act, creating small beliefs underlying personal evidences. At the heart of the most advanced modernity, the core of identity processes is, surprisingly, of a religious type. This process does not render itself evident in an isolated manner. Various affiliations (cultural, national, and religious) may be used, as well as many others resources, often mobile and diverse, which may turn into totalitarian, fixed, exclusive and sectarian statements. By such a framing of the entire landscape of the identity process, one may better understand the paradoxical situation of current nationalist expressions in Europe. They do not disappear, but sometimes even materialize into acute forms, even if the frameworks of socialization become increasingly transnational. It is precisely because the objective substrate of national identity is weakening, that its eruptive movements (during crises provoked by extremely different reasons) become unpredictable and uncontrollable and particularly dangerous for democracy.

Settlement structures at the transition from the Early Pre-Roman Iron Age to the Late Pre-Roman Iron Age in northern Jutland – disjunction or continuity?The intermediary stage between the Early Pre-Roman Iron Age (EPRIA) and the Late Pre-Roman Iron Age (LPRIA) in Jutland (c. 200 BC) has often been described as being characterised by major developments, manifested in changes in the structural organisation of settlements. These changes have been most acutely described by C.K. Jensen in his PhD thesis of 1995, in which this intermediary stage is described as a short period characterised by great social transformations, manifested by marked interruption in settlement continuity all over southern Scandinavia.However, a number of EPRIA settlements have been excavated in recent years that appear to have been continuous during the LPRIA and into the Early Roman Iron Age (ERIA), thereby contradicting this disjunction theory. Based on evidence from Pre-Roman Iron Age settlements in northern Jutland, this article discusses whether settlement discontinuity in the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA can be confirmed or whether the development was characterised by continuity. Data are employed from 36 Early Iron Age settlements in northern Jutland (figs. 1-2), followed by a more detailed survey of five settlement localities.In his development of a chronology for southern Scandinavia in the Pre-Roman Iron Age, C.K. Jensen found a general discontinuity in the archaeological record at the transition between the EPRIA and LPRIA. This was so major that it could only reflect a radical change in the behaviour and actions of the people who, in the Pre-Roman Iron Age, had made, used and deposited these objects. According to C.K. Jensen the discontinuity in the settlements evident at this time, was so extensive that only two special settlements showing continuity from the EPRIA to LPRIA are known from southern Scandinavia, i.e. “Borremose” (a fortified settlement) and “Smedegård” (a tell site), both situated in northern Jutland.As a possible explanation for this significant break, C.K. Jensen refers to one or more major volcanic eruptions that took place around 200 BC. The essence of his theory is that the reduced solar radiation resulting from this led to crop failure and that the consequent famine provoked great changes. C.K. Jensen follows this line of argument to its utmost, but other researchers have also accepted that a number of striking social changes occurred around the 3rd or at the beginning of the 2nd century BC, resulting in substantial changes in the structural organisation of settlements. Most recently, this subject has been thoroughly addressed for Pre-Roman Iron Age settlements in Jutland by L. Webley. He describes the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA as a time of transformation between two different types of structural organisation of settlements: Settlements from the EPRIA are seen as ‘wandering relatively dispersed farmsteads’, while those after the transition to the LPRIA are described as being ‘long-lived and nucleated’, with many being based on continuously occupied farm plots. C.K. Jensen thereby perceives the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA as a clear interruption in settlement continuity, while L. Webley (and others) goes no further than describing this intermediate stage as an important dividing line that merely emphasises a reorganisation of structural practices with regard to settlements. These two explanations are not though necessarily mutually exclusive. On the contrary, one could be tempted to say that they can be perceived as separate hypotheses that, together, reinforce the conclusion that the time around the transition from the EPRIA to LPRIA was characterised by considerable structural changes in the settlements in Jutland.Focusing on northern Jutland, it is worth noting that the two exceptions to C.K. Jensen’s arguments, Borremose and Smedegård, are both situated here. Moreover, further exceptions have been added since 1995, when C.K. Jensen produced his PhD thesis, so that today we can refer to at least six settlements in northern Jutland showing continuity from the EPRIA to LPRIA. At the same time, it has become apparent that nucleated long-lived settlements began to appear as early as the EPRIA in at least a few locations in northern Jutland.If C.K. Jensen’s Pre-Roman disjunction theory is to have general validity in northern Jutland, the lifetime of settlements founded in the Late Bronze Age (LBA)/EPRIA should end at the transition to the LPRIA, at the latest. However, based on the earliest-latest dates for the longhouses at 36 chosen settlements, no such break could be identified at that time. At 17 of the 36 settlements, where the earliest longhouse was dated to the LBA/EPRIA (fig. 1 nos. 1-17), the latest longhouse at 13 of the 17 sites (fig.1 nos. 5-17) was thereby dated to either the LPRIA, ERIA or Late Roman Iron Age (LRIA). On the basis of this record, it is evident that there was usually settlement continuity from the EPRIA to LPRIA on those of the selected sites that were founded in the LBA/EPRIA. A possible source of error should, however, be mentioned here: Even though a break in settlement during the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA cannot be demonstrated in the archaeological record, it may very well exist nevertheless. This is because the simple recording of, respectively, the earliest and latest longhouses at these sites combines the evidence into broad time periods, within which there may very well be sequential holes. Five settlements were therefore subsequently selected for intra-site analysis of the settlement structures during the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA: Nørre Tranders, Nørre Hedegård, Trandersgård, Lykkensgård and Klovenhøj.Analysis of the various village phases of the Nørre Tranders tell site (fig. 4) revealed that the structural organisation of the settlement was stable here from the EPRIA onwards. At the same time, it could be demonstrated that structural changes in settlement did not occur during the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA. On the site as a whole, there was consequently very limited structural settlement development from phase I in the EPRIA to phase XIV in the ERIA. At Nørre Hedegaard, the traces of a stable structure around the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA are even clearer (fig. 5). Here, the same plots were continuously occupied throughout four settlement phases, beginning in the EPRIA and ending in the LPRIA, and house continuity constituted a prominent part of this practice. As far as Nørre Hedegaard is concerned, it can therefore be reasonably indicated that the intermediate stage between the EPRIA and LPRIA fell within what was probably the most stable period in the 6-700 year life of the settlement. At Klovenhøj too, a stable structure was a reality as early as the EPRIA (fig. 8), with the founder plot being continuously built upon and occupied for centuries and with a marked degree of house continuity from the EPRIA into the LPRIA. Not until later, in the LPRIA and ERIA, were new plots established. The situation at Trandersgård was somewhat different (fig. 6): The northern farms from the EPRIA apparently functioned within a community of loosely structured wandering farms, while the southern farms from the same period must be seen as the founders of several farm plots for a settlement attached to a single locality, which lasted until the LRIA. As these obviously constituted temporally extended phases, it is therefore not possible to determine which farms within the various phases at Trandersgård were coexistent. However, an overall picture emerges of a settlement under constant development – without it being possible to identify one or more periods with substantial interruptions or changes to the settlement structures as a consequence. As for Lykkensgård, it seems that the settlement was not occupied during the EPRIA.It can therefore be concluded that the solid line often drawn between the EPRIA and LPRIA is not evident, either as a break in settlement continuity or in the form of supra-regional structural changes, in the archaeological records from the settlements in northern Jutland dealt with in this article. The various episodes of restructuring identified at these sites therefore seem to have taken place autonomously and randomly in chronological terms, as seen for instance in the case of Nørre Hedegård, where the two interruption horizons coincided with sand drift horizons. The conclusions reached in the discussions presented in this article therefore point in the direction of developments in settlement structure in the Pre-Roman Iron Age of northern Jutland being first and foremost a consequence of practices and decisions that took place at a village level.Simon Kjær NielsenVesthimmerlands Museum

The shallow migration path of mudflow of the mud volcano MV420 on the continental slope of the Canadian Beaufort Sea is investigated in terms of thermal and geotechnical characteristics. MV420 is a nearly flat topped active mud volcano that emits methane and fluidized mud. Its top is at a depth of water of 420 m, within the gas hydrate stability zone. During the summer 2017 IBRV Araon expedition, several measurements of marine heat flow were conducted in the area of juvenile mud mound/pond morphologies identified by multibeam bathymetry and backscatter intensity images obtained by the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute’s autonomous underwater vehicle. The heat probe (a gravity corer with temperature, pressure, and tilt sensors) appeared to penetrate to a depth of >70 m below the seafloor. The sediment bulk density in the mudflow migration path of MV420, estimated by pressure change with controlled stretches of a winch cable, was 1.56 g/cm3. The subsurface temperature reaches up to 18°C and profiles show that the maximum local temperature occurs from 20 to 40 m below the seafloor, implying substantial vertical variability of geothermal gradients. Our finding of large positive and small negative geothermal gradients above and below the depth of the local temperature maximum may represent stagnant hot mud along the mudflow migration path, indicating a pulsative eruption of the mudflow. Gas hydrate is stable only within a few meter thick layer near the seafloor above the path because of the cold bottom water (0.4°C) covering the top of the mud volcano. Furthermore, the thermal conductivity of 0.939 W/m/K and the marine heat flow of 22.5 mW/m2 at a control site outside MV420 is estimated as the background heat flow in the slope, for which little data exists.

AbstractKusatsu-Shirane volcano is one of the active volcanoes in Japan. Phreatic explosions occurred in Mt. Shirane in 1983 and most recently, in 2018, in Mt. Motoshirane. Information on the subsurface structure is crucial for understanding the activity of volcanoes with well-developed hydrothermal systems where phreatic eruptions occur. Here, we report aeromagnetic surveys conducted at low altitudes using an unmanned helicopter. The survey aimed to obtain magnetic data at a high spatial resolution to map the magnetic anomaly and infer the magnetization intensity distribution in the region immediately after the 2018 Mt. Motoshirane eruption. The helicopter used in the survey was YAMAHA FAZER R G2, an autonomously driven model which can fly along a precisely programmed course. The flight height above the ground and a measurement line spacing were set to ~ 150 m and ~ 100 m, respectively, and the total flight distance was 191 km. The measured geomagnetic total intensity was found to vary by ~ 1000 nT peak-to-peak. The estimated magnetization intensity derived from measured data showed a 100 m thick magnetized surface layer with normal polarity, composed of volcanic deposits of recent activities. Underneath, a reverse-polarity magnetization was found, probably corresponding to the Takai lava flow in the Early Quaternary period (~ 1 Ma) mapped in the region. Our results demonstrate the cost-effectiveness and accuracy of using drone magnetometers for mapping the rugged terrain of volcanoes.

We present methods for autonomous collaborative surveying of volcanic CO2 emissions using aerial robots. CO2 is a useful predictor of volcanic eruptions and an influential greenhouse gas. However, current CO2 mapping methods are hazardous and inefficient, as a result, only a small fraction of CO2 emitting volcanoes have been surveyed. We develop algorithms and a platform to measure volcanic CO2 emissions. The Dragonfly Unpiloted Aerial Vehicle (UAV) platform is capable of long-duration CO2 collection flights in harsh environments. We implement two survey algorithms on teams of Dragonfly robots and demonstrate that they effectively map gas emissions and locate the highest gas concentrations. Our experiments culminate in a successful field test of collaborative rasterization and gradient descent algorithms in a challenging real-world environment at the edge of the Valles Caldera supervolcano. Both algorithms treat multiple flocking UAVs as a distributed flexible instrument. Simultaneous sensing in multiple UAVs gives scientists greater confidence in estimates of gas concentrations and the locations of sources of those emissions. These methods are also applicable to a range of other airborne concentration mapping tasks, such as pipeline leak detection and contaminant localization.

Summary Objective To evaluate the costs of open and closed surgical exposure and subsequent orthodontic treatment for the correction of palatally displaced canines (PDCs). Trial design A multicentre, two-arm parallel group randomized controlled trial. Methods One hundred twenty adolescents between 9 and 16 years of age, from three orthodontic specialist centres, were randomized to one of the two surgical exposure interventions. The randomization was conducted according to a two-arm parallel group 1:1 allocation ratio, using computerized lists with block randomization. In both the surgical techniques, whole mucoperiosteal flaps were raised, and bone covering the PDCs was removed. In the open technique, glass ionomer was built up on the PDC crown – reaching above the mucosa through a hole punched in the flap – to allow the canine to erupt autonomously. After eruption, the canine was orthodontically moved above the mucosa. In the closed technique, an eyelet was bonded onto the PDC, the flap was repositioned and the canine was orthodontically moved beyond the mucosa. The trial ended when the PDC was successfully aligned in the dental arch. Cost analysis was performed including costs for surgery, orthodontic treatment, emergency visits, and material, as well as costs for transports and time spent in connection with every appointment. Blinding Patients and caregivers could not be blinded due to obvious limitations of the clinical setting, while outcome assessors and data analysts were blinded. Results A cost-minimization analysis was performed since both exposure groups succeeded equally well in terms of treatment effects. The two different surgical exposures and following orthodontic treatments did not differ significantly in terms of costs. Generalizability and limitations Costs are estimated in the Swedish setting, which needs to be considered if applying the results in other settings. Calculations of total cost do not include finishing, debonding, retention, and follow-up. Conclusion There is no significant difference in costs between closed and open surgical exposure with following orthodontic treatments in PDCs. Trial registration ClinicalTrials.gov, ID: NCT02186548.

This paper offers a discursive reading of the Autobiography of Red (1998) written by Anne Carson, a novel loosely based on the myth of Geryon and the Tenth Labor of Herakles. Carson’s Geryon is a fragmented modern subject who is molested as a child and betrayed in a love affair as an adult. At one of its thematic levels the work examines the efforts of an outcast who attempts to reclaim a meaningful subjectivity in a modern world characterized by fragmentation grounded in anxieties, frenetic confusion, and cultural pressures.The term “fragmentation” has a multiplicity of meanings and changes its signi - cance depending on the individual/subjective sociocultural context. The study of the formation of a fragmented self must take into account the variety of factors, including class, gender and cultural frameworks. This paper interrogates such symbiotic relationships between the processes of subject fragmentation within a social realm and the principles and values introduced by the power structures apparent within society. Referring to Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, where discipline “makes” individuals in the society and is the technique used by the dominant power to control its subjects as instruments, this paper examines the connection between Carson’s novel and the notion of agency within fragmentation. By portraying a sexually disoriented subject, Carson shows how power structures are formed and manipulated through its agents (Geryon’s mother, brother and Herakles), and offers an illustration of the alternatives available to those who resist being framed. I examine the portrayals of such subjects’ striving for liberation from the hierarchies of power through the intertextual embodiment of the image of an eruptive volcano and its generative power of wrath which resists to be categorized or tamed by “Mother Nature.” This paper evaluates the essential features and outcomes of the myth of Geryon as a study of a fragmented subject struggling to bring the fissuring dimensions of his personality and sexuality together to form an autonomous subjectivity.KEYWORDS: Subjectivity, Fragmentation, Power Principle, Body, Individuality Norms

In The Practice of Everyday Life, Walking in the City, Michel de Certeau celebrates the glorious sublimity of an Icarian moment as his gaze from the 110th floor of the World Trade Centre soars over Manhattan. Having taken such a voluptuous pleasure (92) in the view myself, and watched the twin towers collapse into rubble on my television screen last September, as I re-visit the aerial site through de Certeau, his words resonate strongly with the oneiric force of memory, myth and the wonder of urban possibility. For while theorising, does de Certeau not write his own story of the city as dream, as imaginative longing, consuming and producing an urban 'text' (93) as he reads from on high? Participating in the logic of one of the city's opportunities, a tourist attraction, his analytic practice is a creative expression of his own subjective experience. Theoretically, the story begins in the labyrinth of the cityscape, where the urban text is humanised by its mobile, unpredictable practitioners whose everyday operations style, invent and generate ways of being and becoming. What de Certeau offers us is something quite beautiful and noble, almost consolatory, in the idea of an artful, other spatiality that slips, undetected, into the banal routine of daily existence. To explore how lived space (96) is authorised by its heroic practitioners, made other, as it is inscribed into and outside the historic, social and economic realities or strategies of the urban environment, I resort to fiction, where the certain strangeness (93) of the everyday surfaces to be read. Colum McCann's novel, This Side of Brightness, takes us down below de Certeau's down below to the subterranean spaces of the New York City subway tunnels where the central character, Treefrog, estranged from his family, makes his home: his dark nest, high in the tunnel (McCann 2). Treefrog's escape into this murky, cavernous netherworld is a disappearing act for this is where no ordinary practitioners of the city live 'down below,' [down] below the thresholds at which [an everyday] visibility begins. (de Certeau 93) Seeking refuge, this is where the city's resident asylum seekers migrate, claiming exile as a right. To be outcast is an autonomous and pragmatic spatial tactic, a self-imposed, self-composed state of being as other. Here, survival is a process of resistance, an illegal occupation. Errant and devious, the lifestyle choice these urban consumers make violates the civil ordinances of the city. Venturing topside, Treefrog repels, offends and embarrasses the ordinary practitioners of the city travelling on the subway (96, 240) and in the reading room at the public library (93). The disgust and fear aroused by his stench and squalid appearance make no allowance for pity or pride. In these aboveground collective social spaces his unhygienic, undomesticated presence is not proper; it signals defiance in its fetid, imposing refusal to be controlled or to disappear. Treefrog is an anonymous manifestation of the cityscape. Disguised by long hair, a beard, ragged clothes, filth and dirt (242), his real identity is undetectable: Clarence Nathan Walker is invisible. Seemingly primitive, this sight is decidedly modern in its ubiquitous depiction of the contemporary urban indigent. A place of wounded spirits, Treefrog's 'mole' neighbourhood confesses the shame of an overwhelming suffering born of the streets. Papa Love's grief is monumentalised in the surreal gargantuan murals and portraits of the dead he paints on the walls of the tunnel. Crack addicts, Angela and Elijah, get high, wasted, underground. A symbolic toilet seat hangs wreath-like on Faraday's front door; as a doorbell (128). Dean, the Trash Man, collects the discarded remains of an urban consumer society and installs them in his 'front yard' as an assemblage of ready-made materials and found objects. Textually, his 'work' orchestrates a cacophony of human ruin and putrescence: the mounds of human faeces and the torn magazines and the empty containers and the hypodermic needles with blobs of blood at their tips like poppies erupting in a field...the broken bottles and rat droppings and a baby carriage and smashed TV and squashed cans and discarded cardboard boxes and shattered jars and orange peels and crack vials and a single teddy bear with both its eyes missing, its belly nibbled into by rats. (56) In this community, housing isolates, shelters and incarcerates, each inhabitant has their own cubicle, concrete bunker, solitary cell (56). In contrast to this depressed existential vista, before his incarnation as Treefrog, Clarence Nathan knows the sublime erotic charge of towering over New York City, expressed by de Certeau. Working construction on the city's skyscrapers, he seeks ascension, going, willfully, higher than any walking man in Manhattan....Beneath him, Manhattan becomes a blur of moving yellow taxis and dark silhouettes. There is something in this rising akin to desire, the gentle rock from side to side, the cooling breeze, the knowledge that he is the one who will pierce the virginity of space where the steel hits the sky....The elevator clangs and stops. Clarence Nathan finishes his coffee, tosses the paper cup and walks across the metal decking towards two ladders which jut up in the air. For a joke the men call this area the POST: The Place of Shrivelled Testicles. No ordinary man will go further. The nimblest Clarence Nathan and Cricket...climb three ladders to the very top of the building, where columns of steel reach up into the air. (195-6) Unaffected by vertigo and impervious to the danger, there is a seeming nonchalance, a banality, to Clarence Nathan's activity as he finishes his coffee, tosses the paper cup and gets to work; this is a practice of everyday life for him. And yet this productive activity, governed by city council planning and approval, contains a liberatory ruse, an 'anthropological,' poetic and mythic experience of space, (93) as proposed by de Certeau. High above, he performs a transcendent manoeuvre, a magic trick, creating and constructing space out of thin air, nothing. Icarian, Clarence Nathan's desire seems not for scopic pleasure but for the pure visceral elation of being unrestrained, unprotected, autonomous, above and beyond the rest of the world. At such a height Clarence Nathan does not speculate or even think he forgets where he is, that his 'body even exists.' (177) Surpassing rational comprehension and linguistic expression, his elevation articulates an unadulterated liberation, an erotics of feeling and an ecstasy of being: [s]ometimes, for a joke, Clarence Nathan takes out his harmonica at the top of the column and blows into it using just one hand. The wind carries most of the tune away, but occasionally the notes filter down to the ironworkers below. The notes sound billowy and strained, and for this the men sometimes call him Treefrog, a name he doesn't much care for. (198) From this pivotal point, high on the extreme vertical axis of the cityscape, Clarence Nathan has much further to fall when he loses his balance mentally, descending into an abyss of human despair. Being down is not deep enough. Going underground, Clarence Nathan reclaims this haunted, burrowed space of the city as a legacy bequeathed to him by his grandfather, one of the sandhogs who dug the tunnels of the New York subway, and reinvents himself as Treefrog. An appropriate moniker for this uncivilised, otherworldly realm, [a]ll darkness and dampness and danger, (7) sometimes it is the only name he can remember (29). Foregrounding memory and myth, McCann's fable weaves the creation story of a family through the interstices of a city's legends and official history, allowing us to read the appropriation, the othering, of the city's spaces by its inhabitants in the practice of their lives as ephemeral markings of artistic activity. Through the incantation of spatial and narrative trajectories, as de Certeau suggests, [a] migrational, or metaphorical, city thus slips into the clear text of the planned and readable city (93). Writing himself into these catacombs, literally, Treefrog embraces his interment, his burial rights, as a return to his primordial home: In his notebook Treefrog writes: Back down under the earth, where you belong. Back down under the earth where you belong....He could make a map of those words, beginning at the B and ending at the g where all beginning begins and ends and they would make the strangest of upground and belowground topographies. (139) So as not to forget the strange topographies of existence, Treefrog inscribes them on the surface of his skin: [h]is chest is scrimshawed with stabwounds and burns and scars. So many mutilations of his body. Hot paper clips, blunt scissors, pliers, cigarettes, matches, blades they have all left their marks. (30) Mapping an abstract expression, intimately, these are the warrior scars of the initiate. Belowground, Clarence Nathan eludes the clinical strategies of his obsessive-compulsive post-traumatic stress disorder; he avoids the nuthouse (228). Here, in retreat, as Treefrog, he is free to create, dream and imagine, unrestrained and unexamined; it is an elegant self-prescribed remedy. For Clarence Nathan, the tunnels are therapeutic and restorative. Ultimately, they enable him to be resurrected back into the light, upground, leaving Treefrog, like a discarded doppelgänger, to the shadows of the tunnels (242-3). An ironic compensation for his mental instability, Clarence Nathan's gift of perfect physical balance, his inheritance, (170) determines his survival underground. Safe and secure with his cave positioned high in the tunnel wall, Treefrog's daily movements are dependent upon the demonstration of an agile bodily grace, a mobility that defies gravity in its series of acrobatic swings and precarious tight-rope walking. Enhancing the danger and difficulty of his daring by performing blindfolded, Treefrog negotiates space intuitively: he walks onto the catwalk with his eyelids shut. The narrow beam requires supreme balance below him is a twenty foot drop to the tunnel. He swings his way down to the second beam ten feet below, crouches, then leaps and drops soundlessly to the gravel, knees bent, heart thumping. He opens his eyes to the darkness. (25) Mimetically Treefrog appropriates this eternal nocturnal realm and makes it his own, a part of himself, he feels the darkness, smells it, belongs to it. (23) As from his subterranean perch Treefrog fills the emptiness with the eerie, improvised strains of his harmonica, the stale, dank, tired air of the tunnels, is filtered through the human body, and used to make something strangely ethereal, beautiful, fresh and new: in the miasmic dark, Treefrog played, transforming the air, giving back to the tunnels their original music (2). Treefrog accepts this other spatiality, carved into and out of the urban environment, as a gift, and his performance reciprocates a generosity that signals hope and healing; '[t]he world, he knows, can still spring its small and wondrous surprises (53). McCann presents the tunnels of New York City as an urban wilderness, a lawless frontier. And yes, Treefrog's community is comprised of "demonic subterraneans madmen, perverts, addicts, criminals, murderers," but challenging Blanche Gelfant's account of the lower states, this reverse spatial direction does not necessarily signify a metaphorical mobilisation of values downward into the unexplored depths of moral disorder (417). Rather, in This Side of Brightness, moral disorder is a condition of ordinary, everyday existence aboveground, where violence, chaos, vulnerability, persecution, terror, inequality, kindness, disregard, compassion, indifference, awe, tragedy, compose, socially, [a] landscape of loving and hating. A palpable viciousness in the air. And yet a tenderness too. Something about this part of the world being so alive that its own heart could burst from the accumulated grief. As if it all might suddenly fulminate under the gravity of living. (185) Figured imaginatively through Treefrog the tunnels become an enchanted otherworldly space, '[a] heaven of hell,' (70) in which darkness, solitude and anonymity have the miraculous power to strengthen and absolve. Amidst the waste and detritus a beauty is brutally, painfully laid bare. For Treefrog, for Clarence Nathan, the tunnels are an emotional and psychological sanctuary and their appropriation is a courageous life-affirming act: it is only underground that...men become men, integrated, whole (37). References de Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven Rendall. Berkeley: U of California P, 1988. Gelfant, Blanche. Residence Underground: Recent Fictions of the Subterranean City. The Sewanee Review. 83 (1975): 406-38. McCann, Colum. This Side of Brightness. London: Phoenix House, 1998. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Williams, Marisa. "Going Underground" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/underground.php>. Chicago Style Williams, Marisa, "Going Underground" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/underground.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Williams, Marisa. (2002) Going Underground. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/underground.php> ([your date of access]).

Introduction In the wake of the disaster of World War I, the Surrealists formulated a hostile critique of the novel that identified its limitations in expressing the depth of the mind's faculties and the fragmentation of the psyche after catastrophic events. From this position of crisis, the Surrealists undertook a series of experimental innovations in form, structure, and style in an attempt to renew the genre. This article examines how the praxis of shock is deployed in a number of Surrealist city novels as a conduit for revolt against a society that grew increasingly mechanised in the climate of post-war regeneration. It seeks to counter the contemporary view that Surrealist city dérives (drifts) represent an intriguing yet ultimately benign method of urban research. By reconsidering its origins in response to a world catastrophe, this article emphasises the Surrealist novel’s binding of the affective properties of shock to the dream-awakening dialectic at the heart of the political position of Surrealism. The Surrealist City Novel Today it has almost become a truism to assert that there is a causal link between the catastrophic devastation wrought by the events of the two World Wars and the ideology of rupture that characterised the iconoclasms of the Modernist avant-gardes. Yet, as we progress into the twenty-first century, it is timely to recognise that new generations are rediscovering canonical and peripheral texts of this era and refracting them through a prism of contemporary preoccupations. In many ways, the revisions of today’s encounters with that past era suggest we have travelled some distance from the rawness of such catastrophic events. One post-war body of work recently subjected to view via an unexpected route is the remarkable array of Surrealist city novels set in Paris in the 1920s and 1930s, representing a spectrum of experimental texts by such authors as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Robert Desnos, Philippe Soupault, and Michel Leiris. Over the past decade, these works have become recuperated in the Anglophone context as exemplary instances of ludic engagement with the city. This is due in large part to the growing surge of interest in psychogeography, an urban research method concerned with the influence that geographical environments exert over the emotions and behaviours of individuals, and a concern for tracing the literary genealogies of walking and writing in broad sweeping encyclopaedic histories and guidebook style accounts (for prominent examples see Rebecca Solnit’s Wanderlust and Merlin Coverley’s Psychogeography). Yet as Surrealist novels continue to garner renewed interest for their erotic intrigue, their strolling encounters with the unconscious or hidden facets of the city, and as precursors to the apparently more radical practice of Situationist psychogeography, this article suggests that something vital is missing. By neglecting the revolutionary significance that the Surrealists placed upon the street and its inextricable connection to the shock of the marvellous, I suggest that we have arrived at a point of diminished appreciation of the praxis of the dream-awakening dialectic at the heart of Surrealist politics. With the movement firmly lodged in the popular imagination as concerned merely with the art of play and surprise, the Surrealists’ sensorial conception of the city as embedded within a much larger critique of the creators of “a sterile and dead world” (Rasmussen 372) is lost. This calls into question to what extent we can now relate to the urgency with which avant-gardes like the Surrealists responded to the disaster of war in their call for “the revolution of the subject, a revolution that destroyed identity and released the fantastic” (372). At the same time, a re-evaluation of the Surrealist city novel as a significant precursor to the psychogeograhical dérive (drift) can prove instructive in locating the potential of walking, in order to function as a form of praxis (defined here as lived practice in opposition to theory) that goes beyond its more benign construction as the “gentle art” of getting lost. The Great Shock To return to the origins of Surrealism is to illuminate the radical intentions of the movement. The enormous shock that followed the Great War represented, according to Roger Shattuck, “a profound organic reaction that convulsed the entire system with vomiting, manic attacks, and semi-collapse” (9). David Gascoyne considers 1919, the inaugural year of Surrealist activity, as “a year of liquidation, the end of everything but also of paroxysmic death-birth, incubating seeds of renewal” (17). It was at this time that André Breton and his collaborator Philippe Soupault came together at the Hôtel des Grands Hommes in Paris to conduct their early experimental research. As the authors took poetic license with the psychoanalytical method of automatic writing, their desire to unsettle the latent content of the unconscious as it manifests in the spontaneous outpourings of dream-like recollections resulted in the first collection of Surrealist texts, The Magnetic Fields (1920). As Breton recalls: Completely occupied as I still was with Freud at that time, and familiar with his methods of examination which I had had some slight occasion to use on some patients during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what we were trying to obtain from them, namely, a monologue spoken as rapidly as possible without any intervention on the part of critical faculties, a monologue consequently unencumbered by the slightest inhibition and which was, as closely as possible, akin to spoken thought. (Breton, Manifesto 22–23) Despite their debts to psychoanalytical methods, the Surrealists sought radically different ends from therapeutic goals in their application. Rather than using analysis to mitigate the pathologies of the psyche, Breton argued that such methods should instead be employed to liberate consciousness in ways that released the individual from “the reign of logic” (Breton, Manifesto 11) and the alienating forces of a mechanised society. In the same manifesto, Breton links his critique to a denunciation of the novel, principally the realist novel which dominated the literary landscape of the nineteenth-century, for its limitations in conveying the power of the imagination and the depths of the mind’s faculties. Despite these protestations, the Surrealists were unable to completely jettison the novel and instead launched a series of innovations in form, structure, and style in an attempt to renew the genre. As J.H. Matthews suggests, “Being then, as all creative surrealism must be, the expression of a mood of experimentation, the Surrealist novel probes not only the potentialities of feeling and imagination, but also those of novelistic form” (Matthews 6). When Nadja appeared in 1928, Breton was not the first Surrealist to publish a novel. However, this work remains the most well-known example of its type in the Anglophone context. Largely drawn from the author’s autobiographical experiences, it recounts the narrator’s (André’s) obsessive infatuation with a mysterious, impoverished and unstable young woman who goes by the name of Nadja. The pair’s haunted and uncanny romance unfolds during their undirected walks, or dérives, through the streets of Paris, the city acting as an affective register of their encounters. The “intellectual seduction” comes to an abrupt halt (Breton, Nadja 108), however, when Nadja does in fact go truly mad, disappearing from the narrator’s life when she is committed to an asylum. André makes no effort to seek her out and after launching into a diatribe vehemently attacking the institutions that administer psychiatric treatment, nonchalantly resumes the usual concerns of his everyday life. At a formal level, Breton’s unconventional prose indeed stirs many minor shocks and tremors in the reader. The insertion of temporally off-kilter photographs and surreal drawings are intended to supersede naturalistic description. However, their effect is to create a form of “negative indexicality” (Masschelein) that subtly undermines the truth claims of the novel. Random coincidences charged through with the attractive force of desire determine the plot while the compressed dream-like narrative strives to recount only those facts of “violently fortuitous character” (Breton, Nadja 19). Strikingly candid revelations perpetually catch the reader off guard. But it is in the novel’s treatment of the city, most specifically, in which we can recognise the evolution of Surrealism’s initial concern for the radically subversive and liberatory potential of the dream into a form of praxis that binds the shock of the marvellous to the historical materialism of Marx and Engels. This praxis unfolds in the novel on a number of levels. By placing its events firmly at the level of the street, Breton privileges the anti-heroic realm of everyday life over the socially hierarchical domain of the bourgeois domestic interior favoured in realist literature. More significantly, the sites of the city encountered in the novel act as repositories of collective memory with the power to rupture the present. As Margaret Cohen comprehensively demonstrates in her impressive study Profane Illumination, the great majority of sites that the narrator traverses in Nadja reveal connections in previous centuries to instances of bohemian activity, violent insurrection or revolutionary events. The enigmatic statue of Étienne Dolet, for example, to which André is inexplicably drawn on his city walks and which produces a sensation of “unbearable discomfort” (25), commemorates a sixteenth-century scholar and writer of love poetry condemned as a heretic and burned at the Place Maubert for his non-conformist attitudes. When Nadja is suddenly gripped by hallucinations and imagines herself among the entourage of Marie-Antoinette, “multiple ghosts of revolutionary violence descend on the Place Dauphine from all sides” (Cohen 101). Similarly, a critique of capitalism emerges in the traversal of those marginal and derelict zones of the city, such as the Saint-Ouen flea market, which become revelatory of the historical cycles of decay and ruination that modernity seeks to repress through its faith in progress. It was this poetic intuition of the machinations of historical materialism, in particular, that captured the attention of Walter Benjamin in his 1929 “Surrealism” essay, in which he says of Breton that: He can boast an extraordinary discovery: he was the first to perceive the revolutionary energies that appear in the “outmoded”—in the first iron constructions, the first factory buildings, the earliest photos, objects that have begun to be extinct, grand pianos, the dresses of five years ago, fashionable restaurants when the vogue has begun to ebb from them. The relation of these things to revolution—no one can have a more exact concept of it than these authors. (210) In the same passage, Benjamin makes passing reference to the Passage de l’Opéra, the nineteenth-century Parisian arcade threatened with demolition and eulogised by Louis Aragon in his Surrealist anti-novel Paris Peasant (published in 1926, two years earlier than Nadja). Loosely structured around a series of walks, Aragon’s book subverts the popular guidebook literature of the period by inventorying the arcade’s quotidian attractions in highly lyrical and imagistic prose. As in Nadja, a concern for the “outmoded” underpins the praxis which informs the politics of the novel although here it functions somewhat differently. As transitional zones on the cusp of redevelopment, the disappearing arcades attract Aragon for their liminal status, becoming malleable dreamscapes where an ontological instability renders them ripe for eruptions of the marvellous. Such sites emerge as “secret repositories of several modern myths,” and “the true sanctuaries of a cult of the ephemeral”. (Aragon 14) City as Dreamscape Contemporary literature increasingly reads Paris Peasant through the lens of psychogeography, and not unproblematically. In his brief guide to psychogeography, British writer Merlin Coverley stresses Aragon’s apparent documentary or ethnographical intentions in describing the arcades. He suggests that the author “rails against the destruction of the city” (75), positing the novel as “a handbook for today’s breed of psychogeographer” (76). The nuances of Aragon’s dream-awakening dialectic, however, are too easily effaced in such an assessment which overlooks the novel’s vertiginous and hyperbolic prose as it consistently approaches an unreality in its ambivalent treatment of the arcades. What is arguably more significant than any documentary concern is Aragon’s commitment to the broader Surrealist quest to transform reality by undermining binary oppositions between waking life and the realm of dreams. As Hal Foster’s reading of the arcades in Surrealism insists: This gaze is not melancholic; the surrealists do not cling obsessively to the relics of the nineteenth-century. Rather it uncovers them for the purposes of resistance through re-enchantment. If we can grasp this dialectic of ruination, recovery, and resistance, we will grasp the intimated ambition of the surrealist practice of history. (166) Unlike Aragon, Breton defended the political position of Surrealism throughout the ebbs and flows of the movement. This notion of “resistance through re-enchantment” retained its significance for Breton as he clung to the radical importance of dreams and the imagination, creative autonomy, and individual freedom over blind obedience to revolutionary parties. Aragon’s allegiance to communism led him to surrender the poetic intoxications of Surrealist prose in favour of the more sombre and austere tone of social realism. By contrast, other early Surrealists like Philippe Soupault contributed novels which deployed the praxis of shock in a less explicitly dialectical fashion. Soupault’s Last Nights of Paris (1928), in particular, responds to the influence of the war in producing a crisis of identity among a generation of young men, a crisis projected or transferred onto the city streets in ways that are revelatory of the author’s attunement to how “places and environment have a profound influence on memory and imagination” (Soupault 91). All the early Surrealists served in the war in varying capacities. In Soupault’s case, the writer “was called up in 1916, used as a guinea pig for a new typhoid vaccine, and spent the rest of the war in and out of hospital. His close friend and cousin, René Deschamps, was killed in action” (Read 22). Memories of the disaster of war assume a submerged presence in Soupault’s novel, buried deep in the psyche of the narrator. Typically, it is the places and sites of the city that act as revenants, stimulating disturbing memories to drift back to the surface which then suffuse the narrator in an atmosphere of melancholy. During the novel’s numerous dérives, the narrator’s detective-like pursuit of his elusive love-object, the young streetwalker Georgette, the tracking of her near-mute artist brother Octave, and the following of the ringleader of a criminal gang, all appear as instances of compensation. Each chase invokes a desire to recover a more significant earlier loss that persistently eludes the narrator. When Soupault’s narrator shadows Octave on a walk that ventures into the city’s industrial zone, recollections of the disaster of war gradually impinge upon his aleatory perambulations. His description evokes two men moving through the trenches together: The least noise was a catastrophe, the least breath a great terror. We walked in the eternal mud. Step by step we sank into the thickness of night, lost as if forever. I turned around several times to look at the way we had come but night alone was behind us. (80) In an article published in 2012, Catherine Howell identifies Last Nights of Paris as “a lyric celebration of the city as spectacle” (67). At times, the narrator indeed surrenders himself to the ocular pleasures of modernity. Observing the Eiffel Tower, he finds delight in “indefinitely varying her silhouette as if I were examining her through a kaleidoscope” (Soupault 30). Yet it is important to stress the role that shock plays in fissuring this veneer of spectacle, especially those evocations of the city that reveal an unnerving desensitisation to the more violent manifestations of the metropolis. Reading a newspaper, the narrator remarks that “the discovery of bags full of limbs, carefully sawed and chopped up” (23) signifies little more than “a commonplace crime” (22). Passing the banks of the Seine provokes “recollection of an evening I had spent lying on the parapet of the Pont Marie watching several lifesavers trying in vain to recover the body of an unfortunate suicide” (10). In his sensitivity to the unassimilable nature of trauma, Soupault intuits a phenomenon which literary trauma theory argues profoundly limits the text’s claim to representation, knowledge, and an autonomous subject. In this sense, Soupault appears less committed than Breton to the idea that the after-effects of shock might be consciously distilled into a form of praxis. Yet this prolongation of an unintegrated trauma still posits shock as a powerful vehicle to critique a society attempting to heal its wounds without addressing their underlying causes. This is typical of Surrealism’s efforts to “dramatize the physical and psychological trauma of a war that everyone wanted to forget so that it would not be swept away too quickly” (Lyford 4). Woman and Radical Madness In her 2007 study, Surrealist Masculinities, Amy Lyford focuses upon the regeneration and nation building project that characterised post-war France and argues that Surrealist tactics sought to dismantle an official discourse that promoted ideals of “robust manhood and female maternity” (4). Viewed against this backdrop, the trope of madness in Surrealism is central to the movement’s disruptive strategies. In Last Nights of Paris, a lingering madness simmers beneath the surface of the text like an undertow, while in other Surrealist texts the lauding of madness, specifically female hysteria, is much more explicit. Indeed, the objectification of the madwoman in Surrealism is among the most problematic aspects of its praxis of shock and one that raises questions over to what extent, if at all, Surrealism and feminism can be reconciled, leading some critics to define the movement as inherently misogynistic. While certainly not unfounded, this critique fails to answer why a broad spectrum of women artists have been drawn to the movement. By contrast, a growing body of work nuances the complexities of the “blinds spots” (Lusty 2) in Surrealism’s relationship with women. Contemporary studies like Natalya Lusty’s Surrealism, Feminism, Psychoanalysis and Katharine Conley’s earlier Automatic Woman both afford greater credit to Surrealism’s female practitioners in redefining their subject position in ways that trouble and unsettle the conventional understanding of women’s role in the movement. The creative and self-reflexive manipulation of madness, for example, proved pivotal to the achievements of Surrealist women. In her short autobiographical novella, Down Below (1944), Leonora Carrington recounts the disturbing true experience of her voyage into madness sparked by the internment of her partner and muse, fellow Surrealist Max Ernst, in a concentration camp in 1940. Committed to a sanatorium in Santander, Spain, Carrington was treated with the seizure inducing drug Cardiazol. Her text presents a startling case study of therapeutic maltreatment that is consistent with Bretonian Surrealism’s critique of the use of psycho-medical methods for the purposes of regulating and disciplining the individual. As well as vividly recalling her intense and frightening hallucinations, Down Below details the author’s descent into a highly paranoid state which, somewhat perversely, heightens her sense of agency and control over her environment. Unable to discern boundaries between her internal reality and that of the external world, Carrington develops a delusional and inflated sense of her ability to influence the city of Madrid: In the political confusion and the torrid heat, I convinced myself that Madrid was the world’s stomach and that I had been chosen for the task of restoring that digestive organ to health […] I believed that I was capable of bearing that dreadful weight and of drawing from it a solution for the world. The dysentery I suffered from later was nothing but the illness of Madrid taking shape in my intestinal tract. (12–13) In this way, Carrington’s extraordinarily visceral memoir embodies what can be described as the Surrealist woman’s “double allegiance” (Suleiman 5) to the praxis of shock. On the one hand, Down Below subversively harnesses the affective qualities of madness in order to manifest textual disturbances and to convey the author’s fierce rebellion against societal constraints. At the same time, the work reveals a more complex and often painful representational struggle inherent in occupying the position of both the subject experiencing madness and the narrator objectively recalling its events, displaying a tension not present in the work of the male Surrealists. The memoir concludes on an ambivalent note as Carrington describes finally becoming “disoccultized” of her madness, awakening to “the mystery with which I was surrounded and which they all seemed to take pleasure in deepening around me” (53). Notwithstanding its ambivalence, Down Below typifies the political and historical dimensions of Surrealism’s struggle against internal and external limits. Yet as early as 1966, Surrealist scholar J.H. Matthews was already cautioning against reaching that point where the term Surrealist “loses any meaning and becomes, as it is for too many, synonymous with ‘strange,’ ‘weird,’ or even ‘fanciful’” (5–6). To re-evaluate the praxis of shock in the Surrealist novel, then, is to seek to reinstate Surrealism as a movement that cannot be reduced to vague adjectives or to mere aesthetic principles. It is to view it as an active force passionately engaged with the pressing social, cultural, and political problems of its time. While the frequent nods to Surrealist methods in contemporary literary genealogies and creative urban research practices such as psychogeography are a testament to its continued allure, the growing failure to read Surrealism as political is one of the more contradictory symptoms of the expanding temporal distance from the catastrophic events from which the movement emerged. As it becomes increasingly common to draw links between disaster, creativity, and renewal, the shifting sands of the reception of Surrealism are a reminder of the need to resist domesticating movements born from such circumstances in ways that blunt their critical faculties and dull the awakening power of their praxis of shock. To do otherwise is to be left with little more than cheap thrills. References Aragon, Louis. Paris Peasant (1926). Trans. Simon Watson Taylor. Boston: Exact Change, 1994. Benjamin, Walter. “Surrealism: The Last Snapshot of the European Intelligentsia” (1929). Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Walter Benjamin Selected Writings, Volume 2, Part I, 1927–1930. Eds. Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland, and Gary Smith. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap P, 2005. Breton, André. “Manifesto of Surrealism” (1924). Manifestoes of Surrealism. Trans. Richard Seaver and Helen R. Lane. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 1990. ———. Nadja (1928). Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Grove P, 1960. Breton, André, and Philippe Soupault. The Magnetic Fields (1920). Trans. David Gascoyne. London: Atlas P, 1985. Carrington, Leonora. Down Below (1944). Chicago: Black Swan P, 1983. Cohen, Margaret. Profane Illumination: Walter Benjamin and the Paris of Surrealist Revolution. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1993. Conley, Katharine. Automatic Woman: The Representation of Woman in Surrealism. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, 1996. Coverley, Merlin. Psychogeography. Harpenden: Pocket Essentials, 2010. Foster, Hal. Compulsive Beauty. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1993. Gascoyne, David. “Introduction.” The Magnetic Fields (1920) by André Breton and Philippe Soupault. Trans. David Gascoyne. London: Atlas P, 1985. Howell, Catherine. “City of Night: Parisian Explorations.” Public: Civic Spectacle 45 (2012): 64–77. Lusty, Natalya. Surrealism, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007. Lyford, Amy. Surrealist Masculinities: Gender Anxiety and the Aesthetics of Post-World War I Reconstruction in France. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2007. Masschelein, Anneleen. “Hand in Glove: Negative Indexicality in André Breton’s Nadja and W.G. Sebald’s Austerlitz.” Searching for Sebald: Photography after W.G. Sebald. Ed. Lise Patt. Los Angeles, CA: ICI P, 2007. 360–87. Matthews, J.H. Surrealism and the Novel. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 1996. Rasmussen, Mikkel Bolt. “The Situationist International, Surrealism and the Difficult Fusion of Art and Politics.” Oxford Art Journal 27.3 (2004): 365–87. Read, Peter. “Poets out of Uniform.” Book Review. The Times Literary Supplement. 15 Mar. 2002: 22. Shattuck, Roger. “Love and Laughter: Surrealism Reappraised.” The History of Surrealism. Ed. Maurice Nadeau. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Penguin Books, 1978. 11–34. Solnit, Rebecca. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. London: Verso, 2002. Soupault, Philippe. Last Nights of Paris (1928). Trans. William Carlos Williams. Boston: Exact Change, 1992. Suleiman, Susan Robin. “Surrealist Black Humour: Masculine/Feminine.” Papers of Surrealism 1 (2003): 1–11. 20 Feb. 2013 ‹http://www.surrealismcentre.ac.uk/papersofsurrealism/journal1›.

Introduction: Shock WavesAs I carefully unfold the delicate piece of crisp white paper, three rogue words wildly jump up off the page before sinking deeply into my skin: “Cold and condescending.” A charge of anger surges up my spine, as these words begin to now expand and affectively resonate: “I found the instructor to be cold and condescending.” Somehow, these words impact me both emotionally and physiologically (Brennan 3): my heart beats faster, my body temperature rises, my stomach aches. Yet, despite how awful I feel, I keep on reading, as if compelled by some inexplicable force. It is not long before I devour the entire evaluation—or perhaps it devours me?—reading every last jarring word over and over and over again. And pretty soon, before I can even think about it, I begin to come undone ...How is it possible that an ordinary, everyday object can pull at us, unravel us even? And, how do such objects linger, register intensities, and contribute to our harm or good? In this paper, we draw upon our collective teaching experiences at college and high school level in order to explore how teacher evaluations actively work/ed to orient our bodies in molar and molecular ways (Deleuze and Guattari 3), thereby diminishing or enhancing our capacity to act. We argue that these textual objects are anything but dead and lifeless, and are vitally invested with “thing-power,” which is the “ability of inanimate things to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle” (Bennett 6).Rather than producing a linear critique that refuses “affective associations” (Felski para. 6) and the “bodily entanglements of language” (MacLure, Qualitative 1000), we offer up a mobile conversation that pulls readers into an assemblage of (shape)shifting moments they can connect with (Rajchman 4) and question. While we attend to our own affective experiences with teacher evaluations, we wish to disrupt the idea that the self is both autonomous and affectively contained (Brennan 2). Instead, we imagine a self that extends into other bodies, spaces, and things, and highlight how teacher evaluations, as a particular thing, curiously animate (Chen 30) and affect our social worlds—altering our life course for a minute, a day, or perhaps, indefinitely (Stewart 12).* * *“The autobiographical is not the personal. […] Publics presume intimacy” (Berlant, The Female vii). Following Berlant, we propose that our individual narratives are always tangled up in other social bodies and are, therefore, not quite our own. Although we do use the word “I” to recount our specific experiences of teacher evaluations, we by no means wish to suggest that we are self-contained subjects confessing some singular life history or detached truth. Rather, together we examine the tensions, commonalities, possibilities, and threats that encounters with teacher evaluations produce within and around collective bodies (Stewart). We consider the ways in which these material objects seep deeply into our skin, re/animate moving forces (e.g. neoliberalism, patriarchy), and even trigger us emotionally by transporting us back to different times and places (S. Jones 525). And, we write to experiment (Deleuze and Guattari 1; Stewart 1) with the kind of “unpredictable intimacy” that Berlant (Intimacy 281; Structures 191) speaks of. We resist (as best we can) telos-driven tales that do not account for messiness, disorientation, surprise, or wonder (MacLure, Classification 180), as we invite readers to move right along beside (Sedgwick 8) us in this journey to embrace the complexities and implications (Nelson 111; Talburt 93) of teacher evaluations as corporeal matters. The “self” is no match for such affective entanglements (Stewart 58).Getting Un/Stuck “Cold and condescending.” I cannot help but get caught up in these words—no matter how hard I try. A million thoughts begin to bubble up: Am I a good teacher? A bad person? Uncaring? Arrogant? And, just like that, the ordinary turns on me (Stewart 106), triggering intense sensations that refuse to stay buried. What began as my reaction to a teacher evaluation soon becomes something else, somewhere else. Childhood wounds unexpectedly well up—leaking into the present, spreading uncontrollably, causing my body to get stuck in long ago and far away.In a virtual flash (Deleuze and Guattari 94), I am somehow in my grandmother’s kitchen once more, which even now smells of avgolemono soup, warm bread rising, home. Something sparks, as distant memories come flooding back to change my course and set me straight (or so I think). When I was a little girl and could not let something go, my yiayia (grandmother) Vasiliki would tell me, quite simply, to get “unstuck” (ξεκολλά). The Greeks, it seems, know something about the stickiness of affective attachments. Even though it has been over twenty years since my grandmother’s passing, her words, still alive, affectively ring in my ear. Out of some kind of charged habit (Stewart 16), her words now escape my mouth: “ξεκολλά,” I command, “ξεκολλά!” I repeat this phrase so many times that it becomes a mantra, but its magic has sadly lost all effect. No matter what I say or what I do, my body, stuck in repetition, “closes in on itself, unable to transmit its intensities differently” (Grosz 171). In an act of desperation (or perhaps survival), I rip the evaluation to shreds and throw the tattered remains down the trash chute. Yet, my actions prove futile. The evaluation lives on in a kind of afterlife, with its haunting ability to affect where my thoughts will go and what my body can do. And so, my agency—my ability to act, think, become (Deleuze and Guattari 361)—is inextricably twisted up in this evaluation, with its affective capacity to connect many “bodies” at once (both material and semiotic, human and non-human, living and dead).A View from Nowhere?At both college and school-level, formal teacher evaluations promise anonymity. Why is it, though, that students get to be voices without bodies: a voice that does not emerge from a complex, contradictory, and messy body, but rather “from above, from nowhere” (Haraway 589)? Once disembodied, students become god-like (Haraway 589), able to “objectively” dissect, judge, and even criticise teachers, while they themselves receive “panoptic immunity” (MacLure, Classification 168).This immunity has its consequences. Within formal and informal evaluations, students write of and about bodies in ways that often feel violating. Teachers’ bodies become spectacle, and anything goes:“Professor is kinda hot—not bad to look at!”“She dresses like a bag lady. [...] Her hair and clothing need an update.”“There's absolutely nothing redeeming about her as a person [...] but she has nice shoes.”(PrawfsBlog)Amid these affective violations, voices without bodies re/assemble into “voices without organs” (Mazzei 732)—a voice that emanates from an assemblage of bodies, not a singular subject. In this process, patriarchal discourses, as bodies of thought, dangerously spring up and swirl about. The voyeuristic gaze of patriarchy (see de Beauvoir; Mulvey) becomes habitual, shaping our stories, encounters, and sense of self.Female teachers, in particular, cannot deny its pull. The potential to create and/or transmit knowledge turns us into “risky subjects” in need of constant surveillance (Falter 29). Teacher evaluations do their part. As a metaphoric panopticon (see Foucault), they transform female teachers into passive spectacles—objects of the gaze—and students into active spectators who have “all the power to determine our teaching success” (Falter 30). The effects linger, do real damage (Stewart), and cause our pedagogical performances to fail every now and then. After all, a “good” female teacher is also a “good female subject” who is called upon to impart knowledge in ways that do not betray her otherwise feminine or motherly “nature” (Falter 28). This pressure to be both knowledgeable and nurturing, while displaying a “visible fragility [...] a kind of conventional feminine vulnerability” (McRobbie 79), pervades the social and is intense. Although it is not easy to navigate, the fact that unrecognisable bodies are subject to punishment (Butler, Performative 528) helps keep power dynamics firmly in place. These forces permeate my body, as well, making me “cold” and “unfair” in one evaluation and “kind” and “sweet” in another—but rarely smart or intelligent. Like clockwork, this bodily visibility and regulation brings with it never-ending self-critique and self-discipline (Harris 9). Absorbing these swarming intensities, I begin to question my capacity to effectively teach and form relationships with my students. Days later, weeks later, years later, I continue to wonder: if even one student leaves my class feeling “bad,” do I have any business being a teacher? Ugh, the docile, good girl (Harris 19) rears her ugly (or is it pretty?) head once again. TranscorporealityEven though the summer sun invites me in, I spend the whole day at home, in bed, unable to move. At one point, a friend arrives, forcing me to get up and get out. We grab a bite to eat, and it is not long before I confess my deepest fear: that my students are right about me, that these evaluations somehow mark me as a horrible teacher and person. She seems surprised that I would let a few comments defeat me and asks me what this is really all about. I shrug my shoulders, unwilling to go there.Later that night, I find myself re-reading my spring evaluations online. The positive ones electrify the screen, filling me with joy, as the constructive ones get me brainstorming about ways I might do things differently. And while I treasure these comments, I do not focus too much on them. Instead, I spend most of the evening replaying a series of negative tapes over and over in my head. Somewhat defeated, I slip slowly back into my bed and find that it surprisingly offers me a kind of comfort that my friend does not. I wonder, “What body am I now in the arms of” (Chen 202)? The bed and I become “interporous” (Chen 203), intimate even. There is much solace in the darkness of those lively, billowy blue covers: a peculiar solace made possible by these evaluations—a thing which compels me to find comfort somewhere, anywhere, beyond the human body.The GhostAs a high school teacher, I was accustomed to being reviewed. Some reviews were posted onto the website ratemyteacher.com, a platform of anonymously submitted reviews of kindergarten through 12th-grade teachers on easiness, helpfulness, clarity, knowledge, textbook use, and exam difficulty. Others were less official; irate commentary posted on social media platforms or baldly concise characterisations of our teaching styles that circulated among students and bounded back to us as hearsay and whispered asides. In these reviews, our teacher-selves were constructed: One became the easy teacher, the mean teacher, the fun teacher, or the hard-but-good teacher. The teacher who could not control her class; the teacher who controlled her class excessively.Sometimes, we googled ourselves because it was tempting to do so (and near-impossible not to). One day, I searched various forms of my name followed by the name of the school. One of my students, a girl with hot pink streaks in her hair and pointy studs shooting out of her belt and necklaces, had written a complaint on Facebook about a submission of a final writing portfolio. The student wrote on the publicly visible wall of another student in my class, noting how much she still had left to do on the assignment. Dotting the observation with expletives, she bemoaned the portfolio as requiring too much work. Then, she observed that I had an oily complexion and wrote that I was a “dyke.” After I read the comment, I closed my laptop and an icy wave passed through me. That night, I went to dinner with friends. I ruminated aloud over the comments: How could this student—with whom I had thought I had a good relationship—write about me in such a derisive manner? And what, in particular, about my appearance conveyed that I was lesbian? My friends laughed; they found the student’s comments funny and indicative of the blunt astuteness of teenagers. As I thought about the comments, I realised the pain lay in the comments’ specificity. They demonstrated the ability of the student to perceive and observe a bodily attribute about which I was particularly insecure. It made me wonder about the countless other eyes and glances directed at me each day, taking in, noticing, and dissecting my bodily self (McRobbie 63).The next morning, before school, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror and dabbed toner on my skin. Today, I thought, today will be a day in which both my skin texture and my lesson plans will be in good order. After this day, I could no longer bring myself to look this student directly in the eye. I was officious in our interactions. I read her poetry and essays with guarded ambivalence. I decided that I would no longer google myself. I would no longer click on links that were pointedly reviews of me as a teacher.The reviewed-self is a ghost-self. It is a shadow, an underbelly. The comments—perhaps posted in a moment of anger or frustration—linger. Years later, though I have left full-time classroom teaching, I still think about them. I have not recovered from the comments though I should, apparently, have already recuperated from their sharp effects. I wonder if the reviews will ceaselessly follow me, if they will shape the impressions of those who google me, if my reviewed-self will become the first and most formidable impression of those who might come to know me, if my reviewed-self will be the lasting and most formidable way I see myself.Trigger Happy In 2014, a teacher at a California public high school posts a comment on Twitter about wishing to pour coffee on her students. Some of her students this year, she writes, make her “trigger finger itchy” (see Oakley). She already “wants to stab” them a mere two weeks into the school year. “Is that bad?” she asks. One of her colleagues screen-captures her tweets and sends them to the school principal and to a local newspaper. They go viral, resulting in widespread condemnation on the Internet. She is named the “worst teacher ever” by one online media outlet (Parker). The media swarm the school. The reporters interview parents in minivans who are picking up their children from school. One parent, from behind the steering wheel, expresses her disapproval of the teacher. She says, “As a teacher, I think she should be held to a higher accountability than other people” (Louie). In the comments section of an article, a commenter declares that the “mutant should be fired” (Oakley). Others are more forgiving. They cite their boyfriends and sisters who are teachers and who also air grievances, though somewhat less violently and in the privacy of their homes (A. Jones). All teachers have these thoughts, some of the commenters argue, they just are not stupid enough to tweet them.In her own defence, the teacher tells a local paper that she “never expected anyone would take me seriously” (Oakley). As a teacher, she is often “forced to cultivate a ‘third-person consciousness,’ to be an ‘objectified subject’” (Chen 33) on display, so can we really blame her? If she had thought people would take her seriously, “you'd better believe I would have been much more careful with what I've said” (Oakley). The students are the least offended party because, as their teacher had hoped, they do not take her tweets seriously. In fact, they are “laughing it off,” according to a local news channel (Newark Teacher). In a news interview, one female student says she finds the teacher’s tweets humorous. They are fond of this teacher and believe she cares about her students. Seemingly, they do not mind that their teacher—jokingly, of course—harbours homicidal thoughts about them or that she wishes to splash hot coffee in their faces.There is a certain wisdom in the teacher’s observational, if foolhardy, tweeting. In a tweet tagged #secretlyhateyou, the teacher explains that while students may have their own negative feelings towards their teachers, teachers also have such feelings for their students. But, she tweets, “We are just not allowed to show it” (Oakley). At parties and social gatherings, we perform the cheerful educator by leaving our bodies at the door and giving into “the politics of emotion, the unwritten rules that feelings are to be ‘privatised’ and ‘pathologised’ rather than aired” (Thiel 39). At times, we are allowed a certain level of dissatisfaction, an eye roll or shrug of the shoulders, a whimsical, breathy sigh: “Oh you know! Kids today! Instagram! Sexting!” But we cannot express dislike for our own students.One evening, I was on the train with a friend who does not work as a teacher. We observed a pack of teenagers, screaming and grabbing at each other’s cell phones. The friend said, “Aren’t they so fascinating, teenagers?” Grumpily, I disagreed. On that day, no, I was not fascinated by teenagers. My friend responded, shocked, “But don’t you work as a teacher…?” It is an unspoken requirement of the job. We maintain relentless expressions of joy, an earnest wonderment towards those whom we teach. And we are, too, appalled by those who do not exhibit a constant stream of cheerfulness. The teachers’ lunchroom is the repository for “bad” feelings about students, a site of negative feelings that can somehow stick (Ahmed, Happy 29) to those who choose to eat their lunch within this space. Only the most jaded battle-axes would opt to eat in the lunchroom. Good teachers—happy and caring ones—would never choose to eat lunch in this room. Instead, they eat lunch in their classrooms, alone, prepare dutifully for the afternoon’s classes, and try to contain all of their murderous inclinations. But (as the media love to remind us), whether intended or not, our corporeal bodies with all their “unwanted affects” (Brennan 3, 11) have a funny way of “surfacing” (Ahmed, Communities 14).Conclusion: Surging BodiesAffects surge within everyday conversations of teacher evaluations. In fact, it is almost impossible to talk about evaluations without sparking some sort of heated response. Recent New York Times articles echo the more popular sentiments: from the idea that evaluations are gendered and raced (Pratt), to the prevailing notion that students are informed consumers entitled to “the best return out of their educational investments” (Stankiewicz). Evidently, education is big business. So, we take our cues from neoliberal ideologies, as we struggle to make sense of all the fissures and leaks. Teachers’ bodies now become commodified objects within a market model that promises customer satisfaction—and the customer is always right.“Develop a thicker skin,” they say, as if a thicker skin could contain my affects or prevent other affects from seeping in; “my body is and is not mine” (Butler, Precarious 26). Leaky bodies, with their permeable borders (Renold and Mellor 33), affectively flow into all kinds of “things.” Likewise, teacher evaluations, as objects, extend into human bodies, sending eruptive charges that both register within the body and transmit outward into the environment. These charges emerge as upset, judgment, wonder, sadness, confusion, annoyance, pleasure, and everything in between. They embody an intensity that animates our social worlds, working to enhance energies and/or diminish them. Affects, then, do not just come from, and stay within, bodies (Brennan 10). A body, as an assemblage (Deleuze and Guattari 4), is neither self-contained nor disconnected from other bodies, spaces, and things.As a collection of sticky, “material, physiological things” (Brennan 6), teacher evaluations are very much alive: vibrantly shifting and transforming teachers’ affective capacities and life trajectories. Attending to them as such offers a way in which to push back against our own bodily erasure or “the screaming absence in [American] education of any attention to the inner life of teachers” (Taubman 3). While affect itself has become a recent hot-topic across American university campuses (e.g. see “trigger warnings” debates, Halberstam), conversations tend to exclude teachers’ bodies. So, for example, we can talk of creating “safe [classroom] spaces” in order to safeguard students’ feelings. We can even warn learners if material might offend, as well as watch what we say and do in an effort to protect students from any potential trauma. But we cannot, it would seem, matter, too. Instead, we must (if good and caring) be on affective autopilot, where we can only have “good” thoughts about students. We are not really allowed to feel what we feel, express raw emotion, have a body—unless, of course, that body transmits feel-good intensities.And, feeling bad about teacher evaluations ... well, for the most part, that needs to remain a dirty little secret, because, how can you possibly let yourself get so hot and bothered over a thing—a mere object? Yet, teacher evaluations can and do impact our lives, often in ways that are harmful: by inflicting pain, triggering trauma, encouraging sexism and objectification. But maybe, just maybe, they even offer up some good. After all, if teacher evaluations teach us anything, it is this: you are not simply a body, but rather, an “array of bodies” (Bennett 112, emphasis added)—and your body, my body, our bodies “must be heard” (Cixous 880).ReferencesAhmed, Sara. “Happy Objects.” The Affect Theory Reader. Eds. Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth. 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