Journal articles on the topic 'Little Blue River'

The Big Blue River Basin is located in southeastern Nebraska and northeastern Kansas and consists of surface water in the Big Blue River, Little Blue River, Black Vermillion River, and various tributaries draining 24,968 km2. Approximately 75% of the land area in the basin are cultivated cropland. The Big Blue River flows into Tuttle Creek Reservoir near Manhattan, Kansas. Releases from the lake are used to maintain streamflow in the Kansas River during low flow periods, contributing 27% of the mean flow rate of the Kansas River at its confluence with the Missouri River. Tuttle Creek Reservoir and the Kansas River are used as sources of public drinking water and meet many of the municipal drinking water supply needs of the urban population in Kansas from Junction City to Kansas City. Elevated concentrations of pesticides in the Big Blue River Basin are of growing concern in Kansas and Nebraska as concentrations may be exceeding public drinking water standards and water quality criteria for the protection of aquatic life. Pesticides cause significant problems for municipal water treatment plants in Kansas, as they are not appreciably removed during conventional water treatment processes unless activated carbon filtering is used. Pesticides have been detected during all months of the year with concentrations ranging up to 200 μg/l. If high concentration in water is associated with high flow conditions then large mass losses of pesticides can flow into the water supplies in this basin. This paper will investigate the use of a monitoring program to assess the non-point source of this atrazine contamination. Several practices will be examined that have shown ability to remediate or prevent these impairments.

Abstract The Ethiopian portion of the Blue Nile River basin is subject to significant interannual variability in precipitation. As this variability has implications for local food security and transboundary water resources, numerous studies have been directed at improved understanding and, potentially, predictability of the Blue Nile rainy season (June–September) precipitation. Taken collectively, these studies present a wide range of large-scale drivers associated with precipitation variability in the Blue Nile: El Niño–Southern Oscillation (ENSO), the Indian summer monsoon, sea level pressure (SLP) anomalies over the Arabian Peninsula and Gulf of Guinea, the quasi-biennial oscillation (QBO), and dynamics of the tropical easterly jet (TEJ) and African easterly jet (AEJ) have all been emphasized to varying degrees. This study aims to reconcile these diverse analyses by evaluating teleconnection patterns and potential mechanisms of association on the subseasonal scale. It is found that associations with the TEJ, Pacific modes of variability, and the Indian monsoon are strongest in the late rainy season. Mid–rainy season precipitation (July and August) shows mixed associations with Pacific/Indian Ocean variability and Atlantic Ocean indices, along with connections to regional pressure patterns and the AEJ. June precipitation is negatively correlated with SLP over the equatorial Atlantic and upper-tropospheric geopotential height. June and July precipitation show little significant correlation with the sea surface temperature over the equatorial Pacific Ocean. The observed intraseasonal evolution of teleconnections across the rainy season indicates that subseasonal analysis is required to advance understanding and prediction of Blue Nile precipitation variability.

This paper examines the temporal distribution of 163 distinct species recovered from 21 well-dated Holocene age archaeological sites in the Ohio River valley to determine patterns of faunal resource procurement and their response to periods of climate change. Climate change proxies include bison, long-billed curlew, pine marten, porcupine, prairie vole, and swamp rabbit. While the rice rat may be a proxy of climate change, its initial appearance in the Archaic cultural period co-occurs with storable starchy and oily seed crops such as erect knotweed, little barley, marsh elder, maygrass, and sunflower. Subsistence proxies that transcend climate change include variety of aquatic (bass/sunfish, buffalo, channel catfish, freshwater drum, gar, mussels, snails, snapping and spiny softshell turtles, and river redhorse sucker), avian (blue-wing teal, Canada goose, and turkey), and terrestrial species (dog, eastern cotton-tail, elk, gray and fox squirrels, opossum, raccoon, timber rattlesnake, and woodchuck). Caldwell’s Primary Forest Efficiency remains a valid theoretical model of Holocene subsistence strategy in the Ohio River valley.

Imagery from unoccupied aerial vehicles (UAVs) is useful for mapping floating and emerged primary producers, as well as single taxa of submerged primary producers in shallow, clear lakes and streams. However, there is little research on the effectiveness of UAV imagery-based detection and quantification of submerged filamentous algae and rooted macrophytes in deeper rivers using a standard red-green-blue (RGB) camera. This study provides a novel application of UAV imagery analysis for monitoring a non-wadeable river, the Klamath River in northern California, USA. River depth and solar angle during flight were analyzed to understand their effects on benthic primary producer detection. A supervised, pixel-based Random Trees classifier was utilized as a detection mechanism to estimate the percent cover of submerged filamentous algae and rooted macrophytes from aerial photos within 32 sites along the river in June and July 2019. In-situ surveys conducted via wading and snorkeling were used to validate these data. Overall accuracy was 82% for all sites and the highest overall accuracy of classified UAV images was associated with solar angles between 47.5 and 58.72° (10:04 a.m. to 11:21 a.m.). Benthic algae were detected at depths of 1.9 m underwater and submerged macrophytes were detected down to 1.2 m (river depth) via the UAV imagery in this relatively clear river (Secchi depth > 2 m). Percent cover reached a maximum of 31% for rooted macrophytes and 39% for filamentous algae within all sites. Macrophytes dominated the upstream reaches, while filamentous algae dominated the downstream reaches closer to the Pacific Ocean. In upcoming years, four proposed dam removals are expected to alter the species composition and abundance of benthic filamentous algae and rooted macrophytes, and aerial imagery provides an effective method to monitor these changes.

Abstract. Water Footprint Assessment is a fast-growing field of research, but as yet little attention has been paid to the uncertainties involved. This study investigates the sensitivity of and uncertainty in crop water footprint (in m3 t−1) estimates related to uncertainties in important input variables. The study focuses on the green (from rainfall) and blue (from irrigation) water footprint of producing maize, soybean, rice, and wheat at the scale of the Yellow River basin in the period 1996–2005. A grid-based daily water balance model at a 5 by 5 arcmin resolution was applied to compute green and blue water footprints of the four crops in the Yellow River basin in the period considered. The one-at-a-time method was carried out to analyse the sensitivity of the crop water footprint to fractional changes of seven individual input variables and parameters: precipitation (PR), reference evapotranspiration (ET0), crop coefficient (Kc), crop calendar (planting date with constant growing degree days), soil water content at field capacity (Smax), yield response factor (Ky) and maximum yield (Ym). Uncertainties in crop water footprint estimates related to uncertainties in four key input variables: PR, ET0, Kc, and crop calendar were quantified through Monte Carlo simulations. The results show that the sensitivities and uncertainties differ across crop types. In general, the water footprint of crops is most sensitive to ET0 and Kc, followed by the crop calendar. Blue water footprints were more sensitive to input variability than green water footprints. The smaller the annual blue water footprint is, the higher its sensitivity to changes in PR, ET0, and Kc. The uncertainties in the total water footprint of a crop due to combined uncertainties in climatic inputs (PR and ET0) were about ±20% (at 95% confidence interval). The effect of uncertainties in ET0was dominant compared to that of PR. The uncertainties in the total water footprint of a crop as a result of combined key input uncertainties were on average ±30% (at 95% confidence level).

Abstract. Water Footprint Assessment is a quickly growing field of research, but as yet little attention has been paid to the uncertainties involved. This study investigates the sensitivity of water footprint estimates to changes in important input variables and quantifies the size of uncertainty in water footprint estimates. The study focuses on the green (from rainfall) and blue (from irrigation) water footprint of producing maize, soybean, rice, and wheat in the Yellow River Basin in the period 1996–2005. A grid-based daily water balance model at a 5 by 5 arcmin resolution was applied to compute green and blue water footprints of the four crops in the Yellow River Basin in the period considered. The sensitivity and uncertainty analysis focused on the effects on water footprint estimates at basin level (in m3 t−1) of four key input variables: precipitation (PR), reference evapotranspiration (ET0), crop coefficient (Kc), and crop calendar. The one-at-a-time method was carried out to analyse the sensitivity of the water footprint of crops to fractional changes of individual input variables. Uncertainties in crop water footprint estimates were quantified through Monte Carlo simulations. The results show that the water footprint of crops is most sensitive to ET0 and Kc, followed by crop calendar and PR. Blue water footprints were more sensitive to input variability than green water footprints. The smaller the annual blue water footprint, the higher its sensitivity to changes in PR, ET0, and Kc. The uncertainties in the total water footprint of a crop due to combined uncertainties in climatic inputs (PR and ET0) were about ±20% (at 95% confidence interval). The effect of uncertainties in ET0 was dominant compared to that of precipitation. The uncertainties in the total water footprint of a crop as a result of combined key input uncertainties were on average ±26% (at 95% confidence level). The sensitivities and uncertainties differ across crop types, with highest sensitivities and uncertainties for soybean.

Attention towards microplastic (MP) pollution in various environments is increasing, but relatively little attention has been given to the freshwater-riverine environment. As the biggest city in the eastern Indonesia region, Makassar can be a potential source of MP pollution to its riverine area. This study aimed to determine the spatial trends, seasonal variation, and characteristics of MPs in the water and sediment of Tallo River, as the main river in Makassar. Water samples were collected using a neuston net and sediment samples were collected using a sediment corer. The samples collected contained MPs with an abundance ranging from 0.74 ± 0.46 to 3.41 ± 0.13 item/m3 and 16.67 ± 20.82 to 150 ± 36.06 item/kg for water and sediment samples, respectively. The microplastic abundance in the Tallo River was higher in the dry season and tended to increase towards the lower river segment. Fragments (47.80–86.03%) and lines (12.50–47.80%) were the predominant shapes, while blue (19.49–46.15%) and transparent (14.29–38.14%) were the most dominant color. Polyethylene and polypropylene were the common MP polymers found in the Tallo river. Actions to prevent MP pollution in the Makassar riverine area are needed before MP pollution becomes more severe in the future.

The tobacco blue mold pathogen, Peronospora tabacina, has been periodically reintroduced to the Connecticut River Valley cigar wrapper tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum) area of Connecticut and Massachusetts. Once introduced, there is a greater likelihood of disease in following years. Blue mold occurred from 1937 to 1956, 1979 to 1981, and most recently from 1996 to 2008. Disease severity was evaluated and rated annually from 1979 to 2008, and was correlated (r = 0.84; P = 0.002) with January temperatures when the pathogen was present in moderate amounts the previous year (severity rating >1). The date of the first report of disease was negatively correlated with disease severity the previous year (r = –0.63) and February temperatures (r = –0.83). Blue mold severity was not correlated with the date of the first disease, the previous year's disease severity, or rainfall amount or frequency after introduction of the pathogen. January temperatures may be used to predict the need for early-season fungicide applications to control disease from local overwintering inoculum following moderate to high blue mold severity. In years following little or no disease, forecasts of long-distance transport will continue to be a valuable tool to predict the risk of long-distance reintroduction and the need for fungicide application based on exposure.

AbstractChemical contaminants in the environment can influence both morphological and behavioral traits. Ornamental traits such as plumage color may be especially valuable in detecting the effects of toxic chemicals in the environment, although they have been little used to date. We examined patterns of plumage color in subadult female Tree Swallows (Tachycineta bicolor) breeding in an area on the Hudson River that had high levels of PCB contamination and compared them with specimens from other parts of the species' range and with data from two previous studies of plumage color. Tree Swallows are one of the few species of birds where females, but not males, have a distinctive subadult plumage during their first breeding season. Females from four breeding colonies in contaminated areas had significantly more adult-type blue-green coloring than females from the rest of the species' range. Subadult female plumage color at these sites formed a continuum between the normal dull brown plumage found elsewhere and the blue-green plumage of older females. Among these subadults, more colorful individuals bred earlier, and earlier breeding in turn led to larger clutches. The patterns of plumage anomalies described here are consistent with disruption of the endocrine system resulting in the early expression of an adult trait. This study supports recent suggestions that examining variation in ornamental traits of animals is an efficient means of detecting effects of chemical contaminants in the environment.

In our study we use 3D scene understanding to detect the discharge of domestic solid waste along an urban river. Solid waste found along the Ciliwung River in the neighbourhoods of Bukit Duri and Kampung Melayu may be attributed to households. This is in part due to inadequate municipal waste infrastructure and services which has caused those living along the river to rely upon it for waste disposal. However, there has been little research to understand the prevalence of household waste along the river. Our aim is to develop a methodology that deploys a low cost sensor to identify point source discharge of solid waste using image classification methods. To demonstrate this we describe the following five-step method: 1) a strip of GoPro images are captured photogrammetrically and processed for dense point cloud generation; 2) depth for each image is generated through a backward projection of the point clouds; 3) a supervised image classification method based on Random Forest classifier is applied on the view dependent red, green, blue and depth (RGB-D) data; 4) point discharge locations of solid waste can then be mapped by projecting the classified images to the 3D point clouds; 5) then the landscape elements are classified into five types, such as vegetation, human settlement, soil, water and solid waste. While this work is still ongoing, the initial results have demonstrated that it is possible to perform quantitative studies that may help reveal and estimate the amount of waste present along the river bank.

In our study we use 3D scene understanding to detect the discharge of domestic solid waste along an urban river. Solid waste found along the Ciliwung River in the neighbourhoods of Bukit Duri and Kampung Melayu may be attributed to households. This is in part due to inadequate municipal waste infrastructure and services which has caused those living along the river to rely upon it for waste disposal. However, there has been little research to understand the prevalence of household waste along the river. Our aim is to develop a methodology that deploys a low cost sensor to identify point source discharge of solid waste using image classification methods. To demonstrate this we describe the following five-step method: 1) a strip of GoPro images are captured photogrammetrically and processed for dense point cloud generation; 2) depth for each image is generated through a backward projection of the point clouds; 3) a supervised image classification method based on Random Forest classifier is applied on the view dependent red, green, blue and depth (RGB-D) data; 4) point discharge locations of solid waste can then be mapped by projecting the classified images to the 3D point clouds; 5) then the landscape elements are classified into five types, such as vegetation, human settlement, soil, water and solid waste. While this work is still ongoing, the initial results have demonstrated that it is possible to perform quantitative studies that may help reveal and estimate the amount of waste present along the river bank.

Blue and green spaces contribute to the quality of cities in various ways—ranging from providing air corridors and visual amenities to positively affecting public psychological health and wellbeing. Urban blue and green spaces had geopolitical and agricultural functions in the past. These functions are still evident in many cities. They also provide ecological qualities for the surrounding (sub)urban neighborhoods. While in recent decades, many studies have explored the features and characteristics of urban blue and green spaces that are associated with positive health benefits, the healthy lifestyle promoting role of artificial water canals has received little attention. This case report investigates the canals in Isfahan from Iran that branch off from the Zayandeh Rood River and provide blue and green corridors to the city. The aim of this case report study is to explore the health aspects of urban water canals in physical, mental, and social dimensions based on the residents’ experiences. The study develops a framework for assessing the quality of therapeutic effect of canals in Isfahan, Iran. The paper employs qualitative content analysis as the methodological approach. In total, 200 people from the residential neighborhoods of the Niasarm Canal participated in semi-structured interviews in early 2018. The results of this research reveal that the canal—with ‘upgrade of active life’, ‘sense of rehabilitation, relaxation and concentration along with the canal’, ‘promotion of social life’, and ‘place identity’ characteristics—plays an important therapeutic role on the physical, psychological, and social health conditions of local residents.

The influences of fines content, methylene blue (MB) value, and lithology of crushed sand (CS) on frost durability and strength of concrete were investigated, and the frost durability and strength of crushed sand concrete (CSC) and river sand concrete (RSC) were compared. The results show that inclusion of fines improves CSC compressive strength and reduces frost durability of C30 CSC when fines content reaches 10%, whereas it has little negative influence on frost durability of C60 CSC. Increasing MB value does not negatively affect compressive strength of C30 CSC but decreases compressive strength of C60 CSC and frost durability of CSC, and the reduction is more pronounced when MB value exceeds 1.0. Lithology has no prominent influence on frost durability and compressive strength of CSC within the lithologies (dolomite, limestone, granite, basalt, and quartz) studied. Though compressive strength of CSC is a little higher than RSC under equal water to cement ratio, frost durability of CSC is no better than RSC especially for C30 CSC, and air-entraining agent is suggested for enhancing frost durability of C30 CSC exposed to freezing environment.

The eastern Mediterranean faces a severe water crisis: water supply decreases due to climate change, while demand increases due to rapid population growth. The GLOWA Jordan River project generates science-based management strategies for maximizing water productivity under global climate change. We use a novel definition of water productivity as the full range of services provided by landscapes per unit blue (surface) and green (in plants and soil) water. Our combined results from climatological, ecological, economic and hydrological studies suggest that, in Israel, certain landscapes provide high returns as ecosystem services for little input of additional blue water. Specifically, cultural services such as recreation may by far exceed that of food production. Interestingly, some highly valued landscapes (e.g. rangeland) appear resistant to climate change, making them an ideal candidate for adaptive land management. Vice versa, expanding irrigated agriculture is unlikely to be sustainable under global climate change. We advocate the inclusion of a large range of ecosystem services into integrated land and water resources management. The focus on cultural services and integration of irrigation demand will lead to entirely different but productive water and land allocation schemes that may be suitable for withstanding the problems caused by climate change.

The Blue Swallow Hirundo atrocaerulea is a globally threatened species endemic to sub-Saharan Africa. The total population breeding south of the Limpopo River (i.e. in South Africa and Swaziland) probably numbers around 100 pairs. A significant proportion of these birds breed in Swaziland, but to date little has been published on this population. Suitable breeding habitat has been reduced significantly in the country in recent decades, due mostly to afforestation with exotic timber plantations, with urbanization playing a lesser role. In Swaziland, breeding sites are restricted to grasslands above 1,200 m, but mostly above 1,300 m. Timing of egg laying is bimodal indicating double brooding. The number of nests initiated in a season is weakly correlated with rainfall in preceding months. Nests were built predominantly in disused antbear Orycteropus afer burrows, with smaller numbers in natural sinkholes. Mean clutch size was 2.80, and 61% of eggs laid resulted in fledged offspring. Mean productivity was 1.30 fledglings per pair per nest attempt. These figures suggest that breeding success is not currently being reduced in Swaziland. The minimum total population currently thought to be breeding in Swaziland is 10 pairs, but this is based on intensive studies of only part of the suitable range. It is recommended that a complete survey be conducted covering the entire range of the species in Swaziland.

Abstract The water resource of the Blue Nile River is of key regional importance to the northeastern African countries. However, little is known about the characteristics of the rainfall in the basin. In this paper, the authors presented the space–time variability of the rainfall in the vicinity of Lake Tana, which is the source of the Blue Nile River. The analysis was based on hourly rainfall data from a network of newly installed rain gauges, and cloud temperature indices from the Meteosat Second Generation (MSG–2) Spinning Enhanced Visible and Infrared Imager (SEVIRI) satellite sensor. The spatial and temporal patterns of rainfall were examined using not only statistical techniques such as exceedance probabilities, spatial correlation structure, harmonic analysis, and fractal analysis but also marginal statistics such as mean and standard deviation. In addition, a convective index was calculated from remote sensing images to infer the spatial and temporal patterns of rainfall. Heavy rainfall is frequent at stations that are relatively close to the lake. The correlation distances for the hourly and the daily rainfall are found at about 8 and 18 km, respectively. The rainfall shows a strong spatially varying diurnal cycle. The nocturnal rainfall was found to be higher over the southern shore of Lake Tana than over the mountainous area farther to the south. The maximum convection occurs between 1600 and 1700 local standard time (LST) over the Gilgel Abbay, Ribb, and Gumara catchments, and between 2200 and 2300 LST over Lake Tana and the Megech catchments. In addition, the hourly rainfall of the station with the highest elevation is relatively closely clustered as compared to those stations at lower elevation. The study provides relevant information for understanding rainfall variation with elevation and distance from a lake. This understanding benefits climate and hydrological studies, water resources management, and energy development in the region.

Robert Scott Duncanson, who lived and worked primarily in Cincinnati, Ohio, but also in Michigan, Canada, and Europe, was one of only a few known African-American landscape painters in the 19th century, and one of even fewer to gain a regional, national, and international reputation. His Blue Hole, Flood Waters, Little Miami River (1851) is painted in a style typical of the Hudson River school: a panoramic view of a quiet and apparently pristine wilderness, known then as a popular beauty spot near Cincinnati (Figure 1). The dense forest that encloses the pool, with broken timber around the edges and two drowned branches projecting above the surface of the water, implies isolation and ruggedness. The small, slightly ragged youths fishing in the foreground, though, are more than generic props; they are an image of the desired effect of nature on the often socially mixed residents of the river bottoms, and of Cincinnati in general. The rustic fisherman absorbed and at ease amid a rugged Western landscape loses himself in nature, but instead of making him wild, the experience refines as it acts “But to bind him to his native mountains more.” The image of the two men – as, for example, opposed to figures of genteel tourists – embedded in their native lakes and forests offered reassurance and evidence to local boosters of the positive impact of nature. Nature, in this concept, exerted a softening, soothing influence on those who experienced it, akin to women's moral influence on those within the domestic sphere.

The aerosol optical depth (AOD), retrieved by satellites, has been widely used to estimate ground-level PM2.5 mass concentrations, due to its advantage of large-scale spatial continuity. However, it is difficult to obtain urban-scale pollution patterns from the coarse resolution retrieval results (e.g., 1 km, 3 km, or 10 km) at present, and little research has been conducted on PM2.5 mass concentration retrieval from high resolution remote sensing data. In this study, a physical model is proposed based on Mie scattering theory to evaluate the PM2.5 mass concentrations by using Landsat8 Operational Land Imager (OLI) images. First, the Second Simulation of the Satellite Signal in the Solar Spectrum (6S) model (which can simulate the transmission process of solar radiation in the Earth-atmosphere system and calculate the radiance at the top of the atmosphere) is used to build a lookup table to retrieve the AOD of the coast and blue bands based on the improved deep blue (DB) method. Then, the Angstrom formula is used to obtain the AOD of the green and red bands. Second, the dry near-surface AOD of four bands (coast, blue, green, red) is obtained through vertical correction and humidity correction. Third, aerosol particles are divided into four types based on the standard radiation atmosphere (SRA) model, and the optical properties of different aerosol types are analyzed to derive the volume distribution of aerosol particles. Finally, the relationship between the dry near-surface AOD of each band and the volume distribution of four aerosol particles is correlated, based on Mie scattering theory, and a physical model is established between the AOD and PM2.5 mass concentrations. Then, the distribution of PM2.5 mass concentrations is obtained. The retrieval results show that the distribution of AOD and PM2.5 at the urban scale in detail. The AOD results show that a reasonable relationship with a correlation coefficient (R2) of 0.66 and root mean square error (RMSE) of 0.1037 between Landsat8 OLI AOD and MODO4 DB AOD at 550 nm. The PM2.5 retrieval results are compared with the PM2.5 values measured by ground monitoring stations. The RMSEs for a certain day in different years, including 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020, are 11.9470 μg/m³, 11.9787 μg/m³, 7.4217 μg/m³, and 5.4723 μg/m³, respectively. The total RMSE is 10.0224 μg/m³. The ultrahigh resolution PM2.5 results can provide pollution details at the urban scale and support better decisions on urban atmospheric environmental governance.

Field and laboratory investigation of the six varieties of Ixia rapunculoides Delile (recognized in the current revisions and flora accounts of this southern African genus of some 65 species) show that a revised taxonomy better reflects the biology of the complex. The complex is defined by the funnel-shaped perianth tube, filaments fully and anthers partly included in the perianth tube. Our conclusions indicate that I. rapunculoides (currently var. rapunculoides) is restricted to the western Karoo and has broad, leathery leaves, a short perianth tube, mostly 5.5-8.0 mm long, and half nodding blue-mauve flowers. Plants currently referred to I. rapunculoides var. flaccida G.J.Lewis, include four sets of populations that we regard as two separate species. These are: I. flaccida with small, short-tubed white- or pale blue-flushed flowers, sofl-textured leaves and corms with basal cormlets from the Olifants River Valley and nearby; and I. sobolifera from the Western and Little Karoo, which has linear leaves, nodding spikes and flowers and corms with stolons. We divide I. sobolifera into three subspecies: subsp. carnea with pink flowers, is restricted to the Bokkeveld Plateau and nearby; subsp sobolifera with slate-blue flowers occurs in the Klein Roggeveld and nearby; and subsp albiflora with strongly scented white flowers occurs in the central Little Karoo. The taxon called I. rapunculoides var. namaquana (L.Bolus) G.J.Lewis, defined by a longer perianth tube, mostly 13-16 mm long, horizontally oriented, white, pale lilac or pink flowers and few-flowered lateral branchlets. is treated as I. namaquana, first described by H.M.L. Bolus in 1931. Plants referred to this taxon from south of its range at Hex River pass and nearby, however, have fully included anthers, a longer perianth tube. 16-20 mm. and ascending purple-pink flowers with a white cup and are referred to the new I. oxalidiflora. Two more varieties, I. rapunculoides var. subpendula G.J.Lewis and var. rigida sensu G.J.Lewis, which have upright flowers and distinctively branched stems are treated here as I. divaricata and I. contorta. Plants in the past included in var. rapunculoides from the Klein Roggeveld, south of the range of typical I. rapunculoides, have a longer perianth tube. 10-14 mm long, and attenuate, slightly lacerate. 5-veined. dry. rust-tipped bracts and comprise the new I. lacerata In addition, plants from streambeds in the Roggeveld that have large, white flowers, are not included in current accounts of the genus, and also represent a novel taxon, I. rivulicola. Lastly, I. rapunculoides var. robusta G.J.Lewis, the range of which falls entirely within that of var. rapunculoides and is usually sympatric with it. has pink flowers of similar structure, but four or five leaves and deep-seated corms with a collar of coarse fibres around the stem base. We raise this plant to species rank as I. robusta

Pearl River Delta (PRD), as one of the most densely populated regions in the world, is facing both natural changes (e.g., sea level rise) and human-induced changes (e.g., dredging for navigation and land reclamation). Bathymetric information is thus important for the protection and management of the estuarine environment, but little effort has been made to comprehensively evaluate the performance of different methods and datasets. In this study, two linear regression models—the linear band model and the log-transformed band ratio model, and two non-linear regression models—the support vector regression model and the random forest regression model—were applied to Landsat 8 (L8) and Sentinel-2 (S2) imagery for bathymetry mapping in 2019 and 2020. Results suggested that a priori area clustering based on spectral features using the K-means algorithm improved estimation accuracy. The random forest regression model performed best, and the three-band combinations outperformed two-band combinations in all models. When the non-linear models were applied with three-band combination (red, green, blue) to L8 and S2 imagery, the Root Mean Square Error (Mean Absolute Error) decreased by 23.10% (35.53%), and the coefficient of determination (Kling-Gupta efficiency) increased by 0.08 (0.09) on average, compared to those using the linear regression models. Despite the differences in spatial resolution and band wavelength, L8 and S2 performed similarly in bathymetry estimation. This study quantified the relative performance of different models and may shed light on the potential combination of multiple data sources for more timely and accurate bathymetry mapping.

Two-dimensional (2D) nanofluidic ion transporting membranes show great promise in harvesting the “blue” osmotic energy between river water and sea water. Black phosphorus (BP), an emerging layered material, has recently been explored for a wide range of ambient applications. However, little attention has been paid to the extraction of the worldwide osmotic energy, despite its large potential as an energy conversion membrane. Here, we report an experimental investigation of BP membrane in osmotic energy conversion and reveal how the oxidation of BP influences power generation. Through controllable oxidation in water, power output of the BP membrane can be largely enhanced, which can be attributed to the generated charged phosphorus compounds. Depending on the valence of oxidized BP that is associated with oxygen concentration, the power density can be precisely controlled and substantially promoted by ∼220% to 1.6 W/m2(compared with the pristine BP membrane). Moreover, through constructing a heterostructure with graphene oxide, ion selectivity of the BP membrane increases by ∼80%, contributing to enhanced charge separation efficiency and thus improved performance of ∼4.7 W/m2that outperforms most of the state-of-the-art 2D nanofluidic membranes.

The Saskatchewan River Delta (SRD) is North America’s largest inland delta and an important stopover site for waterfowl in the Central Flyway. However, little is known about their basic feeding ecology at this site and how species segregate or overlap in resource use. We used stable carbon (δ13C) and nitrogen (δ15N) isotopes and mercury concentrations ([Hg]) in liver tissue to trace use of local nutrient sources by five waterfowl species and tested for differences in diets among species, sexes, and age groups. Macrophytes were the dominant food source for Northern Pintail (Anas acuta L., 1758) and American Wigeon (Anas americana Gmelin, 1789) with median proportions of 0.86 and 0.98, respectively. There was also evidence of partitioning of resources, as Blue-winged Teal (Anas discors L., 1766) and Green-winged Teal (Anas carolinensis Gmelin, 1789) consumed invertebrates, as did a subset of Mallards (Anas platyrhynchos L., 1758), suggesting that these birds might minimize competition for resources during the short staging period in the SRD when waterfowl densities are high. Other isotopes or tracers, such as [Hg] that varied among sources (0.03–0.20 μg·g–1dry mass) and waterfowl species (0.22–3.19 μg·g–1dry mass), can be used for further refining dietary estimates.

Salamanders have been identified as potential indicators of sustainable forest management in boreal Ontario, Canada. However, little information is available on their distribution, abundance, and habitat associations within the boreal forests on which to base a monitoring program. We surveyed salamanders near White River, Ontario, and related their distribution to climate and vegetation information and to habitat suitability models currently used for forest planning within the region. Primarily red-backed salamanders ( Plethodon cinereus Green) and blue-spotted salamanders ( Ambystoma laterale Hallowell) were recorded, although both were observed in low numbers and captures varied spatially and temporally. Capture rates were 3–7 times lower for P. cinereus than has been reported elsewhere. Trend monitoring will be expensive and have low power to detect significant declines over moderate time frames unless capture rates can be doubled and within-site variability in capture rates halved. We found few strong habitat relationships using either coverboard or pitfall trap data. Plethodon cinereus was negatively correlated with the volume of downed wood, which has been noted in other regions and may be an artefact of the coverboard survey technique. Further focused studies in the boreal forest are required to support the use of both habitat supply models and trend analysis to monitor salamander populations.

A study of two herds of Rocky Mountain elk (Cervus elaphus nelsoni) introduced into the French River - Burwash regions of Ontario in the 1940s was undertaken to assess forage selection and availability. Studies in western North America have shown that the diets of elk vary seasonally, spatially, and in response to forage availability, palatability, plant phenology, plant species diversity, and habitat type. These studies have concluded that grasses, browse, and forbs were preferred forage items and that indigenous grass was used most. In an attempt to obtain a more detailed understanding of forage use in relation to habitat type, selection and availability of forage in ridge, mixed-forest, and grassland habitats was analyzed by tracking elk during a 2-year period. More than 1000 forage occasions were recorded from approximately 60 animals. It was hypothesized that Rocky Mountain elk in the French River - Burwash region would select forage species similar to those found in western North America. The results of this study support the following conclusions: (i) elk in the French River - Burwash regions of Ontario use ridge, mixed-forest, and grassland habitats for foraging; (ii) most forage consumed by elk in this region is woody species, grasses, or forbs, common in mixed-forest habitats; (iii) open grasslands increased forage diversity minimally and appeared to be the least important for foraging; (iv) uncultivated grasslands dominated by Old World agricultural gaminoid species, such as timothy (Phleum pratense), quack grass (Elymus repens), wire grass (Poa compressa), and redtop (Agrostis gigantea), or by indigenous graminoid species, such as white-grained mountain rice (Oryzopsis asperifolia), Canada blue joint (Calamagrostis canadensis), poverty oat grass (Danthonia spicata), and (or) fringed brome grass (Bromus ciliatus), may provide little nutritional support for elk in this region; (v) habitats containing large amounts of willow (Salix spp.), red maple (Acer rubrum), and common hairgrass (Deschampsia flexuosa) provide a significant forage base for elk in the Great Lakes - St. Lawrence ectone; and (vi) relocated Rocky Mountain elk in Ontario use forage classes similar to those utilized by elk in western North America; however, woody browse is the dominant forage used.

Abstract The New Mexico meadow jumping mouse Zapus hudsonius luteus was listed as endangered under the U.S. Endangered Species Act in 2014, with critical habitat designated in 2016. Despite these recent conservation actions, there is a paucity of published information regarding its habitat associations. The taxon is a riparian obligate that occurs along both low-elevation rivers and high-elevation headwater streams in several disjunct areas of the American Southwest. Habitat information from one region might not apply to others. The distribution and habitat preferences of the New Mexico meadow jumping mouse in the White Mountains in eastern Arizona are poorly known. Objectives of this study were to 1) identify and resurvey historical locations in the White Mountains, 2) survey for new populations in areas with potentially suitable habitat in the White Mountains, and 3) use quantitative data to evaluate habitat associations at the landscape and microhabitat scales and to compare habitat at sites where I captured or did not capture the New Mexico meadow jumping mouse. I found 123 historical records of the New Mexico meadow jumping mouse from 21 locations in the White Mountains, indicating a formerly broad distribution. I conducted field surveys and collected habitat data at 35 sites (14 historical, 21 new) and caught 37 (39 total captures) New Mexico meadow jumping mice at 12 sites, including 6 of 12 historical locations surveyed. The overall capture rate was 0.36%, with an average capture rate at sites where it was present of 1.28% (range = 0.25–2.5%). All historical sites where I caught the New Mexico meadow jumping mouse were in the drainage of the Black River. The six new sites included the first records for Nutrioso Creek and Corduroy Creek and confirmed persistence of the taxon in the East Fork Little Colorado River, San Francisco River, and Blue River watersheds. Habitat used by the New Mexico meadow jumping mouse in the White Mountains was similar to that reported for other montane populations, characterized by tall, dense herbaceous vegetation composed primarily of forbs and sedges on saturated soil in close proximity to flowing water. However, there was significantly more cover provided by alders Alnus spp. at capture sites at both the stream reach and microhabitat scales. All sites where I captured the New Mexico meadow jumping mouse had no authorized livestock grazing, and the taxon was more likely to occur at sites where there were no signs of unauthorized livestock grazing. Further, there was a significant positive relationship between alder cover and time since an area was excluded from livestock grazing. The widespread exclusion of livestock from riparian areas in the White Mountains may have contributed to the higher rate of population persistence of the New Mexico meadow jumping mice in the White Mountains compared with the Jemez and Sacramento mountains, New Mexico. Although the overall persistence rate in the White Mountains (47%) was higher than other populations, the population is at risk of further losses due to small, isolated occupied areas and ongoing threats.

Three new species are described in the largely sub-Saharan genus Moraea Mill. (± 200 spp.), all from its centre of diversity in the winter rainfall region of southern Africa. Moraea pearsonii, from Hottentotskloof near Ceres in Western Cape, flowers in late November and December when its leaves are ± dry, and has small, pale lilac, stellate flowers with the style branches each divided to the base into filiform arms. Moraea tanquana, from the Tankwa River Basin in Northern Cape, resembles the southern Namaqualand M. deserticola but has broad, plane leaves, short anthers exserted from a shallower floral cup and a short style. In section Acaules, M. longipes from Namaqualand stands out in its early flowering habit, a stem consisting of a single long intemode reaching well above the ground, short style and unusually long anthers. Moraea jarmilae described from Ox Bow, Lesotho in 2002, is conspecific with M. albicuspa and is reduced to synonymy. Significant range extensions are reported for M. elsiae, M. falcifolia, M. pseudospicata, M. spathulata, M. tricolor, M. vegeta, M. verecunda, M. vespertina and M. vlokii. A yellow-flowered morph, local in the Perdebont Valley of the Little Karoo, is reported for the first time in typically blue- to violet-flowered M. bipartita, as well as the occurrence of a hybrid swarm, rare in Moraea, between M. bipartita and M. polyanthos.

Abstract. Measurements of the stable isotopes oxygen-18 (18O) and deuterium (2H) were carried out in two meso-scale catchments, Chemoga (358 km2) and Jedeb (296 km2) south of Lake Tana, Abay/Upper Blue Nile basin, Ethiopia. The region is of paramount importance for the water resources in the Nile basin. Stable isotope composition in precipitation, spring water and streamflow were analyzed (i) to characterize the spatial and temporal variations of water fluxes; (ii) to estimate the mean residence time of water using a sine wave regression approach; and (iii) to identify runoff components using classical two component hydrograph separations at a seasonal time scale. The results show that the isotopic composition of precipitation exhibit marked seasonal variations, which suggests different sources of moisture generation for the rainfall in the study area. The Atlantic–Indian ocean, Congo basin, and the Sud swamps are the likely the potential moisture source areas during the main rainy (summer) season. While, the Indian–Arabian, and Mediterranean Sea moisture source areas during little rain (spring), and dry (winter) seasons. The spatial variation of the isotopic composition is affected by the amount effect and to less extent by altitude and temperature effects. A mean altitude effect of −0.12‰ (100 m)−1 for 18O and −0.58‰ (100 m)−1 for 2H were discernable in precipitation isotope composition. The seasonal variations of the isotopic signature of the spring water exhibit a damped response as compared to the river waters, which shows that the spring water has longer residence times than the river water. Results from the hydrograph separation at a seasonal time scale indicate the dominance of event water with an average of 71% and 64% of the total runoff during the wet season in the Chemoga and Jedeb catchment, respectively. The stable isotope compositions of streamflow samples were damped compared to the input function of precipitation for both catchments and this damping was used to estimate mean residence times of stream water of 4.1 and 6.0 months at the Chemoga and Jedeb catchment outlet, respectively. Short mean residence times and high proportions of event water components suggest catchment management measure aiming at reduction of overland flow/soil erosion and increasing of soil water retention and recharge to enable sustainable development in these agricultural dominated catchments.

Two statice cultivars, Limonium perezii cv. Blue Seas and L. sinuatum cv. American Beauty, were grown in greenhouse sand tanks to determine the effect of salt stress on carbohydrate accumulation and partitioning. For the first experiment, irrigation waters were prepared to simulate typical saline-sodic drainage effluent in the San Joaquin Valley of California with electrical conductivities of 2.5, 7, 11, 15, 20, 25, and 30 dS·m−1. A second experiment compared responses to two types of irrigation waters with salinity levels of 2.5, 6, 8, 10, 12, 16, and 20 dS·m−1: 1) San Joaquin Valley drainage waters, and 2) solutions mimicking concentrations of Colorado River water, a major irrigation water source for southern California. In addition to the presence of myo-inositol and three common sugars (fructose, glucose, and sucrose), chiro-inositol was for the first time isolated and identified in leaf and root tissues of both Limonium species. As salinity increased from 2.5 to 30 dS·m−1, leaf chiro-inositol concentration increased from 6.4 to 52.8 and from 2.6 to 72.9 μmol·g−1 dry weight for L. perezii and L. sinuatum, respectively, suggesting that chiro-inositol contributes substantially to osmotic adjustment in the stressed plants. Meanwhile, leaf myo-inositol concentration remained low in both species and showed little response to salinity. Before salt stress, the seedlings contained little chiro-inositol, indicating that salt enhanced chiro-inositol synthesis per unit of biomass formation. Significant (P ≤ 0.05) increasing trends for fructose and glucose and a decreasing trend for sucrose with increasing salinity were observed in the leaves of L. perezii but not L. sinuatum. As a result, the leaves of L. perezii had higher glucose and fructose but lower sucrose levels than that of L. sinuatum. However, no significant (P > 0.05) salt effect was found on the sum of the three common sugar concentrations in either species. Therefore, the accumulation of chiro-inositol resulted in a change in carbon partitioning among the soluble carbohydrates (i.e., the ratio of leaf chiro-inositol over a sum of the three common sugars rose from 0.034 to 0.29 dS·m−1 and from 0.012 to 0.32 dS·m−1 for L. perezii and L. sinuatum, respectively, as salinity increased from 2.5 to 30 dS·m−1). Salt stress did not affect starch accumulation and caused no carbon reserve deficiency. Furthermore, it was observed that salinity increased chiro-inositol phloem transport. The chiro-inositol response might be a physiological process for Limonium salt adaptation. The types of saline irrigation waters (i.e., sodium sulfate-dominated waters vs. a sodium chloride system) appear to have little effect on carbohydrate accumulation and partitioning in L. perezii.

In this autobiographical account of labor relations on the Montreal waterfront, Alexander C. Pathy gives an insider account of the volatile relationship between shippers and longshoremen. Pathy worked as a lawyer and then official of the influential Maritime Employers Association (MEA). The MEA was in the forefront in changing employment relations to better fit the introduction of technological changes brought on by containerization. As in most ports around the world, the introduction of containerization was riven with challenge and controversy. The Port of Montreal, and the lesser ports of Quebec City and Trois-Rivieres, shared this common experience. According to Pathy up to 1960 the respective ports had seen little strife. Indeed, it would seem that the relations between the two sides had been relatively amicable. This would change once ship owners and stevedores embarked on a rationalization scheme to make the loading and unloading of cargo that much more efficient and speedier. Beginning in 1960, negotiations became increasingly heated and hostile. Not least was the problem of language. In what could be best described as mutual ignorance the employers negotiated in English, while the union representatives, reflecting the membership, spoke in French. It was no wonder that misunderstandings could occur because of poor translation. But according to Pathy more than language, the principal point of conflict was perception. Each side brought to the table mutual suspicion and hostility. The problem Pathy contends was, “Each party did not see its glass half full but half empty.”(40) Therefore, negotiations over gang size, technological improvements, hiring methods, and union jurisdiction all became major issues of contention. Adding to the complexity of the situation was the role of Canadian government. Canadian industrial relations law gave the government a vital stake in the negotiations. Just as important, as both official and wildcat strikes broke out, the government scrambled to stabilize the situation as ships were diverted to US ports. The loss of trade and thereby revenue was seen as a critical impairment to the maritime economy.

Horticultural tree crop yields tend to be linearly correlated with the percentage of photosynthetically active radiation (PAR) intercepted by the canopies, at least for part of the PAR interception range. Models of PAR interception by hedgerows have been used in the design of orchards for temperate tree crops, especially apples, but not for subtropical tree crops, such as lychee and macadamia. Subtropical crops need special consideration because of the latitudes at which they are grown, the specific shapes and dimensions of the hedgerows, and the evergreen habit, which requires an understanding of the entire annual cycle. We present outputs from a PAR interception model for solid rectangular and tapered hedgerows, based on a model of irradiation beneath blue skies. Annual PAR interception tends to decline as row orientation rotates from north–south to east–west, but with some exceptions for particular tree geometries, and declines slightly with decreasing latitude. Daily PAR interception is also affected by row orientation, with little seasonal variation for north–south rows but large fluctuations for east–west rows, including very high interception in winter and low interception in summer. Row orientation and tree shape greatly affect the distribution of PAR over the surface of the canopy. For example, the side faces of evenly spaced, symmetrical, identical north–south hedgerows are equally irradiated throughout the year, but there can be large seasonal differences in the relative irradiance of the north and south faces of the same hedgerows aligned east–west. The solid tapered hedgerow model tended to overestimate measured PAR interception by ~6% overall, but the percent overestimation seemed to vary with PAR interception, being greater at lower levels of PAR interception. A curvilinear relationship was found between the yield of macadamia in the Northern Rivers area of NSW in 1997 and the measured PAR intercepted by the trees, with an explained variance of 50%. Maximum yield occurred at ~86% PAR interception. Using modelled PAR interception the explained variance of the yield was 34%. Model estimates of PAR interception were close to those measured and might be used to address a range of physiological questions concerning the canopy development of subtropical hedgerows.

Although a rare occurrence in late medieval cemeteries, vessels have been found on almost all major sites of the period, such as Novo Brdo, Trgoviste, Reljina Gradina and the churchyard of St Peter?s near Novi Pazar, the churchyard of St Nicholas? at Kursumlija, the churchyard of St Stephen?s at Milentija near Brus, Mali Zvecan, Mirijevo, Vinca. Vessels occur in different places, both on top of and in graves. Fragments of pottery and glass vessels are relatively abundant in layers of earth filling burial pits and chambers, and in those immediately overlaying burial pits or gravestones. The available data make it possible to recognize almost all functional types. The most frequently found pottery shapes are larger liquid containers - jugs and pitchers, and apparently there have also been many pots, both hearth cooking and glazed (figs. 1-3; 5-9). Recognizable among the glass vessels are bottles, usually those with long fluted necks and biconical, as well as infrequent icon lamps. The data about the vessels found buried with the deceased is much more detailed. Such finds are recorded at Macvanska Mitrovica (fig. 10/3), Brestovik (fig. 13/3), Mirijevo (fig. 4/1), Vinca (figs. 4/2; 10/4), Stragari near Kragujevac, Milentija near Brus, round the church of St Peter near Novi Pazar, at the monastery of Konculic (fig. 13/2) and the monastery of Gradac. The relatively plentiful and diverse vessels discovered at the cemeteries of medieval Trgoviste are especially illustrative (fig. 10/2, 7). The available descriptions of vessels and archaeological contexts provide a general impression about the types of vessels recorded in the cemeteries of a late medieval and early modern date in the central Balkans. Glass bottles as a rule were laid in graves, while earth-fill layers, apart from bottles, contained plentiful shards of drinking vessels. As for the bottles, two types were registered: biconical and those with long fluted necks (figs. 10; 12/1). Among the glass fragments there were parts of bottles with a ring around the neck and a ribbed body (Rippenflaschen), generally known in domestic scholarship under the term Panik type bottle (fig. 10/8). Also identifiable among the recovered glass fragments are drinking vessels of several types, beakers with small or large prunts (Nuppenbecher and Krautstrunk) and ribbed (Rippenbecher), common especially in the 15th and 16th centuries (figs. 12/1, 3, 5, 6). There are also pieces with a blue thread applied around the rim and body, similar to the examples from Stalac reproduced herein (fig. 12/3). Quite rarely found are drinking vessels of cobalt blue glass, which are mostly small, except for a few examples of up to 14 cm in height, which is also the height of the abovementioned bottles. Apart from Venice and Dubrovnik (Ragusa), glassware was imported from Hungary. The discovered pottery vessels show a greater diversity, mostly in terms of shape. In addition to liquid containers - jugs, pitchers and beakers, there occur bowls, pots and even apothecary vessels. A vast majority belong to the Serbian ware of the 14th and 15th centuries. Most are glazed, and frequently painted with spirals, bands and blotches in white, green and dark brown or decorated with simple sgrafitto patterns, such as the finds from Novo Brdo (fig. 1), St Peter?s (figs 9; 13/1, 4) and the monastery of Gradac. By far the most interesting of them is the beaker from Konculic with an openwork edge around the base (fig. 12/2), which is commonly found in glass beakers of the same period. Deserving of particular attention are three cylindrical ceramic bottles from Novo Brdo (fig. 2). The presented material allows us to recognize the central issues surrounding the occurrence of vessels in the cemeteries of the 14th to 17th century in Serbia. Given the small number of recorded cases, the presence of vessels in graves as grave goods appears to have been utterly sporadic. Being based on the processed and published results, and given the small number of systematically investigated and analyzed cemeteries, however, such a conclusion should be taken with caution. In most cases, the vessels were laid beside the head of the deceased, usually on its left, rarely on the right side, and only exceptionally next to the legs or the upper body area. On the other hand, the amount of fragments discovered in cemeteries is generally large, as shown, for example, by a cursory insight into the excavation records for the site of Novo Brdo. This discrepancy is surprising and makes us think over the character of the finds, but we shall not get closer to an answer until we have detailed context analyses done and the material systematized and statistically processed. When it comes to shapes, liquid containers obviously predominated - glass bottles and ceramic pitchers, followed by glass and ceramic drinking vessels, while ceramic pots and bowls occurred in graves only rarely. The vessels are mostly small. The glass bottles are between 14 and 15 cm in height on average, except the specimen from Mali Zvecan, which is more than twice as high (36 cm). The cups show similar heights, between 10 and 16 cm. The ceramic pitchers and pots are also small, with a height usually not exceeding 16 cm. Judging by the available data, it appears that shards of larger vessels were found on top of graves (bowls, pitchers, jugs, pots), apparently brought for the memorial ceremony held at the grave, while graves usually contained small vessels, usually bottles. Apart from Serbia, the occurrence of vessels in cemeteries has also been recorded in the surrounding areas. Given their very distinctive context and character, the finds from Bosnia draw particular attention, as well as those from Croatia, where they are concentrated in the broader area of Split. This overview makes it plain that the vessels laid in graves differ little from ordinary household utensils. Moreover, all can be classified as typical of the 14th to 17th century - Venetian, Dubrovnik and Hungarian glass, and the ceramic kitchen and tableware produced locally, in Serbia. For the sake of comparison, we draw attention to similar vessels discovered on fortress, settlement and monastery sites, such as Stalac, Belgrade (fig. 14), Studenica, Mileseva, Trgoviste, Trnava near Cacak. The presented examples, combined with all previously gained insights, clearly demonstrate and corroborate the assumption that the custom of laying vessels in graves in the central Balkans was an uncommon but long-standing phenomenon. Unlike earlier periods, when it was pottery vessels that were almost exclusively placed in graves, from the 14th century on the ratio of glass to ceramic vessels, mostly bottles, pitchers and beakers, becomes virtually equal. Judging by the find-spots and other known information, in the late medieval period the custom of laying vessels in graves was confined to a few areas along the Danube, Morava, Ibar, Drina and Neretva rivers. These areas, in the hinterland of Dubrovnik, in Herzegovina, Bosnia and Serbia, are associated with major caravan routes, which is relevant in our considerations of the glass finds. As it appears from the examples from all aforementioned areas, the only difference of some significance concerns the type of glass vessels used in funeral rituals - bottles in Serbia and Croatia, and drinking vessels in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Even though this seems to give grounds to assume certain regional variation in the custom of making offerings to the dead, at this point any conclusion would be highly conjectural, especially if based only on the available archaeological data. As shown by ethnological research, the custom, also sporadic, survived in Serbia and Bulgaria until the late 19th century. The analysis of the vessels from late medieval and early modern cemeteries has revealed a number of features common to the central-Balkan region, but also some regional variation. However, given the proportion of processed specimens in the entire recovered material, the assumptions and results presented here should only be taken as preliminary. The fact that some manifestations of the custom are still obscure reduces some of the previously proposed interpretations to little more than unfounded speculation, which is fertile ground for manipulation. Apart from analyzing the archaeological material, what is needed therefore is a thorough study of other aspects of the issue, above all the phenomenon of burials topped by slabs and stecci, and funerary practices at large.

The blue tilapia, Oreochromis aureus is an invasive species that has successfully established itself in most of the Iraqi waters. However, there is little information on the population dynamics of the species in these waters. Hence, the growth parameters, mortality rates, probability of capture, recruitment pattern and yield per recruit of blue tilapia in Garmat Ali River, Iraq was assessed using FiSAT II software. A total of 1664 blue tilapia fish were collected by different fishing gears from October 2019 to September 2020 for recording the relevant data. The length-weight relationship obtained was W=0.0147*L3.0748 for fish ranging from 7.5 to 26.3 cm total length suggesting that the species shows positive allometric growth. The asymptotic length (L∞), growth constant (K), theoretical age at zero-length (t0), growth performance index (Ø') and longevity (tmax) were 29.9 cm, 0.205, -1.293, 2.345 and 10.7 years, respectively. The total mortality (Z), natural (M), fishing (F) and exploitation (E) were 1.09, 0.61, 0.48 and 0.43, respectively. Length at first capture (L50) was found to be 13.92 cm. The main recruitment pulse was from March to July with a peak in April, which account for 18.4% of the total recruitment in the year. The relative yield per recruit analysis revealed that the present exploitation rate (Epresent) for blue tilapia was below than the biological target reference points (E0.1 and Emax), which denotes that this stock was not over-exploited. For management purposes, higher yields can be achieved by reducing the mesh sizes of the nets during fishing.

Microplastics have been increasingly documented globally in numerous environmental compartments. However, little information exists in the Philippines despite the fact that the country is considered to be one of the largest contributors of plastics in oceans. This study, considered as one of the pioneering microplastic research, evaluated the abundance, distribution, and composition of microplastic pollution in the mouths of five rivers, namely Cañas, Meycauayan, Parañaque, Pasig and Tullahan, draining to Manila Bay. Surface water and sediments samples were collected, then passed through a stack of sieves with sizes from 2.36 mm at the top to 0.075 mm at the bottom. These samples were digested to remove organic matter, and salt solutions were added to allow the microplastics to float. Extracted particles were examined under a stereo microscope, and quantified and categorized into shape, size, color, and type. Results show that microplastics were present ubiquitously at all river mouths but with concentrations varying from 1,580 to 57,665 particles/m3 (surface water) and 386 to 1,357 particles/kg (dry sediment). Fragment was the most abundant shape, while white, blue, and transparent were the most prevalent colors. Fourier Transform Infrared Spectroscopy (FTIR) analysis revealed that polypropylene (PP), high and low-density polyethylene (high-density polyethylene and low-density polyethylene) and polystyrene were the main types of microplastics present in the river mouths.

The Humboldt River, in northern Nevada supplies water mostly for irrigation of nearby croplands. Groundwater pumping both near and distant from the river has increased over the past 50 years. The primary use of groundwater is for irrigation of croplands but it is also an important source for municipalities, mining and other industries. Large gold deposits that require dewatering were discovered in the mountains of the central part of the drainage basin in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Much of the water pumped to dewater the mines is recharged back to groundwater in the valleys or is released to the Humboldt River or one of its tributaries. Of concern is the long-term loss of groundwater from pit-lake evaporation and how those losses could affect groundwater interactions with the Humboldt River once mine operations cease. Flows in the Humboldt River are mostly dependent on snowmelt runoff from the mountains, particularly from mountains in the drainage area upstream of the Palisade gaging station. The mean flow increases with drainage area between the gaging stations upstream of Elko and at Palisade, whereas the mean flow decreases downstream of the Palisade gaging station. Much of the decrease in mean flow downstream of Palisade is caused by: (1) minimal additional contributions from runoff and groundwater flow; (2) spreading of water to native pastures on the floodplain; and (3) infiltration of river water into its associated alluvium. During low-flow periods, particularly during periods of drought, the Humboldt River between Battle Mountain and Comus gaging stations often has flows less than 1 cubic foot per second (cfs) even before there was any mine dewatering. Estimated groundwater loss to evaporation for the five largest pit lakes in the drainage area between the Palisade and Comus gaging stations is about 5,400 acre-feet per year (afy) (7.6 cfs or five times less than the estimated net annual evaporation loss from the Rye Patch and the Pitt-Taylor Reservoirs upstream of Lovelock, Nevada. The groundwater loss to three of the pit lakes (Goldstrike Mine, Cortez operations, and Twin Creeks Mine) is unlikely to affect river flow because even prior to mine dewatering, groundwater flow from the low-lying mountains was lost to evapotranspiration near the base of the alluvial fans and did not contribute flow to the river. The Lone Tree Mine ceased dewatering in December 2006 and since then a lake has formed in the pit. The floodplain of the Humboldt River in the reach between Battle Mountain and Comus is underlain by a layer of blue clay at shallow depth. Between 2007 and 2019, the net mean annual streamflow loss between Palisade and Comus is nearly the same as during a period of little groundwater pumping from 1946 to 1969 suggesting that even the relatively large amount of water pumped from the mine has had a little effect on Humboldt River flows. Groundwater evaporation from the eventual pit-lake at the Gold Quarry Mine is estimated at 740 afy (about 1 cfs) and could perhaps decrease the gain in the Humboldt River upstream of Palisade. How much of a decrease is uncertain because some of it could be lost to evapotranspiration at the edge of the floodplain prior to reaching the river. Even if the groundwater loss from the pit lake at Gold Quarry Mine were to reduce the gain of river flow between Carlin and Palisade, the loss would be too little to measure accurately.

AbstractThe nematode Rhabdochona cotti Gustafson, 1949 is redescribed from specimens collected from the intestine of the blue ridge sculpin Cottus caeruleomentum (a new host record), a recently described fish species, from Little Fishing Creek in Maryland, USA. The measurements of these specimens, collected in November 2005, are generally smaller than those reported in the original description of R. cotti, this being probably associated with the nematode’s seasonal maturation cycle or the different host species. As revealed by SEM, the deirids of R. cotti are simple (not bifurcate), in which this species differs from almost all North American congeners. Of these, simple deirids, filamented eggs and a rounded tail tip in females occur only in Rhabdochona longleyi, but it distinctly differs from R. cotti in the smaller number of anterior prostomal teeth (6 vs. 14). Rhabdochona rotundicaudatum is considered a junior synonym of Rhabdochona cascadilla; numerous specimens of the latter were collected from Semotilus atromaculatus, Luxilus cornutus and Notropis rubellus from the type locality (Eramosa River, Ontario, Canada) (unpublished). Rhabdochona paxmani and Rhabdochona salmonis are synonymized with Rhabdochona kisutchi, whereas Rhabdochona californiensis is considered a junior synonym of R. cascadilla. The need of a taxonomic revision of North American species of Rhabdochona is stressed.

Introduction: Sudan, the most diverse country in the African continent, is experiencing growing cancers problems. However, little is known about thyroid cancer epidemiology and patterns. the study aimed to analyse and describe the epidemiological characteristics and trends of thyroid cancer in, in the period1st January 2005 and 31st December 2015. Methods: This is retrospective population and hospital-based study. We analysed epidemiological data for digital medical records at both Radiation and Isotope Centre Khartoum (RICK), and Soba University Hospital, Khartoum, Sudan were reviewed. Results: In total, 1,062 cases were reported during 1st January 2005 and 31st December 2015. Of these, (360; 33.9%) were male and (702; 66.1%) were female. The highest number of cases was in the 25-54-year-old age group (451; 42.5%), and more than 65-year-old age (331; 31.2%). The most predominant type of thyroid cancer among the Sudanese population was Papillary carcinoma (734; 69.1%) followed by Follicular carcinoma 178(16.8%) and Medullary carcinoma (150; 14.1%). There were significant differences in gender, age groups and types of thyroid cancer (P=0.001). Based on geographical distribution thyroid cancer showed high prevalence in Khartoum, North Kurdufan, River Nile, Kassala, North Darfur, Northern, and south Kurdufan. Whereas, low distribution is seen in Red sea, West Darfur, West Kurdufan, East Darfur, Al Gadarif, and the Blue Nile. Conclusion: our results suggest that thyroid cancer continuous presenting alarming challenge with an increasing the prevalence in females. Papillary carcinoma is the most common type among Sudanese populations. Further epidemiological studies are required in policy strategies for control and prevention strategies of thyroid cancer in Sudan.

Abstract Cardisoma guanhumi Latreille in Latreille, Le Peletier, Serville & Guérin, 1828, the blue land crab, is a marine semi-terrestrial crab that builds burrows in different habitats along estuaries, an ecosystem severely modified and fundamental to this endangered species in Brazil. The presence of adequate habitats and physical, chemical, and biological conditions often determine the spatial distribution of populations. We aimed to characterize the most relevant environmental conditions among the main environments present in southern Bahia state, Brazil, and evaluate their influence on the spatial distributions of C. guanhumi to define which habitats are most critical for the conservation of the species. Our results showed that there is no relationship between spatial distributions and any particular habitat, but instead to the physical and other environmental parameters studied. Low-elevation areas along the river shore, shading, a supply of leaf litter, and bare sandy substrate are highlighted as priority for the conservation of C. guanhumi. These physical factors limit the distribution of juveniles, which form dense groups on river shores without significant differences between habitats. The preservation of the native forest and restinga shrubs that border rivers appear as fundamental for the conservation of the species.

Despite emerging and increasing concerns related to marine micro and macroplastics, no systematic surveys have been undertaken yet in the Lebanese marine area. To understand the spatio-temporal variation of plastic litter (macro and microplastics) in the Lebanese marine environment and to determine the sources of pollution, this study investigated the characteristics of plastic pollution in sea surface waters during wet and dry seasons in 22 sites of Beirut and Tyre regions. A total of 23,023 items were identified and assessed according to the shape, color, and concentration; moreover, the risk of microplastics (MPs) contamination was explored based on a risk assessment model. The obtained results demonstrated that the average macroplastics concentration was 0.45 ± 0.6 items/m3. The average microplastics concentration was found to be 20.1 ± 21.8 and 3.78 ± 5.2 items/m3 in spring and fall respectively. During fall, MPs fragments were dominant in Beirut (97%) and Tyre (91%), and no pellets were observed. During spring, filaments were most encountered in Beirut (76.5%). The most dominant marine litter color was blue followed by black and white. The Pollution Load Index (PLI) values showed a moderate contamination of the Lebanese coast with MPs (PLI: 5.79 ± 3.93) except for several sites in Beirut that showed high values of PLI, highlighting the local influence of cities and rivers on MPs concentration. This study serves as an important baseline for understanding the characteristics of the seasonal variation of MPs along the Lebanese marine environment; it will help stakeholders and countries to take proactive and reactive actions to face plastic litter pollution in the Lebanese coastal area.

On a broad stretch of lowlands striated by the blue threads of rivers, there was a city all in gold. And in the city, there was a hill of piled up rubble, and on the hill there grew a pine, and on the pine there were six hands. And the hill is immense, the top invisible behind the clouds; it rises sharply into the sky, and on all its slopes, there is a black forest. Huge oaks, pines, beeches, firs – one growing upon the others. A tree jutting over another tree, higher and higher. Between them, on the ground, a thicket of thorns, hawthorn and poisonous herbs. A rubble of huge rocks, all green with wet moss, and among them – the pine. She stands tall and has six branches like six green hands, and one of them strange, magical. The forest differs in no respect from a thousand others, on other hills across the world. And the pine seems the same, no different from a thousand other pines. From the very top of the hill you can see the entire horizon of the land – mountains, fields, forests, and waters. Villages, great ironworks, houses, factories, and little towns. So many that you cannot count them all. And they lie like a painted picture, so marvelous that you could look at it for a hundred years and still not have enough. The dawn was rising.

I wake up early, questions buzzing through my mind. While I sip my morning cup of tea and read The Guardian online, the writer, restless because I’m ignoring her, walks around firing questions.“Expecting the patriarchy to want to share its enormous wealth and power with women is extremely naïve.”I nod. Outside the window pieces of sky are framed by trees, fluffy white clouds alternate with bright patches of blue. The sweet, heady first wafts of lavender and citrus drift in through the open window. Spring has come to Hvar. Time to get to work.The more I understand about narcissism, the more I understand the world. I didn’t understand before. In the 1990s.“No—you knew, but you didn’t know at the same time.”I kept telling everybody The River Ophelia wasn’t about sex, (or the sex wasn’t about sex), it was about power. Not many people listened or heard, though. Only some readers.I’ve come here to get away. To disappear. To write.I can’t find the essay I want for my article about the 1990s. I consider the novel I’m reading, I Love Dick by Chris Kraus and wonder whether I should write about it instead? It’s just been reprinted, twenty years after its initial release. The back cover boasts, “widely considered to be the most important feminist novel of the past two decades.” It was first published in the 1990s. So far it’s about a woman named Chris who’s addictively obsessed with an unavailable man, though I’m yet to unravel Kraus’s particular brand of feminism—abjection? Maybe, maybe … while I think, I click through my storage folder. Half way through, I find a piece I wrote about Kathy Acker in 1997, a tribute of sorts that was never published. The last I’d heard from Kathy before this had been that she was heading down to Mexico to try shark cartilage for her breast cancer. That was just before she died.When I was first introduced to the work of Foucault and Deleuze, it was very political; it was about what was happening to the economy and about changing the political system. By the time it was taken up by the American academy, the politics had gone to hell. (Acker qtd. in Friedman 20)Looking back, I’d have to say my friendship with Kathy Acker was intense and short-lived.In the original I’d written “was a little off and on.” But I prefer the new version. I first met Kathy in person in Sydney, in 1995. We were at a World Art launch at Ariel bookshop and I remember feeling distinctly nervous. As it turned out, I needn’t have been. Nervous, that is.Reading this now brings it all back: how Kathy and I lost touch in the intervening two years and the sudden fact of her death. I turn to the end and read, “She died tragically, not only because she was much too young, but because American literature seems rather frumpy without her, of cancer on the 30th November 1997, aged 53.”The same age as I am now. (While some believe Kathy was 50 when she died, Kathy told me she lied about her age even to the point of changing her passport. Women who lie about their age tend to want to be younger than they are, so I’m sticking with 53.) This coincidence spooks me a little.I make a cup of tea and eat some chocolate.“This could work …” the writer says. My reasons for feeling nervous were historical. I’d spoken to Kathy once previously (before the publication of The River Ophelia on the phone from Seattle to San Francisco in 1993) and the conversation had ended abruptly. I’d wanted to interview Kathy for my PhD on American fiction but Kathy wouldn’t commit. Now I was meeting her face to face and trying to push the past to the back of my mind.The evening turned out to be a memorable one. A whole bunch of us—a mixture of writers, publishers, academics and literati—went out to dinner and then carried on drinking well into the night. I made plans to see Kathy again. She struck me as a warm, generous, sincere and intensely engaging person. It seemed we might become friends. I hesitated: should I include the rest? Or was that too much?The first thing Kathy had said when we were introduced was, “I loved your book, The River Ophelia. I found it as soon as I arrived. I bought it from the bookshop at the airport. I saw your amazing cover and then I read on the back that it was influenced by the work of Kathy Acker. I was like, wow, no one in America has ever put that on the back cover of a novel. So I read it immediately and I couldn’t put it down. I love the way you’ve deconstructed the canon but still managed to put a compelling narrative to it. I never did that.”Why didn’t I include that? It had given me more satisfaction than anything anyone else had said.I remember how quickly I abandoned my bestselling life in Sydney, sexual harassment had all but ruined my career, and exchanged it for an uncertain future in London. My notoriety as an author was damaging my books and my relationship with my publisher had become toxic. The first thing I did in London was hire a lawyer, break my contract with Picador and take both novels out of print.Reality intrudes in the form of a phone call from my mother. Terminally ill with cancer, she informs me that she’s off her food. For a retired chef, the loss of appetite is not inconsiderable. Her dying is a dull ache, a constant tiredness and sadness in me. She’s just arrived in London. I will go there next week to meet her.(1)I first came across Kathy’s work in 1991. I’d just finished my MA thesis on postmodernism and parody and was rewarding myself with some real reading (i.e. not related to my thesis) when I came across the novel Don Quixote. This novel had a tremendous impact on me. Those familiar with DQ may recall that it begins with an abortion that transforms its female narrator into a knight.When she was finally crazy because she was about to have an abortion, she conceived of the most insane idea that any woman can think of. Which is to love. How can a woman love? By loving someone other than herself. (Acker Quixote 9)Kathy’s opening sentences produced a powerful emotional response in me and her bold confronting account of an abortion both put me in touch with feelings I was trying to avoid and connected these disturbing feelings with a broader political context. Kathy’s technique of linking the personal and emotional with the political changed the way I worked as a writer.I’d submitted the piece as an obituary for publication to an Australian journal; the editor had written suggestions in the margin in red. All about making the piece a more conventional academic essay. I hadn’t been sure that was what I wanted to do. Ambitious, creative, I was trying to put poststructuralist theory into practice, to write theoretical fiction. It’s true, I hadn’t been to the Sorbonne, but so what? What was the point of studying theory if one didn’t put it into practice? I was trying to write like French theorists, not to write about them. The editor’s remarks would have made a better academic essay, it’s just I’m not sure that’s where I wanted to go. I never rewrote it and it was never published.I first encountered I Love Dick (2017) during a film course at the AFTVRS when the lecturer presented a short clip of the adaptation for the class to analyse. When I later saw the novel in a bookshop I bought a copy. Given my discovery of the unpublished obituary it is also a bit spooky that I’m reading this book as both Chris Kraus and Kathy Acker had relationships with academic and Semiotext(e) publisher Sylvère Lotringer. Chris as his wife, Kathy as his lover. Kraus wrote a biography of Acker called After Kathy Acker: A Biography, which seems fairly unsympathetic according to the review I read in The Guardian. (Cooke 2017) Intrigued, I add Kraus’s biography to my growing pile of Acker related reading, the Acker/Wark letters I’m Very Into You and Olivia Laing’s novel, Crudo. While I’ve not read the letters yet, Crudo’s breathless yet rhythmic layering of images and it’s fragmented reflections upon war, women and politics reminded me less of Acker and more of Woolf; Mrs Dalloway, in fact.(2)What most inspired me, and what makes Kathy such a great writer, is her manner of writing politically. For the purposes of this piece, when I say Kathy writes politically, I’m referring to what happens when you read her books. That is, your mind—fuelled by powerful feelings—makes creative leaps that link everyday things and ideas with political discourses and debates (for Kathy, these were usually critiques of bourgeois society, of oedipal culture and of the patriarchy).In the first pages of Don Quixote, for example, an abortion becomes synonymous with the process of becoming a knight. The links Kathy makes between these two seemingly unrelated events yields a political message for the creative reader. There is more at stake than just gender-bending or metamorphoses here: a reversal of power seems to have taken place. A relatively powerless woman (a female victim except for the fact that in having an abortion she’s exerting some measure of control over her life), far from being destroyed by the experience of aborting her foetus, actually gains power—power to become a knight and go about the world fulfilling a quest. In writing about an abortion in this way, Kathy challenges our assumptions about this controversial topic: beyond the moral debate, there are other issues at stake, like identity and power. An abortion becomes a birth, rather than a banal tragedy.When I think about the 1990s, I automatically think of shoulder pads, cocktails and expense accounts (the consumption of the former, in my case, dependent on the latter). But on reflection, I think about the corporatisation of the publishing industry, the Backlash and films like Thelma and Louise, (1991) Basic Instinct (1992) and Single White Female (1992). It occurs to me that the Hollywood movie star glamorous #MeToo has its origin in the turbulent 1990s Backlash. When I first saw each of these films I thought they were exciting, controversial. I loved the provocative stance they took about women. But looking back I can’t help wondering: whose stories were they really, why were we hearing them and what was the political point?It was a confusing time in terms of debates about gender equality.Excluding the premise for Thelma and Louise, all three films present as narrative truth scenarios that ran in stark contrast to reality. When it came to violence and women, most domestic homicide and violence was perpetrated by men. And violence towards women, in the 1990s, was statistically on the rise and there’s little improvement in these statistics today.Utter chaos, having a British passport never feels quite so wonderful as it does in the arrivals hall at Heathrow.“Perhaps these films allow women to fantasise about killing the men who are violent towards them?”Nyah, BI is chick killing chick … and think about the moral to the story. Fantasy OK, concrete action painful, even deadly.“Different story today …”How so?“Violent female protagonists are all the rage and definitely profitable. Killing Eve (2018) and A Simple Favour (2018).”I don’t have an immediate answer here. Killing Eve is a TV series, I think aloud, A Simple Favour structurally similar to Single White Female … “Why don’t you try self-publishing? It’ll be 20 years since you took The River Ophelia out of print, bit of an anniversary, maybe it’s time?”Not a bad idea. I’m now on the tube to meet mum at her bed and breakfast but the writer is impatient to get back to work. Maybe I should just write the screenplay instead?“Try both. If you don’t believe in your writing, who else will?”She has a point. I’m not getting anywhere with my new novel.A message pips through on Facebook. Want to catch up?What? Talk about out of the blue. I haven’t heard from Sade in twenty years … and how on earth did he get through my privacy settings?After meeting mum, the next thing I do is go to the doctor. My old doctor from West Kensington, she asks me how I’m going and I say I’m fine except that mum’s dying and this awful narcissistic ex-partner of mine has contacted me on Facebook. She recommends I read the following article, “The Highly Sensitive Person and the Narcissist” (Psychology Today).“Sometimes being a kind caring person makes you vulnerable to abusers.”After the appointment I can’t get her words out of my head.I dash into a Starbucks, I’m in Notting Hill just near the tube station, and read the article on my laptop on wifi. I highlight various sections. Narcissists “have a complete lack of empathy for others including their own family and friends, so that they will take advantage of people to get their own needs and desires met, even if it hurts someone.” That sounds about right, Sade could always find some way of masking his real motives in charm, or twisting reality around to make it look like things weren’t his fault, they were mine. How cleverly he’d lied! Narcissists, I read, are attracted to kind, compassionate people who they then use and lie to without remorse.But the bit that really makes me sit up is towards the end of the article. “For someone on the outside looking at a relationship between a highly sensitive person and a narcissist, it’s all too easy to blame the HSP. How and why would anyone want to stay in such a relationship?” Narcissists are incredibly good at making you doubt yourself, especially the part of you that says: this has happened before, it’ll happen again. You need to leave.The opening paragraph of the psychology textbook I read next uses Donald Trump as an example. Trump is also Patrick Bateman’s hero, the misogynistic serial killer protagonist of Bret Easton Ellis’s notorious American Psycho. Despite an earlier version that broadly focused on New York fiction of the 1990s, Ellis’s novel and the feminist outcry it provoked became the central topic of my PhD.“Are you alright mum?”I’ve just picked Mum up and I’m driving her to Paris for a night and then on to Switzerland where she’s going to have voluntary euthanasia. Despite the London drizzle and the horrific traffic the whole thing has a Thelma and Louise feel about it. I tell mum and she laughs.“We should watch it again. Have you seen it since it first came out?”“Sounds like a good idea.”Mum, tiny, pointy-kneed and wearing an out-of-character fluoro green beanie given to her at the oncology clinic in Sydney, is being very stoic but I can tell from the way she constantly wrings her hands that she’s actually quite terrified.“OK Louise,” she says as I unfold her Zimmer frame later that evening.“OK Thelma,” I reply as she walks off towards the hotel.Paris is a treat. My brother is waiting inside and we’re hoping to enjoy one last meal together.Mum didn’t want to continue with chemo at 83, but she’s frightened of dying a horrific death. As we approach hotel reception Mum can’t help taking a detour to inspect the dinner menu at the hotel restaurant.“Oysters naturel. That sounds nice.”I smile, wait, and take her by the elbow.I’ve completely forgotten. The interview/review I wrote of Acker’s Pussy, King of the Pirates, in 1995 for Rolling Stone. Where is it? I open my laptop and quickly click through the endless publicity and reviews of The River Ophelia, the interview/review came out around the same time the novel was published, but I can’t find it. I know I had it out just a few months ago, when I was chasing up some freelance book reviews.I make a fresh pot of tea from the mini bar, green, and return to my Acker tribute. Should I try to get it published? Here, or back in Australia? Ever the émigré’s dilemma. I decide I like the Parisian sense of style in this room, especially the cotton-linen sheets.Finally, I find it, it’s in the wrong folder. Printing it out, I remember how Kathy had called her agent and publisher in New York, and her disbelief when I’d told her the book hadn’t been picked up overseas. Kathy’s call resulted in my first New York agent. I scrutinise its pages.Kathy smiles benign childlike creativity in the larger photo, and gestures in passionate exasperation in the smaller group, her baby face framed by countless metal ear piercings. The interview takes place—at Kathy’s insistence—on her futon in her hotel room. My memories clarify. It wasn’t that we drifted apart, or rather we did, but only after men had come between us first. Neither of us had much luck in that department.(4)Kathy’s writing is also political because her characters don’t act or speak the way you’d expect them to. They don’t seem to follow the rules or behave in the way your average fictional character tends to do. From sentence to sentence, Kathy’s characters either change into different people, or live revolutionary lives, or even more radical still, live impossible lives.When the narrator of DQ transforms herself into a knight (and lives an impossible life); she turns a situation in which she is passive and relatively powerless—she is about to be operated on and drugged—into an empowering experience (and lives a creative revolutionary life). Ironically, getting power means she turns herself into a male knight. But Kathy gets around the problem that power is male by not letting things rest there. The female, aborting Kathy isn’t actually replaced by a male knight, bits of him are just grafted onto her. Sure, she sets out on a quest, but the other aspects of her empowerment are pretty superficial: she does adopt a new name (which is more like a disguise), and identity (appearance); and picks up a bad habit or two—a tendency to talk in the language used by knights.“But who’s the father?” the writer wants to know. “I mean isn’t that the real question here?”No, that is exactly not the real question here and not the point. It is not about who the father is—it’s about what happens to a woman who has an unwanted unplanned pregnancy.The phone rings. It’s my brother. Mum’s waiting for me downstairs and the oysters are beckoning.(5)The idea that writing could be political was very appealing. The transformation between my first novel, Marilyn’s Almost Terminal New York Adventure and my second, The River Ophelia (Picador insisted on publishing them in reverse chronology) was partly a result of my discovery of Kathy’s work and the ideas it set off in me. Kathy wasn’t the first novelist to write politically, but she was the first female novelist to do so in a way that had an immediate impact on me at an emotional level. And it was this powerful emotional response that inspired me as a writer—I wanted to affect my readers in a similar way (because reading Kathy’s work, I felt less alone and that my darkest experiences, so long silenced by shame and skirted around in the interests of maintaining appearances, could be given a voice).We’re driving through Switzerland and I’m thinking about narcissism and the way the narcissists in my personal and professional life overshadowed everything else. But now it’s time to give the rest of the world some attention. It’s also one way of pulling back the power from the psychopaths who rule the world.As we approach Zurich, my mother asks to pull over so she can use the ladies. When she comes out I can see she’s been crying. Inside the car, she reaches for my hand and clasps it. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to say goodbye.”“It’s alright Mum,” I say and hold her while we both cry.A police car drives by and my mother’s eyes snag. Harassed by the police in Australia and unable to obtain Nembutal in the UK, Mum has run out of options.To be a woman in this society is to find oneself living outside the law. Maybe this is what Acker meant when she wrote about becoming a pirate, or a knight?Textual deconstruction can be a risky business and writers like Acker walk a fine line when it comes to the law. Empire of the Senseless ran into a plagiarism suit in the UK and her publishers forced Acker to sign an apology to Harold Robbins (Acker Hannibal Lecter 13). My third novel Dependency similarly fell foul of the law when I discovered that in deconstructing gossip and myths about celebrities, drawing on their lives and then making stuff up, the result proved prophetic. When my publisher, Harper Collins, refused to indemnify me against potential unintended defamation I pulled the book from its contract on the advice of a lawyer. I was worth seven million pounds on paper at that point, the internet travel site my then husband and I had founded with Bob Geldof had taken off, and the novel was a radical hybrid text comprised of Rupert Murdoch’s biography, Shakespeare’s King Lear and Hello Magazine and I was worried that Murdoch might come after me personally. I’d fictionalised him as a King Lear type, writing his Cordelia out of his will and leaving everything to his Goneril and Reagan.Recent theoretical studies argue that Acker’s appropriation and deconstruction constitute a feminist politics as “fragmentation” (June 2) and as “agency” (Pitchford 22). As Acker puts it. “And then it’s like a kid: suddenly a toy shop opens up and the toy shop was called culture.” (Acker Hannibal Lecter 11).We don’t easily fit in a system that wasn’t ever designed to meet our needs.(6)By writing about the most private parts of women’s lives, I’ve tried to show how far there is to go before women and men are equal on a personal level. The River Ophelia is about a young woman whose public life might seem a success from the outside (she is a student doing an honours year at university in receipt of a scholarship), but whose private life is insufferable (she knows nothing about dealing with misogyny on an intimate level and she has no real relationship-survival skills, partly as a result of her family history, partly because the only survival skills she has have been inscribed by patriarchy and leave her vulnerable to more abuse). When Justine-the-character learns how to get around sexism of the personal variety (by re-inventing her life through parodies of classic texts about oedipal society) she not only changes her life, but she passes on her new-found survival skills to the reader.A disturbing tale about a young university student who loses herself in a destructive relationship, The River Ophelia is a postmodern novel about domestic violence and sexual harassment in the academy, contrary to its marketing campaign at the time. It’s protagonist, Justine, loves Sade but Sade is only interested in sex; indeed, he’s a brutish sex addict. Despite this, Justine can’t seem to leave: for all her education, she’s looking for love and commitment in all the wrong places. While the feminist lore of previous generations seems to work well in theory, Justine can’t seem to make it work in practise. Owning her power and experimenting with her own sexuality only leaves her feeling more despairing than before. Unconventional, compelling and controversial, The River Ophelia became an instant best-seller and is credited with beginning the Australian literary movement known as grunge/dirty realism.But there is always the possibility, given the rich intertextuality and self referentiality, that The River Ophelia is Justine’s honours thesis in creative writing. In this case, Sade, Juliette, Ophelia, Hamlet, Bataille, Simone, Marcelle and Leopold become hybrids made up from appropriated canonical characters, fragments of Justine’s turbulent student’s world and invented sections. But The River Ophelia is also a feminist novel that partly began as a dialogue with Ellis whose scandalous American Psycho it parodies even as it reinvents. This creative activity, which also involves the reader by inviting her to participate in the textual play, eventually empowers Justine over the canon and over her perpetrator, Sade.Another hotel room. This one, just out of Zürich, is tiny. I place my suitcase on the rack beneath the window overlooking the narrow street and start to unpack.“Hasn’t this all been said before, about The River Ophelia?” The writer says, trying out the bed. I’m in the middle of an email about self-publishing a new edition of TRO.Some of it. While the grunge label has been refuted, Acker’s influence has been underplayed.Acker often named her protagonists after herself, so losing the Acker part of my textual filiation plays into the whole grunge/dirty realism marketing campaign. I’ve talked about how I always name protagonists after famous women but not linked this to Acker. Bohemia Beach has a protagonist named after Cathy as in Wuthering Heights. Justine of The River Ophelia was doubly an Acker trait: firstly, she was named Justine after De Sade’s character and is a deconstruction of that character, and secondly she was named Justine self-reflexively after me, as a tribute to Kathy as in Kathy Goes to Haiti.The other context for The River Ophelia that has been lost is to do with the early work of Mary Gaitskill, and Catherine Texier. The narcissists were so destructive and so powerful they left no time for the relatively more subtle Gaitskill or Texier. Prototypes for Sex in the City, the 1990s was also a time when Downtown New York women writers explored the idea that gender equality meant women could do anything men did sexually, that they deserved the full gamut of libertine sexual freedoms. Twenty years on it should also be said that women who push the envelope by writing women protagonists who are every bit as sexually transgressive as men, every bit as addictively self-destructive as male protagonists deserve not to be shamed for that experimentation. They deserve to be celebrated and read.AfterwordI’d like to remember Kathy as I knew her briefly in Sydney. A bottle-blonde with a number two haircut, a leopard-skin bikini and a totally tattooed body, she swam a surprisingly genteel breast-stroke in the next lane in one of the world’s most macho lap-swimming pools.ReferencesA Simple Favour. Dir. Paul Feig. Lionsgate, 2018.Acker, Kathy. Don Quixote. London: Collins, 1986.———. Empire of the Senseless. New York: Grove, 1988.———. Hannibal Lecter, My Father. New York: Semiotext(e), 1991.———. Kathy Goes to Haiti. New York: Grove Press/Atlantic Monthly, 1994.——— and McKenzie Wark. I’m Very into You: Correspondence 1995-1996. New York: Semiotext(e), 2015.Basic Instinct. Dir. Paul Verhoeven. TriStar Pictures, 1992.Brontë, Emily. Wuthering Heights. New York: Norton and Co, 2003.Bushnell, Candace. Sex in the City. United States: Grand Central Publishing, 1996.Cooke, Rachel. “Review of After Kathy Acker: A Biography by Chris Kraus—Baffling Life Study.” The Guardian 4 Sep. 2017. 4 Dec. 2018 <https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/sep/04/after-kathy-acker-a-biography-chris-kraus-review>.Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987.Ellis, Bret Easton. American Psycho. New York: Vintage, 1991.Ettler, Justine. Bohemia Beach. Melbourne: Transit Lounge. 2018.———. “Kathy Acker: King of the Pussies.” Review of Pussy, King of the Pirates, by Kathy Acker. Rolling Stone. Nov. 1995: 60-61.———. Marilyn’s Almost Terminal New York Adventure. Sydney: Picador, 1996.———. “La Trobe University Essay: Bret Easton Ellis’s Glamorama, and Catherine Texier’s Break Up.” Australian Book Review, 1995.———. The Best Ellis for Business: A Re-Examination of the Mass Media Feminist Critique of “American Psycho.” PhD. Sydney: University of Sydney, 2013.———. The River Ophelia. Sydney: Picador, 1995.Faludi, Susan. Backlash: The Undeclared War against American Women. New York: Crown, 1991.Friedman, Ellen G. “A Conversation with Kathy Acker.” The Review of Contemporary Fiction 9.3 (Fall 1989): 20-21.Gaitskill, Mary. Bad Behaviour. New York: Random House, 1988.I Love Dick. Dir. Jill Soloway. Amazon Video, 2017.June, Pamela B. The Fragmented Female Body and Identity: The Postmodern Feminist and Multiethnic Writings of Toni Morrison, Therese Huk, Kyung Cha, Phyllis Alesia Perry, Gayl Jones, Emma Perez, Paula Gunn Allen, and Kathy Acker. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2010.Killing Eve. Dir. Phoebe Waller-Bridge. BBC America, 2018.Kraus, Chris. After Kathy Acker: A Biography. London: Penguin, 2017.———. I Love Dick. London: Serpent’s Tail, 2016.Laing, Olivia. Crudo. London: Picador, 2018.Lee, Bandy. The Case of Donald Trump: 27 Psychiatrists and Mental Health Experts Assess a President. New York: St Martin’s Press. 2017.Lombard, Nancy, and Lesley McMillan. “Introduction.” Violence against Women. Eds. Nancy Lombard and Lesley McMillan. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2013.Pitchford, Nicola. Tactical Readings: Feminist Postmodernism in the Novels of Kathy Acker and Angela Carter. London: Associated Uni Press, 2002.Schiffrin, André. The Business of Books: How International Conglomerates Took Over Publishing and Changed the Way We Read. London and New York: Verso, 2000.Shakespeare, William. King Lear. London: Penguin Classics, 2015.Siegle, Robert. Suburban Ambush: Downtown Writing and the Fiction of Insurgency. United States: John Hopkins Press, 1989.Single White Female. Dir. Barbet Schroeder. Columbia Pictures, 1992.Texier, Catherine. Panic Blood. London: Collins, 1991.Thelma and Louise. Dir. Ridley Scott. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1991.Ward, Deborah. “Sense and Sensitivity: The Highly Sensitive Person and the Narcissist.” Psychology Today (16 Jan. 2012). 4 Dec. 2018 <https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/sense-and-sensitivity/201201/the-highly-sensitive-person-and-the-narcissist>.

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

There is an old Danish fable that says that the Devil was watching when God created the earth, and that, as the creation progressed, he became increasingly agitated over the wondrous achievements he was made to witness. At the end of it all, the Devil turned to God, and said, ‘Now, watch this.’ He created Iceland. It’s a vision of the country that resembles my own. I have always thought of Iceland as the island apart. The place that came last in the earth’s construction, whoever the engineer, and so remains forever distant. Perhaps that’s because, for me, Iceland is a home far from home. It is the country that I am from, and the place to which I am always tending—in my reading, my travels, and my thoughts. But since we left when I was ten, I am only ever in Iceland for mere glimpses of the Devil’s work, and always leave wanting more, some kind of deeper involvement. Perhaps all of his temptations are like that. Iceland’s is an inverted landscape, stuck like a plug on the roof of the Earth, revealing all the violence and destruction of the layers beneath. The island expands as the tectonic plates beneath it move. It grows by ten centimetres a year, but in two different directions—one towards the States, and the other towards Europe. I have noticed something similar happening to me. Each year, the fissure is a little wider. I come to be more like a visitor, and less like the one returning to his birthplace. I last visited in February just gone, to see whether Iceland was still drifting away from me and, indeed, from the rest of the world. I was doing research in Germany, and set aside an extra week for Reykjavík, to visit friends and family, and to see whether things were really as bad as they appeared to be from Brisbane, where I have lived for most of my life. I had read countless bleak reports of financial ruin and social unrest, and yet I couldn’t suppress the thought that Iceland was probably just being Iceland. The same country that had fought three wars over cod; that offered asylum to Bobby Fischer when no-one else would take him; and that allowed Yoko Ono to occupy a small island near Reykjavík with a peace sculpture made of light. Wasn’t it always the country stuck out on its own, with a people who claimed their independent spirit, and self-reliance, as their most-prized values? No doubt, things were bad. But did Iceland really mean to tie itself closer to Europe as a way out of the economic crisis? And what would this mean for its much-cherished sense of apartness? I spent a week of clear, cold days talking to those who made up my Iceland. They all told me what I most wanted to hear—that nothing much had changed since the financial collapse in 2008. Yes, the value of the currency had halved, and this made it harder to travel abroad. Yes, there was some unemployment now, whereas before there had been none. And, certainly, those who had over-extended on their mortgages were struggling to keep their homes. But wasn’t this the case everywhere? If it wasn’t for Icesave, they said, no-one would spare a thought for Iceland. They were referring to the disastrous internet bank, a wing of the National Bank of Iceland, which had captured and then lost billions in British and Dutch savings. The result was an earthquake in the nation’s financial sector, which in recent years had come to challenge fishing and hot springs as the nation’s chief source of wealth. In a couple of months in late 2008, this sector all but disappeared, or was nationalised as part of the Icelandic government’s scrambling efforts to salvage the economy. Meanwhile, the British and Dutch governments insisted on their citizens’ interests, and issued such a wealth of abuse towards Iceland that the country must have wondered whether it wasn’t still seen, in some quarters, as the Devil’s work. At one point, the National Bank—my bank in Iceland—was even listed by the British as a terrorist organization. I asked whether people were angry with the entrepreneurs who caused all this trouble, the bankers behind Icesave, and so on. The reply was that they were all still in London. ‘They wouldn’t dare show their faces in Reykjavík.’ Well, that was new, I thought. It sounded like a different kind of anger, much more bitter than the usual, fisherman’s jealous awareness of his neighbours’ harvests. Different, too, from the gossip, a national addiction which nevertheless always struck me as being rather homely and forgiving. In Iceland, just about everyone is related, and the thirty or so bankers who have caused the nation’s bankruptcy are well-known to all. But somehow they have gone too far, and their exile is suspended only by their appearances in the newspapers, the law courts, or on the satirical T-shirts sold in main street Laugavegur. There, too, you saw the other side of the currency collapse. The place was buzzing with tourists, unusual at this dark time of year. Iceland was half-price, they had been told, and it was true—anything made locally was affordable, for so long unthinkable in Iceland. This was a country that had always prided itself on being hopelessly expensive. So perhaps what was being lost in the local value of the economy would be recouped through the waves of extra tourists? Certainly, the sudden cheapness of Iceland had affected my decision to come, and to stay in a hotel downtown rather than with friends. On my last full day, a Saturday, I joined my namesake Kári for a drive into the country. For a while, our conversation was taken up with the crisis: the President, Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson, had recently declined to sign a bill that ensured that Iceland repaid its debts to the British and Dutch governments. His refusal meant a referendum on the bill in the coming March. No-one doubted that the nation would say no. The terms were unfair. And yet it was felt that Iceland’s entry into the EU, and its adoption of the Euro in place of the failed krónur, were conditional on its acceptance of the blame apportioned by international investors, and Britain in particular. Britain, one recalled, was the enemy in the Cod Wars, when Iceland had last entered the international press. Iceland had won that war. Why not this one, as well? That Iceland should suddenly need the forgiveness and assistance of its neighbours was no surprise to them. The Danes and others had long been warning Icelandic bankers that the finance sector was massively over-leveraged and bound for failure at the first sign of trouble in the international economy. I remember being in Iceland at the time of these warnings, in May 2007. It was Eurovision Song Contest month, and there was great local consternation at Iceland’s dismal showing that year. Amid the outpouring of Eurovision grief, and accusations against the rest of Europe that it was block-voting small countries like Iceland out of the contest, the dire economic warnings from the Danes seemed small news. ‘They just didn’t like the útrásarvíkingar,’ said Kári. That is, the Danes were simply upset that their former colonial children had produced offspring of their own who were capable of taking over shops, football clubs, and even banks in main streets of Copenhagen, Amsterdam and London. With interests as glamorous as West Ham United, Hamleys, and Karen Millen, it is not surprising that the útrásarvíkingar, or ‘Viking raiders’, were fast attaining the status of national heroes. Today, it’s a term of abuse rather than pride. The entrepreneurs are exiled in the countries they once sought to raid, and the modern Viking achievement, rather like the one a thousand years before, is a victim of negative press. All that raiding suddenly seems vain and greedy, and the ships that bore the raiders—private jets that for a while were a common sight over the skies of Reykjavík—have found new homes in foreign lands. The Danes were right about the Icelandic economy, just as they’d been right about the Devil’s landscaping efforts. But hundreds of years of colonial rule and only six decades of independence made it difficult for the Icelanders to listen. To curtail the flight of the new Vikings went against the Icelandic project, which from the very beginning was about independence. A thousand years before, in the 870s, Iceland had been a refuge. The medieval stories—known collectively as the sagas—tell us that the island was settled by Norwegian chieftains who were driven out of the fjordlands of their ancestors by the ruthless King Harald the Fair-Haired, who demanded total control of Norway. They refused to humble themselves before the king, and instead took the risk of a new life on a remote, inhospitable island. Icelandic independence, which was lost in the 1260s, was only regained in full in 1944, after Denmark had fallen under German occupation. Ten years later, with the war over and Iceland in the full stride of its independence, Denmark began returning the medieval Icelandic manuscripts that it had acquired during the colonial era. At that point, says the common wisdom, Icelanders forgave the Danes for centuries of poor governance. Although the strict commercial laws of the colonial period had made it all but impossible for Icelanders to rise out of economic hardship, the Danes had, at least, given the sagas back. National sovereignty was returned, and so too the literature that dated back to the time the country had last stood on its own. But, most powerfully, being Icelandic meant being independent of one’s immediate neighbours. Halldór Laxness, the nation’s Nobel Laureate, would satirize this national characteristic in his most enduring masterpiece, Sjálfstætt fólk, or Independent People. It is also what the dominant political party of the independence period, Sjálfstæðisflokkurinn, The Independence Party, has long treasured as a political ideal. To be Icelandic means being free of interference. And in a country of independent people, who would want to stop the bankers on their raids into Europe? Or, for that matter, who was now going to admit that it was time to join Europe instead of emphasizing one’s apartness from it? Kári and I turned off the south road out of Reykjavík and climbed into the heath. From here, the wounds of the country’s geological past still dominated the surface of the land. Little wonder that Jules Verne claimed that the journey to the centre of the world began on Snæfellsnes, a peninsula of volcanoes, lava, and ice caps on a long arm of land that extends desperately from the west of the island, as if forever in hope of reaching America, or at the very least Greenland. It was from Snæfellsnes that Eirík the Red began his Viking voyages westwards, and from where his famous son Leif would reach Vínland, the Land of Vines, most probably Newfoundland. Eight hundred years later, during the worst of the nation’s hardships—when the famines and natural disasters of the late eighteenth century reduced the nation almost to extinction—thousands of Icelanders followed in Leif’s footsteps, across the ‘whale road’, as the Vikings called it, to Canada, and mainly Winnipeg, where they recreated Iceland in an environment arguably even more hostile than the one they’d left. At least there weren’t any volcanoes in Winnipeg. In Iceland, you could never escape the feeling that the world was still evolving, and that the Devil’s work was ongoing. Even the national Assembly was established on one of the island’s most visible outward signs of the deep rift beneath—where a lake had cracked off the heath around it, which now surrounded it as a scar-scape of broken rocks and torn cliffs. The Almannagjá, or People’s Gorge, which is the most dramatic part of the rift, stands, or rather falls apart, as the ultimate symbol of Icelandic national unity. That is Iceland, an island on the edge of Europe, and forever on the edge of itself, too, a place where unity is defined by constant points of separation, not only in the landscape as it crunches itself apart and pushes through at the weak points, but also in a persistently small social world—the population is only 320,000—that is so closely related that it has had little choice but to emphasise the differences that do exist. After a slow drive through the low hills near Thingvellir, we reached the national park, and followed the dirt roads down to the lake. It’s an exclusive place for summerhouses, many of which now seem to stand as reminders of the excesses of the past ten years: the haphazardly-constructed huts that once made the summerhouse experience a bit of an adventure were replaced by two-storey buildings with satellite dishes, spa baths, and the ubiquitous black Range Rovers parked outside—the latter are now known as ‘Game Overs’. Like so much that has been sold off to pay the debts, the luxury houses seem ‘very 2007,’ the local term for anything unsustainable. But even the opulent summerhouses of the Viking raiders don’t diminish the landscape of Thingvellir, and a lake that was frozen from the shore to about fifty metres out. At the shoreline, lapping water had crystallized into blue, translucent ice-waves that formed in lines of dark and light water. Then we left the black beach for the site of the old Assembly. It was a place that had witnessed many encounters, not least the love matches that were formed when young Icelanders returned from their Viking raids and visits to the courts of Scandinavia, Scotland, Ireland, and England. On this particular day, though, the site was occupied by only five Dutchmen in bright, orange coats. They were throwing stones into Öxará, the river that runs off the heath into the Thingvellir lake, and looked up guiltily as we passed. I’m not sure what they felt bad about—throwing stones in the river was surely the most natural thing to do. On my last night, I barely slept. The Saturday night street noise was too much, and my thoughts were taken with the ever-apart Iceland, and with the anticipation of my returning to Brisbane the next day. Reykjavík the party town certainly hadn’t changed with the financial crisis, and nor had my mixed feelings about living so far away. The broken glass and obscenities of a night out didn’t ease until 5am, when it was time for me to board the Flybus to Keflavík Airport. I made my way through the screams and drunken stumblers, and into the quiet of the dark bus, where, in the back, I could just make out the five Dutchmen who, the day before, Kári and I had seen at Thingvellir, and who were now fast asleep and emitting a perfume of vodka and tobacco smoke that made it all the way to the front. It had all seemed too familiar not to be true—the relentless Icelandic optimism around its independence, the sense that it would always be an up-and-down sort of a place anyway, and the jagged volcanoes and lava fields that formed the distant shadows of the half-hour drive to the airport. The people, like the landscape, were fixed on separation, and I doubted that the difficulties with Europe would force them in any other direction. And I, too, was on my way back, as uncertain as ever about Iceland and my place in it. I returned to the clinging heat and my own separation from home, which, as before, I also recognized as my homecoming to Brisbane. Isn’t that in the nature of split affinities, to always be nearly there but never quite there? In the weeks since my return, the Icelanders have voted by referendum to reject the deal made for the repayment of the Icesave debts, and a fresh round of negotiations with the British and Dutch governments begins. For the time being, Iceland retains its right to independence, at least as expressed by the right to sidestep the consequences of its unhappy raids into Europe. Pinning down the Devil, it seems, is just as hard as ever.

Hidden away at the ends of streets, behind suburban parks and community assets, there remain remnants of the coastal wallum heathlands that once stretched from Caloundra to Noosa, in Queensland, Australia. From late July to September, these areas explode with colour, a springtime wonderland of white wedding bush, delicate ground orchids, the pastels and brilliance of pink boronias, purple irises, and the diverse profusion of yellow bush peas. These gifts of nature are still relatively unknown and unappreciated, with most locals, and Australians at large, having little knowledge of the remarkable nature of the wallum, the nutrient-poor sandy soil that can be almost as acidic as battery acid, but which sustains a finely tuned ecosystem that, once cleared, cannot be regrown. These heathlands and woodlands, previously commonplace beyond the beach dunes of the coastal region, are now only found in a number of national parks and reserves, and suburban remnants.Image 1: The author wildflowering and making art (Photo: Judy Barrass)I too was one of those who had no idea of the joys of the wallum and heathland wildflowers, but it was the creative works of Kathleen McArthur and Judith Wright that helped initiate my education, my own wanderings, wildflowering, and love. Learning country has been a multi-faceted experience, extended and tested as walking becomes an embodied encounter, bodies and landscapes entwined (Lund), an imaginative reimagining, creative act and source of inspiration, a form of pilgrimage (Morrison), forging an intimate relationship (Somerville).Image 2: Women wildflowering next to Rainbow Beach (Photo: Susan Davis)Wandering—the experience shares some similar characteristics to walking, but may have less of a sense of direction and destination. It may become an experience that is relational, contemplative, connected to place. Wandering may be transitory but with impact that resonates across years. Such is the case of wandering for McArthur and Wright; the experience became deeply relational but also led to a destabilisation of values, where the walking body became “entangled in monumental historical and social structures” (Heddon and Turner). They called their walking and wandering “wildflowering”. Somerville said of the term: “Wildflowering was a word they created to describe their passion for Australian wildflower and their love of the places where they found them” (Somerville 2). However, wildflowering was also very much about the experience of wandering within nature, of the “art of seeing”, of learning and communing, but also of “doing”.Image 3: Kathleen McArthur and Judith Wright “wildflowering” north of Lake Currimundi. (Photo: Alex Jelinek, courtesy Alexandra Moreno)McArthur defined and described going wildflowering as meaningdifferent things to different people. There are those who, with magnifying glass before their eyes, looking every inch the scientist, count stamens, measure hairs, pigeon-hole all the definitive features neatly in order and scoff at common names. Others bring with them an artistic inclination, noting the colours and shapes and shadows in the intimate and in the general landscape. Then there are those precious few who find poetry in a Helmut Orchid “leaning its ear to the ground”; see “the trigger-flower striking the bee”; find secrets in Sun Orchids; see Irises as “lilac butterflies” and a fox in a Yellow Doubletail…There are as many different ways to approach the “art of seeing” as there are people who think and feel and one way is as worthy as any other to make of it an enjoyably sensuous experience… (McArthur, Australian Wildflowers 52-53)Wildflowering thus extends far beyond the scientific collector and cataloguer of nature; it is about walking and wandering within nature and interacting with it; it is a richly layered experience, an “art”, “a sensuous experience”, “an artistic inclination” where perception may be framed by the poetic.Their wildflowering drove McArthur and Wright to embark on monumental struggles. They became the voice for the voiceless lifeforms within the environment—they typed letters, organised meetings, lobbied politicians, and led community groups. In fact, they often had to leave behind the environments and places that brought them joy to use the tools of culture to protest and protect—to ensure we might be able to appreciate them today. Importantly, both their creativity and the activism were fuelled by the same wellspring: walking, wandering, and wildflowering.Women Wandering and WildfloweringWhen McArthur and Wright met in the early 1950s, they shared some similarities in terms of relatively privileged social backgrounds, their year of birth (1915), and a love of nature. They both had houses named after native plants (“Calanthe” for Wright’s house at Tambourine, “Midyim” for McArthur’s house at Caloundra), and were focussed on their creative endeavours—Wright with her poetry, McArthur with her wildflower painting and writing. Wright was by then well established as a highly regarded literary figure on the Australian scene. Her book of poetry The Moving Image (1946) had been well received, and later publications further consolidated her substance and presence on the national literary landscape. McArthur had been raised as the middle daughter of a prominent Queensland family; her father was Daniel Evans, of Evans Deakin Industries, and her mother “Kit” was a daughter of one of the pastoral Durack clan. Kathleen had married and given birth to three children, but by the 1950s was exploring new futures and identities, having divorced her husband and made a home for her family at Caloundra on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast. She had time and space in her life to devote to her own pursuits and some financial means provided through her inheritance to finance such endeavours.Wright and McArthur met in 1951 after McArthur sent Wright a children’s book for Judith and Jack McKinney’s daughter Meredith. The book was by McArthur’s cousins, Mary Durack (of Kings in Grass Castles fame) and Elizabeth Durack. Wright subsequently invited McArthur to visit her at Tambourine and from that visit their friendship quickly blossomed. While both women were to become known as high-profile nature lovers and conservationists, Wright acknowledges that it was McArthur who helped “train her eye” and cultivated her appreciation of the wildflowers of south-east Queensland:There are times in one’s past which remain warm and vivid, and can be taken out and looked at, so to speak, with renewed pleasure. Such, for me, were my first meetings in the early 1950s with Kathleen McArthur, and our continuing friendship. They brought me joys of discovery, new knowledge, and shared appreciation. Those “wild-flowering days” at Tamborine Mountain, Caloundra, Noosa or Lake Cootharaba, when I was able to wander with her, helped train my own eye a little to her ways of seeing and her devotion to the flowers of the coast, the mountains, and the wallum plains and swamps. (Wright quoted in McArthur, Australian Wildflowers 7)It was through this wandering and wildflowering that their friendship was forged, their knowledge of the plants and landscape grew and their passion was ignited. These acts of wandering were ones where feelings and the senses were engaged and celebrated. McArthur was to document her experiences of these environments through her wildflower paintings, cards, prints, weekly articles in the local newspapers, and books featuring Queensland and Australian Wildflowers (McArthur, Queensland Wildflowers; Living; Bush; Australian Wildflowers). Wright wrote a range of poems featuring landscapes and flora from the coastal experiences and doubtless influenced by their wildflowering experiences. These included, for example, Judith Wright’s poems “Wildflower Plain”, “Wonga Vine”, “Nameless Flower”, and “Sandy Swamp” (Collected Works).Through these acts of wildflowering, walking, and wandering, McArthur and Wright were drawn into activism and became what I call “wild/flower” women: women who cared for country, who formed a deep connection and intimate relationship with nature, with the more-than-human world; women who saw themselves not separate from nature but part of the great cycles of life, growth, death, and renewal; women whose relationship to the country, to the wildflowers and other living things was expressed through drawing, painting, poetry, stories, and performances—but that love driving them also to actions—actions to nurture and protect those wildflowers, places, and living things. This intimate relationship with nature was such that it inspired them to become “wild”, at times branded difficult, prompted to speak out, and step up to assume high profile roles on the public stage—and all because of their love of the small, humble, and often unseen.Wandering into Activism A direct link between “wildflowering” and activism can be identified in key experiences from 1953. That was the year McArthur devoted to “wildflowering”, visiting locations across the Sunshine Coast and South-East Queensland, documenting all that was flowering at different times of the year (McArthur, Living 15). She kept a monthly journal and also engaged in extensive drawing and painting. She was joined by Wright and her family for some of these trips, including one that would become a “monumental” expedition. They explored the area around Noosa and happened to climb to the top of Mt Tinbeerwah. Unlike many of the other volcanic plugs of the Sunshine Coast that would not be an easy climb for a family with young children, Tinbeerwah is a small volcanic peak, close to the road that runs between Cooroy and Tewantin, and one that is a relatively easy walk. From the car park, the trail takes you over volcanic lava flows, a pathway appearing, disappearing, winding through native grasses, modest height trees and to the edge of a dramatic cliff (one now popular with abseilers and adventurers). The final stretch brings you out above the trees to stunning 360-degree views, other volcanic peaks, a string of lakes and waterways, the patchwork greens of farmlands, distant blue oceans, and an expanse of bushland curving north for miles. Both women wrote about the experience and its subsequent significance: When Meredith was four years old, Kathleen McArthur, who was a great wildflower enthusiast and had become a good friend, invited us to join her on a wildflower expedition to the sand-plains north of Noosa. There the Noosa River spread itself out into sand-bottomed lakes between which the river meandered so slowly that everywhere the sky was serenely mirrored in it, trees hung low over it, birds haunted them.Kathleen took her little car, we took our converted van, and drove up the narrow unsealed road beyond Noosa. Once through the dunes—where the low bush-cover was white with wedding-bush and yellow with guinea-flower vines—the plains began, with many and mingled colours and scents. It was spring, and it welcomed us joyfully. (Wright, Half 279-280)McArthur also wrote about this event and its importance, as they both realised that this was territory that was worth protecting for posterity: ‘it was obvious that this was great wildflower country in addition to having a fascinating system of sand mass with related river and lakes. It would make a unique national park’ (McArthur, Living 53). After this experience, Kathleen and Judith began initial inquiries to find out about how to progress ideas for forming a national park (McArthur, Living). Brady affirms that it was Kathleen who first “broached the idea of agitating to have the area around Cooloola declared a National Park” (Brady 182), and it was Judith who then made inquiries in Brisbane on their way back to Mount Tambourine:Judith took the idea to Romeo Lahey of the National Parks Association who told her it was not threatened in any way whereas there were important areas of rainforest that were, and his association gave priority to those. If he had but known, it was threatened. The minerals sands prospectors were about to arrive, if not already in there. (McArthur, Living 53)These initial investigations were put on hold as the pair pursued their “private lives” and raised their children (McArthur, Living), but reignited throughout the 1960s. In 1962, McArthur and Wright were to become founding members of the Wildlife Preservation Society of Queensland (along with David Fleay and Brian Clouston), and Cooloola was to become one of one of their major campaigns (McArthur, Living 32). This came to the fore when they discovered there were multiple sand mining leases pending across the Cooloola region. It was at McArthur’s suggestion that a national postcard campaign was launched in 1969, with their organisation sending over 100,000 postcards across Australia to then be sent back to Joh Bjelke Peterson, the notoriously pro-development, conservative Queensland Premier. This is acknowledged as Australia’s first postcard campaign and was reported in national newspapers; The Australian called the Caloundra branch of WPSQ one of the “most militant cells” in Australia (25 May 1970). This was likely because of the extent of the WPSQ communications across media channels and persistence in taking on high profile critics, including the mining companies.It was to be another five years of campaigning before the national park was declared in 1975 (then named Cooloola National Park, now part of the Great Sandy). Wright was to then leave Queensland to live on a property near Braidwood (on the Southern Tablelands of New South Wales) and in a different political climate. However, McArthur stayed in Caloundra, maintaining her deep commitment to place and country, keeping on walking and wandering, painting, and writing. She campaigned to protect beach dunes, lobbied to have Pumicestone Passage added to the national heritage register (McArthur, Pumicestone), and fought to prevent the creation of canal estates on the Pumicestone passage. Following the pattern of previous campaigns, she engaged in detailed research, drawing on expertise nationally and internationally, and writing many submissions, newspaper columns, and letters.McArthur also advocated for the plants, the places, and forms of knowing that she loved, calling for “clear thinking and deep feeling” that would enable people to see, value, and care as she did, notably saying:Because our flowers have never settled into our consciousness they are not seen. People can drive through square miles of colourful, massed display of bloom and simply not see it. It is only when the mind opens that the flowers bloom. (McArthur, Bush 2)Her belief was that once you walked the country and could “see”, become familiar with, and fall in love with the wildflowers and their environment, you could not then stand by and see what you love destroyed. Her conservation activities and activism arose and was fed through her wildflowering and the deep knowledge and connections that were formed.Wildflowering and Wanderings of My OwnSo, what we can learn from McArthur and Wright, from our wild/flower women, their wanderings, and wildflowering?Over the past few years, I have walked the wallum country that they loved, recited their poetry, shared their work with others, walked with women in the present accompanied by resonances of the past. I have shared these experiences with friends, artists, and nature lovers. While wandering with one group of women one day, we discovered that a patch of wallum behind Sunshine Beach was due to be cleared for an aged care development. It is full of casuarina food trees visited by the endangered Glossy Black Cockatoos, but it is also full of old wallum banksias, a tree I have come to love, influenced in part by writing and art by McArthur, and my experiences of “wildflowering”.Banksia aemula—the wallum banksia—stands tall, often one of the tallest trees of our coastal heathlands and after which the wallum was named. A range of sources, including McArthur herself, identify the source of the tree’s name as an Aboriginal word:It is an Aboriginal word some say applied to all species of Banksia, and others say to Banksia aemula. The wallum, being up to the present practically useless for commercial purposes provides our best wildflower shows… (McArthur, Queensland Wildflowers 2)Gnarled, textured bark—soft grey and warm red browns, in parts almost fur—the flower heads, when young, feed the small birds and honeyeaters; the bees collect nectar to make honey. And the older heads—remnants on the ground left by glorious black cockatoos, whose beaks, the perfect pliers, crack pods open to recover the hidden seeds. In summer, as the new flowers burst open, every stage of the flower stem cycle is on show. The trees often stand together like familiar friends gossiping, providing shelter; they are protective, nurturing. Banksia aemula is a tree that, according to Thomas Petrie’s reminiscence of “early” Queensland, was significant to Aboriginal women, and might be “owned” by certain women:but certain men and women owned different fruit or flower-trees and shrubs. For instance, a man could own a bon-yi (Auaurcaria Bidwilli) tree, and a woman a minti (Banksia aemula)… (Petrie, Reminiscences 148)Banksia, wallum, women… the connection has existed for millennia. Women walking country, talking, observing, collecting, communing—and this tree was special to them as it has become for me. Who knows how old those trees are in that patch of forest and who may have been their custodians.Do I care about this? Yes, I do. How did I come to care? Through walking, through “wildflowering”, through stories, art, and experience. My connections have been forged by nature and culture, seeing McArthur’s art and reading Wright’s words, through walking the country with women, learning to know, and sharing a wildflowering culture. But knowing isn’t enough: wandering and wondering, has led to something more because now I care; now we must act. Along with some of the women I walked with, we have investigated council records; written to, and called, politicians and the developer; formed a Facebook group; met with various experts; and proposed alternatives. However, our efforts have not met with success as the history of the development application and approval was old and complex. Through wandering and “wildflowering”, we have had the opportunity to both lose ourselves and find ourselves, to escape, to learn, to discover. However, such acts are not necessarily aimless or lacking direction. As connections are forged, care and concern grows, and acts can shift from the humble and mundane, into the intentional and deliberate. The art of seeing and poetic perceptions may even transform into ecological action, with ramifications that can be both significant monumental. Such may be the power of “wildflowering”.ReferencesBrady, Veronica. South of My Days: A Biography of Judith Wright. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1998.Heddon, Deirdre and Cathy Turner. “Walking Women: Shifting the Tales and Scales of Mobility.” Contemporary Theatre Review 22.2 (2012): 224–236.Lund, Katrín. “Landscapes and Narratives: Compositions and the Walking Body.” Landscape Research 37.2 (2012): 225–237.McArthur, Kathleen. Queensland Wildflowers: A Selection. Brisbane: Jacaranda Press, 1959.———. The Bush in Bloom: A Wildflower Artist’s Year in Paintings and Words. Sydney: Kangaroo Press, 1982.———. Pumicestone Passage: A Living Waterway. Caloundra: Kathleen McArthur, 1978.———. Looking at Australian Wildflowers. Sydney: Kangaroo Press, 1986.———. Living on the Coast. Sydney: Kangaroo Press, 1989.Morrison, Susan Signe. “Walking as Memorial Ritual: Pilgrimage to the Past.” M/C Journal 21.4 (2018). 12 Aug. 2019 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/1437>.Petrie, Constance Campbell, and Tom Petrie. Tom Petrie’s Reminiscences of Early Queensland. 4th ed. Brisbane: University of Queensland Press, 1992. Somerville, Margaret. Wildflowering: The Life and Places of Kathleen McArthur. Brisbane: University of Queensland Press, 2004.Wright, Judith. Collected Poems: 1942 to 1985. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2016.———. Half a Lifetime. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 1999.

"verbiage very thinly sliced and plated up real nice" (Barrett 1)IntroductionMany of us share in an obsessive collecting of cookbooks and recipes. Torn or cut from newspapers and magazines, recipes sit swelling scrapbooks with bloated, unfilled desire. They’re non-hybrid seeds, peas under the mattress, an endless cycle of reproduction. Desire and narrative are folded into each other in our drive, as humans, to create meaning. But what holds us to narrative is good writing. And what can also drive desire is image—literal as well as metaphorical—the visceral pleasure of the gaze, or looking and viewing the sensually aesthetic and the work of the imagination. Creative WritingCooking, winemaking, and food and wine writing can all be considered art. For example, James Halliday (31), the eminent Australian wine critic, posed the question “Is winemaking an art?,” answering: “Most would say so” (31). Cookbooks are stories within stories, narratives that are both factual and imagined, everyday and fantastic—created by both writer and reader from where, along with its historical, cultural and publishing context, a text gets its meaning. Creative writing, in broad terms of genre, is either fiction (imagined, made-up) or creative nonfiction (true, factual). Genre comes from the human taxonomic impulse to create order from chaos through cataloguing and classification. In what might seem overwhelming infinite variety, we establish categories and within them formulas and conventions. But genres are not necessarily stable or clear-cut, and variation in a genre can contribute to its de/trans/formation (Curti 33). Creative nonfiction includes life writing (auto/biography) and food writing among other subgenres (although these subgenres can also be part of fiction). Cookbooks sit within the creative nonfiction genre. More clearly, dietary or nutrition manuals are nonfiction, technical rather than creative. Recipe writing specifically is perhaps less an art and more a technical exercise; generally it’s nonfiction, or between that and creative nonfiction. (One guide to writing recipes is Ostmann and Baker.) Creative writing is built upon approximately five, more or less, fundamentals of practice: point of view or focalisation or who narrates, structure (plot or story, and theme), characterisation, heightened or descriptive language, setting, and dialogue (not in any order of importance). (There are many handbooks on creative writing, that will take a writer through these fundamentals.) Style or voice derives from what a writer writes about (their recurring themes), and how they write about it (their vocabulary choice, particular use of imagery, rhythm, syntax etc.). Traditionally, as a reader, and writer, you are either a plot person or character person, but you can also be interested primarily in ideas or language, and in the popular or literary.Cookbooks as Creative NonfictionCookbooks often have a sense of their author’s persona or subjectivity as a character—that is, their proclivities, lives and thus ideology, and historical, social and cultural place and time. Memoir, a slice of the author–chef/cook’s autobiography, is often explicitly part of the cookbook, or implicit in the nature of the recipes, and the para-textual material which includes the book’s presentation and publishing context, and the writer’s biographical note and acknowledgements. And in relation to the latter, here's Australian wine educator Colin Corney telling us, in his biographical note, about his nascent passion for wine: “I returned home […] stony broke. So the next day I took a job as a bottleshop assistant at Moore Park Cellars […] to tide me over—I stayed three years!” (xi). In this context, character and place, in the broadest sense, are inevitably evoked. So in conjunction with this para-textual material, recipe ingredients and instructions, visual images and the book’s production values combine to become the components for authoring a fictive narrative of self, space and time—fictive, because writing inevitably, in a broad or conceptual sense, fictionalises everything, since it can only re-present through language and only from a particular point of view.The CookbooksTo talk about the art of cookbooks, I make a judgmental (from a creative-writer's point of view) case study of four cookbooks: Lyndey Milan and Colin Corney’s Balance: Matching Food and Wine, Sean Moran’s Let It Simmer (this is the first edition; the second is titled Let It Simmer: From Bush to Beach and Onto Your Plate), Kate Lamont’s Wine and Food, and Greg Duncan Powell’s Rump and a Rough Red (this is the second edition; the first was The Pig, the Olive & the Squid: Food & Wine from Humble Beginnings) I discuss reading, writing, imaging, and designing, which, together, form the nexus for interpreting these cookbooks in particular. The choice of these books was only relatively random, influenced by my desire to see how Australia, a major wine-producing country, was faring with discussion of wine and food choices; by the presence of discursive text beyond technical presentation of recipes, and of photographs and purposefully artful design; and by familiarity with names, restaurants and/or publishers. Reading Moran's cookbook is a model of good writing in its use of selective and specific detail directed towards a particular theme. The theme is further created or reinforced in the mix of narrative, language use, images and design. His writing has authenticity: a sense of an original, distinct voice.Moran’s aphoristic title could imply many things, but, in reading the cookbook, you realise it resonates with a mindfulness that ripples throughout his writing. The aphorism, with its laidback casualness (legendary Australian), is affectively in sync with the chef’s approach. Jacques Derrida said of the aphorism that it produces “an echo of really curious, indelible power” (67).Moran’s aim for his recipes is that they be about “honest, home-style cooking” and bringing “out a little bit of the professional chef in the home cook”, and they are “guidelines” available for “sparkle” and seduction from interpretation (4). The book lives out this persona and personal proclivities. Moran’s storytellings are specifically and solely highlighted in the Contents section which structures the book via broad categories (for example, "Grains" featuring "The dance of the paella" and "Heaven" featuring "A trifle coming on" for example). In comparison, Powell uses "The Lemon", for example, as well as "The Sheep". The first level of Contents in Lamont’s book is done by broad wine styles: sparkling, light white, robust white and so on, and the second level is the recipe list in each of these sections. Lamont’s "For me, matching food and wine comes down to flavour" (xiii) is not as dramatic or expressive as Powell’s "Wine: the forgotten condiment." Although food is first in Milan and Corney’s book’s subtitle, their first content is wine, then matching food with colour and specific grape, from Sauvignon Blanc to Barbera and more. Powell claims that the third of his rules (the idea of rules is playful but not comedic) for choosing the best wine per se is to combine region with grape variety. He covers a more detailed and diversified range of grape varieties than Lamont, systematically discussing them first-up. Where Lamont names wine styles, Powell points out where wine styles are best represented in Australian states and regions in a longish list (titled “13 of the best Australian grape and region combos”). Lamont only occasionally does this. Powell discusses the minor alternative white, Arneis, and major alternative reds such as Barbera and Nebbiolo (Allen 81, 85). This engaging detail engenders a committed reader. Pinot Gris, Viognier, Sangiovese, and Tempranillo are as alternative as Lamont gets. In contrast to Moran's laidbackness, Lamont emphasises professionalism: "My greatest pleasure as a chef is knowing that guests have enjoyed the entire food and wine experience […] That means I have done my job" (xiii). Her reminders of the obvious are, nevertheless, noteworthy: "Thankfully we have moved on from white wine/white meat and red wine/red meat" (xiv). She then addresses the alterations in flavour caused by "method of cooking" and "combination of ingredients", with examples. One such is poached chicken and mango crying "out for a vibrant, zesty Riesling" (xiii): but where from, I ask? Roast chicken with herbs and garlic would favour "red wine with silky tannin" and "chocolatey flavours" (xiii): again, I ask, where from? Powell claims "a different evolution" for his book "to the average cookbook" (7). In recipes that have "a wine focus", there are no "pretty […] little salads, or lavish […] cakes" but "brown" albeit tasty food that will not require ingredients from "poncy inner-city providores", be easy to cook, and go with a cheap, budget-based wine (7). While this identity-setting is empathetic for a Powell clone, and I am envious of his skill with verbiage, he doesn’t deliver dreaming or desire. Milan and Corney do their best job in an eye-catching, informative exemplar list of food and wine matches: "Red duck curry and Barossa Valley Shiraz" for example (7), and in wine "At-a-glance" tables, telling us, for example, that the best Australian regions for Chardonnay are Margaret River and the Adelaide Hills (53). WritingThe "Introduction" to Moran’s cookbook is a slice of memoir, a portrait of a chef as a young man: the coming into being of passion, skill, and professionalism. And the introduction to the introduction is most memorable, being a loving description of his frugal Australian childhood dinners: creations of his mother’s use of manufactured, canned, and bottled substitutes-for-the-real, including Gravox and Dessert Whip (1). From his travel-based international culinary education in handmade, agrarian food, he describes "a head of buffalo mozzarella stuffed with ricotta and studded with white truffles" as "sheer beauty", "ambrosial flavour" and "edible white 'terrazzo'." The consonants b, s, t, d, and r are picked up and repeated, as are the vowels e, a, and o. Notice, too, the comparison of classic Italian food to an equally classic Italian artefact. Later, in an interactive text, questions are posed: "Who could now imagine life without this peppery salad green?" (23). Moran uses the expected action verbs of peel, mince, toss, etc.: "A bucket of tiny clams needs a good tumble under the running tap" (92). But he also uses the unexpected hug, nab, snuggle, waltz, "wave of garlic" and "raining rice." Milan and Corney display a metaphoric-language play too: the bubbles of a sparkling wine matching red meat become "the little red broom […] sweep[ing] away the […] cloying richness" (114). In contrast, Lamont’s cookbook can seem flat, lacking distinctiveness. But with a title like Wine and Food, perhaps you are not expecting much more than information, plain directness. Moran delivers recipes as reproducible with ease and care. An image of a restaurant blackboard menu with the word "chook" forestalls intimidation. Good quality, basic ingredients and knowledge of their source and season carry weight. The message is that food and drink are due respect, and that cooking is neither a stressful, grandiose nor competitive activity. While both Moran and Lamont have recipes for Duck Liver Pâté—with the exception that Lamont’s is (disturbingly, for this cook) "Parfait", Moran also has Lentil Patties, a granola, and a number of breads. Lamont has Brioche (but, granted, without the yeast, seeming much easier to make). Powell’s Plateless Pork is "mud pies for grown-ups", and you are asked to cook a "vat" of sauce. This communal meal is "a great way to spread communicable diseases", but "fun." But his passionately delivered historical information mixed with the laconic attitude of a larrikin (legendary Australian again) transform him into a sage, a step up from the monastery (Powell is photographed in dress-up friar’s habit). Again, the obvious is noteworthy in Milan and Corney’s statement that Rosé "possesses qualities of both red and white wines" (116). "On a hot summery afternoon, sitting in the sun overlooking the view … what could be better?" (116). The interactive questioning also feeds in useful information: "there is a huge range of styles" for Rosé so "[g]rape variety is usually a good guide", and "increasingly we are seeing […] even […] Chambourcin" (116). Rosé is set next to a Bouillabaisse recipe, and, empathetically, Milan and Corney acknowledge that the traditional fish soup "can be intimidating" (116). Succinctly incorporated into the recipes are simple greyscale graphs of grape "Flavour Profiles" delineating the strength on the front and back palate and tongue (103).Imaging and DesigningThe cover of Moran’s cookbook in its first edition reproduces the colours of 1930–1940's beach towels, umbrellas or sunshades in matt stripes of blue, yellow, red, and green (Australian beaches traditionally have a grass verge; and, I am told (Costello), these were the colours of his restaurant Panoroma’s original upholstery). A second edition has the same back cover but a generic front cover shifting from the location of his restaurant to the food in a new subtitle: "From Bush to Beach and onto Your Plate". The front endpapers are Sydney’s iconic Bondi Beach where Panoroma restaurant is embedded on the lower wall of an old building of flats, ubiquitous in Bondi, like a halved avocado, or a small shallow elliptic cave in one of the sandstone cliff-faces. The cookbook’s back endpapers are his bush-shack country. Surfaces, cooking equipment, table linen, crockery, cutlery and glassware are not ostentatious, but simple and subdued, in the colours and textures of nature/culture: ivory, bone, ecru, and cream; and linen, wire, wood, and cardboard. The mundane, such as a colander, is highlighted: humbleness elevated, hands at work, cooking as an embodied activity. Moran is photographed throughout engaged in cooking, quietly fetching in his slim, clean-cut, short-haired, altar-boyish good-looks, dressed casually in plain bone apron, t-shirt (most often plain white), and jeans. While some recipes are traditionally constructed, with the headnote, the list of ingredients and the discursive instructions for cooking, on occasion this is done by a double-page spread of continuous prose, inviting you into the story-telling. The typeface of Simmer varies to include a hand-written lookalike. The book also has a varied layout. Notes and small images sit on selected pages, as often as not at an asymmetric angle, with faux tape, as if stuck there as an afterthought—but an excited and enthusiastic afterthought—and to signal that what is informally known is as valuable as professional knowledge/skill and the tried, tested, and formally presented.Lamont’s publishers have laid out recipe instructions on the right-hand side (traditional English-language Western reading is top down, left to right). But when the recipe requires more than one item to be cooked, there is no repeated title; the spacing and line-up are not necessarily clear; and some immediate, albeit temporary, confusion occurs. Her recipes, alongside images of classic fine dining, carry the implication of chefing rather than cooking. She is photographed as a professional, with a chef’s familiar striped apron, and if she is not wearing a chef’s jacket, tunic or shirt, her staff are. The food is beautiful to look at and imagine, but tackling it in the home kitchen becomes a secondary thought. The left-hand section divider pages are meant to signal the wines, with the appropriate colour, and repetitive pattern of circles; but I understood this belatedly, mistaking them for retro wallpaper bemusedly. On the other hand, Powell’s bog-in-don’t-wait everyday heartiness of a communal stewed dinner at a medieval inn (Peasy Lamb looks exactly like this) may be overcooked, and, without sensuousness, uninviting. Images in Lamont’s book tend toward the predictable and anonymous (broad sweep of grape-vined landscape; large groups of people with eating and drinking utensils). The Lamont family run a vineyard, and up-market restaurants, one photographed on Perth’s river dockside. But Sean's Panoroma has a specificity about it; it hasn’t lost its local flavour in the mix with the global. (Admittedly, Moran’s bush "shack", the origin of much Panoroma produce and the destination of Panoroma compost, looks architect-designed.) Powell’s book, given "rump" and "rough" in the title, stridently plays down glitz (large type size, minimum spacing, rustic surface imagery, full-page portraits of a chicken, rump, and cabbage etc). While not over-glam, the photography in Balance may at first appear unsubtle. Images fill whole pages. But their beautifully coloured and intriguing shapes—the yellow lime of a white-wine bottle base or a sparkling wine cork beneath its cage—shift them into hyperreality. White wine in a glass becomes the edge of a desert lake; an open fig, the jaws of an alien; the flesh of a lemon after squeezing, a sea anemone. The minimal number of images is a judicious choice. ConclusionReading can be immersive, but it can also hover critically at a meta level, especially if the writer foregrounds process. A conversation starts in this exchange, the reader imagining for themselves the worlds written about. Writers read as writers, to acquire a sense of what good writing is, who writing colleagues are, where writing is being published, and, comparably, to learn to judge their own writing. Writing is produced from a combination of passion and the discipline of everyday work. To be a writer in the world is to observe and remember/record, to be conscious of aiming to see the narrative potential in an array of experiences, events, and images, or, to put it another way, "to develop the habit of art" (Jolley 20). Photography makes significant whatever is photographed. The image is immobile in a literal sense but, because of its referential nature, evocative. Design, too, is about communication through aesthetics as a sensuous visual code for ideas or concepts. (There is a large amount of scholarship on the workings of image combined with text. Roland Barthes is a place to begin, particularly about photography. There are also textbooks dealing with visual literacy or culture, only one example being Shirato and Webb.) It is reasonable to think about why there is so much interest in food in this moment. Food has become folded into celebrity culture, but, naturally, obviously, food is about our security and survival, physically and emotionally. Given that our planet is under threat from global warming which is also driving climate change, and we are facing peak oil, and alternative forms of energy are still not taken seriously in a widespread manner, then food production is under threat. Food supply and production are also linked to the growing gap between poverty and wealth, and the movement of whole populations: food is about being at home. Creativity is associated with mastery of a discipline, openness to new experiences, and persistence and courage, among other things. We read, write, photograph, and design to argue and critique, to use the imagination, to shape and transform, to transmit ideas, to celebrate living and to live more fully.References Allen, Max. The Future Makers: Australian Wines for the 21st Century. Melbourne: Hardie Grant, 2010. Barratt, Virginia. “verbiage very thinly sliced and plated up real nice.” Assignment, ENG10022 Writing from the Edge. Lismore: Southern Cross U, 2009. [lower case in the title is the author's proclivity, and subsequently published in Carson and Dettori. Eds. Banquet: A Feast of New Writing and Arts by Queer Women]Costello, Patricia. Personal conversation. 31 May 2012. Curti, Lidia. Female Stories, Female Bodies: Narrative, Identity and Representation. UK: Macmillan, 1998.Derrida, Jacques. "Fifty-Two Aphorisms for a Foreword." Deconstruction: Omnibus Volume. Eds. Andreas Apadakis, Catherine Cook, and Andrew Benjamin. New York: Rizzoli, 1989.Halliday, James. “An Artist’s Spirit.” The Weekend Australian: The Weekend Australian Magazine 13-14 Feb. (2010): 31.Jolley, Elizabeth. Central Mischief. Ringwood: Viking/Penguin 1992. Lamont, Kate. Wine and Food. Perth: U of Western Australia P, 2009. Milan, Lyndey, and Corney, Colin. Balance: Matching Food and Wine: What Works and Why. South Melbourne: Lothian, 2005. Moran, Sean. Let It Simmer. Camberwell: Lantern/Penguin, 2006. Ostmann, Barbara Gibbs, and Jane L. Baker. The Recipe Writer's Handbook. Canada: John Wiley, 2001.Powell, Greg Duncan. Rump and a Rough Red. Millers Point: Murdoch, 2010. Shirato, Tony, and Jen Webb. Reading the Visual. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2004.

IntroductionSydney’s Garden Palace was a magnificent building with a grandeur that dominated the skyline, stretching from the site of the current State Library of New South Wales to the building that now houses the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. The Palace captivated society from its opening in 1879. This article outlines the building of one of Sydney’s early structural icons and how, despite being destroyed by fire after three short years in 1882, it had an enormous impact on the burgeoning colonial community of New South Wales, thus building a physical structure, pride and a suite of memories.Design and ConstructionIn February 1878, the Colonial Secretary’s Office announced that “it is intended to hold under the supervision of the Agricultural Society of New South Wales an international Exhibition in Sydney in August 1879” (Official Record ix). By December the same year it had become clear that the Agricultural Society lacked the resources to complete the project and control passed to the state government. Colonial Architect James Barnet was directed to prepare “plans for a building suitable for an international exhibition, proposed to be built in the Inner Domain” (Official Record xx). Within three days he had submitted a set of drawings for approval. From this point on there was a great sense of urgency to complete the building in less than 10 months for the exhibition opening the following September.The successful contractor was John Young, a highly experienced building contractor who had worked on the Crystal Palace for the 1851 London International Exhibition and locally on the General Post Office and Exhibition Building at Prince Alfred Park (Kent 6). Young was confident, procuring electric lights from London so that work could be carried out 24 hours a day, to ensure that the building was delivered on time. The structure was built, as detailed in the Colonial Record (1881), using over 1 million metres of timber, 2.5 million bricks and 220 tonnes of galvanised corrugated iron. Remarkably the building was designed as a temporary structure to house the Exhibition. At the end of the Exhibition the building was not dismantled as originally planned and was instead repurposed for government office space and served to house, among other things, records and objects of historical significance. Ultimately the provisional building materials used for the Garden Palace were more suited to a temporary structure, in contrast with those used for the more permanent structures built at the same time which are still standing today.The building was an architectural and engineering wonder set in a cathedral-like cruciform design, showcasing a stained-glass skylight in the largest dome in the southern hemisphere (64 metres high and 30 metres in diameter). The total floor space of the exhibition building was three and half hectares, and the area occupied by the Garden Palace and related buildings—including the Fine Arts Gallery, Agricultural Hall, Machinery Hall and 10 restaurants and places of refreshment—was an astounding 14 hectares (Official Record xxxvi). To put the scale of the Garden Palace into contemporary perspective it was approximately twice the size of the Queen Victoria Building that stands on Sydney’s George Street today.Several innovative features set the building apart from other Sydney structures of the day. The rainwater downpipes were enclosed in hollow columns of pine along the aisles, ventilation was provided through the floors and louvered windows (Official Record xxi) while a Whittier’s Steam Elevator enabled visitors to ascend the north tower and take in the harbour views (“Among the Machinery” 70-71). The building dominated the Sydney skyline, serving as a visual anchor point that welcomed visitors arriving in the city by boat:one of the first objects that met our view as, after 12 o’clock, we proceeded up Port Jackson, was the shell of the Exhibition Building which is so rapidly rising on the Domain, and which next September, is to dazzle the eyes of the world with its splendours. (“A ‘Bohemian’s’ Holiday Notes” 2)The DomeThe dome of the Garden Palace was directly above the intersection of the nave and transept and rested on a drum, approximately 30 metres in diameter. The drum featured 36 oval windows which flooded the space below with light. The dome was made of wood covered with corrugated galvanised iron featuring 12 large lattice ribs and 24 smaller ribs bound together with purlins of wood strengthened with iron. At the top of the dome was a lantern and stained glass skylight designed by Messrs. Lyon and Cottier. It was light blue, powdered with golden stars with wooden ribs in red, buff and gold (Notes 6). The painting and decorating of the dome commenced just one month before the exhibition was due to open. The dome was the sixth largest dome in the world at the time. During construction, contractor Mr Young allowed visitors be lifted in a cage to view the building’s progress.During the construction of the Lantern which surmounts the Dome of the Exhibition, visitors have been permitted, through the courtesy of Mr. Young, to ascend in the cage conveying materials for work. This cage is lifted by a single cable, which was constructed specially of picked Manilla hemp, for hoisting into position the heavy timbers used in the construction. The sensation whilst ascending is a most novel one, and must resemble that experienced in ballooning. To see the building sinking slowly beneath you as you successively reach the levels of the galleries, and the roofs of the transept and aisles is an experience never to be forgotten, and it seems a pity that no provision can be made for visitors, on paying a small fee, going up to the dome. (“View from the Lantern of the Dome Exhibition” 8)The ExhibitionInternational Exhibitions presented the opportunity for countries to express their national identities and demonstrate their economic and technological achievements. They allowed countries to showcase the very best examples of contemporary art, handicrafts and the latest technologies particularly in manufacturing (Pont and Proudfoot 231).The Sydney International Exhibition was the ninth International Exhibition and the colony’s first, and was responsible for bringing the world to Sydney at a time when the colony was prosperous and full of potential. The Exhibition—opening on 17 September 1879 and closing on 20 April 1880—had an enormous impact on the community, it boosted the economy and was the catalyst for improving the city’s infrastructure. It was a great source of civic pride.Image 1: The International Exhibition Sydney, 1879-1880, supplement to the Illustrated Sydney News Jan. 1880. Image credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW (call no.: DL X8/3)This bird’s eye view of the Garden Palace shows how impressive the main structure was and how much of the Gardens and Domain were occupied by ancillary buildings for the Exhibition. Based on an original drawing by John Thomas Richardson, chief engraver at the Illustrated Sydney News, this lithograph features a key identifying buildings including the Art Gallery, Machinery Hall, and Agricultural Hall. Pens and sheds for livestock can also be seen. The parade ground was used throughout the Exhibition for displays of animals. The first notable display was the International Show of Sheep featuring Australian, French and English sheep; not surprisingly the shearing demonstrations proved to be particularly popular with the community.Approximately 34 countries and their colonies participated in the Exhibition, displaying the very best examples of technology, industry and art laid out in densely packed courts (Barnet n.p.). There were approximately 14,000 exhibits (Official Record c) which included displays of Bohemian glass, tapestries, fine porcelain, fabrics, pyramids of gold, metals, minerals, wood carvings, watches, ethnographic specimens, and heavy machinery. Image 2: “Meet Me under the Dome.” Illustrated Sydney News 1 Nov. 1879: 4. Official records cite that between 19,853 and 24,000 visitors attended the Exhibition on the opening day of 17 September 1879, and over 1.1 million people visited during its seven months of operation. Sizeable numbers considering the population of the colony, at the time, was just over 700,000 (New South Wales Census).The Exhibition helped to create a sense of place and community and was a popular destination for visitors. On crowded days the base of the dome became a favourite meeting place for visitors, so much so that “meet me under the dome” became a common expression in Sydney during the Exhibition (Official Record lxxxiii).Attendance was steady and continuous throughout the course of the Exhibition and, despite exceeding the predicted cost by almost four times, the Exhibition was deemed a resounding success. The Executive Commissioner Mr P.A. Jennings remarked at the closing ceremony:this great undertaking […] marks perhaps the most important epoch that has occurred in our history. In holding this exhibition we have entered into a new arena and a race of progress among the nations of the earth, and have placed ourselves in kindly competition with the most ancient States of the old and new world. (Official Record ciii)Initially the cost of admission was set at 5 shillings and later dropped to 1 shilling. Season tickets for the Exhibition were also available for £3 3s which entitled the holder to unlimited entry during all hours of general admission. Throughout the Exhibition, season ticket holders accounted for 76,278 admissions. The Exhibition boosted the economy and encouraged authorities to improve the city’s services and facilities which helped to build a sense of community as well as pride in the achievement of such a fantastic structure. A steam-powered tramway was installed to transport exhibition-goers around the city, after the Exhibition, the tramway network was expanded and by 1905–1906 the trams were converted to electric traction (Freestone 32).After the exhibition closed, the imposing Garden Palace building was used as office space and storage for various government departments.An Icon DestroyedIn the early hours of 22 September 1882 tragedy struck when the Palace was engulfed by fire (“Destruction of the Garden Palace” 7). The building – and all its contents – destroyed.Image 3: Burning of the Garden Palace from Eaglesfield, Darlinghurst, sketched at 5.55am, Sep 22/82. Image credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW (call no.: SSV/137) Many accounts and illustrations of the Garden Palace fire can be found in contemporary newspapers and artworks. A rudimentary drawing by an unknown artist held by the State Library of New South Wales appears to have been created as the Palace was burning. The precise time and location is recorded on the painting, suggesting it was painted from Eaglesfield, a school on Darlinghurst Road. It purveys a sense of immediacy giving some insight into the chaos and heat of the tragedy. A French artist living in Sydney, Lucien Henry, was among those who attempted to capture the fire. His assistant, G.H. Aurousseau, described the event in the Technical Gazette in 1912:Mister Henry went out onto the balcony and watched until the Great Dome toppled in; it was then early morning; he went back to his studio procured a canvas, sat down and painted the whole scene in a most realistic manner, showing the fig trees in the Domain, the flames rising through the towers, the dome falling in and the reflected light of the flames all around. (Technical Gazette 33-35)The painting Henry produced is not the watercolour held by the State Library of New South Wales, however it is interesting to see how people were moved to document the destruction of such an iconic building in the city’s history.What Was Destroyed?The NSW Legislative Assembly debate of 26 September 1882, together with newspapers of the day, documented what was lost in the fire. The Garden Palace housed the foundation collection of the Technological and Sanitary Museum (the precursor to the Powerhouse Museum, now the Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences), due to open on 1 December 1882. This collection included significant ethnological specimens such as Australian Indigenous artefacts, many of which were acquired from the Sydney International Exhibition. The Art Society of New South Wales had hung 300 paintings in preparation for their annual art exhibition due to open on 2 October of that year, all of these paintings consumed by fire.The Records of the Crown Lands Occupation Office were lost along with the 1881 Census (though the summary survived). Numerous railway surveys were lost, as were: £7,000 worth of statues, between 20,000 and 30,000 plants and the holdings of the Linnean Society offices and museum housed on the ground floor. The Eastern Suburbs Brass Band performed the day before at the opening of the Eastern Suburbs Horticultural Society Flower show; all the instruments were stored in the Garden Palace and were destroyed. Several Government Departments also lost significant records, including the: Fisheries Office; Mining Department; Harbour and Rivers Department; and, as mentioned, the Census Department.The fire was so ferocious that the windows in the terraces along Macquarie Street cracked with the heat and sheets of corrugated iron were blown as far away as Elizabeth Bay. How Did The Fire Start?No one knows how the fire started on that fateful September morning, and despite an official enquiry no explanation was ever delivered. One theory blamed the wealthy residents of Macquarie Street, disgruntled at losing their harbour views. Another was that it was burnt to destroy records stored in the basement of the building that contained embarrassing details about the convict heritage of many distinguished families. Margaret Lyon, daughter of the Garden Palace decorator John Lyon, wrote in her diary:a gentleman who says a boy told him when he was putting out the domain lights, that he saw a man jump out of the window and immediately after observed smoke, they are advertising for the boy […]. Everyone seems to agree on his point that it has been done on purpose – Today a safe has been found with diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, there were also some papers in it but they were considerably charred. The statue of her majesty or at least what remains of it, for it is completely ruined – the census papers were also ruined, they were ready almost to be sent to the printers, the work of 30 men for 14 months. Valuable government documents, railway and other plans all gone. (MLMSS 1381/Box 1/Item 2) There are many eyewitness accounts of the fire that day. From nightwatchman Mr Frederick Kirchen and his replacement Mr John McKnight, to an emotional description by 14-year-old student Ethel Pockley. Although there were conflicting accounts as to where the fire may have started, it seems likely that the fire started in the basement with flames rising around the statue of Queen Victoria, situated directly under the dome. The coroner did not make a conclusive finding on the cause of the fire but was scathing of the lack of diligence by the authorities in housing such important items in a building that was not well-secured a was a potential fire hazard.Building a ReputationA number of safes were known to have been in the building storing valuables and records. One such safe, a fireproof safe manufactured by Milner and Son of Liverpool, was in the southern corner of the building near the southern tower. The contents of this safe were unscathed in contrast with the contents of other safes, the contents of which were destroyed. The Milner safe was a little discoloured and blistered on the outside but otherwise intact. “The contents included three ledgers, or journals, a few memoranda and a plan of the exhibition”—the glue was slightly melted—the plan was a little discoloured and a few loose papers were a little charred but overall the contents were “sound and unhurt”—what better advertising could one ask for! (“The Garden Palace Fire” 5).barrangal dyara (skin and bones): Rebuilding CommunityThe positive developments for Sydney and the colony that stemmed from the building and its exhibition, such as public transport and community spirit, grew and took new forms. Yet, in the years since 1882 the memory of the Garden Palace and its disaster faded from the consciousness of the Sydney community. The great loss felt by Indigenous communities went unresolved.Image 4: barrangal dyara (skin and bones). Image credit: Sarah Morley.In September 2016 artist Jonathan Jones presented barrangal dyara (skin and bones), a large scale sculptural installation on the site of the Garden Palace Building in Sydney’s Royal Botanic Garden. The installation was Jones’s response to the immense loss felt throughout Australia with the destruction of countless Aboriginal objects in the fire. The installation featured thousands of bleached white shields made of gypsum that were laid out to show the footprint of the Garden Palace and represent the rubble left after the fire.Based on four typical designs from Aboriginal nations of the south-east, these shields not only raise the chalky bones of the building, but speak to the thousands of shields that would have had cultural presence in this landscape over generations. (Pike 33)ConclusionSydney’s Garden Palace was a stunning addition to the skyline of colonial Sydney. A massive undertaking, the Palace opened, to great acclaim, in 1879 and its effect on the community of Sydney and indeed the colony of New South Wales was sizeable. There were brief discussions, just after the fire, about rebuilding this great structure in a more permanent fashion for the centenary Exhibition in 1888 (“[From Our Own Correspondents] New South Wales” 5). Ultimately, it was decided that this achievement of the colony of New South Wales would be recorded in history, gifting a legacy of national pride and positivity on the one hand, but on the other an example of the destructive colonial impact on Indigenous communities. For many Sydney-siders today this history is as obscured as the original foundations of the physical building. What we build—iconic structures, civic pride, a sense of community—require maintenance and remembering. References“Among the Machinery.” The Sydney Mail and New South Wales Advertiser 10 Jan. 1880: 70-71.Aurousseau, G.H. “Lucien Henry: First Lecturer in Art at the Sydney Technical College.” Technical Gazette 2.III (1912): 33-35.Barnet, James. International Exhibition, Sydney, 1880: References to the Plans Showing the Space and Position Occupied by the Various Exhibits in the Garden Palace. Sydney: Colonial Architect’s Office, 1880.“A ‘Bohemian’s’ Holiday Notes.” The Singleton Argus and Upper Hunter General Advocate 23 Apr. 1879: 2.Census Department. New South Wales Census. 1881. 3 Mar. 2017 <http://hccda.ada.edu.au/pages/NSW-1881-census-02_vi>. “Destruction of the Garden Palace.” Sydney Morning Herald 23 Sep. 1882: 7.Freestone, Robert. “Space Society and Urban Reform.” Colonial City, Global City, Sydney’s International Exhibition 1879. Eds. Peter Proudfoot, Roslyn Maguire, and Robert Freestone. Darlinghurst, NSW: Crossing P, 2000. 15-33.“[From Our Own Correspondents] New South Wales.” The Age (Melbourne, Vic.) 30 Sep. 1882: 5.“The Garden Palace Fire.” Sydney Morning Herald 25 Sep. 1882: 5.Illustrated Sydney News and New South Wales Agriculturalist and Grazier 1 Nov. 1879: 4.“International Exhibition.” Australian Town and Country Journal 15 Feb. 1879: 11.Kent, H.C. “Reminiscences of Building Methods in the Seventies under John Young. Lecture.” Architecture: An Australian Magazine of Architecture and the Arts Nov. (1924): 5-13.Lyon, Margaret. Unpublished Manuscript Diary. MLMSS 1381/Box 1/Item 2.New South Wales, Legislative Assembly. Debates 22 Sep. 1882: 542-56.Notes on the Sydney International Exhibition of 1879. Melbourne: Government Printer, 1881.Official Record of the Sydney International Exhibition 1879. Sydney: Government Printer, 1881.Pike, Emma. “barrangal dyara (skin and bones).” Jonathan Jones: barrangal dyara (skin and bones). Eds. Ross Gibson, Jonathan Jones, and Genevieve O’Callaghan. Balmain: Kaldor Public Arts Project, 2016.Pont, Graham, and Peter Proudfoot. “The Technological Movement and the Garden Palace.” Colonial City, Global City, Sydney’s International Exhibition 1879. Eds. Peter Proudfoot, Roslyn Maguire, and Robert Freestone. Darlinghurst, NSW: Crossing Press, 2000. 239-249.“View from the Lantern of the Dome of the Exhibition.” Illustrated Sydney News and New South Wales Agriculturalist and Grazier 9 Aug. 1879: 8.