Journal articles on the topic 'Homes and haunt'

ABSTRACT The House of the Seven Gables constantly seems, on the surface, to separate settler civilization from North American Nature, from the obsession with cultivating garden space to the fear of moral decay within white American homes and lineages. However, a closer look at the actions and presence of Nature in the novel reveals a complex network of agential beings that are not so controllable or conquerable. I argue that the novel’s spectral conflict is a material conflict between Nature and settler institutions, a conflict that ultimately undermines this binary opposition and reveals the presence and agency of nonhuman Nature in settlers’ lives. Anxieties over the (super)natural presence of ghosts and witchcraft in the novel reflect the reality that beings in the natural environment have massive, invisible influence on settler society despite attempts to erase both Natural spaces and Native presence and relationships to the land.

ABSTRACT The House of the Seven Gables constantly seems, on the surface, to separate settler civilization from North American Nature, from the obsession with cultivating garden space to the fear of moral decay within white American homes and lineages. However, a closer look at the actions and presence of Nature in the novel reveals a complex network of agential beings that are not so controllable or conquerable. I argue that the novel’s spectral conflict is a material conflict between Nature and settler institutions, a conflict that ultimately undermines this binary opposition and reveals the presence and agency of nonhuman Nature in settlers’ lives. Anxieties over the (super)natural presence of ghosts and witchcraft in the novel reflect the reality that beings in the natural environment have massive, invisible influence on settler society despite attempts to erase both Natural spaces and Native presence and relationships to the land.

Résumé Cet article se veut un questionnement sur quelques-uns des effets pervers du discours sur l'association sexe/santé dans notre contexte socio-culturel. Ce discours dénonce haut et fort les problèmes psychosociaux des femmes, mais tend à passer sous silence la vulnérabilité des hommes, pourtant inscrite en noir sur blanc dans nos statistiques officielles sur le suicide, la dépendance à l'alcool et autres drogues, la violence et l'itinérance.

RÉSUMÉDans cette étude de cas multiples, nous avons retenu les administrateurs des maisons de soins de longue durée (SLD) dans les entretiens semi-structurés afin d’accroître notre compréhension de l’influence exercée par les facteurs organizationnels et extra-organisationnels sur deux aspects clés de la performance organizationnelle : l’efficacité operationnelle et la qualité des soins. Nous avons aussi examiné l’influence de ces facteurs sur la relation entre l’efficacité et la qualité. Grace à un examen de la littérature de soins de santé et de l’organisation de gestion, quatre grands facteurs ont été identifiés a priori comme influents pour un ou deux résultats de rendement et ont été utilisés pour guider notre collecte de données : les caractér-istiques du personnel, les caractéristiques de l’établissement, les influences extra-organisationnelles, et les fonction de bénévoles.Nos résultats suggèrent que, alors que tous les deux, haut rendement et haut qualité des soins, sont réalisables, il y a des aspects de la fonctionnement d’une maison et les réalités associés au secteur des soins de longue durée en Ontario qui peut faire atteindre tous les deux à la fois, simultanément, excessivement difficile.

Disappearing coastlines, fields and homes flooded by rising waters, lands left cracked and barren by desertification, a snowpack shrinking in circumpolar regions year by year—these are only a few of the iconic images of climate change that have evoked discussion, debate, and consternation within communities both global and local. Equally alarming has been the threat of what such degraded and destroyed landscapes might mean for those who depend upon them for their livelihoods—as their homes, as their means of sustenance, and as an integral part of their cultural and social lives. A mass of humanity on the move—some suggest 50 million, 150 million, perhaps even a billion people1—the spectre of those forced to flee not as the result of war or conflict but rather a changed environment haunts the imaginaries of national governments, international institutions, and public discourse alike. Are these environmental refugees? Should they be granted the same protections and support as those who can prove their fear of and flight from persecution? Do the sheer numbers contemplated by the scale of the events and factors threaten to overwhelm the international refugee system?

ZusammenfassungDie Heparin-induzierte Thrombozytopenie ist eine seltenere, jedoch schwere Nebenwirkung der Heparintherapie. Heparin-induzierter IgG-Antikörper wurde als Haupt-Isotyp und hauptsächlicher pathogener Antikörper bei der Pathophysiolgie abgeklärt. Da die Patienten ein hohes Risiko für die Entwicklung thrombotischer Ereignisse aufweisen, ist es wichtig und wünschenswert, die klinische Diagnose zu bestätigen und eine Heparin-Reexposition zu vermeiden. Zur Bestimmung von Heparin-induziertem IgG bei Patienten mit Heparin-induzierter Thrombozytopenie (HIT) Typ II wurde ein »Fluorescence-Iinked immunofiltration assay« (FLIFA) entwickelt. Anhand dieses Neoantigen-Assays läßt sich eine hohe Frequenz von Heparin-induziertem IgG bei HIT Typ II nachweisen. Die sofortige Bestimmung von pathogenem, Heparin-induziertem IgG kann ein nützliches Verfahren zur raschen Diagnose einer HIT Typ II sein, das die weitere Behandlung der Patienten erleichtern könnte.

Résumé RÉSUMÉ /ABSTRACT " Les femmes sont un bien excellent ". Vision des hommes, être des femmes dans le Haut Xingu Les analyses ethnologiques des mythes ont traité plusieurs thèmes où " masculin " et " féminin " sont des opérateurs essentiels, par exemple " nature et culture ", " food for sex " et d'autres. Le texte d'un mythe de la région amazonienne permet ici l'étude de thèmes moins connus se rapportant au genre (gender), tels que l'amour, l'affectivité, le rêve des hommes, le rêve des femmes. Non seulement les différences de genre sont-elles établies par les narrateurs du mythe, mais ceux-ci disent clairement que la vie est plus qu'une affaire de coopération économique et que les femmes ne sont pas qu'un bien dans le sens de " possession ", elles sont aussi un bien excellent, une " bonne chose ".

Zusammenfassung Hintergrund Hochschulambulanzen haben eine zentrale Position in der Behandlung, Lehre und Erforschung spezieller und komplexer Erkrankungen inne. Der tägliche Betrieb einer universitären Poliklinik für Plastische, Ästhetische, Hand- und Wiederherstellungschirurgie weist ein weitgefächertes Diagnosespektrum der zugewiesenen Patienten aus. Unsere Hypothese war, dass das Diagnosespektrum über den fachspezifischen Charakter hinaus weitreichend interdisziplinär ist und ein hohes Maß an differenzierter und erweiterter klinischer Kompetenz vermittelt. Methode Die epidemiologischen Daten und Diagnosen der Patienten, die sich zwischen 2013–2014 in unserer Ambulanz vorstellten, wurden anhand des Arztbriefs, der medizinischen Akte und der Leistungsverschlüsselung (ICD) katalogisiert. Eine Unterteilung der Diagnosen erfolgte nach Zugehörigkeit zu den medizinischen Fachdisziplinen. Ergebnisse Von 2013 und 2014 wurden 9272 Patienten mit 821 verschiedene ICDs behandelt. Eine operative Haupt- oder Nebendiagnose bestand in 57 % der Fälle. In 36 % der Diagnosen lagen internistische Krankheitsbilder vor, während 7 % aus dem Bereich Dermatologie, Neurologie, Psychiatrie, Zahnmedizin und Augenheilkunde stammten. Die Alterschirurgie umfasste 22 %, postonkologische Folgen 7 %, postoperatives Komplikationsmanagement 6 %, einer Z. n. konservativer Behandlung 3 % und angeborene Fehlbildungen 3,0 % der Diagnosen. Bei 29 % der vorgestellten Patienten stellten wir eine plastisch-chirurgische Behandlungsindikation. Schlussfolgerung Unsere Analyse zeigt, dass in einer Hochschulambulanz für Plastische und Ästhetische Chirurgie, ein Patientenkollektiv mit komplexen Erkrankungen und einem breiten Spektrum an Haupt- und Nebendiagnosen behandelt wird. Dieses Spektrum bildet bei Ärzten eine breite Kompetenz aus und ist aufgrund der Interdisziplinarität und Vermittlung von differentialdiagnostischen Algorithmen und Untersuchungstechniken für die allgemeine Ausbildung von Studierenden besonders geeignet.

ZusammenfassungBerufliche Hautkrankheiten zählen zu den häufigsten Berufskrankheiten, insbesondere in den Industrieländern. Das Gesundheitswesen, die Metallbearbeitung, das Friseurhandwerk, das Baugewerbe und die Lebensmittelindustrie sind dabei besonders betroffen. In diesen Berufen ist die Haut der Beschäftigten oft Wasser, arbeitsspezifischen Reizstoffen und Allergenen ausgesetzt und es besteht ein hohes Risiko, ein Kontaktekzem, am häufigsten an den Händen, zu entwickeln. Die Folgen auf individueller und gesellschaftlicher Ebene sind enorm. Berufliche Hauterkrankungen verursachen hohe Kosten. Fehlzeiten und mangelnde Produktivität belasten insbesondere kleine und mittlere Betriebe. Der Prävention berufsbedingter Hauterkrankungen kommt daher seit Jahren eine wichtige Bedeutung zu. Auf ambulanter Versorgungsebene spielt die sekundäre Individualprävention (SIP) eine wesentliche Rolle. Sie beinhaltet ein ambulantes dermatologisches Heilverfahren sowie das Angebot von interdisziplinären Hautschutzseminaren. Frühzeitig eingeleitete Präventions- und Therapiemaßnahmen können der Manifestation einer Berufserkrankung nach BK 5101 entgegenwirken und Kosten sparen.

RÉSUMÉCette étude examine la relation entre, d'une part, la cohésion familiale, le contrôle subjectif, et trois formes de soutien social (soutien émotionnel, apport d'information, aide concrète), et, d'autre part, les stratégies d'adaptation utilisées par les mères de personnes séparées ou divorcées. Les données ont été obtenues auprès de 84 mères âgées de 45 à 78 ans (moyenne: 61). Deux analyses de régression multiple ont été conduites en utilisant l'adaptation de type évitement (accent mis sur la ventilation des émotions, sur le désengagement mental et comportemental) et l'adaptation de type implication active (adaptation active, planification, réinterprétation positive et croissance) à titre de variables critères. Un recours plus fréquent à l'adaptation de type évitement s'est avéré être associé à une faible cohésion familiale, un bas niveau de contrôle subjectif, et à un haut niveau de soutien émotionnel. De plus, une utilisation plus importante de l'adaptation active était associé à un haut niveau de soutien émotionnel.

RÉSUMÉPlusieurs définitions de vieillissement sont discutées. L'expression vieillissement réussi est critiquée et certains des critéres du vieillissement normal sont discutés. L'importance d'une définition adéquate du vieillissement biologique et du processus de vieillissement est cernée et les auteurs soulignent que les paramètres du processus de vieillissement devraient distinguer entre les groupes de personnes à haut risque et ceux à bas risque, en termes de conséquences nuisibles spécifiques.

Floor grouting in soft rock roadway is one of the effective ways in floor heave control, and this method is being promoted quietly and quickly, but the applying effect is far from satisfied, the reasons are that: the depth of floor grouting is not enough and the influence of water hiding in floor hasnt been attached great importance. This paper analyzed the characteristics of floor broken rock zone in soft rock roadway and pointed out the importance of floor grouting in soft rock roadway, then proposed a practical method of floor grouting. The analysis conclusions show that: the depth of floor broken rock zone that can reach more than 4m is much greater than that of roof broken rock zone due to the double influences of surrounding rock stress and water; the important role of floor grouting in soft rock roadway is draining off free water from broken rock zone in order to strengthen roadway floor; floor grouting includes three important steps: plugging water channels, pumping out free water and grouting in deep holes. The article has revealed common blind spots of floor grouting methods existing, the method this article has noted can solve floor heave of soft rock roadway well, and it has very good application prospects. Key words: soft rock roadway, floor grouting, broken rock zone, free water in floor

Diasporic writings occupy a place of great significance between countries and cultures, mostly as a response to their lost homes. Addressing the predominant issues of dislocation, nostalgia, discrimination, survival, cultural change and identity-crisis, dislocation is one of the stern feelings that rip apart the diaspora community. When people find themselves dislocated from their native strain, their mental trauma haunts them incessantly, and they strive to re-locate themselves by remembering their nostalgic past. The earnest quest for self identity remains the central praxis for an individual’s social existence. But how to reach to its end –either by retreating from the world into one’s shelled cocoon or by adopting moderate adherence to Westernization remains much a debatable concern to be answered by nations as well as by the individuals at large. Diasporic literature deals with these experiences of migration and exile, cultural or geographical displacement and the diasporic writers often remain preoccupied with the elements of nostalgia seeking to re-locate themselves in new cultures. Agha Shahid Ali is a Kashmiri poet, who despite being a migrant to USA transcends all geographical, national, and cultural boundaries by the dint of his sheer poetic brilliance. He articulates vehemently his diaspora experiences of “loss and exile” in his poetry and as a visionary integrates the global and the local. In this paper my aim is to represent how literature and culture inter-relates to form the basis of an independent original expression and in turn reflect the problems and aspirations of an individual’s existence in the society. Ali the eminent Indian poet represents his earnest urge to relocate his Self amidst “cultural hybridization” asserting his transnational identity to transform ‘violent cartographies’ to ‘The Ghat of the Only World’.

RÉSUMÉLe gouvernement de l'Alberta introduisait, en 1988, un nouveau système de classification des résidents d'établissements de soins prolongés pour mesurer leurs besoins en soins infirmiers et pour recueillir les informations nécessaires à un nouveau système de financement. Cet article expose le développement conceptuel et méthodologique du système. Les étapes spécifiques consistaient à: (1) définir les domaines-clé qui révèlent les principaux types d'assistance requise par les résidents en soins prolongés; (2) identifier les indicateurs de demandes de soins, au sein de cheque catégorie de soins; (3) développer des critères qui détermineront les points à inclure dans la version finale du formulaire de classification des résidents; (4) développer des règles qui détermineront la combinaison des scores individuels afin de regrouper les résidents dans des catégories; (5) tester les propriétés psychométriques du système de classification, qui comporte sept catégories allant de bas à haut, en terme de besoins en soins infirmiers ainsi qu'une mesure d'utilisation des ressources de soins infirmiers.

RÉSUMÉLa collecte de spécimens biologiques est une partie intégrale de beaucoup d’études épidémiologiques longitudinales. Il est important d’obtenir un haut taux de satisfaction de la part des participants pour que leur participation soit continue et pour assurer une qualité élevée des échantillons pour avoir des mesures précises pour les biomarqueurs. Nous avons réalisé une étude pour évaluer ces questions sur la collecte d’échantillons proposée pour l’Étude longitudinale canadienne sur le vieillissement (ÉLCV). Parmi les 85 participants recrutés, 65 ont été dirigés vers un laboratoire d’hôpital ou un laboratoire privé. Environ 100 mL de sang et un prélèvement aléatoire d’urine ont été collectés pour chaque participant, pour un total de 2 108 aliquots d’échantillon. Les niveaux de qualité ont été atteints pour plus de 90 % des échantillons et étaient semblables pour les échantillons collectés dans les deux laboratoires. Plus de 90 % des participants ont exprimé que leur satisfaction par rapport à la collecte était bonne ou excellente, et 84 % serait prêts à répéter la collecte dans un à trois ans.

RÉSUMÉUn indice de vieillissement réussi (SA) a été capturé dans une étude de cohorte longitudinale basée sur la population des personnes de 75 ans et plus, qui a été examiné longitudinalement en utilisant la modélisation d’un mélange de croissance (MMC) pour identifier les groupes ayant des trajectoires similaires utilisant la dernière interview complète de personnes décédées et jusqu’à quatre collections de données précédentes avant la mort. MMC a identifié un modèle avec trois classes. Les classes étaient : haut fonctionnement, pas de déclin (HPD); fonctionnement élevé, baisse progressive (HBP); et un faible fonctionnement, fort baisse (FB). Les individus de la classe HPD étaient significativement plus jeunes à la mort, et à la fin de l’examen, se composait de plus d’hommes, et plus susceptibles d’être mariées, comparativement aux individus HBP et FB. Ces résultats démontrent différentes façons dont les individus peuvent éprouver un vieillissement réussi à la fin de vie. Cette étude fournit le cadre pour la recherche future en ce qui concerne les processus du vieillissement pendant toute la vie, avec des implications importantes pour la politique et la pratique.

Zusammenfassung Gegenstand und Ziel: Beschrieben werden der Verlauf der klinischen Symptome und die histopathologischen Befunde von vier adulten Miniaturschweinen mit Bewegungsstörungen der Hinterhand. Anamnese: Die Tiere zeigten zum Zeitpunkt der Einlieferung in die Klinik eine unphysiologische Bewegung der Hintergliedmaßen durch extrem weites und hohes Unter-den-Bauch-Führen der Extremitäten, einen verzögerten Stellreflex der Vorder- und Hintergliedmaßen, einen verzögerten (konsensuellen) Pupillarreflex sowie eine borkig-krustig veränderte Haut im Rückenbereich. Die Hautsensibilität war generell reduziert. Ergebnisse: Die histopathologische Untersuchung ergab unter anderem eine großvakuoläre Degeneration bzw. spongiforme Auflockerung der Substantia (S.) alba im Gehirn und eine Ödematisierung der S. alba sowie eine Ballonierung der Myelinscheiden im Rückenmark. Außerdem waren eine meist hochgradige Hämosiderose der Milz und Leber sowie arteriosklerotische Gefäßveränderungen erkennbar. Schlussfolgerung: Diese histologischen Befunde weisen auf einen Vitamin- B-Mangel hin. Eine Beurteilung der Ätiologie und der Pathogenese ist jedoch nur eingeschränkt möglich. Der Nachweis eines Vitaminmangels am lebenden Tier kann sehr schwierig sein, da nur eine gezielte Bestimmung einzelner Vitamine im Blut erfolgen kann und es wenige Referenzwerte gibt. Eine Bestimmung des Vitamingehalts in Futtermitteln ist ebenfalls sehr aufwendig und zudem teuer. Häufig lässt sich nur eine Verdachtsdiagnose anhand der klinischen Symptome und über den Ausschluss infektiöser oder toxikologischer Ursachen stellen. Klinische Relevanz: Miniaturschweine werden immer häufiger als Haustiere gehalten. Die zum Teil mangelhaften Kenntnisse der Besitzer über Haltung und Fütterung von Schweinen führen zu verschiedenen Krankheitsbildern bei Miniaturschweinen, die in der konventionellen Schweinehaltung nur selten eine Rolle spielen. Dies sollte bei der Anamnese sowie bei der Diagnostik berücksichtigt werden und gegebenenfalls in die Therapie mit einbezogen werden.

RÉSUMÉLes modes de référence de patients entre différents niveaux de soins dans un système local de soins de longue durée pour personnes âgées et handicapées sont décrits et analysés à l'aide des données collectées de 1985 à 1991 dans la commune de Solna grâce au système de contrôle appelé ASIM. Ces références entre niveaux de soins avaient lieu dans les deux sens, mais la fréquence des transferts vers le bas était faible comparée au nombre de transferts vers le haut – en particulier pour les foyers-logements et les résidences-hôtels. Pour tous les niveaux de soins, on a constaté de grandes variations dans le degré d'incapacité des personnes prises en charge, suggérant le charactère non-systématique des procédés d'évaluation lors de l'admission dans les services de soins. Une analyse des changements intervenus avec le temps dans les modes de référence a illustré l'interdepéndence des différents niveaux des soins. La réduction des ressources des services de soins hospitaliers de longue durée a eu pour résultats un arrêt presque total des références à partir des résidences-hôtels et une augmentation générale de l'incapacité moyenne des patients pris en charge.

RÉSUMÉLes personnes âgées hospitalisées présentent un haut risque de chute. Le système HELPER est un système de détection des chutes fixé au plafond qui envoie une alerte à un téléphone intelligent lorsqu’une chute est détectée. Cet article décrit la performance du système HELPER, qui a été testé dans un projet pilote mené dans un centre de santé mentale gériatrique. La précision du système pour la détection des chutes a été comparée aux données de l’hôpital liées à la documentation des chutes. Au terme du projet pilote, le personnel infirmier a été interviewé afin de documenter comment cette technologie était perçue. Dans cette étude, le système HELPER n’a pas permis de détecter une chute qui a été documentée par le personnel, mais en a détecté 4 autres qui n’avaient pas été documentées. Bien que la sensibilité du système soit élevée (0.80), les fausses alarmes qu’il génère diminuent sa valeur prédictive (0.01). Les entrevues avec le personnel infirmier ont permis de recueillir plusieurs informations utiles liées au fonctionnement de cette technologie dans un environnement réel; ces données seront utiles aux ingénieurs travaillant sur de tels systèmes et sur des technologies associées aux soins de santé et aux services sociaux.

RÉSUMÉCette étude avait pour but d’analyser le niveau de concordance et la portée du contenu en matière de soins palliatifs dans les documents directeurs de haut niveau visant les soins pour les personnes résidant en centres de soins de longue durée au Canada. Une recherche systématique a été menée en vue d’analyser les documents de niveau national et ceux provenant de cinq provinces (Alberta, Ontario, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Québec). Vingt-cinq documents ont été sélectionnés en fonction des critères d’inclusion à partir de 273 documents identifiés dans la recherche systématique. La majorité de ces documents ont été créés sur le plan national (48 %) ou en Ontario (28 %). Les sujets abordés variaient en matière de soins palliatifs et les soins de longue durée n’étaient que minimalement traités. Un nombre restreint de documents directeurs sur les soins palliatifs ont été relevés. Aucun de ces documents ne traitait spécifiquement des soins de longue durée, et les documents identifiés manquaient d’uniformité en matière de soins palliatifs. Il est essentiel que les principes encadrant les soins palliatifs soient présentés et concordants dans les documents directeurs afin d’améliorer la qualité de vie et les soins pour les résidents en soins de longue durée à travers le Canada.

RÉSUMÉLa chirurgie de la cataracte est une des chirurgies auxquelles les aîné(e)s doivent le plus souvent avoir recours. Au Canada, les listes d'attente sont souvent très chargées. La présente étude examine systématiquement le phénomène de l'anxiété chez les aîné(e)s en attente d'une chirurgie de la cataracte et les facteurs qui l'entourent, à savoir l'âge, le sexe, l'instruction, les problèmes médicaux et oculaires, une chirurgie de la cataracte précédente, l'inquiétude de l'attente, une décision antérieure concernant la remise à plus tard de la chirurgie, la durée de l'attente, le fonctionnement visuel, l'acuité visuelle, les inquiétudes au sujet de la santé et les stratégies d'adaptation. Un échantillonnage de patients tiré au hasard (n = 50) en attente d'une chirurgie de la cataracte ont pris part à une enquête téléphonique. Les opthtalmologistes avaient fourni l'acuité visuelle préopératoire des patients. Plus d'un tiers des patients ont signalé une anxiété se situant dans les limites des troubles paniques et les résultats au test d'anxiété de Beck s'élevaient bien audelà des normes habituelles chez les aîé(e)s. L'anxiété était plus importante chez ceux qui avaient une tendance à se préoccuper de leur santé, qui avaient un fonctionnement visuel plus faible et qui faisaient un plus grand usage de stratégies d'adaptation palliatives. Le texte présente les répercussions cliniques des résultats. L'analyse signale l'importance d'évaluer l'anxiété des patients en attente d'une chirurgie, de concevoir des méthodes d'intervention et de fournir de l'aide à ceux qui éprouvent un haut degré d'anxiété.

RÉSUMÉLes différences selon l'âge dans les apprentissages verbaux et spatiaux et le traitement des informations obtenues ont été testées à partir de deux exercices d'apprentissage portant respectivement sur des listes verbales de mots et sur des listes visuo-spatiales. Les réminiscences ont été évaluées au cours de cinq essais d'apprentissage et les mêmes instruments de traitement de l'information et de stratégie organisationnelle ont été utilisés à partir des deux types d'exercice ci-haut mentionnés. Des sujets normaux, divisés en trois groupes d'âge de 24 sujets chacun, ont été comparés sur la base de ces instruments. Tant les essais que les types de tâches (verbales vs spatiales) ont permis d'observer des différences significatives selon l'âge et ce, pour la moyenne de toutes les réminiscences. Par rapport aux apprentissages verbaux et aux apprentissages spatiaux, l'âge n'a pas présenté de différences significatives. De plus, il n'y a pas eu de modèles différents de réminiscences selon les groupes d'âge au cours des essais d'apprentissage. Par contre l'âge a été relié à des types de mesures dites d'agglomération, mesures destinées à évaluer l'organisation de l'information selon des catégories sémantiques verbales ou visuelles. Au cours d'essais antérieurs d'apprentissage et sur des sujets plus jeunes, on avait abouti à de plus hauts niveaux d'agglomération. Les instruments verbaux et spatiaux d'agglomération ont donné les mêmes résultats. En ce qui concerne l'ordre, dans le temps, de présentation de l'information, l'âge n'avait rien à voir avec les différences d'organisation des essais. Les résultats présentent le même type de différences reliées à l'âge, dans les listes d'apprentissages verbales ou spatiales. Cela nous prouve que l'apprentissage verbal aussi bien que l'apprentissage spatial repose sur un traitement de l'information requérant beaucoup d'efforts.

Charlemagne remains a dominant figure in European historiography and memory, one of the few early medieval rulers whose name is known outside academic circles. In March of 2014 the German Historical Institute in Paris held a colloquium to mark the 1,200th anniversary of his death, and the colloquium’s proceedings have now been published. The volume contains 27 essays (twelve in French, nine in English, and six in German, with summaries in English for each essay at the end of the book) distributed across six parts. After giving brief summaries of each essay, I will provide an overall assessment of the book.

Abstract This essay explores the nineteenth-century development of pilgrimage to authors’ houses and locales in light of British and American regionalism and literary reception. It focuses on the trope of “author country” in the celebrated careers and commemoration of Longfellow and the Brontës, and examines American “homes and haunts” books that represent ritual visits to these different authors. Various representations and sites, including portraits, statues, waterfalls, and houses, mark the indigenous qualities of national literature and international attractions.

The Red Line Archive includes visual, material and ephemeral artifacts collected during four walks along the perimeter of formerly redlined neighborhoods in north and central Brooklyn. These areas once provided affordable homes to working class ethnics, black people and immigrants of color; now, ironically, they are the epicenter of some of the most expensive and aggressively gentrified real estate in the city. Historian Jelani Cobb once wrote in the New Yorker, “The past haunts along the periphery” (Cobb, 2015). If this is true what evidence of past redlining are still visible today? What emotions, insights and visual metaphors might arise as I walked along the periphery of the original 1938 Red Line Map of Brooklyn? Equipped with camera and journal, I walked around the perimeter of former redlined neighborhoodsin search of clues.

The foundation of the Hollywood horror film industry has always been constructed with metaphors of what haunts American society. By utilizing what society fears in daily life and representing it with ghosts or monsters, Hollywood was able to make movies scarier than they appeared to be on the surface. In the 1970s and 1980s, children’s television programming began to take the place of reading or playing as the number of shows and channel rose. Parents began to fear that television programming would take over their children’s lives. Moving through the decades and into the 2010s this fear only grew as cellphones, tablets, and laptops became the obsession of American youth. The Hollywood film industry capitalized on these fears in movies such as Poltergeist (1982) and Poltergeist (2015). These two films worked to represent current issues in society while also predicting what America would become if these issues were not properly dealt with. 1980s America did not resolve the issue of television and technology invading homes; thus, the problem grew as Americans relied more heavily on technological advances. Looking through the lens of Poltergeist (1982) and Poltergeist (2015) reveals the fears of past decades, how those fears have developed in 2010s American culture, and where these representations of cultural fears will lead us next.

In the third episode of the British sci-fi/thriller television series Torchwood (BBC3, 2007-) the team are investigating a portable ‘ghost machine’, which allows its users to see events which occurred in the past. After visiting an old man whose younger self the device may have allowed them to witness, the team’s medic, Owen Harper, spots Bernie Harris, who’d previously been in possession of the machine. A chase ensues; they run past a park, between a gang of kids playing football, over a railway bridge, through a housing estate, and eventually Bernie is cornered in a back garden and taken away for questioning. The scene demonstrates the series’ intention to be a fast-paced, modern, glossy thriller, with loud incidental music, fast cuts, and energetic camerawork. Yet for me the scene has quite a different meaning. The housing estate they run through is the one in which I used to live; the railway bridge they run over is the one I crossed every day on my way to and from work; the street they run down is my street; and there, in the background, clear and apparent and obvious for all to see, is my home. Yes; my house was on Torchwood. As Blunt and Dowling note, “home does not simply exist, but is made … [and] … this process has both material and imaginative elements” (23). It is through such imaginative elements that we turn ‘spaces’ that are “unnamed, unhistoried, unnarativized” into ‘places’ that are “indubitably bound up with personal experience” (Darby 50). Such experiences may be ‘real’ (as in things that actually happened there) or ‘representational’ (as in seen on television); my relationship to ‘home’ is here being inflected through the “indexical bond” (Kilborn and Izod 29) that links both of these strategies. In using a scene from Torchwood to say something about my personal history, I’m taking what is, in essence, a televisual ‘space’ and converting it into a ‘place’ which is not only defined by my “profilmic” (Ward 8) relationship to it, but also helps express that relationship. Telling everyone that my house was on Torchwood certainly says something about the programme; but more fundamentally I’m engaging in a process intended to say something about me. A bit of autobiography. The house is in Splott, a residential area of Cardiff, the capital of Wales, where Torchwood is set and filmed. I lived in Cardiff from 2000 to 2006, when I worked at the University of Glamorgan. For much of that time I lived in rented accommodation in Cathays, the student area of Cardiff. But in 2005 I bought a house in Splott, and this was the first property I ever owned. A year later I moved to Norwich (virtually the other side of the UK from Cardiff) to take a job at the University of East Anglia, but I kept the house in Cardiff and now rent it out. It was while living in Norwich that my house appeared on Torchwood, and I had no idea that the programme had been filming in that area. This means that, strictly speaking, at the time it was on television the property was no longer my ‘home’, but was instead my tenants’. Yet what I want to examine here is the “geography of feeling and emotion” (Rodaway 263) which is central to the idea of ‘home’, and which has been kick-started in me since some fictional television characters ran down the street I used to live in and the ‘real’ and the ‘representational’ began to intersect. There certainly is something personal which is required in order to turn a ‘space’ into a ‘place’, but what is it that then transforms it into ‘home’? That is, for me Cardiff is more than a ‘place’ which I know. Owning a property there makes a difference, but that is to too easily equate a commercial transaction with an emotive sense of feeling. Indeed, Cardiff felt like ‘home’ before I’d bought a house, and the majority of my memories of the city are connected to other properties I’ve lived in. In a capitalist society it’s tempting to equate ‘home’ with the property we own, and this probably is the case for the majority of people (Morley 19). Nevertheless, something emotive stirred in me when I saw my house in a chase sequence on a science-fiction television programme when I live in an entirely different city. Tuan defines this as ‘topophilia’, which is “the affective bond between people and place or setting” (Topophilia 4), and it’s clear that such bonds can be highly emotionally charged and a significant aspect of one’s sense of self. This is noticeable because of the ways in which I’ve used my house’s appearance on television. I’ve not been quiet about it; I was telling everyone at work the day after it appeared. Whenever people mention Torchwood it’s something I point out. This might not sound as if that is likely to occur very often, but considering the programme is a spin-off from the highly successful revival of Doctor Who (BBC1, 1963-89, 1996, 2005-) it is part of a well-known media landscape. Both Doctor Who and Torchwood are predominantly filmed in Cardiff and the surrounding areas of South Wales, but whereas Torchwood is also narratively set in Cardiff, Doctor Who merely uses the locations to represent other places, most often London. Yet many of these places are distinctive and therefore obviously Cardiff for those who know the area. For example, the hospital in the episode ‘New Earth’ (2006) is recognisably the interior of the Wales Millennium Centre, just as the exterior location where the Tardis lands at the beginning of the episode is clearly Rhossili on the Gower Peninsula. Inevitably, the use of such locations has often disrupted my understanding of the story being told. That is, it’s hard to accept that this episode is taking place on a planet at the other end of the galaxy thousands of years into the future if the characters are standing on a cliff you recognise because you’ve been camping there. Of course, the use of locations to represent other places is necessary in media fictions, and I’m not trying to carry out some kind of trainspotter location identification in an attempt to undermine the programme’s diegesis. But it is important to note that while “remembering is a process that today is increasingly media-afflicted” (Hoskins 110), media texts can also be affected by the memories, whether communal or individual, that we bring to bear on them. A ‘real’ relationship with a place can be so intimate that it refuses to be ignored when ‘representations’ require it to be unnecessary. I’m a fan of Doctor Who and would rather not recognise the places so I can just get on with enjoying the programme. But it’s not possible to simply erase “Expressions of community” (Moores 368) which bring together identity and place, especially when that place is your home. Importantly, my idea of ‘home’ is inextricably bound up in the past. As it is a place I no longer live in, the ways in which I feel towards it are predicated on the notion that I used to live there, but no longer do. It’s clear that notions of home – especially those related to nation – are often predicated on ideas of history with significant emotional resonance (Anderson; Blunt and Dowling 140-195; Calhoun). This is a place that is an emotional rather than geographical home, even if it used to also be my home geographically. In buying a house, and engaging in the consumer culture which dominates the ways in which we turn a house into a home (oh, those endless hours at Ikea), I spent a lot of time wondering what it was that this sofa, or those lampshades, or that rug, said about me. The idea that the buildings that we own are a key way of creating and demonstrating a particular kind of identity or affiliation with a certain social group is necessary to consumer capitalism. But as I no longer live in it, the inside of this house can no longer be used as something I can show to other people hoping that they’ll ‘read’ my home how I want them to. Instead, the sense of home invigorated by my house’s appearance on Torchwood is one centred on location, related to the city and the housing estate where my house is, rather than what I did to it. ‘Home’ here becomes something symbolised by the bricks and mortar of the house I bought, but is instead more accurately located in the city and area which the house sits in; Cardiff. More importantly, Cardiff and my house become emotionally meaningful because I’m no longer there. That is, while it’s clear I had a particular relationship to Cardiff when I was a resident, this has altered since my move to Norwich. In moving to a new city – one which I had never visited before, and had no family or friends living in – it seems that my understanding of Cardiff as my ‘home’ has become intensified. This might be because continuing to own property there gives me an investment in the city, both emotionally and financially. But this idea of ‘home’ would, I think, have existed even if I’d sold my house. Instead, Cardiff-as-home is predicated on an idea of personal history and nostalgia (Wheeler; Massey). Academics are used to moving great distances in order to get jobs; indeed, “To spend an entire working career in a single department may seem to be a failure of geographical imagination” (Ley 182). The labour market insists that “All people may now be wanderers” (Bauman, Globalization 87), and hence geographical origins become something to be discussed with new colleagues. For me, like most people, this is a complicated question; does it mean where I was born, or where I grew up, or where I studied, or where I have lived most of my life? In the choices I make to answer this question, I’m acknowledging that “migration is a complex process of cultural negotiation, resistance, and adaptation” (Sinclair and Cunningham 14). As Freeman notes, “the history one tells, via memory, assumes the form of a narrative of the past that charts the trajectory of how one’s self came to be” (33, italics in original). Importantly, this narrative must be seen to make sense; that is, it must help explain the present, conforming to narrative ideas of cause and effect. In constructing a “narratable self” (Caravero 33, italics in original) I’m demonstrating how I think I came to end up where I am now, doing the job I’m doing. In order to show that “I am more than what the thin present defines” (Tuan, Space and Place 186) it’s necessary to reiterate a notion of ‘home’ which supports and illustrates the desired identity narrative. This narrative is as much about “the reflexive project of the self” (Gauntlett 99) in these “liquid times” (Bauman, Liquid Times), as it is a “performance” (Goffman) for others. The coherence and stability of my performance was undercut in a recent episode of Doctor Who – ‘Smith and Jones’ (2007) – in which a family row occurred outside a pub. I became quite distraught that I couldn’t work out where that pub was, and was later reassured to discover that it was in Pontypridd, a town a good few miles from Cardiff, and therefore it wasn’t surprising that I couldn’t recognise it. But in being distraught at not recognising locations I was demonstrating how central knowledge is to an idea of ‘home’. Knowing your way around, knowing where certain shops are, knowing the history of the place; these are all aspects of home, all parts of what Crouch calls “lay knowledge” (217). Ignorance of a space marks the outsider, who must stand on street corners with a map and ask locals for directions. For someone like me who prides himself on his sense of direction (who says I conform to gender stereotypes?) an inability to recognise a pub that I thought I should know suggested my knowledge of the area was dissipating, and so perhaps my ability to define that city as my home was becoming less valid. This must be why I take pleasure in noting that Torchwood’s diegesis is often geographically correct, for the ‘representational’ helps demonstrate my knowledge of the ‘real’ place’s layout. As Tuan notes, “When space feels thoroughly familiar to us, it has become place” (Space and Place 73), and the demonstration of that familiarity is one of the ways of reasserting one’s relationship to home. In demonstrating a knowledge of the place I’m defining as home, I’m also insisting that I’m not a tourist. Urry shows how visitors use a “tourist gaze” (The Tourist Gaze), arguing viewing is the most important activity when encountering a place, just as Tuan (Space and Place 16) and Strain (3) do. To visit somewhere is to employ “a dominance of the eye” (Urry, “Sensing the City” 71); this is why photography has become the dominant manner for recording tourist activity. Strain sees the tourist gaze as one “trained for consumerism” (15) with tourist activity defined primarily by commerce. Since Doctor Who returned Cardiff has promoted its association with the programme, opening an ‘Up Close’ exhibition and debating whether to put together a tourist trail of locations. As a fan of these programmes I’m certainly excited by all of this, and have been to the exhibition. Yet it feels odd being a tourist in a place I want to call home, and some of my activity seems an attempt to demonstrate that it was my home before it became a place I might want to visit for its associations with a television programme. For example, I never went and watched the programme being filmed, even though much of it was shot within walking distance of my house, and “The physical places of fandom clearly have an extraordinary importance for fans” (Sandvoss 61). While some of this was due to not wanting to know what was going to happen in the programme, I was uncomfortable with carrying out an activity that would turn a “landscape” into a “mediascape” (Jansson 432), replacing the ‘real’ with the ‘representational’. In insisting on seeing Cardiff, and my house, as something which existed prior to the programmes, I’m attempting to maintain the “imagined community” (Anderson) I have for my home, distinguishing it from the taint of commerce, no matter how pointless or naïve such an act is in effect. Hence, home is resolutely not a commercial place; or, at least, it is a location whose primary emotive aspects are not defined by consumerism. When houses are seen as nothing more than aspects of commerce, that’s when they remain ‘houses’ or ‘properties’; the affective aspects of ‘homes’ are instead emotionally detached from the commercial factors which bring them about. I think this is why I’m keen to demonstrate that my associations with Cardiff existed before Doctor Who started being made there, for if the place only meant anything to me because of the programme that would define me as a tourist and therefore undermine those emotional and personal aspects of the city which allow me to call it ‘home’. It also means I can be proud that such a cultural institution is being made in ‘my’ city. But it’s a city I can no longer claim residence in. This means that Torchwood and Doctor Who have become useful ways for me to ‘visit’ Cardiff. It seems I have started to adopt a ‘tourist gaze’, for the programmes visually recreate the locations and all I can do is view them, no matter how much I use my knowledge of location in an attempt to interpret those images differently from a tourist. It’s tempting to suggest that this shows how there is a “perpetual negotiation between the real event and its representation” (Bruzzi 9), and how willing I am to engage in the “mobile privatization” that Williams saw as a defining aspect of television (26). But this would be to accept the “unhomeyness” which results from “the ultimate failures of the home in postmodern times” (Lewis and Cho 74). In adopting an autobiographical approach to these issues, I hope I’ve demonstrated the ways in which individuals can experience emotional resonances related to ‘home’ which, while clearly inflected through the social, cultural, and technological aspects I’ve outlined, are nevertheless meaningful and maintain a dominance of the ‘real’ over the ‘representational’. Furthermore, my job tells me I shouldn’t feel this way about my home; or, at least, it reminds me that such emotionality can be explained away through cultural analysis. But that doesn’t in any way make ‘home’ any less powerful nor fully explain how such dry criteria mutate into humanist, emotional significance. So, I can tell you what my home is: but I’m not sure I can get you to understand how seeing my home on television makes me feel. In that sense it’s almost too neat that the episode which kick-started all of this is called ‘Ghost Machine’, for television has become the technology through which the ghosts of my home haunt me on a weekly basis, and ghosts have always been difficult to make sense of. References Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities. London: Verso, 1983. Bauman, Zygmunt. Globalization: The Human Consequences. Cambridge: Polity, 1998. ———. Liquid Times: Living in an Age of Uncertainty. Cambridge: Polity, 2007. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London and New York: Routledge, 2006. Bruzzi, Stella. New Documentary: A Critical Introduction. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Calhoun, Craig. Nations Matter: Culture, History, and the Cosmopolitan Dream. London and New York: Routledge, 2007. Caravero, Adriana. Relating Narratives: Storytelling and Selfhood. Trans. Paul A. Kottman. London and New York: Routledge, 2000/1997. 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Lewis, Tyson, and Daniel Cho. “Home Is Where the Neurosis Is: A Topography of the Spatial Unconscious.” Cultural Critique 64.1 (2006): 69-91. Ley, David. “Places and Contexts.” Approaches to Human Geography. Eds. Stuart Aitken and Gill Valentine. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage, 2006. 178-83. Massey, Doris. For Space. London: Sage, 2005. Moores, Shaun. “Television, Geography and ‘Mobile Privatization’.” European Journal of Communication 8.4 (1993): 365-79. Morley, David. Home Territories: Media, Mobility and Identity. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Rodaway, Paul. “Humanism and People-Centred Methods.” Approaches to Human Geography. Eds. Stuart Aitken and Gill Valentine. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage, 2006. 263-72. Sandvoss, Cornel. Fans: The Mirror of Consumption. Cambridge: Polity, 2005. Sinclair, John, and Stuart Cunningham. “Go with the Flow: Diasporas and the Media.” Television and New Media 1.1 (2000): 11-31. Strain, Ellen. Public Places, Private Journeys: Ethnography, Entertainment, and the Tourist Gaze. New Brunswick, New Jersey, and London: Rutgers UP, 2003. Tuan, Yi-Fu. Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values. New York: Columbia UP, 1974. ———. Space and Place: the Perspective of Experience. London: Edward Arnold, 1977. Urry, John. “Sensing the City.” The Tourist City. Eds. Dennis R. Judd and Susan S. Fainstein. New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1999. 71-86. ———. The Tourist Gaze. 2nd ed. London: Sage, 2002. Ward, Paul. Documentary: The Margins of Reality. London and New York: Wallflower, 2005. Wheeler, Wendy. A New Modernity: Change in Science, Literature and Politics. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1999. Williams, Raymond. Television: Technology and Cultural Form. 2nd ed. London and New York: Routledge, 1990. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Mills, Brett. "What Happens When Your Home Is on Television?." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/08-mills.php>. APA Style Mills, B. (Aug. 2007) "What Happens When Your Home Is on Television?," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/08-mills.php>.

In a listicle on becomingminimalist.com, Joshua Becker argues that advances in personal computing have contributed to the growing popularity of the minimalist lifestyle. Becker explains that computational media can efficiently absorb physical artefacts like books, photo albums, newspapers, clocks, calendars, and more. In Nawapol Thamrongrattanarit’s Happy Old Year (2019, ฮาวทูทิ้ง ทิ้งอย่างไร..ไม่ให้เหลือเธอ) the protagonist Jean also argues that material possessions are wasteful and unnecessary in the era of cloud storage. In the film, she redesigns her old-fashioned and messy childhood home to create a minimalist home office. In decluttering their material possessions through a partial reliance on computational storage, Jean and Becker conveniently dispense with the materiality of informational infrastructures and digital archives. Informational technology’s ever-growing capacity for storage and circulation also intensify anxieties about clutter. During our online interactions, we inadvertently leave an amassing trail of metadata behind that allows algorithms to “personalise” our interfaces. Consequently, our interfaces are “cluttered” with recommendations that range from toothpaste to news, movies, clothes, and more, based on a narrow and homophilic comparison of datasets. Notably, this hypertrophic trail of digital clutter threatens to overrepresent and blur personal identities. By mindfully reducing excessive consumption and discarding wasteful possessions, our personal spaces can become tidy and coherent. On the other hand, there is little that individuals can do to control nonhuman forms of digital accumulation and the datafied archives that meticulously record and store our activities on a micro-temporal scale. In this essay, I explore archive fever as the prosthetic externalisation of memory across physical and digital spaces. Paying close attention to Sianne Ngai’s work on vernacular aesthetic categories and Susanna Paasonen’s exploration of equivocal affective sensations, I study how advocates of minimalist design seek to recuperate our fraught capacities for affective experience in the digital era. In particular, I examine how Thamrongrattanarit problematises minimalist design, prosthetic memory, and the precarious materiality of digital media in Happy Old Year and Mary Is Happy, Mary Is Happy (2013, แมรี่ อีส แฮปปี้, แมรี่ อีส แฮปปี้). Transmedial Minimalist Networks and Empty Spaces Marie Kondo famously teaches us how to segregate objects that spark joy from material possessions that can be discarded (Kondo). The KonMari method has a strong transmedial presence with Kondo’s bestselling books, her blog and online store, a Netflix series, and sticky memes that feature her talking about objects that do not spark joy. It is interesting to note the rising popularity of prescriptive minimalist lifestyle blogs that utilise podcasts, video essays, tutorials, apps, and more to guide the mindful selection of essential material possessions from waste. Personal minimalism is presented as an antidote to late capitalist clutter as self-help gurus appear across our computational devices teach us how we can curb our carbon footprints and reduce consumerist excess. Yet, as noted by Katherine Hayles, maximal networked media demands a form of hyper-attention that implicates us in multiple information streams at once. There is a tension between the overwhelming simultaneity in the viewing experience of transmedial minimalist lifestyle networks and the rhetoric of therapeutic selection espoused in their content. In their ethnographic work with minimalists, Eun Jeong Cheon and Norman Makoto Su explore how mindfully constructed empty spaces can serve as a resource for technological design (Cheon and Su). Cheon and Su note how empty spaces possess a symbolic and functional value for their respondents. Decluttered empty spaces offer a sensuous experience for minimalists in coherently representing their identity and serve as a respite from congested and busy cities. Furthermore, empty spaces transform the home into a meaningful site of reflection about people’s objects and values as minimalists actively work to reduce their ownership of physical artefacts and the space that material possessions occupy in their homes and minds: the notion of gazing upon empty spaces is not simply about reading or processing information for minimalists. Rather, gazing gives minimalists, a visual indicator of their identity, progress, and values. (Cheon and Su 10) Instead of seeking to fill and augment empty space, Cheon and Su ask what it might mean to design technology that appreciates the absence of information and the limitation of space. The Interestingness of “Total Design and Internet Plenitude” Sianne Ngai argues that in a world where we are constantly hailed as aesthetic subjects, our aesthetic experiences grow increasingly fragile and ineffectual (Ngai 2015). Ngai further contends that late capitalism makes the elite exaggeration of the autonomy of art (at auction houses, mega-exhibitions, biennales, and more) concurrently possible with the hyper-aestheticisation of everyday life. The increase in inconsequential aesthetic experiences mirrors a larger habituation to aesthetic novelty along with the loss of the traditional friction between art and the commodity form: in tandem with these seismic changes to longstanding ideas of art’s vocation, weaker aesthetic categories crop up everywhere, testifying in their very proliferation to how, in a world of “total design and Internet plenitude”, aesthetic experience while less rarefied also becomes less intense. (Ngai 21) Ngai offers us the cute, interesting, and zany as the key vernacular categories that describe aesthetic experience in “the hyper-commodified, information-saturated, and performance-driven conditions of late-capitalist culture” (1). Aesthetic experience no longer subscribes to an exceptionally single feeling but is located at the ambiguous mixture of mundane affect. Susanna Paasonen notes how Ngai’s analysis of an everyday aesthetic experience that is complex and equivocal helps explain how seemingly contradictory and irreconcilable affective tensions might in fact be mutually co-dependent with each other (Paasonen). By critiquing the broad and binary generalisations about addiction and networked technologies, Paasonen emphasises the ambivalent and fleeting nature of affective formation in the era of networked media. Significantly, Paasonen explores how ubiquitous networked infrastructures bind us in dynamic sensations of attention and distraction, control and helplessness, and boredom and interest. For Ngai, the interesting is a “low, often hard-to-register flicker of affect accompanying our recognition of minor differences from a norm” (18). There is a discord between knowledge and feeling (and cognition and perception) at the heart of the interesting. We are drawn to the interesting object after noticing something peculiar about it and yet, we are simultaneously at a loss of knowledge about the exact contents of that peculiarity. The "interesting" is embodied in the seriality of constant circulation and a temporal experience of in-betweenness and anticipation in a paradoxical era of routinised novelty. Ngai notes how in the 1960s, many minimalist conceptual artists were preoccupied with tracking the movement of objects and information by transport and communication technologies. In offering a representation of networks of circulation, “merely interesting” conceptual art disseminates information about itself and makes technologies of distribution central to its process of production. The interesting is a pervasive aesthetic judgment that also explains our affectively complex rapport with information in the context of networked technologies. Acclimatised to the repetitive tempos of internet browsing and circular refreshing, Paasonen notes we often oscillate between boredom and interest during our usage of networked media. As Ngai explains, the interesting is “a discursive aesthetic about difference in the form of information and the pathways of its movement and exchange” (1). It is then “interesting” to explore how Thamrongrattanarit tracks the circulation of information and the pathways of transmedial exchange across Twitter and cinema in Mary Is Happy, Mary Is Happy. Digital Memory in MIHMIH Mary Is Happy, Mary Is Happy is adapted from a set of 410 consecutive tweets by Twitter user @marymaloney. The film instantiates the phatic, ephemeral flow of a Twitter feed through its deadpan and episodic narrative. The titular protagonist Mary is a fickle-headed high-school senior trying to design a minimalist yearbook for her school to preserve their important memories. Yet, the sudden entry of an autocratic principal forces her to follow the school administration’s arbitrary demands and curtail her artistic instincts. Ultimately, Mary produces a thick yearbook that is filled with hagiographic information about the anonymous principal. Thamrongrattanarit offers cheeky commentary about Thailand’s authoritarian royalist democracy where the combination of sudden coups and unquestioning obedience has fostered a peculiar environment of political amnesia. Hagiographic and bureaucratic informational overload is presented as an important means to sustain this combination of veneration and paranoia. @marymaloney’s haphazard tweets are superimposed in the film as intertitles and every scene also draws inspiration from the tweet displayed in an offhand manner. We see Mary swiftly do several random and unexplained things like purchase jellyfishes, sleep through a sudden trip to Paris, rob a restaurant, and more in rapid succession. The viewer is overwhelmed because of a synchronised engagement with two different informational currents. We simultaneously read the tweet and watch the scene. The durational tension between knowing and feeling draws our attention to the friction between conceptual interpretation and sensory perception. Like the conceptual artists of the 1960s, Thamrongrattanarit also shows “information in the act of being circulated” (Ngai 157). Throughout the film, we see Mary and her best friend Suri walk along emptied railway tracks that figuratively represent the routes of informational circulation across networked technologies. With its quirky vignettes and episodic narrative progression, MIHMIH closely mirrors Paasonen’s description of microevents and microflow-like movement on social media. The film also features several abrupt and spectacular “microshocks” that interrupt the narrative’s linear flow. For example, there is a running gag about Mary’s cheap and malfunctioning phone frequently exploding in the film while she is on a call. The repetitive explosions provide sudden jolts of deadpan humour. Notably, Mary also mentions how she uses bills of past purchases to document her daily thoughts rather than a notebook to save paper. The tweets are visually represented through the overwhelming accumulation of tiny bills that Mary often struggles to arrange in a coherent pattern. Thamrongrattanarit draws our attention to the fraught materiality of digital memory and microblogging that does not align with neat and orderly narrativisation. By encouraging a constant expression of thoughts within its distinctive character limit, Twitter promotes minimal writing and maximal fragmentation. Paasonen argues that our networked technologies take on a prosthetic function by externalising memory in their databases. This prosthetic reserve of datafied memory is utilised by the algorithmic unconscious of networked media for data mining. Our capacities for simultaneous multichannel attention and distraction are increasingly subsumed by capital’s novel forms of value extraction. Mary’s use of bills to document her diary takes on another “interesting” valence here as Thamrongrattanarit connects the circulation of information on social media with monetary transactions and the accumulation of debt. While memory in common parlance is normally associated with acts of remembrance and commemoration, digital memory refers to an address for storage and retrieval. Wendy Chun argues that software conflates storage with memory as the computer stores files in its memory (Chun). Furthermore, digital memory only endures through ephemeral processes of regeneration and degeneration. Even as our computational devices move towards planned obsolescence, digital memory paradoxically promises perpetual storage. The images of dusty and obsolete computers in MIHMIH recall the materiality of the devices whose databases formerly stored many prosthetic memories. For Wolfgang Ernst, digital archives displace cultural memory from a literary-based narrativised framework to a calculative and mathematical one as digital media environments increasingly control how a culture remembers. As Jussi Parikka notes “we are miniarchivists ourselves in this information society, which could be more aptly called an information management society” (2). While traditional archives required the prudent selection and curation of important objects that will be preserved for future use on a macro temporal scale, the Internet is an agglomerative storage and retrieval database that records information on a micro temporal scale. The proliferation of agglomerative mini archives also create anxieties about clutter where the miniarchivists of the “information-management society” must contend with the effects of our ever-expanding digital trail. It is useful to note how processes of selection and curation that remain central to minimalist decluttering can be connected with the design of a personal archive. Ernst further argues that digital memory cannot be visualised as a place where objects lay in static rest but is better understood as a collection of mini archives in motion that become perceptible because of dynamic signal-based processing. In MIHMIH, memory inscription is associated with the “minimalist” yearbook that Mary was trying to create along with the bills where she documents her tweets/thoughts. At one point, Mary tries to carefully arrange her overflowing bills across her wall in a pattern to make sense of her growing emotional crisis. Yet, she is overwhelmed by the impossibility of this task. Networked media’s storage of prosthetic memory also makes self-representation ambiguous and messy. As a result, Mary’s story does align with cathartic and linear narrativisation but a messy agglomerative database. Happy Old Year: Decluttering to Mend Prosthetic Memories Kylie Cardell argues that the KonMari method connects tidiness to the self-conscious design of a curated personal archive. Marie Kondo associates decluttering with self-representation. "As Kondo is acutely aware, making memories is not simply about recuperating and preserving symbolic objects of the past, but is a future-oriented process that positions subjects in a peculiar way" (Cardell 2). This narrative formation of personal identity involves carefully storing a limited number of physical artefacts that will spark joy for the future self. Yet, we must segregate these affectively charged objects from clutter. Kondo encourages us to make intuitive judgments of conviction by overcoming ambivalent feelings and attachments about the past that are distributed over a wide set of material possessions. Notably, this form of decluttering involves archiving the prosthetic memories that dwell in our (analogue) material possessions. In Happy Old Year, Jean struggles to curate her personal archive as she becomes painfully aware of the memories that reside in her belongings. Interestingly, the film’s Thai title loosely translates as “How to Dump”. Jean has an urgent deadline to declutter her home so that it can be designed into a minimalist home office. Nevertheless, she gradually realises that she cannot coldly “dump” all her things and decides to return some of the borrowed objects to her estranged friends. This form of decluttering helps assuage her guilt about letting go of the past and allows her to (awkwardly and) elegantly honour her prosthetic memories. HOY reverses the clichéd before-after progression of events since we begin with the minimalist home and go back in flashbacks to observe its inundated and messy state. HOY’s after-before narrative along with its peculiar title that substitutes ‘new’ with ‘old’ alludes to the clashing temporalities that Jean is caught up within. She is conflicted between deceptive nostalgic remembrance and her desire to start over with a minimalist-blank slate that is purged of her past regrets. In many remarkable moments, HOY instantiates movement on computational screens to mirror digital media’s dizzying speeds of circulation and storage. Significantly, the film begins with the machinic perspective of a phone screen capturing a set of minimalist designs from a book. Jean refuses to purchase (and store) the whole book since she only requires a few images that can be preserved in her phone’s memory. As noted in the introduction, minimalist organisation can effectively draw on computational storage to declutter physical spaces. In another subplot, Jean is forced to retrieve a photo that she took years ago for a friend. She grudgingly searches through a box of CDs (a cumbersome storage device in the era of clouds) but ultimately finds the image in her ex-boyfriend Aim’s hard disk. As she browses through a folder titled 2013, her hesitant clicks display a montage of happy and intimate moments that the couple shared together. Aim notes how the computer often behaves like a time machine. Unlike Aim, Jean did not carefully organise and store her prosthetic memories and was even willing to discard the box of CDs that were emblematic of defunct and wasteful accumulation. Speaking about how memory is externalised in digital storage, Thamrongrattanarit notes: for me, in the digital era, we just changed the medium, but human relationships stay the same. … It’s just more complicated because we can communicate from a distance, we can store a ton of memories, which couldn’t have ever happened in the past. (emphasis added) When Jean “dumped” Aim to move to Sweden, she blocked him across channels of networked communicational media to avoid any sense of ambient intimacy between them. In digitising our prosthetic memories and maintaining a sense of “connected presence” across social media, micro temporal databases have made it nearly impossible to erase and forget our past actions. Minimalist organisation might help us craft a coherent and stable representation of personal identity through meticulous decluttering. Yet, late-capitalist clutter takes on a different character in our digital archives where the algorithmic unconscious of networked media capitalises on prosthetic storage to make personal identity ambiguous and untidy. It is interesting to note that Jean initially gets in touch with Aim to return his old camera and apologise for their sudden breakup. The camera can record events to “freeze” them in time and space. Later in the film, Jean discovers a happy family photo that makes her reconsider whether she has been too harsh on her father because of how he “dumped” her family. Yet, Jean bitterly finds that her re-evaluation of her material possessions and their dated prosthetic memories is deceptive. In overidentifying with the frozen images and her affectively charged material possessions, she is misled by the overwhelming plenitude of nostalgic remembrance. Ultimately, Jean must “dump” all her things instead of trying to tidy up the jumbled temporal frictions. In the final sequence of HOY, Jean lies to her friend Pink about her relationship with Aim. She states that they are on good terms. Jean then unfriends Aim on Facebook, yet again rupturing any possibility of phatic and ambient intimacy between them. As they sit before her newly emptied house, Pink notes how Jean can do a lot with this expanded space. In a tight close-up, Jean gazes at her empty space with an ambiguous yet pained expression. Her plan to cathartically purge her regrets and fraught memories by recuperating her prosthetic memories failed. With the remnants of her past self expunged as clutter, Jean is left with a set of empty spaces that will eventually resemble the blank slate that we see at the beginning of the film. The new year and blank slate signify a fresh beginning for her future self. However, this reverse transition from a minimalist blank slate to her chaotically inundated childhood home frames a set of deeply equivocal affective sensations. Nonetheless, Jean must mislead Pink to sustain the notion of tidy and narrativised coherence that equivocally masks her fragmented sense of an indefinable loss. Conclusion MIHMIH and HOY explore the unresolvable and conflicting affective tensions that arise in an ecosystem of all-pervasive networked media. Paasonen argues that our ability to control networked technologies concurrently fosters our mundane and prosthetic dependency on them. Both Jean and Mary seek refuge in the simplicity of minimalist design to wrestle control over their overstimulating spaces and to tidy up their personal narratives. It is important to examine contemporary minimalist networks in conjunction with affective formation and aesthetic experience in the era of “total design and internet plenitude”. In an information-management society where prosthetic memories haunt our physical and digital spaces, minimalist decluttering becomes a form of personal archiving that simultaneously empowers unambiguous aesthetic feeling and linear and stable autobiographical representation. The neatness of minimalist decluttering conjugates with an ideal self that can resolve ambivalent affective attachments about the past and have a coherent vision for the future. Yet, we cannot sort the clutter that resides in digital memory’s micro temporal archives and drastically complicates our personal narratives. Significantly, the digital self is not compatible with neat and orderly narrativisation but instead resembles an unstable and agglomerative database. References Cardell, Kylie. “Modern Memory-Making: Marie Kondo, Online Journaling, and the Excavation, Curation, and Control of Personal Digital Data.” a/b: Auto/Biography Studies 32.3 (2017): 499–517. DOI: 10.1080/08989575.2017.1337993. Cheon, Eun Jeong, and Norman Makoto Su. “The Value of Empty Space for Design.” Proceedings of the 2018 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems, 2018. DOI: 10.1145/3173574.3173623. Ernst, Wolfgang, and Jussi Parikka. Digital Memory and the Archive. U of Minnesota P, 2013. Happy Old Year. Dir. Nawapol Thamrongrattanarit. Happy Ending Film, 2019. Hayles, N. Katherine. “How We Read: Close, Hyper, Machine.” ADE Bulletin (2010): 62-79. DOI: 10.1632/ade.150.62. Kondo, Marie. The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Ten Speed Press, 2010. Kyong, Chun Wendy Hui. Programmed Visions: Software and Memory. MIT P, 2013. Mankowski, Lukasz. “Interview with Nawapol Thamrongrattanarit: Happy Old Year Is Me in 100% for the First Time.” Asian Movie Pulse, 9 Feb. 2020. <http://asianmoviepulse.com/2020/02/interview-with-nawapol-thamrongrattanarit-2/>. Mary Is Happy, Mary Is Happy. Dir. Nawapol Thamrongrattanarit. Pop Pictures, 2013. Ngai, Sianne. Our Aesthetic Categories: Zany, Cute, Interesting. Harvard UP, 2015. Paasonen, Susanna. Dependent, Distracted, Bored: Affective Formations in Networked Media. MIT P, 2021. Stephens, Paul. The Poetics of Information Overload: From Gertrude Stein to Conceptual Writing. U of Minnesota P, 2015.

“People live here, they die here so they must leave traces.” (Read 140) “Whatever colonialism was and is, it has made this place unsettling and unsettled.” (Gibson, Badland 2) Introduction What does it mean for [a] country to be haunted? In much theoretical work in film and Cultural Studies since the 1990s, the Australian continent, more often than not, bears traces of long suppressed traumas which inevitably resurface to haunt the present (Gelder and Jacobs; Gibson; Read; Collins and Davis). Felicity Collins and Therese Davis illuminate the ways Australian cinema acts as a public sphere, or “vernacular modernity,” for rethinking settler/indigenous relations. Their term “backtracking” serves as a mode of “collective mourning” in numerous films of the last decade which render unspoken colonial violence meaningful in contemporary Australia, and account for the “aftershocks” of the Mabo decision that overturned the founding fiction of terra nullius (7). Ray Lawrence’s 2006 film Jindabyne is another after-Mabo film in this sense; its focus on conflict within settler/indigenous relations in a small local town in the alpine region explores a traumatised ecology and drowned country. More than this, in our paper’s investigation of country and its attendant politics, Jindabyne country is the space of excessive haunting and resurfacing - engaging in the hard work of what Gibson (Transformations) has termed “historical backfill”, imaginative speculations “that make manifest an urge to account for the disconnected fragments” of country. Based on an adaptation by Beatrix Christian of the Raymond Carver story, So Much Water, So Close to Home, Jindabyne centres on the ethical dilemma produced when a group of fishermen find the floating, murdered body of a beautiful indigenous woman on a weekend trip, but decide to stay on and continue fishing. In Jindabyne, “'country' […] is made to do much discursive work” (Gorman-Murray). In this paper, we use the word as a metonym for the nation, where macro-political issues are played out and fought over. But we also use ‘country’ to signal the ‘wilderness’ alpine areas that appear in Jindabyne, where country is “a notion encompassing nature and human obligation that white Australia has learned slowly from indigenous Australia” (Gibson, Badland 178). This meaning enables a slippage between ‘land’ and ‘country’. Our discussion of country draws heavily on concepts from Ross Gibson’s theorisation of badlands. Gibson claims that originally, ‘badland’ was a term used by Europeans in North America when they came across “a tract of country that would not succumb to colonial ambition” (Badland 14). Using Collins and Davis’s “vernacular modernity” as a starting point, a film such as Jindabyne invites us to work through the productive possibilities of postcolonial haunting; to move from backtracking (going over old ground) to imaginative backfill (where holes and gaps in the ground are refilled in unconventional and creative returns to the past). Jindabyne (as place and filmic space) signifies “the special place that the Australian Alps occupy for so many Australians”, and the film engages in the discursive work of promoting “shared understanding” and the possibility of both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal being “in country” (Baird, Egloff and Lebehan 35). We argue specifically that Jindabyne is a product of “aftermath culture” (Gibson Transformations); a culture living within the ongoing effects of the past, where various levels of filmic haunting make manifest multiple levels of habitation, in turn the product of numerous historical and physical aftermaths. Colonial history, environmental change, expanding wire towers and overflowing dams all lend meaning in the film to personal dilemmas, communal conflict and horrific recent crimes. The discovery of a murdered indigenous woman in water high in the mountains lays bare the fragility of a relocated community founded in the drowning of the town of old Jindabyne which created Lake Jindabyne. Beatrix Christian (in Trbic 61), the film’s writer, explains “everybody in the story is haunted by something. […] There is this group of haunted people, and then you have the serial killer who emerges in his season to create havoc.” “What’s in this compulsion to know the negative space?” asks Gibson (Badland 14). It’s the desire to better know and more deeply understand where we live. And haunting gives us cause to investigate further. Drowned, Murderous Country Jindabyne rewrites “the iconic wilderness of Australia’s High Country” (McHugh online) and replaces it with “a vast, historical crime scene” (Gibson, Badland 2). Along with nearby Adaminaby, the township of Old Jindabyne was drowned and its inhabitants relocated to the new town in the 1960s as part of the Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric Scheme. When Jindabyne was made in 2006 the scheme no longer represented an uncontested example of Western technological progress ‘taming’ the vast mountainous country. Early on in the film a teacher shows a short documentary about the town’s history in which Old Jindabyne locals lament the houses that will soon be sacrificed to the Snowy River’s torrents. These sentiments sit in opposition to Manning Clark’s grand vision of the scheme as “an inspiration to all who dream dreams about Australia” (McHugh online). With a 100,000-strong workforce, mostly migrated from war-ravaged Europe, the post-war Snowy project took 25 years and was completed in 1974. Such was this engineering feat that 121 workmen “died for the dream, of turning the rivers back through the mountains, to irrigate the dry inland” (McHugh online). Jindabyne re-presents this romantic narrative of progress as nothing less than an environmental crime. The high-tension wires scar the ‘pristine’ high country and the lake haunts every aspect of the characters’ interactions, hinting at the high country’s intractability that will “not succumb to colonial ambition” (Gibson, Badland 14). Describing his critical excavation of places haunted, out-of-balance or simply badlands, Gibson explains: Rummaging in Australia's aftermath cultures, I try to re-dress the disintegration in our story-systems, in our traditional knowledge caches, our landscapes and ecologies […] recuperate scenes and collections […] torn by landgrabbing, let's say, or by accidents, or exploitation that ignores rituals of preservation and restoration (Transformations). Tourism is now the predominant focus of Lake Jindabyne and the surrounding areas but in the film, as in history, the area does not “succumb to the temptations of pictorialism” (McFarlane 10), that is, it cannot be framed solely by the picture postcard qualities that resort towns often engender and promote. Jindabyne’s sense of menace signals the transformation of the landscape that has taken place – from ‘untouched’ to country town, and from drowned old town to the relocated, damned and electrified new one. Soon after the opening of the film, a moment of fishing offers a reminder that a town once existed beneath the waters of the eerily still Lake Jindabyne. Hooking a rusty old alarm clock out of the lake, Stuart explains to Tom, his suitably puzzled young son: underneath the water is the town where all the old men sit in rocking chairs and there’s houses and shops. […] There was a night […] I heard this noise — boing, boing, boing. And it was a bell coming from under the water. ‘Cause the old church is still down there and sometimes when the water’s really low, you can see the tip of the spire. Jindabyne’s lake thus functions as “a revelation of horrors past” (Gibson Badland 2). It’s not the first time this man-made lake is filmically positioned as a place where “violence begins to seem natural” (Gibson, Badland 13). Cate Shortland’s Somersault (2004) also uses Lake Jindabyne and its surrounds to create a bleak and menacing ambience that heightens young Heidi’s sense of alienation (Simpson, ‘Reconfiguring rusticity’). In Somersault, the male-dominated Jindabyne is far from welcoming for the emotionally vulnerable out-of-towner, who is threatened by her friend’s father beside the Lake, then menaced again by boys she meets at a local pub. These scenes undermine the alpine region’s touristic image, inundated in the summer with tourists coming to fish and water ski, and likewise, with snow skiers in the winter. Even away from the Lake, there is no fleeing its spectre. “The high-tension wires marching down the hillside from the hydro-station” hum to such an extent that in one scene, “reminiscent of Picnic at Hanging Rock (Peter Weir, 1975)”, a member of the fishing party is spooked (Ryan 52). This violence wrought upon the landscape contextualises the murder of the young indigenous woman, Susan, by Greg, an electrician who after murdering Susan, seems to hover in the background of several scenes of the film. Close to the opening of Jindabyne, through binoculars from his rocky ridge, Greg spots Susan’s lone car coursing along the plain; he chases her in his vehicle, and forces her to stop. Before (we are lead to assume) he drags her from the vehicle and murders her, he rants madly through her window, “It all comes down from the power station, the electricity!” That the murder/murderer is connected with the hydro-electric project is emphasised by the location scout in the film’s pre-production: We had one location in the scene where Greg dumps the body in some water and Ray [Lawrence] had his heart set on filming that next to some huge pipelines on a dam near Talbingo but Snowy Hydro didn’t […] like that negative content […] in association with their facility and […] said ‘no’ they wouldn’t let us do it.” (Jindabyne DVD extras) “Tales of murder and itinerancy in wild country are as old as the story of Cain in the killing fields of Eden” (Badlands 14). In Jindabyne we never really get to meet Greg but he is a familiar figure in Australian film and culture. Like many before him, he is the lone Road Warrior, a ubiquitous white male presence roaming the de-populated country where the road constantly produces acts of (accidental and intentional) violence (Simpson, ‘Antipodean Automobility’). And after a litany of murders in recent films such as Wolf Creek (Greg McLean, 2005) and Gone (Ringan Ledwidge, 2007) the “violence begins to seem natural” (Gibson Transformations 13) in the isolating landscape. The murderer in Jindabyne, unlike those who have migrated here as adults (the Irish Stuart and his American wife, Claire), is autochthonous in a landscape familiar with a trauma that cannot remain hidden or submerged. Contested High Country The unsinkability of Susan’s body, now an ‘indigenous murdered body’, holds further metaphorical value for resurfacing as a necessary component of aftermath culture. Such movement is not always intelligible within non-indigenous relations to country, though the men’s initial response to the body frames its drifting in terms of ascension: they question whether they have “broken her journey by tying her up”. The film reconfigures terra nullius as the ultimate badland, one that can never truly suppress continuing forms of physical, spiritual, historical and cultural engagement with country, and the alpine areas of Jindabyne and the Snowy River in particular. Lennon (14) points to “the legacy of biased recording and analysis” that “constitutes a threat to the cultural significance of Aboriginal heritage in alpine areas” (15). This significance is central to the film, prompting Lawrence to state that “mountains in any country have a spiritual quality about them […] in Aboriginal culture the highest point in the landscape is the most significant and this is the highest point of our country” (in Cordaiy 40). So whilst the Jindabyne area is contested country, it is the surfacing, upward mobility and unsinkable quality of Aboriginal memory that Brewster argues “is unsettling the past in post-invasion Australia” (in Lambert, Balayi 7). As the agent of backfill, the indigenous body (Susan) unsettles Jindabyne country by offering both evidence of immediate violence and reigniting the memory of it, before the film can find even the smallest possibility of its characters being ‘in country’. Claire illustrates her understanding of this in a conversation with her young son, as she attempts to contact the dead girls’ family. “When a bad thing happens,” she says, “we all have to do a good thing, no matter how small, alright? Otherwise the bad things, they just pile up and up and up.” Her persistent yet clumsy enactment of the cross-cultural go-between illuminates the ways “the small town community move through the terms of recent debate: shame and denial, repressed grief and paternalism” (Ryan 53). It is the movement of backfill within the aftermath: The movement of a foreign non-Aboriginal woman into Aboriginal space intertextually re-animates the processes of ‘settlement’, resolution and environmental assimilation for its still ‘unsettled’ white protagonists. […] Claire attempts an apology to the woman’s family and the Aboriginal community – in an Australia before Kevin Rudd where official apologies for the travesties of Australian/colonial history had not been forthcoming […] her movement towards reconciliation here is reflective of the ‘moral failure’ of a disconnection from Aboriginal history. (Lambert, Diasporas) The shift from dead white girl in Carver’s story to young Aboriginal woman speaks of a political focus on the ‘significance’ of the alpine region at a given moment in time. The corpse functions “as the trigger for crisis and panic in an Australia after native title, the stolen generation and the war-on-terror” (Lambert, Diasporas). The process of reconnecting with country and history must confront its ghosts if the community is to move forward. Gibson (Transformations) argues that “if we continue to close our imaginations to the aberrations and insufficiencies in our historical records. […] It’s likely we won’t dwell in the joy till we get real about the darkness.” In the post-colonial, multicultural but still divided geographies and cultures of Jindabyne, “genocidal displacement” comes face to face with the “irreconciled relation” to land “that refuses to remain half-seen […] a measure of non-indigenous failure to move from being on the land to being in country” (Ryan 52), evidenced by water harvesting in the Snowy Mountains Scheme, and the more recent crises in water and land management. Aftermath Country Haunted by historical, cultural and environmental change, Jindabyne constitutes a post-traumatic screen space. In aftermath culture, bodies and landscapes offer the “traces” (Gibson, Transformations) of “the social consequences” of a “heritage of catastrophe” that people “suffer, witness, or even perpetrate” so that “the legacy of trauma is bequeathed” (Walker i). The youth of Jindabyne are charged with traumatic heritage. The young Susan’s body predictably bears the semiotic weight of colonial atrocity and non-indigenous environmental development. Evidence of witnesses, perpetrators and sufferers is still being revealed after the corpse is taken to the town morgue, where Claire (in a culturally improper viewing) is horrified by Susan’s marks from being secured in the water by Stuart and the other men. Other young characters are likewise haunted by a past that is environmental and tragically personal. Claire and Stuart’s young son, Tom (left by his mother for a period in early infancy and the witness of his parents strained marital relations), has an intense fear of drowning. This personal/historical fear is played with by his seven year old friend, Caylin-Calandria, who expresses her own grief from the death of her young mother environmentally - by escaping into the surrounding nature at night, by dabbling in the dark arts and sacrificing small animals. The two characters “have a lot to believe in and a lot of things to express – belief in zombies and ghosts, ritual death, drowning” (Cordaiy 42). As Boris Trbic (64) observes of the film’s characters, “communal and familial harmony is closely related to their intense perceptions of the natural world and their often distorted understanding of the ways their partners, friends and children cope with the grieving process.” Hence the legacy of trauma in Jindabyne is not limited to the young but pervades a community that must deal with unresolved ecologies no longer concealed by watery artifice. Backfilling works through unsettled aspects of country by moving, however unsteadily, toward healing and reconciliation. Within the aftermath of colonialism, 9/11 and the final years of the Howard era, Jindabyne uses race and place to foreground the “fallout” of an indigenous “condemnation to invisibility” and the “long years of neglect by the state” (Ryan 52). Claire’s unrelenting need to apologise to the indigenous family and Stuart’s final admission of impropriety are key gestures in the film’s “microcosm of reconciliation” (53), when “the notion of reconciliation, if it had occupied any substantial space in the public imagination, was largely gone” (Rundell 44). Likewise, the invisibility of Aboriginal significance has specificity in the Jindabyne area – indigeneity is absent from narratives recounting the Snowy Mountains Scheme which “recruited some 60,000 Europeans,” providing “a basis for Australia’s postwar multicultural society” (Lennon 15); both ‘schemes’ evidencing some of the “unrecognised implications” of colonialism for indigenous people (Curthoys 36). The fading of Aboriginal issues from public view and political discourse in the Howard era was serviced by the then governmental focus on “practical reconciliation” (Rundell 44), and post 9/11 by “the broad brushstrokes of western coalition and domestic political compliance” (Lambert, CMC 252), with its renewed focus on border control, and increased suspicion of non-Western, non-Anglo-European difference. Aftermath culture grapples with the country’s complicated multicultural and globalised self-understanding in and beyond Howard’s Australia and Jindabyne is one of a series of texts, along with “refugee plays” and Australian 9/11 novels, “that mobilised themselves against the Howard government” (Rundell 43-44). Although the film may well be seen as a “profoundly embarrassing” display of left-liberal “emotional politics” (44-45), it is precisely these politics that foreground aftermath: local neglect and invisibility, terror without and within, suspect American leadership and shaky Australian-American relations, the return of history through marked bodies and landscapes. Aftermath country is simultaneously local and global – both the disappearance and the ‘problem’ of Aboriginality post-Mabo and post-9/11 are backfilled by the traces and fragments of a hidden country that rises to the surface. Conclusion What can be made of this place now? What can we know about its piecemeal ecology, its choppy geomorphics and scarified townscapes? […] What can we make of the documents that have been generated in response to this country? (Gibson, Transformations). Amidst the apologies and potentialities of settler-indigenous recognition, the murdering electrician Gregory is left to roam the haunted alpine wilderness in Jindabyne. His allegorical presence in the landscape means there is work to be done before this badland can truly become something more. Gibson (Badland 178) suggests country gets “called bad […] partly because the law needs the outlaw for reassuring citizens that the unruly and the unknown can be named and contained even if they cannot be annihilated.” In Jindabyne the movement from backtracking to backfilling (as a speculative and fragmental approach to the bodies and landscapes of aftermath culture) undermines the institutional framing of country that still seeks to conceal shared historical, environmental and global trauma. The haunting of Jindabyne country undoes the ‘official’ production of outlaw/negative space and its discursively good double by realising the complexity of resurfacing – electricity is everywhere and the land is “uncanny” not in the least because “the town of Jindabyne itself is the living double of the drowned original” (Ryan 53). The imaginative backfill of Jindabyne reorients a confused, purgatorial Australia toward the “small light of home” (53) – the hope of one day being “in country,” and as Gibson (Badland 3) suggests, the “remembering,” that is “something good we can do in response to the bad in our lands.” References Baird, Warwick, Brian Egloff and Rachel Lenehan. “Sharing the mountains: joint management of Australia’s alpine region with Aboriginal people.” historic environment 17.2 (2003): 32-36. Collins, Felicity and Therese Davis. Australian Cinema after Mabo. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2005. Cordaiy, Hunter. “Man, Woman and Death: Ray Lawrence on Jindabyne.” Metro 149 (2006): 38-42. Curthoys, Anne. “An Uneasy Conversation: The Multicultural and the Indigenous.” Race Colour and Identity in Australia and New Zealand. Ed. John Docker and Gerhard Fischer. Sydney, UNSW P, 2000. 21-36. Gelder, Ken and Jane M. Jacobs. Uncanny Australia: Sacredness an Identity in a Postcolonial Nation. Carlton: Melbourne UP, 1998. Gibson, Ross. Seven Versions of an Australian Badland. St Lucia: U of Queensland P, 2002. Gibson, Ross. “Places, Past, Disappearance.” Transformations 13 (2006). Aug. 11 2008 transformations.cqu.edu.au/journal/issue_13/article_01.shtml. Gorman-Murray, Andrew. “Country.” M/C Journal 11.5 (this issue). Kitson, Michael. “Carver Country: Adapting Raymond Carver in Australia.” Metro150 (2006): 54-60. Lambert, Anthony. “Movement within a Filmic terra nullius: Woman, Land and Identity in Australian Cinema.” Balayi, Culture, Law and Colonialism 1.2 (2001): 7-17. Lambert, Anthony. “White Aborigines: Women, Mimicry, Mobility and Space.” Diasporas of Australian Cinema. Eds. Catherine Simpson, Renata Murawska, and Anthony Lambert. UK: Intellectbooks, 2009. Forthcoming. Lambert, Anthony. “Mediating Crime, Mediating Culture.” Crime, Media, Culture 4.2 (2008): 237-255. Lennon, Jane. “The cultural significance of Australian alpine areas.” Historic environment 17.2 (2003): 14-17. McFarlane, Brian. “Locations and Relocations: Jindabyne & MacBeth.” Metro Magazine 150 (Spring 2006): 10-15. McHugh, Siobhan. The Snowy: The People Behind the Power. William Heinemann Australia, 1999. http://www.mchugh.org/books/snowy.html. Read, Peter. Haunted Earth. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2003. Rundle, Guy. “Goodbye to all that: The end of Australian left-liberalism and the revival of a radical politics.” Arena Magazine 88 (2007): 40-46. Ryan, Matthew. “On the treatment of non-indigenous belonging.” Arena Magazine 84 (2006): 52-53. Simpson, Catherine. “Reconfiguring Rusticity: feminizing Australian Cinema’s country towns’. Studies in Australasian Cinemas 2.1 (2008): forthcoming. Simpson, Catherine. “Antipodean Automobility & Crash: Treachery, Trespass and Transformation of the Open Road.” Australian Humanities Review 39-40 (2006). http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-September-2006/simpson.html. Trbic, Boris. “Ray Lawrence’s Jindabyne: So Much Pain, So Close to Home.” Screen Education 44 (2006): 58–64. Walker, Janet. Trauma Cinema: Documenting Incest and the Holocaust. Berkley, Los Angeles and London: U of California P, 2005.