Journal articles on the topic 'Mobile Agents (MA)'

Currently, the majority of research in the area of wireless sensor networks (WSNs) is directed towards optimizing energy use during itinerary planning by mobile agents (MAs). The route taken by the MA when migrating can get a significant effect on energy consumption and the lifespan of the network. Conversely, finding an ideal arrangement of Source Nodes (SNs) for mobile agents to visit could be a problematic issue. It is within this framework that this work focused on solving certain problems related to itinerary planning based on a multimobile agent (MMA) strategy in networks. The objective of our research was to increase the lifespan of sensor networks and to diminish the length of the data collection task. In order to achieve our objective, we proposed a new approach in WSNs, which took into consideration the criterion of an appropriate number of MAs, the criterion of the appropriate grouping of SNs, and finally the criterion of the optimal itinerary followed by each MA to visit all its SNs. Thus, we suggested an approach that may be classified as a centralized planning model where the itinerary schedule is entirely shaped by the base station (sink) which, unlike other approaches, is no longer constrained by energy consumption. A series of simulations to measure the performance of the new planning process was also carried out.

<p>The traffic congestion in vehicular adhoc networks (VANETs) is a vital problem due to its dynamic increase in traffic loads. VANETs undergo inefficient routing capability due to its increasing traffic demands. This has led to the need for intelligent transport system (ITS) to assist VANETs in enabling suitable traffic loads between vehicles and road side units (RSU). Most conventional systems offer distributed solution to manage traffic congestion but fail to regulate real-time traffic flows. In this paper, a dynamic traffic control in VANETs is offered by combining deep neural network (DNN) with mobile agents (MA). An experimental analysis is carried out to test the efficacy of the DNN-MA against conventional machine learning and a deep learning routing algorithm in VANETs. DNN-Mal is validated under various traffic congestion metrics like latency, percentage delivery ratio, packet error rate, and throughput. The results show that the proposed method offers reduced energy consumption and latency.</p>

Background: As medical knowledge is continuously expanding and diversely located, Health Information Technology (HIT) applications are proposed as a good prospect for improving not only the efficiency and the effectiveness but also the quality of healthcare services delivery. The technologies expected to shape such innovative HIT architectures include: Mobile agents (Mas) and NoSQL technologies. Mobile agents provide an inherent way of tackling distributed problems of accessing heterogeneous and spatially diverse data sources. NoSQL technology gains ground for the development of scalable applications with non-static and open data schema from complex and diverse sources. Methods and Design: This paper conducts a twofold study: It attempts a literature review of the applications based on the mobile agent (MA) and NoSQL technologies for healthcare support services. Subsequently, a pilot system evaluates the NoSQL technology against the relational one within a distributed environment based on mobile agents for information retrieval. Its objective is to study the feasibility of developing systems that will employ ontological data representation and task implementation through mobile agents towards flexible and transparent health data monitoring. Results and Discussion: The articles studied focus on applying mobile agents for patient support and healthcare services provision thus as to make a positive contribution to the treatment of chronic diseases. In addition, attention is put on the design of platform neutral techniques for clinical data gathering and dissemination over NoSQL. The experimental environment was based on the Apache Jena Fuseki NoSQL server and the JAVA Agent DEvelopment Framework -JADE agent platform. The results reveal that the NoSQL implementation outperforms the standard relational one.

An improved congestion control mechanism based on mobile agent for wireless sensor networks is proposed, which includes node-level congestion and link-level congestion control. The formers congestion information is collected and distributed by mobile agents (MA). When mobile agent travels through the networks, it can select a less-loaded neighbor node as its next hop and update the routing table according to the nodes congestion status. Minimum package of node outgoing traffic was preferentially transmitted in the link-level congestion. Simulation result shows that proposed mechanism attains high delivery ratio and throughput with reduced delay when compared with the existing technique.

Wireless sensor networks (WSN) are designed to collect information by means of a large number of energy-limited battery sensor nodes. Therefore, it is important to minimize the energy consumed by each sensor, in order to extend the network life. The goal of this work is to design an intelligent WSN that collects as much information as possible to process it intelligently. To achieve this goal, an agent is sent to each sensor in order to process the information and to cooperate with neighboring sensors while mobile agents (MA) can be used to reduce information shared between source nodes (SN) and send them to the base station (Sink). This work proposes to use communication architecture for wireless sensor networks based on the multi-agent system (MAS) to ensure optimal information collection. The collaboration of these agents generates a simple message that summarizes the important information in order to transmit it by a mobile agent. To reduce the size of the MA, the sensors of the network have been grouped into sectors. For each MA, we have established an optimal itinerary, consuming a minimum amount of energy with data aggregation efficiency in a minimum time. Successive simulations in large-scale wireless sensor networks through the SINALGO (published under a BSD license) simulator show the performance of the proposed method, in terms of energy consumption and package delivery rate.

The Mobile Ad hoc Networks MANETs often deal with obstacles that occur in the form of packet loss and so that can be efficiently reduced by involving congestion control which includes routing algorithm and a flow control at the network layer. We are proposing agent based agent based congestion control technique for MANETs in this paper with Modified AODV protocol. Here the mobile agents MA collect and broadcast the information about network congestion .The mobile agent based congestion control AODV routing protocol is used to avoid congestion in ad hoc network, and the modification done to have the same route for the MANET without changing it. Which can be done by inserting a protocol which alerts the sender to send some less packets in real time. The work of mobile agents is to carry routing information and nodes congestion status whenever the MANET is created. Whenever a mobile agent moves through the network, it selects a less loaded neighbour node as its next hop and simultaneously keeps on updating routing table according to the node's congestion status. With the help of mobile agents, such is the role of MAs which creates the dynamic network topology in real time. Considering the simulation results using NS 2, we showed that our proposed technique efficient that traditional one which has numerous amount of packet loss. Our protocol has high delivery ratio and throughput with reduced delay which results in providing efficient protocol when compared with the different existing techniques. Kirtiraj Mohan Desai | Prof. Ms. T. T. Mohite Patil "Performance Analysis of Congestion Control Algorithm for Mobility Model in Mobile Ad-Hoc Networks by using Modified AODV Protocols" Published in International Journal of Trend in Scientific Research and Development (ijtsrd), ISSN: 2456-6470, Volume-2 | Issue-5 , August 2018, URL: https://www.ijtsrd.com/papers/ijtsrd18345.pdf

This paper deals with the verification of a multi-agent system simulator. Agents in the simulator are based on the Mobile Agent Network (MAN) formal model. It describes a shared plan representing a process which allows team formation according to task complexity and the characteristics of the distributed environment where these tasks should be performed. In order to verify the simulation results, we compared them with performance characteristics of a real multi-agent system, called the Multi-Agent Remote Maintenance Shell (MA–RMS). MA–RMS is organized as a team-oriented knowledge based system responsible for distributed software management. The results are compared and analyzed for various testing scenarios which differ with respect to network bandwidth as well as task and network complexity.

This paper presents a novel approach to developing control strategies for mobile robots, specifically the Pegasus, a bionic wheel-legged quadruped robot with unique chassis mechanics that enable four-wheel independent steering and diverse gaits. A multi-agent (MA) reinforcement learning (RL) controller is proposed, treating each leg as an independent agent with the goal of autonomous learning. The framework involves a multi-agent setup to model torso and leg dynamics, incorporating motion guidance optimization signal in the policy training and reward function. By doing so, we address leg schedule patterns for the complex configuration of the Pegasus, the requirement for various gaits, and the design of reward functions for MA-RL agents. Agents were trained using two variations of policy networks based on the framework, and real-world tests show promising results with easy policy transfer from simulation to the actual hardware. The proposed framework models acquired higher rewards and converged faster in training than other variants. Various experiments on the robot deployed framework showed fast response (0.8 s) under disturbance and low linear, angular velocity, and heading error, which was 2.5 cm/s, 0.06 rad/s, and 4°, respectively. Overall, the study demonstrates the feasibility of the proposed MA-RL control framework.

Wireless sensor networks (WSNs) are designed to collect information across a large number of sensor nodes with limited batteries. Therefore, it is important to minimize energy consumption of each node, so as to extend the lifetime of the network. This paper proposes the use of an intelligent WSN communication architecture based on a multiagent system (MAS), to ensure optimal data collection. MAS refers to a group of agents that interact and cooperate to achieve a specific goal. To ensure this objective, we propose the integration of a migrating agent into each node to process data and enhance cooperation between neighboring nodes, while mobile agents (MAs) can be used to reduce data transfer between the nodes and send them to the base station (Sink). The collaboration of these agents generates a simple message that summarizes important information to be transmitted by an MA. To reduce the size of MAs, nodes in the network sectors are grouped in such way that, for each MA, an optimal itinerary is established, using a minimum amount of energy with efficient data aggregation within a minimum time. Successive simulations in large-scale sensor networks show the good performance of our proposal in terms of energy consumption and packet delivery rate.

The collection of sensory data is crucial for cyber-physical systems. Employing mobile agents (MAs) to collect data from sensors offers a new dimension to reduce and balance their energy consumption but leads to large data collection latency due to MAs’ limited velocity. Most existing research effort focuses on the offline mobile data collection (MDC), where the MAs collect data from sensors based on preoptimized tours. However, the efficiency of these offline MDC solutions degrades when the data generation of sensors varies. In this paper, we investigate the on-demand MDC; that is, MAs collect data based on the real-time data collection requests from sensors. Specifically, we construct queuing models to describe the First-Come-First-Serve-based MDC with a single MA and multiple MAs, respectively, laying a theoretical foundation. We also use three examples to show how such analysis guides online MDC in practice.

A modular X-ray scanning system was developed, to fill in the gap between portable instruments (with a limited analytical area) and mobile instruments (with large analytical areas, and sometimes bulky and difficult to transport). The scanner has been compared to a commercial tabletop instrument, by analysing a Portuguese tile (azulejo) from the 17th century. Complementary techniques were used to achieve a throughout characterisation of the sample in a complete non-destructive approach. The complexity of the acquired X-ray fluorescence (XRF) spectra, due to inherent sample stratigraphy, has been resolved using Monte Carlo simulations, and Raman spectroscopy, as the most suitable technique to complement the analysis of azulejos colours, yielding satisfactory results. The colouring agents were identified as cobalt blue and a Zn-modified Naples-yellow. The stratigraphy of the area under study was partially modelled with Monte Carlo simulations. The scanners performance has been compared by evaluating the images outputs and the global spectrum.

Olive leaves, the main byproducts of olive cultivation, are characterized by a plethora of bioactive metabolites with significant nutritional value. Their main pentacyclic triterpenes, Oleanolic Acid (OA) and Maslinic Acid (MA), are two high added-value compounds with remarkable activities. This study aimed to develop an efficient methodology for extracting and purifying OA and MA, utilizing Supercritical Fluid Extraction (SFE) and Centrifugal Partition Chromatography (CPC)—two modern, scalable, and green techniques. A total of 21 g of olive leaves were subjected to SFE using supercritical CO2 and ethanol as co-solvent. The extraction employed a step gradient mode, starting with 100% CO2 and incrementally increasing ethanol (0–10% w/w) every 20 min. Fractions rich in OA and MA (500 mg) were further purified via CPC, utilizing pH zone refining to exploit the protonation and deprotonation properties of acidic triterpenes. The biphasic solvent system consisted of n-hexane, ethyl acetate, ethanol, and water (8:2:5:5 v/v/v/v), with trifluoroacetic acid added to the stationary phase and triethylamine added to the mobile phase. This two-step process yielded 89.5 mg of OA and 28.5 mg of MA with over 95% purity, as confirmed by HPLC-ELSD and 1H-NMR. Moreover, purified compounds and SFE fractions exhibited promising elastase and collagenase inhibition, highlighting them as dermocosmetic agents.

A modular X-ray scanning system was developed, to fill in the gap between portable instruments (with a limited analytical area) and mobile instruments (with large analytical areas, and sometimes bulky and difficult to transport). The scanner has been compared to a commercial tabletop instrument, by analysing a Portuguese tile (azulejo) from the 17th century. Complementary techniques were used to achieve a throughout characterisation of the sample in a complete non-destructive approach. The complexity of the acquired X-ray fluorescence (XRF) spectra, due to inherent sample stratigraphy, has been resolved using Monte Carlo simulations, and Raman spectroscopy, as the most suitable technique to complement the analysis of azulejos colours, yielding satisfactory results. The colouring agents were identified as cobalt blue and a Zn-modified Naples-yellow. The stratigraphy of the area under study was partially modelled with Monte Carlo simulations. The scanners performance has been compared by evaluating the images outputs and the global spectrum.

<strong>ABSTRACT</strong> <em>Staphylococcus sp. </em><em>is</em> an important opportunistic pathogen responsible for a variety of diseases, ranging from minor skin infections to life-threatening systemic infections. The objective of the study was to determine antibiotic resistance pattern of <em>Staphylococcus aureus </em>isolated from clinical samples and to detect the presence of mecA gene in the isolates. 10 different <em>Staphylococcus </em>strains were isolated from various clinical samples such as urine, pus, etc. Antibiotic resistance pattern of the isolated strains were studied using seven different antibiotics. Presence of mecA gene was analysed using PCR technique. mecA gene was observed in 70 % of the isolated <em>Staphylococcus</em> strains. Amplification of mecA gene gives an insight into pharmaceutical aspects of designing new effective drugs for the treatment of methicllin resistant <em>Staphylococcus sp</em><em>.</em> <strong>Keywords:</strong> <em>Staphylococcus sp., </em>clinical samples, antibiotic resistance, mecA <strong>REFERENCES</strong> Archer, G. L., Niemeyer, D. M., Thanassi, J. A. &amp; Pucci, M. J. 1994. Dissemination among staphylococci of DNA sequences associated with methicillin resistance.&nbsp;<em>Antimicrobial Agents and Chemotherapy</em>&nbsp;38,&nbsp;447&ndash;54. Baddour, M. M., AbuElKheir, M. M., Fatani, A. J. 2007. Comparison of mecA polymerase chain reaction with phenotypic methods for the detection of methicillin-resistant <em>Staphylococcus aureus</em>. Curr Microbiol; 55: 473-9. Cappuccino JG, Sherman N (1992) Biochemical activities of microorganisms. In: Microbiology, A Laboratory Manual. The Benjamin / Cummings Publishing Co. California, USA Denton, M., O&rsquo;Connell, B., Bernard, P., Jarlier, V., Williams, Z., &amp; Henriksen, A. 2008. Antimicrobial Susceptibility of <em>Staphylococcus aureus</em> Causing Primary or Secondary Skin and Soft tissue Infctions in the Community in France, the UK and Ireland. Journal of Antimicrobial Chemotherapy , 586-588. Farzana, K., &amp; Hameed, A. 2006. Resistance Pattern of Clinical Isolates of <em>Staphylococcus aureus</em> against Five Groups of Antibiotics. Journal of Research (Science), 19-26. Hrabak, J., Zemanova, A., Chudackova, E. 2010. Mobile genetic elements in the epidemiology og Bacterial resistance to antibiotics. Epidemol Microbiol Imunol;59:55-66 Huletsky, A., Giroux, R., Rossbach, V., et al. 2004. New real-time PCR assay for rapid detection of methicillin-resistant <em>Staphylococcus aureus</em> directly from specimens containing a mixture of staphylococci. J Clin Microbiol, 42(5), 1875-1884. Ito, T., MA, X., Takeuchi, F., Okuma, K., Yuzawa, H., &amp; Hiramatsu, K. 2004. Novel type V staphylococcal Cassette Chromosome mec driven by a novel cassette chromosome recobinase, ccrC. Antimicrob Agents Chemotherapy, 2637-2651. Kloos, W. E. and K. H. Schleifer, 1981. The genus staphylococcus in the prokaryotes: A handbook on habitat, isolation and identification of bacteria, Vols. 1 and 2. Magilner, D., Byerly, M. M., &amp; Cline, D. M. (n.d.). 2008. The Prevalence of Community-Acquired Methicillin-Resistant <em>Staphylococcus aureus</em> (CA-MRSA) in Skin Abscesses Presenting to the Pediatric Emergency Department. North Carolina Medical journal. Malhotra-Kumar, S., Haccuria, K., Michiels, M., et al. 2008. Current trends in rapid diagnostics for methicillin resistant <em>Staphylococcus aureus</em> and glycopeptide-resistant Enterococus species. J Clin Microbiol, 46(5), 1577-1587. Obiazi, H. A. K., Nmorsi, O. P. G., Ekundayo, A. O., Ukwandu, N. C. D., 2007. Prevalence and antibiotic susceptibility pattern of <em>Staphylococcus aureus</em> from clinical isolates grown at 37 and 44OC from Irrua, Nigeria. Afr. J. Microbiol. Res. 1 (5): 57-60 Suzuki, E., Hiramatsu, K. &amp; Yokota, T. 1992. Survey of methicillin-resistant clinical strains of coagulase-negative staphylococci for&nbsp;<em>mecA</em>&nbsp;gene distribution.<em>Antimicrobial Agents and Chemotherapy</em>&nbsp;36,&nbsp;429&ndash;34. &nbsp;

Intelligent networks are becoming more enveloping and dwelling a new generation of applications are deployed over the peer-to-peer networks. Intelligent networks are very attractive because of their role in improving the scalability and enhancing performance by enabling direct and real-time communication among the participating network stations. A suitable solution for resource management in distributed wireless systems is required which should support fault-tolerant operations, requested resources (at shortest path), minimize overhead generation during network management, balancing the load distribution between the participating stations and high probability of lookup success and many more. This article presents a Movement Assisted Component Based Scalable Framework (MAC-SF) for the distributed network which manages the distributed wireless resources and applications; monitors the behavior of the distributed wireless applications transparently and attains accurate resource projections, manages the connections between the participating network stations and distributes the active objects in response to the user requests and changing processing and network conditions. This system is also compared with some exiting systems. Results shows that MAC-SF is a better system and can be used in any wireless network.

Energy storage systems are indispensable to power electric devices such as mobile phones, electric vehicles, and smart grids. Lithium-ion battery dominates the largest segment of the energy storage system market owing to its high energy density and long cycle life. However, flammable organic liquid electrolytes are used in lithium-ion batteries, which is an essential risk of fire and explosion accidents. Substituting water solvent for organic solvent directly approaches the safety issue. In particular, proton is the cation with the smallest ionic radius, which enables host materials to be densely protonated with minimal lattice distortion during charging. Therefore, aqueous proton battery is enthusiastically developed as an alternative to lithium-ion batteries. In general, acidic electrolyte shows intense hydrogen evolution reaction (HER) just below 0 V vs SHE because of its high activity of proton. To suppress HER in aqueous rechargeable batteries, molecular crowding electrolytes can be used, where mixed crowding agents (macromolecules or small hydrophilic molecules) reduce activities of H2O/H3O+ at electrode-electrolyte interfaces.1,2 Meanwhile, active materials should also possess high durability against physical and chemical change upon charge/discharge. Especially, large volume expansion/shrinkage usually raise intraparticle cracking on active materials, which exacerbates parasitic reactions at electrode-electrolyte interfaces. For example, layered α-MoO3 exhibits monoclinic distortion and undergoes a significant volume change (ΔV/V = 5.5%) upon H+ intercalation, resulting in severe intraparticle cracking.3 Other H+-intercalation hosts (V2O3 and h-WO3 0.6H2O) also exhibit large volume changes (ΔV/V = 2.4% and 2.5%, respectively) upon charge/discharge.4,5 The microscopic origins of these structural transformation involve either expansion/contraction of the interlayer distance between loosely stacked layers or the local distortion of MO n polyhedra upon H+ intercalation. Strain-free H+ intercalation, which is required for stable operation of an aqueous proton battery, has rarely been reported. In this presentation, we report strain-free H+ intercalation in the Mo3Nb2O14 host structure. Mo3Nb2O14 is categorized as a bronze phase with the general MO3−x (M = Mo, Nb, W) formula; edge- and corner-sharing Mo/NbOn (n = 6 and 7) polyhedra form dense oxide-ion arrays with open tunnels that may relieve local structural distortion upon H+ intercalation. Mo3Nb2O14 was synthesized by sintering a mixture of MoO3 and Nb2O5 at 700 °C for 12 h in the air. Galvanostatic charge/discharge measurements show that Mo3Nb2O14 exhibits reversible five-proton intercalation (193 mAh g−1) in an acidic molecular crowding electrolyte (4.2 mol L−1 H2SO4/10H2O–90PEG + 5 wt% HFE). The strain-free nature of Mo3Nb2O14 upon charge/discharge per the formula unit (ΔV/V &lt; 0.5%) is confirmed by 1H solid-state nuclear magnetic resonance spectroscopy, X-ray absorption spectroscopy, X-ray diffraction (XRD), and density functional theory calculations. Rietveld refinement for the ex situ XRD patterns and atomic-resolution scanning transmission electron microscopy reveal that reversible shrinkage and rotation of the open tunnel in the Mo3Nb2O14 lattice relieve the volume changes of Mo/NbOn (n = 6 and 7) upon redox reactions. Consequently, intraparticle cracking is suppressed on Mo3Nb2O14 particles, which minimizes HER to achieve high Coulombic efficiencies (&gt; 99.7%). Finally, a full-cell that consists of the Mo3Nb2O14 anode, the prussian blue analogue vanadium hexacyanoferrate cathode 6, and the acidic molecular crowding electrolyte retains 98.5% of the initial specific capacity after 1000 cycles. Reference Xie, J.; Liang, Z.; Lu, Y.-C. Molecular crowding electrolytes for high-voltage aqueous batteries. Mater. 19, 1006–1011 (2020). Wu, S.; Chen, J.; Su, Z.; Guo, H.; Zhao, T.; Jia, C.; Stansby, J.; Tang, J.; Rawai, A.; Fang, Y.; Ho, J.; Zhao, C. Molecular Crowding Electrolytes for Stable Proton Batteries, Small 18, 22029992 (2022). Lei, Y., Zhao, W., Yin, J., Ma, Y., Zhao, Z., Yin, J., Khan, Y., Hedhili, M. N., Chen, L., Wang, O., Yuan, Y., Zhang, X., Bakr, O. M., Mohammed, O. F. &amp; Alshareef, H. N. Discovery of a three-proton intercalation mechanism in α-molybdenum trioxide leading to enhanced charge storage capacity. Commun. 14, 5490 (2023). Chen, Y., Ma, D., Ouyang, K., Yang, M., Shen, S., Wang, Y., Mi, H., Sun, L., He, C. &amp; Zhang, P. A Multifunctional Anti-Proton Electrolyte for High-Rate and Super-Stable Aqueous Zn-Vanadium Oxide Battery, Nano-Micro Lett. 14, 154 (2022). Jiang, H., Hong, J. J., Wesley Wu, X., Surta, T. W., Qi, Y., Dong, S., Li, Z., Leonard, D. P., Holoubek, J. J., Wong, J. C., Razink, J. J., Zhang, X. &amp; Ji, X. Insights on the Proton Insertion Mechanism in the Electrode of Hexagonal Tungsten Oxide Hydrate, Am. Chem. Soc. 140, 11556–11559 (2018). Peng, X.; Guo, H.; Ren, W.; Su, Z.; Zhao, C. Vanadium hexacyanoferrate as high-capacity cathode for fast proton storage. Chem. Commun. 2020, 56, 11803–11806. Figure 1

Abstract Abstract 2263 Introduction: Mechanical circulatory support systems are used for the treatment of end-stage heart failure. In children, extracorporeal membrane oxygenation systems and centrifugal pumps have been used widely in the past, but are only suitable for short term use and intensive care is obligatory. The Berlin Heart is a VAD which is an extracorporeal pulsatile pneumatic system which can be placed as a bridge to transplant or recovery and allows patients to be mobile and to lead an almost normal life. As with placement of any mechanical device, aggressive anticoagulant therapy is needed due to the increased risk of thrombosis and therefore an increased risk of bleeding associated with the treatment. Here we report the complications seen in 13 children on VAD's from a single institution. Methods: Patient medical records were reviewed to obtain the information on complications and associated coagulation test results. Tests of hemostasis and thrombosis were performed in the authors' CAP accredited Coagulation Laboratory at the Children's Hospital of Michigan. Results: Thirteen children with a mean age of 42 months (range 3 weeks to 13 years) received a VAD as a bridge to transplant between 2006 and 2011. There were 7 males and 6 females, 9 were African American and 5 Caucasian. 10/13 patients were on ECMO for a short duration (1–15days) prior to VAD implantation. The duration of VAD implantation varied from 8 days to 8 months. 9/13 eventually received a heart transplant. Anticoagulation was monitored according to the Berlin Heart protocol. There were 4 deaths, all in infants &lt;7months of age. Complications included thrombosis in 7 patients and bleeding in 5, some of whom had both. Time to thrombotic complications varied from day of implant to 14 days post implantation. Thrombotic complications included fibrin deposits in the VAD to strokes. Assessment of risk factors for thrombosis and bleeding showed that 3/10 patients were heterozygous for the MTHFR gene mutation, 1/10 had a low protein S and 2/10 had a low protein C. 5/7 patients with thrombosis had concurrent systemic or respiratory infections. ATIII was monitored and replaced to keep over 70% per protocol recommendations. Reactive thrombocytosis seen in some patients with thrombosis was associated with an increase in MA on thromboelastography despite administration of antiplatelet drugs. Bleeding complications varied from hemopericardium and intracranial hemorrhage to GI bleeding. Anticoagulation was monitored using thromboelastography with platelet mapping (monitoring antiplatelet agents), PTT and unfractionated (UFH level) or low molecular weight heparin levels respectively; UFH levels were found to be more useful for monitoring heparin anticoagulation than PTT. PTT was found to be low secondary to elevated Factor VIII activity resulting in poor correlation to heparin levels. Thromboelastography Platelet mapping assays were used to monitor aspirin and platelet ADP receptor antagonists, but did not correlate with traditional whole blood platelet aggregation studies. Conclusions: While thrombosis and bleeding complications are commonly seen in adult patients on VAD's, pediatric data in this population are limited and monitoring for the complications is inadequate. At our institution, infants who received VAD's had a poor outcome, but larger studies are needed to evaluate if there are complications unique to this age group. Current monitoring strategies are not always successful in predicting the occurrence of complications. Defects in fibrinolysis and increased thrombin generation may predispose to thrombotic manifestations. Tests to detect elevated thrombin generation and evaluation of fibrinolysis using modified thromboelastography may be useful to predict an increase in thrombotic potential which may assist us in improving the outcome. Disclosures: No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

&lt;b&gt;Wprowadzenie.&lt;/b&gt; Rodzice jako cyfrowi imigranci nadal są najważniejszymi pośrednikami w korzystaniu z technologii przez ich dzieci – cyfrowych tubylców. Chociaż we współczesnej dyskusji pedagogicznej zwraca się uwagę na problem fonoholizmu wśród dzieci, to czas ich inicjacji cyfrowej oraz pierwsze wzorce korzystania z urządzeń mobilnych zależą od decyzji rodziców. Jednakże trudno o izolację technologiczną dzieci w czasach wszechobecnej cyfryzacji. W świetle powyższych faktów jednym z ważniejszych wyzwań wychowawczych jest konstruktywne wprowadzenie dzieci w świat nowych technologii. &lt;b&gt;Cel.&lt;/b&gt; Punktem wyjścia dla rozważań podjętych w tym artykule jest zaprezentowanie wyników najnowszych badań przeprowadzonych na gruncie polskim dotyczących korzystania z nowych technologii przez dzieci. Analiza wspomnianych badań miała na celu ustalenie, jak rodzice postrzegają miejsce technologii w życiu ich potomstwa, oraz w jaki sposób, jako pośrednicy inicjacji cyfrowej, udostępniają mu urządzenia mobilne. Wspomniana analiza jest punktem wyjścia dla poszukiwań strategii i wskazówek związanych z wychowaniem dzieci w dobie rewolucji cyfrowej. &lt;b&gt;Materiały i metody.&lt;/b&gt; Artykuł ma charakter przeglądowy, a analizowanym materiałem były wyniki następujących badań przeprowadzonych na gruncie polskim: &lt;i&gt;Korzystanie z urządzeń mobilnych przez małe dzieci w Polsce&lt;/i&gt; (2015), badanie Aleksandry Gralczyk (2019) oraz &lt;i&gt;Brzdąc w sieci – zjawisko korzystania z urządzeń mobilnych przez dzieci w wieku 0–6 lat&lt;/i&gt; (2021). W przypadku badania z 2021 roku uwzględniono część ilościową. &lt;b&gt;Wyniki.&lt;/b&gt; Wyniki analizy wskazują na pewien paradoks – rodzice z jednej strony udostępniają dzieciom urządzenia mobilne, mają jednak duże poczucie zagrożeń związanych z tą praktyką. Większość rodziców towarzyszy dzieciom, gdy korzystają one z tych urządzeń, jednakże jest to podyktowane chęcią kontroli, a nie współuczestniczenia w interakcji z technologią. Jednakże najczęstszym powodem udostępniania tych urządzeń dzieciom jest chęć zajęcia ich w czasie, w którym rodzice zajmują się innymi sprawami.

Use of the Internet and the World-Wide-Web (WWW) has become widespread in recent years and mobile agent technology has proliferated at an equally rapid rate. In this scenario load balancing becomes important for P2P systems. Beside P2P systems can be highly heterogeneous, i.e., they may consists of peers that range from old desktops to powerful servers connected to internet through high-bandwidth lines. There are various loads balancing policies came into picture. Primitive one is Message Passing Interface (MPI). Its wide availability and portability make it an attractive choice; however the communication requirements are sometimes inefficient when implementing the primitives provided by MPI. In this scenario we use the concept of mobile agent because Mobile agent (MA) based approach have the merits of high flexibility, efficiency, low network traffic, less communication latency as well as highly asynchronous. In this study we present decentralized load balancing scheme using mobile agent technology in which when a node is overloaded, task migrates to less utilized nodes so as to share the workload. However, the decision of which nodes receive migrating task is made in real-time by defining certain load balancing policies. These policies are executed on PMADE (A Platform for Mobile Agent Distribution and Execution) in decentralized manner using JuxtaNet and various load balancing metrics are discussed.

Today in this competitive world where everybody depends on the mobile technology run with the need of possessing mobiles and enjoying the facilities of ease to send messages to their near and dear ones. People need to perform their tasks for informing, contacting and keeping an up to date of whatever is going around them. One such facility in our mobiles is forwarding of messages to people for fun or for awareness or when we want more number of people to know about something. The proposal is forwarding multiple messages to multiple destinations at the same time. The mobiles have the facility to forward a single message to multiple destinations. The messages can be forwarded using the push approach and the Mobile Agent Client and Mobile Agent Server. Since a mobile agent has certain properties which supports multiple message forwarding but affects the reliability certainly, mobile agents for sub servers can be a substitute as well. Messages will be selected in an order and the recipients&rsquo; numbers are be added. Once the sender toggles the option of &lsquo;send&rsquo;, the multiple messages selected must be sent to the recipients in the order they are selected to send. It can either be based on the messages like one by one message must first be sent to the recipients thus all the messages selected reaches the recipient 1 then all the messages will be sent to the next recipient 2 and so on or message 1 is sent to all the recipients and message 2 is sent to all the recipients and so on. Gateways in Mobile Agent Server can be used for the store and forward technique. If the network is busy and any message is not received by any of the recipient then the Mobile Agent Server will locate the address from the MA Client and establish connectivity again and then forwards the message.

Wireless Sensor Nodes (WSN) has restricted sensing, communication and computational capabilities, in addition, are mainly operated by means of batteries in a bad atmosphere with the non-replenish-able power sources. As Data aggregation (DA) has more significance in solving the chief limitations of utilizing WSNs, say, the restricted battery life of the powered sensors in addition to short-communication gamut of sensors, it becomes an active research domain today. Effectively gathering data has constantly been the principal significance in WSNs. Regarding the static sink, nodes next to the sink would encompass more loads for routing data, and consequently Mobile Agent (MA) has been commenced. At the moment, the MA could move itself to the sensor nodes (SN) for amassing the data. This MA has made the gathering and aggregation of data possible in a means that is suitable for instantaneous applications. This work proposes an effective DA Scheme in WSN that employs manifold MAs for aggregating data in addition to transferring it to the sink centred on Itinerary planning. This could well be attained by grouping the nodes in clusters as well as planning itineraries effectually amongst cluster heads (CHs) alone. In the proposed DA scheme, itinerary planning is performed utilizing Hybrid Ant Colony Optimization-Genetic Algorithm (ACO-GA). Ultimately, the sink sends the MAs for amassing data as of the CH. Simulation outcome confirms clearly that the proposed work shows high-level performance than the other traditional techniques.

The inherent problems of client/server model of networking has been reasonably minimized by the emergence of mobile agent (MA) computing paradigm. Reliability is a major priority in any energy constrained networks. This paper adopts clustering algorithm and mobile agent technology to propose a reliable and energy-efficient data transmission to improve the life span of wireless sensor networks. The primary advantage of cluster-based architecture is that it requires less transmission power due to small communication ranges within the cluster. The subsequent simulation of the proposed algorithm in further studies will be compared with other techniques and Leach Energy Adaptive Clustering Hierarchy (LEACH) protocol and its stability over the existing LEACH protocol and other techniques will be validated in terms of lifetime and energy consumption. KEYWORDS Fault Tolerance, Mobile Agents, Clustering, Sensors, Wireless Networks, Cluster Heads

Wireless sensor network (WSN) is susceptible tovarious kind of security attacks; one among them which is more prevalent isDoS(Denial of Service)attack. Spam message consumes most of the node energy and cause energy constraints node to drain with energy. So the prevention of such kind of attack is required in WSN. To solve this issue we are using a systematic approach of identifying spam message which may leads to the DoS attack. We are using a set of mobile agents which perform specifically assigned task to control overflow of excess Spam messages so as to stop DoS attack. The proposed spam prevention model for the MA(Mobile Agent)[9]is experimented on WSN. The proposed model Restrict the unnecessary MAs roaming and cloning are minimized and thus the energy can be saved. To calculate the threshold value we have used two techniques; one is based on the number of itinerary the clone threshold is set and the other is based on the simple moving average method so as to calculate the threshold value for the number of remote MAs. Based on the previous threshold values the new threshold value is calculated. The analysis shows that as the node is increasing from 1 to 10 how drastically Anti MA’s clone generated in when DADR model is not used and how the number reduces when DADR model is used. Subsequently energy is saved by applying DADR model. Through this proposed modelDoS attack detection and Recovery Model (DADR), we can avoid the spam attack in the MA based wireless sensor environment and save energy of resource constraints WSN and hence increase its life.Wireless sensor network (WSN) is susceptible tovarious kind of security attacks; one among them which is more prevalent isDoS(Denial of Service)attack. Spam message consumes most of the node energy and cause energy constraints node to drain with energy. So the prevention of such kind of attack is required in WSN. To solve this issue we are using a systematic approach of identifying spam message which may leads to the DoS attack. We are using a set of mobile agents which perform specifically assigned task to control overflow of excess Spam messages so as to stop DoS attack. The proposed spam prevention model for the MA(Mobile Agent)[9]is experimented on WSN. The proposed model Restrict the unnecessary MAs roaming and cloning are minimized and thus the energy can be saved. To calculate the threshold value we have used two techniques; one is based on the number of itinerary the clone threshold is set and the other is based on the simple moving average method so as to calculate the threshold value for the number of remote MAs. Based on the previous threshold values the new threshold value is calculated. The analysis shows that as the node is increasing from 1 to 10 how drastically Anti MA’s clone generated in when DADR model is not used and how the number reduces when DADR model is used. Subsequently energy is saved by applying DADR model. Through this proposed modelDoS attack detection and Recovery Model (DADR), we can avoid the spam attack in the MA based wireless sensor environment and save energy of resource constraints WSN and hence increase its life.

TThis paper presents a hybrid method that combines the genetic algorithm (GA) and the ant colony system algorithm (ACS), namely GACS, to solve the traffic routing problem. In the proposed framework, we use the genetic algorithm to optimize the ACS parameters in order to attain the best trips and travelling time through several novel functions to help ants to update the global and local pheromones. The GACS framework is implemented using the VANETsim package and the real city maps from the open street map project. The experimental results show that our framework achieves a considerably higher performance than A-Star and the classical ACS algorithms in terms of the length of the global best path and the time for trips. Moreover, the GACS framework is also efficient in solving the congestion problem by online monitoring the conditions of traffic light systems.&#x0D; KeywordsTraffic routing; Ant colony system; Genetic algorithm; VANET simulator.&#x0D; References&#x0D; [1] M. Dorigo, Ant colony optimization, Scholarpedia 2(3) (2007) 1461. https://doi.org/10/4249/scholarpedia.1461.[2] M.V. Dorigo, Maniezzo, A. Colorni, Ant system: Optimization by a colony of cooperating agents, IEEE Transactions on Systems, Man and Cybernetics, Part B (Cybernetics) 26(1) (1996) 29-41.[3] M. Dorigo, L.M. Gambardella, Ant colony system: A cooperative learning approach to the traveling salesman problem, IEEE Transactions on evolutionary computation 1(1) (1997) 53-66.[4] M. Dorigo, T. St¨utzle, Ant Colony Optimization. MIT Press, Cambridge, MA, 2004.[5] D. Favaretto, E. Moretti, P. Pellegrini, On the explorative behavior of MAX-MIN Ant. System, In: St¨utzle T, Birattari M, Hoos HH (eds) Engineering Stochastic Local Search Algorithms, Designing, Implementing and Analyzing Effective Heuristics. SLS 2009, LNCS, Springer, Heidelberg, Germany 5752 (2009) 115-119.[6] F. Lobo, C.F. Lima, Z. Michalewicz (eds), Parameter Setting in Evolutionary Algorithms, Springer, Berlin, Germany, 2007.[7] T. Stützle, Manuel López-Ibáñez, Paola Pellegrini, Michael Maur, Marco Montes de Oca, Mauro Birattari, Marco Dorigo, Parameter adaptation in ant colony optimization in Autonomous search, Springer, 2011, pp. 191-215.[8] Z. Cai, H. Huang, Ant colony optimization algorithm based on adaptive weight and volatility parameters in Intelligent Information Technology Application, 2008. IITA'08, Second International Symposium IEEE, 2008.[9] J. Liu, Shenghua Xu, Fuhao Zhang, Liang Wang, A hybrid genetic-ant colony optimization algorithm for the optimal path selection, Intelligent Automation &amp; Soft Computing, 2016, pp. 1-8.[10] D.Gaertner K.L. Clark, On Optimal Parameters for Ant Colony Optimization Algorithms, In IC-AI, 2005.[11] X.Wei, Parameters Analysis for Basic Ant Colony Optimization Algorithm in TSP, Reason 7(4) (2014) 159-170.[12] J.H. Holland, Adaptation in natural and artificial systems: An introductory analysis with applications to biology, control and artificial intelligence, U Michigan Press, 1975.[13] K.D.E. Sastry, Goldberg, G. Kendall, Genetic algorithms, In Search methodologies, Springer, 2014, pp. 93-117.[14] S.M. Odeh, Management of an intelligent traffic light system by using genetic algorithm, Journal of Image and Graphics 1(2) (2013) 90-93.[15] A.M. Turky, M.S. Ahmad, M.Z.M. Yusoff, B.T. Hammad, Using Genetic Algorithm for Traffic Light Control System with a Pedestrian Crossing, In: Wen P., Li Y., Polkowski L., Yao Y., Tsumoto S., Wang G. (eds) Rough Sets and Knowledge Technology, RSKT 2009, Lecture Notes in Computer Science, Springer, Berlin, Heidelberg 5589 (2009) 512-519.[16] Y.R.B. Al-Mayouf, Mahamod Ismail1, Nor Fadzilah Abdullah, Salih M. Al-Qaraawi, Omar Adil Mahdi, Survey On Vanet Technologies And Simulation Models, 2006.[17] S.A. Ben Mussa, M. Manaf, K.Z. Ghafoor, Z. Doukha, "Simulation tools for vehicular ad hoc networks: A comparison study and future perspectives", 2015 International Conference on Wireless Networks and Mobile Communications (WINCOM), Marrakech, 2015, pp. 1-8.[18] V. Cristea, Victor Gradinescu, Cristian Gorgorin, Raluca Diaconescu, Liviu Iftode, Simulation of vanet applications, Automotive Informatics and Communicative Systems, 2009.[19] L. Liang, J. Ye, D. Wei, Application of improved ant colony system algorithm in optimization of irregular parts nesting, In 2008 Fourth International Conference on Natural Computation, IEEE, 2008.[20] X. Yan, Research on the Hybrid ant Colony Algorithm based on Genetic Algorithm. International Journal of Signal Processing, Image Processing and Pattern Recognition 9(3) (2016) 155-166.

<strong>Adamczyk&nbsp;Gruszka Olga, Lewandowska&nbsp;Andruszuk Izabela, Wrześniewska Marzena, Gruszka Jakub, Komar&nbsp;Gruszka Karolina. </strong><strong>Primary biliary cirrhosis in pregnancy.</strong> <strong>Journal of Education, Health and Sport. 2018;8(6):212-226. eISNN 2391-8306. DOI </strong><strong>http://dx.doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.1283133</strong> <strong>http://ojs.ukw.edu.pl/index.php/johs/article/view/5557</strong> <strong>https://pbn.nauka.gov.pl/sedno-webapp/works/866664</strong> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>The journal has had 7 points in Ministry of Science and Higher Education parametric evaluation. Part b item 1223 (26/01/2017).</strong> <strong>1223 Journal of Education, Health and Sport eissn 2391-8306 7</strong> &nbsp; <strong>&copy; The Authors 2018;</strong> <strong>This article is published with open access at Licensee Open Journal Systems of Kazimierz Wielki University in Bydgoszcz, Poland</strong> <strong>Open Access. This article is distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial License which permits any noncommercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author (s) and source are credited. This is an open access article licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution Non commercial license Share alike.</strong> <strong>(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/) which permits unrestricted, non commercial use, distribution and reproduction in any medium, provided the work is properly cited.</strong> &nbsp; <strong>The authors declare that there is no conflict of interests regarding the publication of this paper.</strong> &nbsp; <strong>Received: 02.05.2018. Revised: 18.05.2018. Accepted: 05.06.2018.</strong> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>Primary biliary cirrhosis in pregnancy</strong> &nbsp; <strong>Olga Adamczyk&nbsp;Gruszka¹, Izabela Lewandowska&nbsp;Andruszuk²</strong><strong>, Marzena&nbsp;Wrześniewska</strong><strong>³</strong><strong>, Jakub Gruszka</strong><strong>⁴</strong><strong>, Karolina Komar&nbsp;Gruszka⁵</strong> &nbsp; ¹Olga Adamczyk &ndash; Gruszka PhD: Departament of Prophylaxis In Gynecology and Obstetrics, Faculty of Health Sciences, Jan Kochanowski University, Kielce, Poland, e- mail: kasia.kielce@poczta.fm, mobile phone: 605233038, https://orcid.org/0000-0003-1295-009X ²Izabela Lewandowska-Andruszuk Phd Departament of Perinatology and Obstetric - Gynecological Nursing, Faculty of Health Sciences, Jan Kochanowski University, Kielce, Poland, https://orcid.org/0000-0001-7465-2667 ³Marzena Wrześniewska MA: Department of Nursing Skills and Labour Organization, Institute of Nursing and Midwifery, Faculty of Health Sciences Jan Kochanowski University, Kielce, Poland, https://orcid.org/0000-0001-7148-4995 ⁴Jakub Gruszka: Junior Assistant in II Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology, Warsaw Medical University, Warsaw, Poland, https://orcid.org/0000-0001-9701-4502 ⁵Karolina Komar-Gruszka: doctor in Ophthalmological Department of the prof. dr hab. n. med. Jan Bogdanowicz Children&#39;s Hospital, Warsaw, Poland, https://orcid.org/0000-0002-8560-6794 &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>Summary</strong> <strong>Introduction</strong> Primary biliary cirrhosis (PBC) is a chronic hepatic condition presumably of immune etiology. In genetically predisposed patients, progressing immunization of the liver is stimulated by environmental or infectious agents. As a result of ill-targeted immune response antimitochondrial autoantibodies M2 (AMA-M2) are produced. They slowly damage fine intrahepatic biliary ducts with typical inflammatory response and subsequent cholestasis, often progressing to hepatic cirrhosis and liver failure, and if it has reached 4 stage, primary hepatic cancer. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; PBC is most frequently diagnosed in women after the age of 30. It is 13 times more frequent in females than in males. Currently, PBC is often diagnosed at the asymptomatic stage or when nonspecific symptoms have developed, i.e. fatigue or pruritus. Biochemical tests present elevated cholestatic markers, and immune tests detect elevated autoimmune antibodies AMA and IgM. In advanced cases of hepatic cirrhosis, liver transplant is considered as a final treatment. <strong>Case study</strong> The patient, a 31-year old woman, CI PI, with PBC was first seen in 7 hbd. Her medical history revealed PBC had been diagnosed a year earlier. First clinical symptoms occurred 5 years ago, treated with Proursan. The patient was hospitalized 5 times, i.e. in 30, 36, 37, 38 and 39 hbd, among others, for threatening preterm delivery and cholestasis, and later for liver dysfunction associated with PBC, and for labor. In 39 hbd delivery was induced, and she gave birth (naturally) to a live neonate, female, weighing 2,830g, body length 52 cm, Apgar score 9-10. The liver function improved after the delivery and stabilized. The patient is followed up, treatment with Proursan continued. Pregnancy in patients with PBC is associated with mother&rsquo;s exacerbated condition, especially in the third trimester and puerperium. The aforementioned case study shows that with proper care successful management and termination of pregnancy is safe for both mother and her baby. &nbsp; <strong>Key words:</strong> primary biliary cirrhosis, pregnancy, labor &nbsp; &nbsp;

IntroductionThis short article examines contemporary artistic use of walkie-talkies across two projects: Saturday (2002) by Sabrina Raaf and Walk That Sound (2014) by Lukatoyboy. Drawing on Dominic Pettman’s notion of sonic intimacy, I argue that both artists incorporate walkie-talkies as part of their explorations of mediated wandering, and in ways that seek to capture sonic ambiances and intimacies. One thing that is striking about both these works is that they rethink what’s possible with walkie-talkies; both artists use them not just as low-tech, portable devices for one-to-one communication over distance, but also—and more strikingly—as (covert) recording equipment for capturing, while wandering, snippets of intimate conversation between passers-by and the “voice” of the surrounding environment. Both artworks strive to make the familiar strange. They prompt us to question our preconceived perceptions of, and affective engagements with, the people and places around us, to listen more attentively to the voices of others (and the “Other”), and to aurally inhabit in new ways the spaces and places we find ourselves in and routinely pass through.The walkie-talkie is an established, simple communication device, consisting of a two-way radio transceiver with a speaker and microphone (in some cases, the speaker is also used as the microphone) and an antenna (Wikipedia). Walkie-talkies are half-duplex communication devices, meaning that they use a single radio channel: only one radio on the channel can transmit at a time, but many can listen; when a user wishes to talk, they must turn off the receiver and turn on the transmitter by pressing a push-to-talk button (Wikipedia). In some models, static—known as squelch—is produced each time the push-to-talk button is depressed. The push-to-talk button is a feature of both projects: in Saturday, it transforms the walkie-talkie into a cheap, portable recorder-transmitter. In Walk That Sound, rapid fire exchanges of conversation using the push-to-talk button feature strongly.Interestingly, walkie-talkies were developed during World War Two. While they continue to be used within certain industrial settings, they are perhaps best known as a “quaint” household toy and “fun tool” (Smith). Early print ads for walkie-talkie toys marketed them as a form of both spyware for kids (with the Gabriel Toy Co. releasing a 007-themed walkie-talkie set) and as a teletechnology for communication over distance—“how thrilling to ‘speak through space!’”, states one ad (Statuv “New!”). What is noteworthy about these early ads is that they actively promote experimental use of walkie-talkies. For instance, a 1953 ad for Vibro-Matic “Space Commander” walkie-talkies casts them as media transmission devices, suggesting that, with them, one can send and receive “voice – songs – music” (Statuv “New!”). In addition, a 1962 ad for the Knight-Kit walkie-talkie imagines “you’ll find new uses for this exciting walkie-talkie every day” (Statuv “Details”). Resurgent interest in walkie-talkies has seen them also promoted more recently as intimate tools “for communication without asking permission to communicate” (“Nextel”); this is to say that they have been marketed as devices for synchronous or immediate communication that overcome the limits of asynchronous communication, such as texting, where there might be substantial delays between the sending of a message and receipt of a response. Within this context, it is not surprising that Snapchat and Instagram have also since added “walkie-talkie” features to their messaging services. The Nextel byline, emphasising “without asking permission”, also speaks to the possibilities of using walkie-talkies as rudimentary forms of spyware.Within art practice that explores mediated forms of wandering—that is, walking while using media and various “remote transmission technologies” (Duclos 233)—walkie-talkies hold appeal for a number of reasons, including their particular aesthetic qualities, such as the crackling or static sound (squelch) that one encounters when using them; their portability; their affordability; and, the fact that, while they can be operated on multiple channels, they tend to be regarded primarily as devices that permit two-way, one-to-one (and therefore intimate, if not secure) remote communication. As we will see below, however, contemporary artists, such as the aforementioned earlier advertisers, have also been very attentive to the device’s experimental possibilities. Perhaps the best known (if possibly apocryphal) example of artistic use of walkie-talkies is by the Situationist International as part of their explorations in urban wandering (a revolutionary strategy called dérive). In the Situationist text from 1960, Die Welt als Labyrinth (Anon.), there is a detailed account of how walkie-talkies were to form part of a planned dérive, which was organised by the Dutch section of the Situationist International, through the city of Amsterdam, but which never went ahead:Two groups, each containing three situationists, would dérive for three days, on foot or eventually by boat (sleeping in hotels along the way) without leaving the center of Amsterdam. By means of the walkie-talkies with which they would be equipped, these groups would remain in contact, with each other, if possible, and in any case with the radio-truck of the cartographic team, from where the director of the dérive—in this case Constant [Nieuwenhuys]—moving around so as to maintain contact, would define their routes and sometimes give instructions (it was also the director of the dérive’s responsibility to prepare experiments at certain locations and secretly arranged events.) (Anon.) This proposed dérive formed part of Situationist experiments in unitary urbanism, a process that consisted of “making different parts of the city communicate with one another.” Their ambition was to create new situations informed by, among other things, encounters and atmospheres that were registered through dérive in order to reconnect parts of the city that were separated spatially (Lefebvre quoted in Lefebvre and Ross 73). In an interview with Kristin Ross, Henri Lefebvre insists that the Situationists “did have their experiments; I didn’t participate. They used all kinds of means of communication—I don’t know when exactly they were using walkie-talkies. But I know they were used in Amsterdam and in Strasbourg” (Lefebvre quoted in Lefebvre and Ross 73). However, as Rebecca Duclos points out, such use “is, in fact, not well documented”, and “none of the more well-known reports on situationist activity […] specifically mentions the use of walkie-talkies within their descriptive narratives” (Duclos 233). In the early 2000s, walkie-talkies also figured prominently, alongside other media devices, in at least two location-based gaming projects by renowned British art collective Blast Theory, Can You See Me Now? (2001) and You Get Me (2008). In the first of these projects, participants in the game (“online players”) competed against members of Blast Theory (“runners”), tracking them through city streets via a GPS-enabled handheld computer that runners carried with them. The goal for online players was to move an avatar they created through a virtual map of the city as multiple runners “pursued their avatar’s geographical coordinates in real-time” (Leorke). As Dale Leorke explains, “Players could see the locations of the runners and other players and exchange text messages with other players” (Leorke 27), and runners could “read players’ messages and communicate directly with each other through a walkie-talkie” (28). An audio stream from these walkie-talkie conversations allowed players to eavesdrop on their pursuers (Blast Theory, Can You See Me Now?).You Get Me was similarly structured, with online players and “runners” (eight teenagers who worked with Blast Theory on the game). Remotely situated online players began the game by listening to the “personal geography” of the runners over a walkie-talkie stream (Blast Theory, You Get Me). They then selected one runner, and tracked them down by navigating their own avatar, without being caught, through a virtual version of Mile End Park in London, in pursuit of their chosen runner who was moving about the actual Mile End Park. Once their chosen runner was contacted, the player had to respond to a question that the runner posed to them. If the runner was satisfied with the player’s answer, conversation switched to “the privacy of a mobile phone” in order to converse further; if not, the player was thrown back into the game (Blast Theory, You Get Me). A key aim of Blast Theory’s work, as I have argued elsewhere (Wilken), is the fostering of interactions and fleeting intimacies between relative and complete strangers. The walkie-talkie is a key tool in both the aforementioned Blast Theory projects for facilitating these interactions and intimacies.Beyond these well-known examples, walkie-talkies have been employed in productive and exploratory ways by other artists. The focus in this article is on two specific projects: the first by US-based sound artist Sabrina Raaf, called Saturday (2002) and the second by Serbian sound designer Lukatoyboy (Luka Ivanović), titled Walk That Sound (2014). Sonic IntimaciesThe concept that gives shape and direction to the analysis of the art projects by Raaf and Lukatoyboy and their use of walkie-talkies is that of sonic intimacy. This is a concept of emerging critical interest across media and sound studies and geography (see, for example, James; Pettman; Gallagher and Prior). Sonic intimacy, as Dominic Pettman explains, is composed of two simultaneous yet opposing orientations. On the one hand, sonic intimacy involves a “turning inward, away from the wider world, to more private and personal experiences and relationships” (79). While, on the other hand, it also involves a turning outward, to seek and heed “the voice of the world” (79)—or what Pettman refers to as the “vox mundi” (66). Pettman conceives of the “vox mundi” as an “ecological voice”, whereby “all manner of creatures, agents, entities, objects, and phenomena” (79) have the opportunity to speak to us, if only we were prepared to listen to our surroundings in new and different ways. In a later passage, he also refers to the “vox mundi” as a “carrier or potentially enlightening alterity” (83). Voices, Pettman writes, “transgress the neat divisions we make between ‘us’ and ‘them’, at all scales and junctures” (6). Thus, Pettman’s suggestion is that “by listening to the ‘voices’ that lie dormant in the surrounding world […] we may in turn foster a more sustainable relationship with [the] local matrix of specific existences” (85), be they human or otherwise.This formulation of sonic intimacy provides a productive conceptual frame for thinking through Raaf’s and Lukatoyboy’s use of walkie-talkies. The contention in this article is that these two projects are striking for the way that they both use walkie-talkies to explore, simultaneously, this double articulation or dual orientation of sonic intimacy—a turning inwards to capture more private and personal experiences and conversations, and a turning outwards to capture the vox mundi. Employing Pettman’s notion of sonic intimacy as a conceptual frame, I trace below the different ways that these two projects incorporate walkie-talkies in order to develop mediated forms of wandering that seek to capture place-based sonic ambiances and sonic intimacies.Sabrina Raaf, Saturday (2002)US sound artist Sabrina Raaf’s Saturday (2002) is a sound-based art installation based on recordings of “stolen conversations” that Raaf gathered over many Saturdays in Humboldt Park, Chicago. Raaf’s work harks back to the early marketing of walkie-talkie toys as spyware. In Raaf’s hands, this device is used not for engaging in intimate one-to-one conversation, but for listening in on, and capturing, the intimate conversations of others. In other words, she uses this device, as the Nextel slogan goes, for “communication without permission to communicate” (“Nextel”). Raaf’s inspiration for the piece was twofold. First, she has noted that “with the overuse of radio frequency bands for wireless communications, there comes the increased occurrence of crossed lines where a private conversation becomes accidentally shared” (Raaf). Reminiscent of Francis Ford Coppola’s film The Conversation (1974), in which surveillance expert Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) records the conversation of a couple as they walk through crowded Union Square in San Francisco, Raaf used a combination of walkie-talkies, CB radios, and “various other forms of consumer spy […] technology in order to actively harvest such communication leaks” (Raaf). The second source of inspiration was noticing the “sheer quantity of non-phone, low tech, radio transmissions that were constantly being sent around [the] neighbourhood”, transmissions that were easily intercepted. These conversations were eclectic in composition and character:The transmissions included communications between gang members on street corners nearby and group conversations between friends talking about changes in the neighbourhood and their families. There were raw, intimate conversations and often even late night sex talk between potential lovers. (Raaf)What struck Raaf about these conversations, these transmissions, was that there was “a furtive quality” to most of them, and “a particular daringness to their tone”.During her Saturday wanderings, Raaf complemented her recordings of stolen snippets of conversation with recordings of the “voice” of the surrounding neighbourhood—“the women singing out their windows to their radios, the young men in their low rider cars circling the block, the children, the ice cream carts, etc. These are the sounds that are mixed into the piece” (Raaf).Audience engagement with Saturday involves a kind of austere intimacy of its own that seems befitting of a surveillance-inspired sonic portrait of urban and private life. The piece is accessed via an interactive glove. This glove is white in colour and about the size of a large gardening glove, with a Velcro strap that fastens across the hand, like a cycling glove. The glove, which only has coverings for thumb and first two fingers (it is missing the ring and little fingers) is wired into and rests on top of a roughly A4-sized white rectangular box. This box, which is mounted onto the wall of an all-white gallery space at the short end, serves as a small shelf. The displayed glove is illuminated by a discrete, bent-arm desk lamp, that protrudes from the shelf near the gallery wall. Above the shelf are a series of wall-mounted colour images that relate to the project. In order to hear the soundtrack of Saturday, gallery visitors approach the shelf, put on the glove, and “magically just press their fingertips to their forehead [to] hear the sound without the use of their ears” (Raaf). The glove, Raaf explains, “is outfitted with leading edge audio electronic devices called ‘bone transducers’ […]. These transducers transmit sound in a very unusual fashion. They translate sound into vibration patterns which resonate through bone” (Raaf).Employing this technique, Raaf explains, “permits a new way of listening”:The user places their fingers to their forehead—in a gesture akin to Rodin’s The Thinker or of a clairvoyant—in order to tap into the lives of strangers. Pressing different combinations of fingers to the temple yield plural viewpoints and group conversations. These sounds are literally mixed in the bones of the listener. (Raaf) The result is a (literally and figuratively) touching sonic portrait of Humboldt Park, its residents, and the “voice” of its surrounding neighbourhoods. Through the unique technosomatic (Richardson) apparatus—combinations of gestures that convey the soundscape directly through the bones and body—those engaging with Saturday get to hear voices in/of/around Humboldt Park. It is a portrait that combines sonic intimacy in the two forms described earlier in this article. In its inward-focused form, the gallery visitor-listener is positioned as a voyeur of sorts, listening into stolen snippets of private and personal relationships, experiences, and interactions. And, in its outward-focused form, the gallery visitor-listener encounters a soundscape in which an array of agents, entities, and objects are also given a voice. Additional work performed by this piece, it seems to me, is to be found in the intermingling of these two form of sonic intimacy—the personal and the environmental—and the way that they prompt reflection on mediation, place, urban life, others, and intimacy. That is to say that, beyond its particular sonic portrait of Humboldt Park, Saturday works in “clearing some conceptual space” in the mind of the departing gallery visitor such that they might “listen for, if not precisely to, the collective, polyphonic ‘voice of the world’” (Pettman 6) as they go about their day-to-day lives.Lukatoyboy, Walk That Sound (2014)The second project, Walk That Sound, by Serbian sound artist Lukatoyboy was completed for the 2014 CTM festival. CTM is an annual festival event that is staged in Berlin and dedicated to “adventurous music and art” (CTM Festival, “About”). A key project within the festival is CTM Radio Lab. The Lab supports works, commissioned by CTM Festival and Deutschlandradio Kultur – Hörspiel/Klangkunst (among other partnering organisations), that seek to pair and explore the “specific artistic possibilities of radio with the potentials of live performance or installation” (CTM Festival, “Projects”). Lukatoyboy’s Walk That Sound was one of two commissioned pieces for the 2014 CTM Radio Lab. The project used the “commonplace yet often forgotten walkie-talkie” (CTM Festival, “Projects”) to create a moving urban sound portrait in the area around the Kottbusser Tor U-Bahn station in Berlin-Kreuzberg. Walk That Sound recruited participants—“mobile scouts”—to rove around the Kottbusser Tor area (CTM Festival, “Projects”). Armed with walkie-talkies, and playing with “the array of available and free frequencies, and the almost unlimited amount of users that can interact over these different channels”, the project captured the dispatches via walkie-talkie of each participant (CTM Festival, “Projects”). The resultant recording of Walk That Sound—which was aired on Deutschlandradio (see Lukatoyboy), part of a long tradition of transmitting experimental music and sound art on German radio (Cory)—forms an eclectic soundscape.The work juxtaposes snippets of dialogue shared between the mobile scouts, overheard mobile phone conversations, and moments of relative quietude, where the subdued soundtrack is formed by the ambient sounds—the “voice”—of the Kottbusser Tor area. This voice includes distant traffic, the distinctive auditory ticking of pedestrian lights, and moments of tumult and agitation, such as the sounds of construction work, car horns, emergency services vehicle sirens, a bottle bouncing on the pavement, and various other repetitive yet difficult to identify industrial sounds. This voice trails off towards the end of the recording into extended walkie-talkie produced static or squelch. The topics covered within the “crackling dialogues” (CTM Festival, “Projects”) of the mobile scouts ranged widely. There were banal observations (“I just stepped on a used tissue”; “people are crossing the street”; “there are 150 trains”)—wonderings that bear strong similarities with French writer Georges Perec’s well-known experimental descriptions of everyday Parisian life in the 1970s (Perec “An Attempt”). There were also intimate, confiding, flirtatious remarks (“Do you want to come to Turkey with me?”), as well as a number of playfully paranoid observations and quips (“I like to lie”; “I can see you”; “do you feel like you are being recorded?”; “I’m being followed”) that seem to speak to the fraught history of Berlin in particular as well as the complicated character of urban life in general—as Pettman asks, “what does ‘together’ signify in a socioeconomic system so efficient in producing alienation and isolation?” (92).In sum, Walk That Sound is a strangely moving exploration of sonic intimacy, one that shifts between many different registers and points of focus—much like urban wandering itself. As a work, it is variously funny, smart, paranoid, intimate, expansive, difficult to decipher, and, at times, even difficult to listen to. Pettman argues that, “thanks in large part to the industrialization of the human ear […], we have lost the capacity to hear the vox mundi, which is […] the sum total of cacophonous, heterogeneous, incommensurate, and unsynthesizable sounds of the postnatural world” (8). Walk That Sound functions almost like a response to this dilemma. One comes away from listening to it with a heightened awareness of, appreciation for, and aural connection to the rich messiness of the polyphonic contemporary urban vox mundi. ConclusionThe argument of this article is that Sabrina Raaf’s Saturday and Lukatoyboy’s Walk That Sound are two projects that both incorporate walkie-talkies in order to develop mediated forms of wandering that seek to capture place-based sonic ambiances and sonic intimacies. Drawing on Pettman’s notion of “sonic intimacy”, examination of these projects has opened consideration around voice, analogue technology, and what Nick Couldry refers to as “an obligation to listen” (Couldry 580). In order to be heard, Pettman remarks, and “in order to be considered a voice at all”, and therefore as “something worth heeding”, the vox mundi “must arrive intimately, or else it is experienced as noise or static” (Pettman 83). In both the projects discussed here—Saturday and Walk That Sound—the walkie-talkie provides this means of “intimate arrival”. As half-duplex communication devices, walkie-talkies have always fulfilled a double function: communicating and listening. This dual functionality is exploited in new ways by Raaf and Lukatoyboy. In their projects, both artists turn the microphone outwards, such that the walkie-talkie becomes not just a device for communicating while in the field, but also—and more strikingly—it becomes a field recording device. The result of which is that this simple, “playful” communication device is utilised in these two projects in two ways: on the one hand, as a “carrier of potentially enlightening alterity” (Pettman 83), a means of encouraging “potential encounters” (89) with strangers who have been thrown together and who cross paths, and, on the other hand, as a means of fostering “an environmental awareness” (89) of the world around us. In developing these prompts, Raaf and Lukatoyboy build potential bridges between Pettman’s work on sonic intimacy, their own work, and the work of other experimental artists. For instance, in relation to potential encounters, there are clear points of connection with Blast Theory, a group who, as noted earlier, have utilised walkie-talkies and sound-based and other media technologies to explore issues around urban encounters with strangers that promote reflection on ideas and experiences of otherness and difference (see Wilken)—issues that are also implicit in the two works examined. In relation to environmental awareness, their work—as well as Pettman’s calls for greater sonic intimacy—brings renewed urgency to Georges Perec’s encouragement to “question the habitual” and to account for, and listen carefully to, “the common, the ordinary, the infraordinary, the background noise” (Perec “Approaches” 210).Walkie-talkies, for Raaf and Lukatoyboy, when reimagined as field recording devices as much as remote transmission technologies, thus “allow new forms of listening, which in turn afford new forms of being together” (Pettman 92), new forms of being in the world, and new forms of sonic intimacy. Both these artworks engage with, and explore, what’s at stake in a politics and ethics of listening. Pettman prompts us, as urban dweller-wanderers, to think about how we might “attend to the act of listening itself, rather than to a specific sound” (Pettman 1). His questioning, as this article has explored, is answered by the works from Raaf and Lukatoyboy in effective style and technique, setting up opportunities for aural attentiveness and experiential learning. However, it is up to us whether we are prepared to listen carefully and to open ourselves to such intimate sonic contact with others and with the environments in which we live.ReferencesAnon. “Die Welt als Labyrinth.” Internationale Situationiste 4 (Jan. 1960). International Situationist Online, 19 June 2019 &lt;https://www.cddc.vt.edu/sionline/si/diewelt.html&gt;Blast Theory. “Can You See Me Now?” Blast Theory, 19 June 2019 &lt;https://www.blasttheory.co.uk/projects/can-you-see-me-now/&gt;.———. “You Get Me.” Blast Theory, 19 June 2019 &lt;https://wwww.blasttheory.co.uk/projects/you-get-me/&gt;.Cory, Mark E. “Soundplay: The Polyphonous Tradition of German Radio Art.” Wireless Imagination: Sound, Radio, and the Avant-garde. Eds. Douglas Kahn and Gregory Whitehead. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1992. 331–371.Couldry, Nick. “Rethinking the Politics of Voice.” Continuum 23.4 (2009): 579–582.CTM Festival. “About.” CTM Festival, 2019. 19 June 2019 &lt;https://www.ctm-festival.de/about/ctm-festival/&gt;.———. “Projects – CTM Radio Lab.” CTM Festival, 2019. 19 June 2019 &lt;https://www.ctm-festival.de/projects/ctm-radio-lab/&gt;.Duclos, Rebecca. “Reconnaissance/Méconnaissance: The Work of Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller.” Articulate Objects: Voice, Sculpture and Performance. Eds. Aura Satz and Jon Wood. Bern: Peter Lang, 2009. 221–246. Gallagher, Michael, and Jonathan Prior. “Sonic Geographies: Exploring Phonographic Methods.” Progress in Human Geography 38.2 (2014): 267–284.James, Malcom. Sonic Intimacy: The Study of Sound. London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming.Lefebvre, Henri, and Kristin Ross. “Lefebvre on the Situationists: An Interview.” October 79 (Winter 1997): 69–83. Leorke, Dale. Location-Based Gaming: Play in Public Space. Singapore: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019.Lukatoyboy. “Walk That Sound – Deutschlandradiokultur Klangkunst Broadcast 14.02.2014.” SoundCloud. 19 June 2019 &lt;https://soundcloud.com/lukatoyboy/walk-that-sound-deutschlandradiokultur-broadcast-14022014&gt;.“Nextel: Couple. Walkie Talkies Are Good for Something More.” AdAge. 6 June 2012. 18 July 2019 &lt;https://adage.com/creativity/work/couple/27993&gt;.Perec, Georges. An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris. Trans. Marc Lowenthal. Cambridge, MA: Wakefield Press, 2010.———. “Approaches to What?” Species of Spaces and Other Pieces. Rev. ed. Ed. and trans. John Sturrock. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin, 1999. 209–211.Pettman, Dominic. Sonic Intimacy: Voice, Species, Technics (Or, How to Listen to the World). Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 2017.Raaf, Sabrina. “Saturday.” Sabrina Raaf :: New Media Artist, 2002. 19 June 2019 &lt;http://raaf.org/projects.php?pcat=2&amp;proj=10&gt;.Richardson, Ingrid. “Mobile Technosoma: Some Phenomenological Reflections on Itinerant Media Devices.” The Fibreculture Journal 6 (2005). &lt;http://six.fibreculturejournal.org/fcj-032-mobile-technosoma-some-phenomenological-reflections-on-itinerant-media-devices/&gt;. Smith, Ernie. “Roger That: A Short History of the Walkie Talkie.” Vice, 23 Sep. 2017. 19 June 2019 &lt;https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/vb7vk4/roger-that-a-short-history-of-the-walkie-talkie&gt;. Statuv. “Details about Allied Radio Knight-Kit C-100 Walkie Talkie CB Radio Vtg Print Ad.” Statuv, 4 Jan. 2016. 18 July 2019 &lt;https://statuv.com/media/74802043788985511&gt;.———. “New! 1953 ‘Space Commander’ Vibro-Matic Walkie-Talkies.” Statuv, 4 Jan. 2016. 18 July 2019 &lt;https://statuv.com/media/74802043788985539&gt;.Wikipedia. “Walkie-Talkie”. Wikipedia, 3 July 2019. 18 July 2019 &lt;https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walkie-talkie&gt;.Wilken, Rowan. “Proximity and Alienation: Narratives of City, Self, and Other in the Locative Games of Blast Theory.” The Mobile Story: Narrative Practices with Locative Technologies. Ed. Jason Farman. New York: Routledge, 2014. 175–191.

In many ways, computers are becoming invisible and will continue to do so. When we reach into our pockets and pull out our cell phones to find a place to eat or message a friend on Facebook, we are no longer consciously aware that we are interacting with a user experience that has been consciously designed for our computer or device screen—but we are.— Andy Pratt and Jason Nunes, Interactive Design In theory, cell phones and other information and communication technologies (ICTs) are just a means for us to interact with people, businesses, and data sources. They have interfaces and, in a larger sense, are interfaces between their users and the networked world. Every day, people spend more time using them to perform more different tasks and find them more indispensable (Smith). As the epigraph above suggests, however, their omnipresence makes them practically invisible and has all but erased any feelings of awe or mystery that their power once generated. There is both a historical and functional dimension to this situation. In the historical advance of technology, it is part of what Kevin Kelly calls the “technium,” the ever-more complex interactions between advancing technology, our cognitive processes, and the cultural forces in which they are enmeshed; ICTs are measurably getting more powerful as time goes on and are, in this sense, worthy of our admiration (Kelly 11-17). In the functional dimension, on the other hand, many scholars and designers have observed how hard it is to hold on to this feeling of enchantment in our digital devices (Nye 185-226; McCarthy and Wright 192-97). As one study of human-computer interfaces observes “when people let the enchanting object [ICTs] do the emotional work of experience for them . . . what could be enchanting interactivity becomes a paradoxically detached interpassivity” (McCarthy et al. 377). ICTs can be ever more powerful, then, but this power will not necessarily be appreciated by their users. This paper analyzes recent narrative representations of ICT use in spy thrillers, with a particular focus on the canon of James Bond films (a sub-genre with a long-standing and overt fascination with advanced technology, especially ICTs), in order to explore how the banality of ICT technology has become the inescapable accompaniment of its power (Willis; Britton 99-123; 195-219). Among many possible recent examples: recall how Bond uses his ordinary cell phone camera to reveal the membership of the sinister Quantum group at an opera performance in Quantum of Solace; how world-wide video surveillance is depicted as inescapable (and amoral) in The Bourne Legacy; and how the anonymous protagonist of Roman Polanski’s Ghost Writer discovers the vital piece of top secret information that explains the entire film—by searching for it on his laptop via Google. In each of these cases, ICTs are represented as both incredibly powerful and tediously quotidian. More precisely, in each case human users are represented as interfaces between ICTs and their stored knowledge, rather than the reverse. Beginning with an account of how the naturalization of ICTs has changed the perceived relations between technology and its users, this essay argues that the promotional rhetoric of human empowerment and augmentation surrounding ICTs is opposed by a persistent cinematic theme of human subordination to technological needs. The question it seeks to open is why—why do the mainstream cinematic narratives of our culture depict the ICTs that enhance our capacities to know and communicate as something that diminishes rather than augments us? One answer (which can only be provisionally sketched here) is the loss of pleasure. It does not matter whether or not technology augments our capacities if it cannot sustain the fantasy of pleasure and/or enhancement at the same time. Without this fantasy, ICTs are represented as usurping position as the knowing subject and users, in turn, become the media connecting them– even when that user is James Bond. The Rhetoric of Augmentation Until the past five years or so, the technologization of the human mind was almost always represented in popular culture as a threat to humanity—whether it be Ira Levin’s robotic Stepford Wives as the debased expression of male wish-fulfillment (Levin), or Jonathan Demme’s brainwashed assassins with computer chip implants in his remake of The Manchurian Candidate. When Captain Picard, the leader and moral centre of the television series Star Trek: The Next Generation, is taken over by the Borg (an alien machine race that seeks to absorb other species into its technologized collective mind) in an episode from 1990, it is described as “assimilation” rather than an augmentation. The Borg version of Picard says to his former comrades that “we only wish to raise quality of life, for all species,” and it is a chilling, completely unemotional threat to the survival of our species (“Best of Both Worlds”). By 2012, on the other hand, the very same imagery is being used to sell smart phones by celebrating the technological enhancements that allegedly make us better human beings. In Verizon’s Droid DNA phone promotions, the product is depicted as an artificial heart for its user, one that enhances memory, “neural speed,” and “predictive intelligence” (thanks to Google Now). The tagline for the Verizon ad claims that “It’s not an upgrade to your phone; it’s an upgrade to yourself”, echoing Borg-Picard’s threat but this time as an aspirational promise (“Verizon Commercial”). The same technologization of the mind that was anathema just a few years ago, is now presented as both a desirable consumer goal and a professional necessity—the final close-up of the Verizon artificial heart shows that this 21st century cyborg has to be at his job in 26 minutes; the omnipresence of work in a networked world is here literally taken to heart. There is, notably, no promise of pleasure or liberation anywhere in this advertisement. We are meant to desire this product very much, but solely because it allows us to do more and better work. Not coincidentally, the period that witnessed this inversion in popular culture also saw an exponential increase in the quantity and variety of digitally networked devices in our lives (“Mobile Cellular”) and the emergence of serious cultural, scientific, and philosophical movements exploring the idea of “enhanced” human beings, whether through digital tool use, biomedical prostheses, drugs, or genetic modifications (Buchanan; Savulescu and Bostrom; “Humanity +”). As the material boundaries of the “human” have become more permeable and malleable, and as the technologies that make this possible become everyday objects, our resistance to this possibility has receded. The discourse of the transhuman and extropian is now firmly established as a philosophical possibility (Lilley). Personal augmentation with the promise of pleasure is still, of course, very much present in the presentation of ICTs. Launching the iPad 2 in 2011, the late Steve Jobs described his new product as a “magical and revolutionary device” with an “incredible magical user interface on a much larger canvas with more resources” and gushing that “it's technology married with liberal arts, married with the humanities, that yields us the result that makes our hearts sing” (“Apple Special Event”). This is the rhetoric of augmentation through technology and, as in the Verizon ad, it is very careful to position the consumer/user at the centre of the experience. The technology is described as wonderful not just in itself, but also precisely because it gives users “a larger canvas” with which to create. Likewise, the lifelogging movement (which encourages people to use small cameras to record every event of daily life) is at great pains to stress that “you, not your desktop’s hard drive, are the hub of your digital belongings” (Bell and Gemmell 10). But do users experience life with these devices as augmented? Is either the Verizon work cyborg or the iPad user’s singing heart representative of how these devices make us feel? It depends upon the context in which the question is asked. Extensive survey data on cell phone use shows that we are more attached than ever to our phones, that they allow us to be “productive” in otherwise dead times (such as while waiting in queues), and that only a minority of users worry about the negative effects of being “permanently connected” (Smith 9-10). Representations of technological augmentation in 21st century popular cinema, however, offer a very different perspective. Even in James Bond films, which (since Goldfinger in 1964) have been enraptured with technological devices as augmentations for its protagonists and as lures for audiences, digital devices have (in the three most recent films) lost their magic and become banal in the same way as they have in the lives of audience members (Nitins 2010; Nitins 2011; “List of James Bond Gadgets”). Rather than focusing on technological empowerment, the post 2006 Bond films emphasize (1) that ICTs “know” things and that human agents are just the media that connect them together; and (2) that the reciprocal nature of networked ICTs means that we are always visible when we use them; like Verizon phone users, our on-screen heroes have to learn that the same technology that empowers them simultaneously empowers others to know and/or control them. Using examples from the James Bond franchise, the remainder of this paper discusses the simultaneous disenchantment and power of ICT technology in the films as a representative sample of the cultural status of ICTs as a whole. “We don’t go in for that sort of thing any more...” From Goldfinger until the end of Pierce Brosnan’s tenure in 2002, technological devices were an important part of the audience’s pleasure in a Bond film (Willis; Nitins 2011). James Bond’s jetpack in Thunderball, to give one of many examples, is a quasi-magical aid for the hero with literary precursors going back to Aeneas’s golden bough; it is utterly enchanting and, equally importantly, fun. In the most recent Bond film, Skyfall, however, Q, the character who has historically made Bond’s technology, reappears after a two-film hiatus, but in the guise of a computer nerd who openly disdains the pleasures and possibilities of technological augmentation. When Bond complains about receiving only a gun and a radio from him, Q replies: “What did you expect? An exploding pen? We don’t really go in for that sort of thing any more.” Technology is henceforth to be banal and invisible albeit (as the film’s computer hacker villain Silva demonstrates) still incredibly powerful. The film’s pleasures must come from elsewhere. The post-credit sequence in Casino Royale, which involves the pursuit and eventual death of a terrorist bomb-maker, perfectly embodies the diminished importance of human agents as bearers of knowledge. It is bracketed at the beginning by the bomber looking at a text message while under surveillance by Bond and a colleague and at the end by Bond looking at the same message after having killed him. Significantly, the camera angle and setup of both shots make it impossible to distinguish between Bond’s hand and the bomber’s as they see the same piece of information on the same phone. The ideological, legal, racial, and other differences between the two men are erased in pursuit of the data (the name “Ellipsis” and a phone number) that they both covet. As digitally-transmitted data, it is there for anyone, completely unaffected by the moral or legal value attached to its users. Cell phones in these films are, in many ways, better sources of information than their owners—after killing a phone’s owner, his or her network traces can show exactly where s/he has been and to whom s/he has been talking, and this is how Bond proceeds. The bomber’s phone contacts lead Bond to the Bahamas, to the next villain in the chain, whom Bond kills and from whom he obtains another cell phone, which allows the next narrative location to be established (Miami Airport) and the next villain to be located (by calling his cell phone in a crowded room and seeing who answers) (Demetrios). There are no conventional interrogations needed here, because it is the digital devices that are the locus of knowledge rather than people. Even Bond’s lover Vesper Lynd sends her most important message to him (the name and cell phone number of the film’s arch villain) in a posthumous text, rather than in an actual conversation. Cell phones do not enable communication between people; people connect the important information that cell phones hold together. The second manifestation of the disenchantment of ICT technology is the disempowering omnipresence of surveillance. Bond and his colleague are noticed by the bomber when the colleague touches his supposedly invisible communication earpiece. With the audience’s point of view conflated with that of the secret agent, the technology of concealment becomes precisely what reveals the secret agent’s identity in the midst of a chaotic scene in which staying anonymous should be the easiest thing in the world; other villains identify Bond by the same means in a hotel hallway later in the film. While chasing the bomber, Bond is recorded by a surveillance camera in the act of killing him on the grounds of a foreign embassy. The secret agent is, as a result, made into an object of knowledge for the international media, prompting M (Bond’s boss) to exclaim that their political masters “don’t care what we do, they care what we get photographed doing.” Bond is henceforth part of the mediascape, so well known as a spy that he refuses to use the alias that MI6 provides for his climactic encounter with the main villain LeChiffre on the grounds that any well-connected master criminal will know who he is anyway. This can, of course, go both ways: Bond uses the omnipresence of surveillance to find another of his targets by using the security cameras of a casino. This one image contains many layers of reference—Bond the character has found his man; he has also found an iconic image from his own cultural past (the Aston Martin DB V car that is the only clearly delineated object in the frame) that he cannot understand as such because Casino Royale is a “reboot” and he has only just become 007. But the audience knows what it means and can insert this incarnation of James Bond in its historical sequence and enjoy the allusion to a past of which Bond is oblivious. The point is that surveillance is omnipresent, anonymity is impossible, and we are always being watched and interpreted by someone. This is true in the film’s narrative and also in the cultural/historical contexts in which the Bond films operate. It may be better to be the watcher rather than the watched, but we are always already both. By the end of the film, Bond is literally being framed by technological devices and becomes the organic connection between different pieces of technology. The literal centrality of the human agent in these images is not, in this disenchanted landscape, an indication of his importance. The cell phones to which Bond listens in these images connect him (and us) to the past, the back story or context provided by his masters that permits the audience to understand the complex plot that is unfolding before them. The devices at which he looks represent the future, the next situation or person that he must contain. He does not fully understand what is happening, but he is not there to understand – he is there to join the information held in the various devices together, which (in this film) usually means to kill someone. The third image in this sequence is from the final scene of the film, and the assault rifle marks this end—the chain of cell phone messages (direct and indirect) that has driven Casino Royale from its outset has been stopped. The narrative stops with it. Bond’s centrality amid these ICTS and their messages is simultaneously what allows him to complete his mission and what subjects him to their needs. This kind of technological power can be so banal precisely because it has been stripped of pleasure and of any kind of mystique. The conclusion of Skyfall reinforces this by inverting all of the norms that Bond films have created about their climaxes: instead of the technologically-empowered villain’s lair being destroyed, it is Bond’s childhood home that is blown up. Rather than beating the computer hacker at his own game, Bond kills him with a knife in a medieval Scottish church. It could hardly be less hi-tech if it tried, which is precisely the point. What the Bond franchise and the other films mentioned above have shown us, is that we do not rely on ICTs for enchantment any more because they are so powerfully connected to the everyday reality of work and to the loss of privacy that our digital devices exact as the price of their use. The advertising materials that sell them to us have to rely on the rhetoric of augmentation, but these films are signs that we do not experience them as empowering devices any more. The deeper irony is that (for once) the ICT consumer products being advertised to us today really do what their promotional materials claim: they are faster, more powerful, and more widely applicable in our lives than ever before. Without the user fantasy of augmentation, however, this truth has very little power to move us. We depict ourselves as the medium, and it is our digital devices that bear the message.References“Apple Special Event. March 2, 2011.” Apple Events. 21 Sep. 2013 ‹http://events.apple.com.edgesuite.net/1103pijanbdvaaj/event/index.html›. Bell, Gordon, and Jim Gemmell. Total Recall: How the E-Memory Revolution Will Change Everything. New York: Dutton, 2009.“The Best of Both Worlds: Part Two.” Star Trek: The Next Generation. Dir. Cliff Bole. Paramount, 2013. The Bourne Legacy. Dir. 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Beverly, MA: Rockport, 2012. Quantum of Solace. Dir: Marc Foster, Eon Productions, 2008. DVD. Savulescu, Julian, and Nick Bostrom, eds. Human Enhancement. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Skyfall. Dir. Sam Mendes. Eon Productions, 2012. Smith, Aaron. The Best and Worst of Mobile Connectivity. Pew Internet &amp; American Life Project. Pew Research Center. 25 Aug. 2013 ‹http://pewinternet.org/Reports/2012/Best-Worst-Mobile.aspx›. Thunderball. Dir. Terence Young. Eon Productions, 1965. “Verizon Commercial – Droid DNA ‘Hyper Intelligence’.” 11 April 2013 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IYIAaBOb5Bo›. Willis, Martin. “Hard-Wear: The Millenium, Technology, and Brosnan’s Bond.” The James Bond Phenomenon: A Critical Reader. Ed. Christoph Linder. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001. 151-65.

Introduction Children are beginning to use digital technologies at younger and younger ages. The emerging trend of very young children (babies, toddlers and pre-schoolers) using Internet connected devices, especially touch screen tablets and smartphones, has elicited polarising opinions from early childhood experts. At present there is little actual research about the risks or benefits of tablet and smartphone use by very young children. Current usage recommendations, based on research into passive television watching which claims that screen time is detrimental, is in conflict with advice from education experts and app developers who commend interactive screen time as engaging and educational. Guidelines from the health professions typically advise strict time limits on very young children’s screen-time. Based for the most part on policy developed by the American Academy of Paediatrics, it is usually recommended that children under two have no screen time at all (Brown), and children over this age have no more than two hours a day (Strasburger, et al.). On the other hand, early childhood education guidelines promote the development of digital literacy skills (Department of Education). Further, education-based research indicates that access to computers and the Internet in the preschool years is associated with overall educational achievement (Bittman et al.; Cavanaugh et al; Judge et al; Neumann). The US based National Association for Education of Young Children’s position statement on technology for zero to eight year-olds declares that “when used intentionally and appropriately, technology and interactive media are effective tools to support learning and development” (NAEYC). This article discusses the notion of Digitods—a name for those children born since the introduction of the iPhone in 2007 who have ready access to touchscreen technologies since birth. It reports on the limited availability of evidence-based research about these children’s ICT use concluding that current research and recommendations are not grounded in the everyday life of very young children and their families. The article then reports on the beginnings of a research project funded by the Australian Research Council entitled Toddlers and Tablets: exploring the risks and benefits 0-5s face online. This research project recognises that at this stage it is parents who “are the real experts in their toddlers’ use of screen technologies. Accordingly, the project’s methodological approach draws on parents, pre-schoolers and their families as communities of practice in the construction of social meaning around toddlers’ use of touch screen technology. Digitods In 2000 Bill Gates introduced the notion of Generation I to describe the first cohort of children raised with the Internet as a reality in their lives. They are those born after the 1990s and will, in most cases; have no memory of life without the Net. [...] Generation I will be able to conceive of the Internet’s possibilities far more profoundly than we can today. This new generation will become agents of change as the limits of the Internet expand to include educational, scientific, and business applications that we cannot even imagine. (Gates)Digitods, on the other hand, is a term that has been used in education literature (Leathers et al.) to describe those children born after the introduction of the iPhone in 2007. These children often begin their lives with ready access to the Internet via easily usable touch screen devices, which could have been designed with toddlers’ touch and swipe movements in mind. Not only are they the youngest group of children to actively engage with the Internet they are the first group to grow up with a range of mobile Internet devices (Leathers et al.). The difference between Digitods and Gates’s Generation I is that Digitods are the first pre-verbal, non-ambulant infants to have ready access to digital technologies. Somewhere around the age of 10 months to fourteen months a baby learns to point with his or her forefinger. At this stage the child is ready to swipe and tap a touch screen (Leathers et al.). This is in contrast to laptops and PCs given that very young children often need assistance to use a mouse or keyboard. The mobility of touch screen devices allows very young children to play at the kitchen table, in the bedroom or on a car trip. These mobile devices have, of course, a myriad of mobile apps to go with them. These apps create an immediacy of access for infants and pre-schoolers who do not need to open a web browser to find their favourite sites. In the lives of these children it seems that it has always been possible to touch and swipe their way into games, books and creative and communicative experiences (Holloway et al. 149). The interactivity of most pre-school apps, as opposed to more passive screen activities such as watching television shows or videos (both offline or online), requires toddlers and pre-schoolers to pay careful attention, think about things and act purposefully (Leathers et al.). It is this interactivity which is the main point of difference, one which holds the potential to engage and educate our youngest children. It should be noted within this discussion about Digitods that, while the trope Digital Natives tends to homogenise an entire generation, the authors do not assume that all children born today are Digitods by default. Many children do not have the same privileged opportunities as others, or the (parental) cultural capital, to enable access, ease of use and digital skill development. In addition to this it is not implied that Digitods will be more tech savvy than their older siblings. The term is used more to describe and distinguish those children who have digital access almost since birth—in order to differentiate or tease out everyday family practices around these children’s ICT use and the possible risks and benefits this access affords babies, toddlers and pre-schoolers. While the term Digital Native has also been criticised as being a white middle class phenomenon this is not necessarily the case with Digitods. In the Southeast Asia and the Pacific region developed countries like Japan, Korea, New Zealand and Singapore have extremely high rates of touchscreen use by very young children (Child Sciences; Jie; Goh; Unantenne). Other countries such as the Philippines and Indonesia have moved to a high smart phone usage by very young children while at the same time have only nascent ICT access and instruction within their education systems (Unantenne). The Digitod Parent Parents of Digitods are usually experienced Internet users themselves, and many are comfortable with their children using these child-friendly touch screen devices (Findahl). Digital technologies are integral to their everyday lives, often making daily life easier and improving communication with family and friends, even during the high pressure parenting years of raising toddlers and pre-schoolers. Even though many parents and caregivers are enabling very young children’s use of touch screen technologies, they are also concerned about the changes they are making. This is because very young children’s use of touch screen devices “has become another area where they fear possible criticism and in which their parental practices risk negative evaluation by others” (Holloway et al). The tensions between expert advice regarding young children’s screen-time and parents’ and caregivers’ own judgments are also being played out online. Parenting blogs, online magazines and discussion groups are all joining in the debate: On the one hand, parents want their children to swim expertly in the digital stream that they will have to navigate all their lives; on the other hand, they fear that too much digital media, too early, will sink them. Parents end up treating tablets like precision surgical instruments, gadgets that might perform miracles for their child’s IQ and help him win some nifty robotics competition—but only if they are used just so. (Rosin)Thus, with over 80 000 children’s apps marketed as educational in the Apple App Store alone, parents can find it difficult to choose apps that are worth purchasing (Yelland). Nonetheless, recent research regarding Australian children shows that three to five year olds who access touch screen devices will typically have five or more specific apps to choose from (5.23 on average) (Neumann). With little credible evidence or considered debate, parents have been left to make their own choices about the pros and cons of their young children’s access to touch screens. Nonetheless, one immediate benefit that comes to mind is toddlers and pre-schoolers video chatting with dispersed family member—due to increased globalisation, guest worker arrangements, FIFO (fly-in fly-out) workforces and family separation or divorce. Such clear benefits around sociability and youngsters’ connection with significant others make previous screen-related guidelines out of date and no longer contextually relevant. Little Research Attention Family ownership of tablet devices as well as touch screen phones has risen dramatically in the last five years. With very young children being loaned these technologies by mum or dad, and a tendency in Australia to rely on market-orientated research regarding ownership and usage, there is very little knowledge about touch screen usage rates for very young Australian children. UK and US usage figures indicate that over the last few years there has been a five-fold increase in tablet uptake by zero to eight year olds (Ofcom; Rideout). Although large scale, comparative Australian data is not available, previous research regarding older children indicates that Australia is similar to high use countries like some Scandinavian nations and the UK (Green et al.). In addition to this, two small research projects in Australia, with under 160 participant families each, indicate that two thirds of these children (0-5) use touchscreen devices (Neumann; Coenenna et. al.). Beyond usage figures, there is also very limited evidence-based research about very young children’s app use. Interactive technologies available via touch screen technologies have been available domestically for a very short time. Consequently, “valid scientific research has not been completed and replicated due to [the lack of] available time” (Leathers el al. 129) and longitudinal studies which rely on an intervention group (in this case exposure to children’s apps) and a control group (no exposure) are even fewer and more time-consuming. Interestingly, researchers have revisited the issue of passive screen viewing. A recent 2015 review of previous 2007 research, which linked babies watching videos with poor language development, has found that there was statistical and methodological issues with the 2007 study and that there are no strong inferences to be drawn between media exposure and language development (Ferguson and Donellan). Thus, there seems to be no conclusive evidence-based research on which to inform parents and educators about the possible downside or benefits of touch screen use. Nonetheless, early childhood experts have been quick to weigh in on the possible effects of screen usage, some providing restrictive guidelines and recommendations, with others advocating the use of interactive apps for very young children for their educational value. This knowledge-gap disguises what is actually happening in the lives of real Australian families. Due to the lack of local data, as well as worldwide research, it is essential that Australian researchers obtain a comprehensive understanding about actual behaviour around touch screen use in the lives of children aged between zero and five and their families. Beginning Research While research into very young children’s touch screen use is beginning to take place, few results have been published. When researching two to three year olds’ learning from interactive versus non-interactive videos Kirkorian, Choi and Pempek found that “toddlers may learn more from interactive media than from non-interactive video” (Kirkorian et al). This means that the use of interactive apps on touch screen devices may hold a greater potential for learning than passive video or television viewing for children in this age range. Another study considered the degree to which the young children could navigate to and use apps on touch screen devices by observing and analysing YouTube videos of infants and young children using touch screens (Hourcade et al.). It was found that between the ages of 12 months and 17 months the children filmed seemed to begin to “make meaningful use of the tablets [and] more than 90 per cent of children aged two [had] reached this level of ability” (1923). The kind of research mentioned above, usually the preserve of psychologists, paediatricians and some educators, does not, however, ground very young children’s use in their domestic context—in the spaces and with those people with whom most touch screen usage takes place. With funding from the Australian Research Council Australian, Irish and UK researchers are about to adopt a media studies (domestication) approach to comprehensively investigate digital media use in the everyday lives of very young children. This Australian-based research project positions very young children’s touch screen use within the family and will help provide an understanding of the everyday knowledge and strategies that this cohort of technology users (very young children and their parents) have already developed—in the knowledge vacuum left by the swift appropriation and incorporation of these new media technologies into the lives of families with very young children. Whilst using a conventional social constructionist perspective, the project will also adopt a co-creation of knowledge approach. The co-creation of knowledge approach (Fong) has links with the communities of practice literature (Wegner) and recognises that parents, care-givers and the children themselves are the current experts in this field in terms of the everyday uses of these technologies by very young children. Families’ everyday discourse and practices regarding their children’s touch screen use do not necessarily work through obvious power hierarchies (via expert opinions), but rather through a process of meaning making where they shape their own understandings and attitudes through experience and shared talk within their own everyday family communities of practice. This Toddlers and Tablets research is innovative in many ways. It seeks to capture the enthusiasm of young children’s digital interactions and to pioneer new ways of ‘beginnings’ researching with very young children, as well as with their parents. The researchers will work with parents and children in their broad domestic contexts (including in and out-of-home activities, and grandparental and wider-family involvement) to co-create knowledge about young children’s digital technologies and the social contexts in which these technologies are used. Aspects of these interactions, such as interviews and observations of everyday digital interactions will be recorded (audio and video respectively). In addition to this, data collected from media commentary, policy debates, research publications and learned articles from other disciplinary traditions will be interrogated to see if there are correlations, contrasts, trends or synergies between parents’ construction of meaning, public commentary and current research. Critical discourse tools and methods (Chouliaraki and Fairclough) will be used to analyse verbatim transcripts, video, and all written materials. Conclusion Very young children are uniquely dependent upon others for the basic necessities of life and for the tools they need, and will need to develop, to claim their place in the world. Given the ubiquitous role played by digital media in the lives of their parents and other caregivers it would be a distortion of everyday life for children to be excluded from the technologies that are routinely used to connect with other people and with information. In the same way that adults use digital media to renew and strengthen social and emotional bonds across distance, so young children delight in ‘Facetime’ and other technologies that connect them audio-visually with friends and family members who are not physically co-present. Similarly, a very short time spent in the company of toddlers using touch screens is sufficient to demonstrate the sheer delight that these young infants have in developing their sense of agency and autonomy (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXV-yaFmQNk). Media, communications and cultural studies are beginning to claim a space for evidence based policy drawn from everyday activities in real life contexts. Research into the beginnings of digital life, with families who are beginning to find a way to introduce these technologies to the youngest generation, integrating them within social and emotional repertoires, may prove to be the start of new understandings into the communication skills of the preverbal and preliterate young people whose technology preferences will drive future development – with their parents likely trying to keep pace. Acknowledgment This research is supported under Australia Research Council’s Discovery Projects funding scheme (project number DP150104734). References Bittman, Michael, et al. "Digital Natives? New and Old Media and Children's Outcomes." Australian Journal of Education 55.2 (2011): 161-75. Brown, Ari. "Media Use by Children Younger than 2 Years." Pediatrics 128.5 (2011): 1040-45. Burr, Vivien. Social Constructionism. 2nd ed. London: Routledge, 2003. Cavanaugh, Cathy, et al. "The Effects of Distance Education on K–12 Student Outcomes: A Meta-Analysis." Naperville, Ill.: Learning Point Associates, 2004. 5 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.ncrel.org/tech/distance/index.html›. Child Sciences and Parenting Research Office. Survey of Media Use by Children and Parents (Summary). Tokyo: Benesse Educational Research and Development Institute, 2014. Coenena, Pieter, Erin Howiea, Amity Campbella, and Leon Strakera. Mobile Touch Screen Device Use among Young Australian Children–First Results from a National Survey. Proceedings 19th Triennial Congress of the IEA. 2015. Chouliaraki, Lilie and Norman Fairclough. Discourse in Late Modernity: Rethinking Critical Discourse Analysis. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1999. Department of Education. "Belonging, Being and Becoming: The Early Years Learning Framework for Australia." Australian Government, 2009. Ferguson, Christopher J., and M. Brent Donnellan. "Is the Association between Children’s Baby Video Viewing and Poor Language Development Robust? A Reanalysis of Zimmerman, Christakis, and Meltzoff (2007)." Developmental Psychology 50.1 (2014): 129. Findahl, Olle. Swedes and the Internet 2013. Stockholm: The Internet Infrastructure Foundation, 2013. Fong, Patrick S.W. "Co-Creation of Knowledge by Multidisciplinary Project Teams." Management of Knowledge in Project Environments. Eds. E. Love, P. Fong, and Z. Irani. Burlington, MA: Elsevier, 2005. 41-56. Gates, Bill. "Enter 'Generation I': The Responsibility to Provide Access for All to the Most Incredible Learning Tool Ever Created." Instructor 109.6 (2000): 98. Goh, Wendy W.L., Susanna Bay, and Vivian Hsueh-Hua Chen. "Young School Children’s Use of Digital Devices and Parental Rules." Telematics and Informatics 32.4 (2015): 787-95. Green, Lelia, et al. "Risks and Safety for Australian Children on the Internet: Full Findings from the AU Kids Online Survey of 9-16 Year Olds and Their Parents." Cultural Science Journal 4.1 (2011): 1-73. Holloway, Donell, Lelia Green, and Carlie Love. "'It's All about the Apps': Parental Mediation of Pre-Schoolers' Digital Lives." Media International Australia 153 (2014): 148-56. Hourcade, Juan Pablo, Sarah Mascher, David Wu, and Luiza Pantoja. Look, My Baby Is Using an iPad! An Analysis of YouTube Videos of Infants and Toddlers Using Tablets. Proceedings of the 33rd Annual ACM Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. ACM, 2015. Jie S.H. "ICT Use Statistics of Households and Individuals in Korea." 10th World Telecommunication/ICT Indicators Meeting (WTIM-12). Korea Internet &amp; Security Agency (KISA), 25-7 Sep. 2012.Judge, Sharon, Kathleen Puckett, and Sherry Mee Bell. "Closing the Digital Divide: Update from the Early Childhood Longitudinal Study." The Journal of Educational Research 100.1 (2006): 52-60. Kirkorian, H., K. Choi, and Pempek. "Toddlers' Word Learning from Contingent and Non-Contingent Video on Touchscreens." Child Development (in press). Leathers, Heather, Patti Summers, and Desollar. Toddlers on Technology: A Parents' Guide. Illinois: AuthorHouse, 2013. NAEYC. Technology and Interactive Media as Tools in Early Childhood Programs Serving Children from Birth through Age 8 [Position Statement]. Washington: National Association for the Education of Young Children, the Fred Rogers Center for Early Learning and Children’s Media at Saint Vincent College, 2012. Neumann, Michelle M. "An Examination of Touch Screen Tablets and Emergent Literacy in Australian Pre-School Children." Australian Journal of Education 58.2 (2014): 109-22. Ofcom. Children and Parents: Media Use and Attitudes Report. London, 2013. Rideout, Victoria. Zero to Eight: Children’s Media Use in America 2013. San Francisco: Common Sense Media, 2013. Rosin, Hanna. "The Touch-Screen Generation." The Atlantic, 20 Apr. 2013. Strasburger, Victor C., et al. "Children, Adolescents, and the Media." Pediatrics 132.5 (2013): 958-61. Unantenne, Nalika. Mobile Device Usage among Young Kids: A Southeast Asia Study. Singapore: The Asian Parent and Samsung Kids Time, 2014. Wenger, Etienne. Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Wenger, Etienne. "Communities of Practice and Social Learning Systems." Organization 7.2 (2000): 225-46. Yelland, Nicola. "Which Apps Are Educational and Why? It’s in the Eye of the Beholder." The Conversation 13 July 2015. 16 Aug. 2015 ‹http://theconversation.com/which-apps-are-educational-and-why-its-in-the-eye-of-the-beholder-37968›.

To the unrefined or under-bred person, the visiting-card is but a trifling and insignificant piece of paper; but to the cultured disciple of social law it conveys a subtle and unmistakable intelligence. Its texture, style of engraving, and even the hour of leaving it, combine to place the stranger whose name it bears in a pleasant or disagreeable attitude, even before his manners, conversation, and face have been able to explain his social position (1920 etiquette manual quoted in Curtin 138). There’s a scene in the ‘90s TV series Ab Fab where Eddy, stumbling from her car, fresh from Harvey Nicks and tipsy on Bolly, shouts into her mobile ‘it’s ok Bubbles, I’m coming into the office now’ as she enters the office. When it first aired this was a wry comment on the vacuous, superfluous nature of new communication technologies. Now, it’s like ‘so what?’ Why not attempt to convey constantly the banal minutiae of the every day? Indeed, what troubles the technological verisimilitude is not that Eddy desires absolute proximity but that she’s not texting. In these days of ‘intensive propinquity’ (Kang 2002), however, it is easy to overlook the fact that telepresence—text’s uncanny power to stand in for the corporeal body—has a long history. Indeed, one such precursor to today’s technologies of telepresence would undoubtedly appeal to Eddy and Pats. In this paper, I want to consider the extent to which the British eighteenth-century visiting card conceptually, culturally and materially anticipates a range of contemporary technologies of propinquity. Acting as complex cultural avatars, these visiting cards conveyed the desires of class and gender in the construction of identity. The British pictorial visiting card of the early eighteenth century developed from the practice of using playing cards as visiting cards, the caller’s name being inscribed on the back of the playing card. In the mid eighteenth century the custom of using playing cards as visiting cards was replaced by cards manufactured for the express purpose of notifying those with whom one wished to make contact. At first these cards, printed on ‘stout paper or thin card’, were relatively plain, except for ‘an ornamental frame of tasteful design’ that surrounded the edge thus leaving the centre blank so that the caller could write their name. Soon, however, visiting cards were being printed with illustrations. These cards commonly left room for a short message in addition to the caller’s name (Staff 10). By the latter part of the eighteenth century, most visiting cards carried elaborate designs which varied according to the taste, hobbies or professional interests of the intended consumers. For those connected to the military, for example, there were cards illustrated with swords, cannons, flags or a person in uniform was depicted. Cards left by recent callers were commonly displayed in special receptacles on mantelpieces or small tables so that visitors ‘had a chance to see whom the family numbered among its social circle and be suitably impressed’ (Pool 66). At the close of the eighteenth century, the highly illustrated visiting card gave way to an understated and smaller format. No longer pictorial, visiting cards of the nineteenth-century, as Maurice Rickards notes, were ‘reticent’ in style and ‘espoused sobriety’ in typography and design. Victorian culture took seriously the materialities of visiting card practice as the exchange and expression of symbolic capital. As Rickards explains: In Britain, the etiquette of typographic style and layout was rigorously observed: the wording was engraved; printing was in black, card colour was white. A man’s town address appeared in the lower left-hand corner, his club on the right …. Unmarried daughters living at home did not have cards of their own. They appeared compendiously on their mother's cards (351). Visiting cards demonstrate the rich prehistory of contemporary technologies of telepresence in terms of the imaginative, symbolic and rhetorical functions they performed. Telepresence can be defined as the degree to which geographically dispersed agents experience a sense of physical and/or psychological proximity through the use of particular communication technologies. Like many of the media forms they anticipate, visiting cards were used to stand in for the corporeal presence of their author. As a late nineteenth-century etiquette manual explained: ‘the stress laid by Society upon the correct usage of these magic bits of paste-board, will not seem unnecessary, when it is remembered that the visiting card … frequently is made to take the place of one’s self’ (quoted in Davidoff 42). Visiting cards functioned as avatars of presence and identity, a complex language system which allowed the discursive agents to mediate social relations according to the varying degrees of intimacy that were desired. As long as all parties could read the codes and conventions, the level of acquaintanceship could be increased, maintained or decreased. For example, if one wanted to ‘put an end to an unsatisfactory acquaintanceship’, help was, literally, at hand. Instead of the ‘intolerable’ practice of ‘cutting’ – the procedure of pointedly refusing to recognise a person with whom one formerly had been in close contact – one would slowly reduce the time spent calling to the minimum length required. ‘After this’, advises an 1897 guide called Manners for Men, the gentleman ‘may leave cards once more without asking if the ladies of the family are at home. In this way he can gradually and with perfect courtesy break off the intimacy’ (quoted in Curtin 144). But communication might sometimes break down inadvertently. A participant’s failure to interpret the signs correctly could have unpleasant consequences. Because of this, etiquette manuals warned that servants be instructed on how to observe the difference between calling and card leaving. The intricacy inherent in the semiotics of ‘speaking by the card’ is demonstrated by the role servants were expected to play. Protocol demanded that a call was answered with a call and a card by a card. Returning a call with a card could be interpreted as a snub. In some cases that was the intention of one of the participants; leaving a card instead of calling in person was an easily understood gesture intended to scale down a particular acquaintanceship. However, it might just be a mistake. One of the many complications adhering to the practice of calling and leaving cards was that one could not assume the person to whom a card belonged had, in fact, ‘called’ upon one. As Michael Curtin explains: In practice, cards very often substituted for calls since the person receiving the call was not at home. In this case, a card equalled a call, though there was a complication. Since … cards were delivered in person, one who meant to leave cards was easily confused with another who called but merely left cards because no one was at home (141). The first problem, then, is how the caller deploys the card and how the receiver interprets this action; to what degree does the card stand for the physical presence of the caller? Even in the pre-Barthesian era, authorial intention was problematic: did the caller intend to see the person on whom they called or did the card stand for a less intimate mode of communication? Further complicating matters were the servants. Unlike Wilkie Collins’ depiction of a passive and neutral butler bearing a visiting card—‘waiting not like a human being who took an interest in the proceedings but … like an article of furniture’ (85)—many etiquette manuals warned that servants were actively involved in the chain of communication. Servants, as Curtin outlines, often went to call in place of their ‘mistresses’ and ‘therefore should be exactly instructed as to their mistress’s wishes, whether to call or to leave a card’. Likewise, ‘those servants who answered the door should be made to understand this distinction, to inquire into the caller’s intention’ and record this in writing (141). Visiting cards reproduced divisions of class by regulating the public and the private. The finely nuanced signifying system of these cards addressed only middle-class and aristocratic participants. For the middle classes and the aristocracy, privacy was the inherited right which visiting cards sought to protect. Those of the working class, as Davidoff argues, had to accept that their homes could be entered at any time by members of the ‘superior’ class, who would walk in and ‘at once become involved in the life of the family by asking questions, dispensing charity or giving orders’ (46). If the visiting card was significant as a medium of telepresence, enabling subjects to imagine, desire, fear or forestall each other’s presence, in 1854 this function was enhanced with the addition of a photographic image. The carte-de-visite reworked and conflated the technical, formal and social uses of both portraiture and the visiting card. Distinguished from the older types of visiting card by being smaller in dimension, usually measuring 4½ x 2½ inches, the carte-de-visite also carried a photographic print which was affixed to the cardboard of which it was made. Mediating the performance of identity in new ways, cards now visually depicted their bearers: Thus for a ceremonial visit, the print would represent the visitor with his hands imprisoned in spotless gloves, his head slightly inclined, as for a greeting, his hat resting graciously on his right thigh. According to etiquette, if the weather were bad, an umbrella faithfully reproduced under the arm of a visitor would eloquently declare the merit of his walk (quoted in McCauley 28). The role played by the carte-de-visite in the performance of gender is emphasised by an 1862 article on ‘flirting’ which warned that a woman would be so branded ‘if she be lavish in the distribution of her carte-de-visite’ (‘Flirts’ 163). The carte-de-visite was also an important element in the production of celebrity and the emerging commodity culture. While functioning as a visiting card, the particular topics and scenes represented on the carte-de-visite meant that it became a popular object to collect and display. Often depicting royalty, politicians or military leaders, this new mode of portraiture, as an 1862 newspaper put it, made ‘the public thoroughly acquainted with all its remarkable men’ to the extent that ‘we know their personality long before we see them’ (Wynter 673). The carte-de-visite familiarised the famous and made famous the familiar: The commercial value of the human face was never tested to such an extent as it is at the present moment in these handy photographs. No man, or woman either knows but that some accident may elevate them to the position of the hero of the hour (Wynter 673). Although invented to modernise the existing visiting card, the carte-de-visite neither replaced the older version nor was it used solely for calling. For the bourgeoisie, argues McCauley, the carte-de-visite album became a ‘faddish parlour amusement’ (48). As an enabler of telepresence, the carte-de-visite seemed to promise future generations an intimate knowledge of their distant ancestors. It would collapse time, bringing history into the present. As one nineteenth century journalist remarked, ‘it is very pleasing to have one’s relatives and acquaintances reunited in an album … you converse with them, it seems as if they were there beside you’ (quoted in McCauley 48). In general, the literature on presence, virtual presence and telepresence limits its historiography to an examination of electronic media (for example, Goldberg, Sconce, and Sobchack). As this paper has suggested, what’s needed is research that focuses on those forms of analogue textual culture that, functioning as avatars of corporeality and presence, might be regarded as fabulous. Works Cited Kang, Kathy. ‘Intensive Propinquity and ::fc:: Style’, paper delivered at the Fibreculture Conference, November 22 - 24, Museum of Contemporary Art, Sydney, 2002. Collins, Wilkie. The New Magdalen. 1873. Gloucestershire, UK: Sutton, 1995. Curtin, Michael. Propriety and Position: A Study of Victorian Manners, London: Garland, 1987. Davidoff, Leonore. The Best Circles: Society, Etiquette and the Season, London: Croom, 1973. ‘Flirts,’ The Living Age. 74 (1862). Goldberg, Ken, ed. The Robot in the Garden: Telerobotics and Telepistemology in the Age of the Internet, Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 2000. McCauley, Elizabeth Anne, A. A. E. Disderi and the Carte de Visite Portrait Photograph, New Haven: Yale U P, 1985. Pool, Daniel. What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew: From Fox Hunting to Whist: The Facts of Daily Life in Nineteenth-Century, New York: Simon &amp; Schuster, 1993. Rickards, Maurice. The Encyclopedia of Ephemera: A Guide to the Fragmentary Documents of Everyday Life for the Collector, Curator, and Historian, ed. Michael Twyman, New York: Routledge, 2000. Sconce, Jeffrey. Haunted Media: Electronic Presence from Telegraphy to Television, Durham: Duke UP, 2000. Sobchack, Vivian. ‘The Scene of the Screen: Envisioning Cinematic and Electronic “Presence”’. Materialities of Communication. Ed. Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht and K. Ludwig Pfeiffer, trans. William Whobrey. Stanford: Stanford U P. 83 - 106. Staff, Frank. The Picture Postcard and its Origins, London: Lutterworth, 1979. Wynter A. ‘Cartes De Visite,’ The Living Age. 72 (1862). Citation reference for this article MLA Style Milne, Esther. "‘Magic Bits of Paste-board’" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture &lt;http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/02-milne.php&gt;. APA Style Milne, E. (2004, Jan 12). ‘Magic Bits of Paste-board’. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 7, &lt;http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/02-milne.php&gt;

Al Gore brought climate change into … our living rooms. … The 2008 oil price hikes [and the global financial crisis] awakened the world to potential economic hardship in a rapidly urbanising world where the petrol-driven automobile is still king. (Mouritz 47) Six hundred million cars (Urry, “Climate Change” 265) traverse the world’s roads, or sit idly in garages and clogging city streets. The West’s economic progress has been built in part around the success of the automotive industry, where the private car rules the spaces and rhythms of daily life. The problem of “automobile dependence” (Newman and Kenworthy) is often cited as one of the biggest challenges facing countries attempting to combat anthropogenic climate change. Sociologist John Urry has claimed that automobility is an “entire culture” that has re-defined movement in the contemporary world (Urry Mobilities 133). As such, it is the single most significant environmental challenge “because of the intensity of resource use, the production of pollutants and the dominant culture which sustains the major discourses of what constitutes the good life” (Urry Sociology 57-8). Climate change has forced a re-thinking of not only how we produce and dispose of cars, but also how we use them. What might a society not dominated by the private, petrol-driven car look like? Some of the pre-eminent writers on climate change futures, such as Gwynne Dyer, James Lovelock and John Urry, discuss one possibility that might emerge when oil becomes scarce: societies will descend into civil chaos, “a Hobbesian war of all against all” where “regional warlordism” and the most brutish, barbaric aspects of human nature come to the fore (Urry, “Climate Change” 261). Discussing a post-car society, John Urry also proffers another scenario in his “sociologies of the future:” an Orwellian “digital panopticon” in which other modes of transport, far more suited to a networked society, might emerge on a large scale and, in the long run, “might tip the system” into post-car one before it is too late (Urry, “Climate Change” 261). Amongst the many options he discusses is car sharing. Since its introduction in Germany more than 30 years ago, most of the critical literature has been devoted to the planning, environmental and business innovation aspects of car sharing; however very little has been written on its cultural dimensions. This paper analyses this small but developing trend in many Western countries, but more specifically its emergence in Sydney. The convergence of climate change discourse with that of the global financial crisis has resulted in a focus in the mainstream media, over the last few months, on technologies and practices that might save us money and also help the environment. For instance, a Channel 10 News story in May 2009 focused on the boom in car sharing in Sydney (see: http://www.youtube.com/watch? v=EPTT8vYVXro). Car sharing is an adaptive technology that doesn’t do away with the car altogether, but rather transforms the ways in which cars are used, thought about and promoted. I argue that car sharing provides a challenge to the dominant consumerist model of the privately owned car that has sustained capitalist structures for at least the last 50 years. In addition, through looking at some marketing and promotion tactics of car sharing in Australia, I examine some emerging car sharing subjectivities that both extend and subvert the long-established discourses of the automobile’s flexibility and autonomy to tempt monogamous car buyers into becoming philandering car sharers. Much literature has emerged over the last decade devoted to the ubiquitous phenomenon of automobility. “The car is the literal ‘iron cage’ of modernity, motorised, moving and domestic,” claims Urry (“Connections” 28). Over the course of twentieth century, automobility became “the dominant form of daily movement over much of the planet (dominating even those who do not move by cars)” (Paterson 132). Underpinning Urry’s prolific production of literature is his concept of automobility. This he defines as a complex system of “intersecting assemblages” that is not only about driving cars but the nexus between “production, consumption, machinic complexes, mobility, culture and environmental resource use” (Urry, “Connections” 28). In addition, Matthew Paterson, in his Automobile Politics, asserts that “automobility” should be viewed as everything that makes driving around in a car possible: highways, parking structures and traffic rules (87). While the private car seems an inevitable outcome of a capitalistic, individualistic modern society, much work has gone into the process of naturalising a dominant notion of automobility on drivers’ horizons. Through art, literature, popular music and brand advertising, the car has long been associated with seductive forms of identity, and societies have been built around a hegemonic culture of car ownership and driving as the pre-eminent, modern mode of self-expression. And more than 50 years of a popular Hollywood film genre—road movies—has been devoted to glorifying the car as total freedom, or in its more nihilistic version, “freedom on the road to nowhere” (Corrigan). As Paterson claims, “autonomous mobility of car driving is socially produced … by a range of interventions that have made it possible” (18). One of the main reasons automobility has been so successful, he claims, is through its ability to reproduce capitalist society. It provided a commodity around which a whole set of symbols, images and discourses could be constructed which served to effectively legitimise capitalist society. (30) Once the process is locked-in, it then becomes difficult to reverse as billions of agents have adapted to it and built their lives around “automobility’s strange mixture of co-ercion and flexibility” (Urry, “Climate Change” 266). The Decline of the Car Globally, the greatest recent rupture in the automobile’s meta-narrative of success came about in October 2008 when three CEOs from the major US car firms (General Motors, Ford and Chrysler) begged the United States Senate for emergency loan funds to avoid going bankrupt. To put the economic significance of this into context, Emma Rothschild notes “when the listing of the ‘Fortune 500’ began in 1955, General Motors was the largest American corporation, and it was one of the three largest, measured in revenues, every year until 2007” (Rothschilds, “Can we transform”). Curiously, instead of focusing on the death of the car (industry), as we know it, that this scenario might inevitably herald, much of the media attention focused on the hypocrisy and environmental hubris of the fact that all the CEOs had flown in private luxury jets to Washington. “Couldn’t they have at least jet-pooled?” complained one Democrat Senator (Wutkowski). In their next visit to Washington, most of them drove up in experimental vehicles still in pre-production, including plug-in hybrids. Up until that point no other manufacturing industry had been bailed out in the current financial crisis. Of course it’s not the first time the automobile industries have been given government assistance. The Australian automotive industry has received on-going government subsidies since the 1980s. Most recently, PM Kevin Rudd granted a 6.2 billion dollar ‘green car’ package to Australian automotive manufacturers. His justification to the growing chorus of doubts about the economic legitimacy of such a move was: “Some might say it's not worth trying to have a car industry, that is not my view, it is not the view of the Australian government and it never will be the view of any government which I lead” (The Australian). Amongst the many reasons for the government support of these industries must include the extraordinary interweaving of discourses of nationhood and progress with the success of the car industry. As the last few months reveal, evidently the mantra still prevails of “what’s good for the country is good for GM and vice versa”, as the former CEO of General Motors, Charles “Engine” Wilson, argued back in 1952 (Hirsch). In post-industrial societies like Australia it’s not only the economic aspects of the automotive industries that are criticised. Cars seem to be slowly losing their grip on identity-formation that they managed to maintain throughout “the century of the car” (Gilroy). They are no longer unproblematically associated with progress, freedom, youthfulness and absolute autonomy. The decline and eventual death of the automobile as we know it will be long, arduous and drawn-out. But there are some signs of a post-automobile society emerging, perhaps where cars will still be used but they will not dominate our society, urban space and culture in quite the same way that they have over the last 50 years. Urry discusses six transformations that might ‘tip’ the hegemonic system of automobility into a post-car one. He mentions new fuel systems, new materials for car construction, the de-privatisation of cars, development of communications technologies and integration of networked public transport through smart card technology and systems (Urry, Mobilities 281-284). As Paterson and others have argued, computers and mobile phones have somehow become “more genuine symbols of mobility and in turn progress” than the car (157). As a result, much automobile advertising now intertwines communications technologies with brand to valorise mobility. Car sharing goes some way in not only de-privatising cars but also using smart card technology and networked systems enabling an association with mobility futures. In Automobile Politics Paterson asks, “Is the car fundamentally unsustainable? Can it be greened? Has the car been so naturalised on our mobile horizons that we can’t imagine a society without it?” (27). From a sustainability perspective, one of the biggest problems with cars is still the amount of space devoted to them; highways, garages, car parks. About one-quarter of the land in London and nearly one-half of that in Los Angeles is devoted to car-only environments (Urry, “Connections” 29). In Sydney, it is more like a quarter. We have to reduce the numbers of cars on our roads to make our societies livable (Newman and Kenworthy). Car sharing provokes a re-thinking of urban space. If one quarter of Sydney’s population car shared and we converted this space into green use or local market gardens, then we’d have a radically transformed city. Car sharing, not to be confused with ‘ride sharing’ or ‘car pooling,’ involves a number of people using cars that are parked centrally in dedicated car bays around the inner city. After becoming a member (much like a 6 or 12 monthly gym membership), the cars can be booked (and extended) by the hour via the web or phone. They can then be accessed via a smart card. In Sydney there are 3 car sharing organisations operating: Flexicar (http://www.flexicar.com.au/), CharterDrive (http://www.charterdrive.com.au/) and GoGet (http://www.goget.com.au/).[1] The largest of these, GoGet, has been operating for 6 years and has over 5000 members and 200 cars located predominantly in the inner city suburbs. Anecdotally, GoGet claims its membership is primarily drawn from professionals living in the inner-urban ring. Their motivation for joining is, firstly, the convenience that car sharing provides in a congested, public transport-challenged city like Sydney; secondly, the financial savings derived; and thirdly, members consider the environmental and social benefits axiomatic. [2] The promotion tactics of car sharing seems to reflect this by barely mentioning the environment but focusing on those aspects which link car sharing to futuristic and flexible subjectivities which I outline in the next section. Unlike traditional car rental, the vehicles in car sharing are scattered through local streets in a network allowing local residents and businesses access to the vehicles mostly on foot. One car share vehicle is used by 22-24 members and gets about seven cars off the street (Mehlman 22). With lots of different makes and models of vehicles in each of their fleets, Flexicar’s website claims, “around the corner, around the clock” “Flexicar offers you the freedom of driving your own car without the costs and hassles of owning one,” while GoGet asserts, “like owning a car only better.” Due to the initial lack of interest from government, all the car sharing organisations in Australia are privately owned. This is very different to the situation in Europe where governments grant considerable financial assistance and have often integrated car sharing into pre-existing public transport networks. Urry discusses the spread of car sharing across the Western world: Six hundred plus cities across Europe have developed car-sharing schemes involving 50,000 people (Cervero, 2001). Prototype examples are found such as Liselec in La Rochelle, and in northern California, Berlin and Japan (Motavalli, 2000: 233). In Deptford there is an on-site car pooling service organized by Avis attached to a new housing development, while in Jersey electric hire cars have been introduced by Toyota. (Urry, “Connections” 34) ‘Collaborative Consumption’ and Flexible, Philandering Subjectivities Car sharing shifts the dominant conception of a car from being a ‘commodity’, which people purchase and subsequently identify with, to a ‘service’ or network of vehicles that are collectively used. It does this through breaking down the one car = one person (or one family) ratio with one car instead servicing 20 or more people. One of Paterson’s biggest criticisms concerns car driving as “a form of social exclusion” (44). Car sharing goes some way in subverting the model of hyper-individualism that supports both hegemonic automobility and capitalist structures, whereby the private motorcar produces a “separation of individuals from one another driving in their own private universes with no account for anyone else” (Paterson 90). As a car sharer, the driver has to acknowledge that this is not their private domain, and the car no longer becomes an extension of their living room or bedroom, as is noted in much literature around car cultures (Morris, Sheller, Simpson). There are a community of people using the car, so the driver needs to be attentive to things like keeping the car clean and bringing it back on time so another person can use it. So while car sharing may change the affective relationship and self-identification with the vehicle itself, it doesn’t necessarily change the phenomenological dimensions of car driving, such as the nostalgic pleasure of driving on the open road, or perhaps more realistically in Sydney, the frustration of being caught in a traffic jam. However, the fact the driver doesn’t own the vehicle does alter their relationship to the space and the commodity in a literal as well as a figurative way. Like car ownership, evidently car sharing also produces its own set of limitations on freedom and convenience. That mobility and car ownership equals freedom—the ‘freedom to drive’—is one imaginary which car firms were able to successfully manipulate and perpetuate throughout the twentieth century. However, car sharing also attaches itself to the same discourses of freedom and pervasive individualism and then thwarts them. For instance, GoGet in Sydney have run numerous marketing campaigns that attempt to contest several ‘self-evident truths’ about automobility. One is flexibility. Flexibility (and associated convenience) was one thing that ownership of a car in the late twentieth century was firmly able to affiliate itself with. However, car ownership is now more often associated with being expensive, a hassle and a long-term commitment, through things like buying, licensing, service and maintenance, cleaning, fuelling, parking permits, etc. Cars have also long been linked with sexuality. When in the 1970s financial challenges to the car were coming as a result of the oil shocks, Chair of General Motors, James Roche stated that, “America’s romance with the car is not over. Instead it has blossomed into a marriage” (Rothschilds, Paradise Lost). In one marketing campaign GoGet asked, ‘Why buy a car when all you need is a one night stand?’, implying that owning a car is much like a monogamous relationship that engenders particular commitments and responsibilities, whereas car sharing can just be a ‘flirtation’ or a ‘one night stand’ and you don’t have to come back if you find it a hassle. Car sharing produces a philandering subjectivity that gives individuals the freedom to have lots of different types of cars, and therefore relationships with each of them: I can be a Mini Cooper driver one day and a Falcon driver the next. This disrupts the whole kind of identification with one type of car that ownership encourages. It also breaks down a stalwart of capitalism—brand loyalty to a particular make of car with models changing throughout a person’s lifetime. Car sharing engenders far more fluid types of subjectivities as opposed to those rigid identities associated with ownership of one car. Car sharing can also be regarded as part of an emerging phenomenon of what Rachel Botsman and Roo Rogers have called “collaborative consumption”—when a community gets together “through organized sharing, swapping, bartering, trading, gifting and renting to get the same pleasures of ownership with reduced personal cost and burden, and lower environmental impact” (www.collaborativeconsumption.com). As Urry has stated, these developments indicate a gradual transformation in current economic structures from ownership to access, as shown more generally by many services offered and accessed via the web (Urry Mobilities 283). Rogers and Botsman maintain that this has come about through the “convergence of online social networks increasing cost consciousness and environmental necessity." In the future we could predict an increasing shift to payment to ‘access’ for mobility services, rather than the outright private ownerships of vehicles (Urry, “Connections”). Networked-Subjectivities or a ‘Digital Panopticon’? Cars, no longer able on their own to signify progress in either technical or social terms, attain their symbolic value through their connection to other, now more prevalently ‘progressive’ technologies. (Paterson 155) The term ‘digital panopticon’ has often been used to describe a dystopian world of virtual surveillance through such things as web-enabled social networking sites where much information is public, or alternatively, for example, the traffic surveillance system in London whereby the public can be constantly scrutinised through the centrally monitored cameras that track people’s/vehicle’s movements on city streets. In his “sociologies of the future,” Urry maintains that one thing which might save us from descending into post-car civil chaos is a system governed by a “digital panopticon” mobility system. This would be governed by a nexus system “that orders, regulates, tracks and relatively soon would ‘drive’ each vehicle and monitor each driver/passenger” (Urry, “Connections” 33). The transformation of mobile technologies over the last decade has made car sharing, as a viable business model, possible. Through car sharing’s exploitation of an online booking system, and cars that can be tracked, monitored and traced, the seeds of a mobile “networked-subjectivity” are emerging. But it’s not just the technology people are embracing; a cultural shift is occurring in the way that people understand mobility, their own subjectivity, and more importantly, the role of cars. NETT Magazine did a feature on car sharing, and advertised it on their front cover as “GoGet’s web and mobile challenge to car owners” (May 2009). Car sharing seems to be able to tap into more contemporary understandings of what mobility and flexibility might mean in the twenty-first century. In their marketing and promotion tactics, car sharing organisations often discursively exploit science fiction terminology and generate a subjectivity much more dependent on networks and accessibility (158). In the suburbs people park their cars in garages. In car sharing, the vehicles are parked not in car bays or car parks, but in publically accessible ‘pods’, which promotes a futuristic, sci-fi experience. Even the phenomenological dimensions of swiping a smart card over the front of the windscreen to open the car engender a transformation in access to the car, instead of through a key. This is service-technology of the future while those stuck in car ownership are from the old economy and the “century of the car” (Gilroy). The connections between car sharing and the mobile phone and other communications technologies are part of the notion of a networked, accessible vehicle. However, the more problematic side to this is the car under surveillance. Nic Lowe, of his car sharing organisation GoGet says, “Because you’re tagged on and we know it’s you, you are able to drive the car… every event you do is logged, so we know what time you turned the key, what time you turned it off and we know how far you drove … if a car is lost we can sound the horn to disable it remotely to prevent theft. We can track how fast you were going and even how fast you accelerated … track the kilometres for billing purposes and even find out when people are using the car when they shouldn’t be” (Mehlman 27). The possibility with the GPS technology installed in the car is being able to monitor speeds at which people drive, thereby fining then every minute spent going over the speed limit. While this conjures up the notion of the car under surveillance, it is also a much less bleaker scenario than “a Hobbesian war of all against all”. Conclusion: “Hundreds of Cars, No Garage” The prospect of climate change is provoking innovation at a whole range of levels, as well as providing a re-thinking of how we use taken-for-granted technologies. Sometime this century the one tonne, privately owned, petrol-driven car will become an artefact, much like Sydney trams did last century. At this point in time, car sharing can be regarded as an emerging transitional technology to a post-car society that provides a challenge to hegemonic automobile culture. It is evidently not a radical departure from the car’s vast machinic complex and still remains a part of what Urry calls the “system of automobility”. From a pro-car perspective, its networked surveillance places constraints on the free agency of the car, while for those of the deep green variety it is, no doubt, a compromise. Nevertheless, it provides a starting point for re-thinking the foundations of the privately-owned car. While Urry makes an important point in relation to a society moving from ownership to access, he doesn’t take into account the cultural shifts occurring that are enabling car sharing to be attractive to prospective members: the notion of networked subjectivities, the discursive constructs used to establish car sharing as a thing of the future with pods and smart cards instead of garages and keys. If car sharing became mainstream it could have radical environmental impacts on things like urban space and pollution, as well as the dominant culture of “automobile dependence” (Newman and Kenworthy), as Australia attempts to move to a low carbon economy. Notes [1] My partner Bruce Jeffreys, together with Nic Lowe, founded Newtown Car Share in 2002, which is now called GoGet. [2] Several layers down in the ‘About Us’ link on GoGet’s website is the following information about the environmental benefits of car sharing: “GoGet's aim is to provide a reliable, convenient and affordable transport service that: allows people to live car-free, decreases car usage, improves local air quality, removes private cars from local streets, increases patronage for public transport, allows people to lead more active lives” (http://www.goget.com.au/about-us.html). References The Australian. “Kevin Rudd Throws $6.2bn Lifeline to Car Industry.” 10 Nov. 2008. &lt; http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/business/story/ 0,28124,24628026-5018011,00.html &gt;.Corrigan, Tim. “Genre, Gender, and Hysteria: The Road Movie in Outer Space.” A Cinema Without Walls: Movies, Culture after Vietnam. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1991. Dwyer, Gwynne. Climate Wars. North Carlton: Scribe, 2008. 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Paradise Lost: The Decline of the Auto-Industrial Age. New York: Radom House, 1973. Rothschilds, Emma. “Can We Transform the Auto-Industrial Society?” New York Review of Books 56.3 (2009). &lt; http://www.nybooks.com/articles/22333 &gt;. Sheller, Mimi. “Automotive Emotions: Feeling the Car.” Theory, Culture and Society 21 (2004): 221–42. Simpson, Catherine. “Volatile Vehicles: When Women Take the Wheel.” Womenvision. Ed. Lisa French. Melbourne: Damned Publishing, 2003. 197-210. Urry, John. Sociology Beyond Societies: Mobilities for the 21st Century. London: Routledge, 2000. Urry, John. “Connections.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 22 (2004): 27-37. Urry, John. Mobilities. Cambridge, and Maiden, MA: Polity Press, 2008. Urry, John. “Climate Change, Travel and Complex Futures.” British Journal of Sociology 59. 2 (2008): 261-279. Watts, Laura, and John Urry. “Moving Methods, Travelling Times.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 26 (2008): 860-874. Wutkowski, Karey. “Auto Execs' Private Flights to Washington Draw Ire.” Reuters News Agency 19 Nov. 2008. &lt; http://www.reuters.com/article/newsOne/idUSTRE4AI8C520081119 &gt;.

Mobilities We live in a world of mobilised social life, as John Urry describes it. This is a world made out of constant flows of items, ideas, and actors travelling materially and/or immaterially from one location to another, non-stop. The movement of things and people goes back and forth; it changes direction and passes around various locations, both physical and virtual. No discussion of mobility today can be complete without consideration of the role of communication in reshaping mobilised social life. In many respects, our social life and a sense of community may be thought of as displaced and imaginary (Taylor). This is to say that, in today’s world, “belonging” as a constitutive element of community is acted out, in many cases, at a distance, without physical contact (Delanty 119-49). Furthermore, our sense of belonging is shaped by cultural and social communication networks and the media logic of the latest communication technology (Castells 54-136). It is in these de-territorialised communities (Dayan 166) that we communicate from one to one, or from one to many, without physical restriction; and by doing this, we form, transmit, and modify our self-understanding (or mis/understanding!) of the world in which we live and in which our lives are formed, transmitted, and modified by others. To understand the deeper dynamics of our newly mobilised social life, we need to elaborate on yet another dimension of communication: that is, the idea of circulation (Latour 36). The simplest way of defining circulation is to say that it is about “going the round” and/or “passing on” something—whether it is material or immaterial items, goods, artefacts, ideas, or beliefs that are being distributed and disseminated (Sumiala 44-55). However, as Benjamin Lee and Edward LiPuma (192) argue, if circulation is to serve as a useful analytic construct for the analysis of contemporary social life, “it needs be conceived as more than simply the movement of people, ideas, and commodities from one culture to another.” It is necessary to analyse circulation as a cultural process with its “own forms of abstraction, evaluation, and constraint” (192). It is, indeed, the dynamic structures of circulation that we have to look for. In this article, I shall attempt to illuminate the workings of circulation by discussing how images of violence travel in different types of mobile media environments and how that movement contributes to the formation and reformation of various social imaginaries. Drawing on Charles Taylor’s, Arjun Appadurai’s and Dilip Gaonkar’s work, I define social imaginaries as a symbolic matrix within which people imagine their collective social life. As Gaonkar (1-19) argues, it is within the folds of a social imaginary that we see ourselves as agents who traverse a social space and inhabit a temporal horizon. In everyday life, social imaginaries are carried in stories, symbols and images and in today’s world they rely heavily on stranger sociability—that is, sociability based on media-related relations among strangers (Gaonkar 4-5, 10). Images In Kauhajoki, Finland, on 23 September 2008, a 22-year-old male student went on the rampage at the Seinäjoki University of Applied Science (located in Kauhajoki, the province of Western Finland: a town with a population of some 14,000 inhabitants). The killer shot a teacher, nine of his classmates and, finally, himself. This was a second school shooting tragedy in Finland in less than a year, the first major incident being in Jokela in 2007. Before committing his crimes, the killer had distributed several self-images on the Internet (namely on IRC-gallery and YouTube) in which he broadcast his fascination for guns and shooting. Altogether, he had posted some 15 images on the IRC-gallery site. Some of the images were video clips, but these were later converted into still images. The images that started to circulate in the media after the tragedy included ones of the shooter pointing at the camera with his gun or of him shooting in a shooting range, as well as a number of self-portraits. Following Bruno Latour (159-64), I shall attempt to track the circulation of the killer’s images across different media landscapes: social and mainstream media. This short media ethnography covers excerpts from the Finnish online papers, television news, social media, and newspapers from the day of the tragedy (23 September 2008). Only print newspapers are collected from the next day, 24 September. More specifically, I trace the killer’s images from the largest broadsheet Helsingin Sanomat (print and online versions), the two tabloids Ilta-Sanomat and Iltalehti (print and online versions), and the national public broadcasting company, YLE (TV1 and TV2), as well as the two largest national commercial TV channels, MTV3 and TV4 (I will look especially at the main broadcast newscasts from the channels for the first day). En Route The Kauhajoki rampage shooter launched the process of circulation only about 15 minutes before he left home and started shooting. He logged in, downloaded the images on the social media website, IRC-gallery, and made a link to a server called Rapidshare to accelerate dissemination of his visual material. But this was only the tip of the iceberg in the shooter’s case. In the past, he had been an active circulator of violent material on the Web. By tracing his online history, we can confirm that the killer was a competent user of the digital communication technology (Hakala 99-118). The shooter registered with IRC-gallery in December 2004 and with YouTube in mid-March 2008. He took, for example, the username Wumpscut86 as his online identification. In the course of 2008, the images of the young man smiling at the camera changed into profile photos taken at a shooting range and eventually into a video where the man shoots at the camera. The shooter posted the first photos, hinting at the impending massacre, in the IRC-gallery in August 2008. Ten days after the first posting, the shooter downloaded a picture of his weapon onto the IRC-gallery, titled “Pity for majority”. At the end of August, pictures appeared on the IRC-gallery featuring the man firing his weapon at a shooting range and posing for the camera with his weapon. On Wednesday, 17 September 2008, he again added two more gunman photos of himself to his gallery (Sumiala and Tikka 17-29). During September, the killer downloaded four shooting videos onto YouTube, the last ones on 18 September 2008 (the Thursday of the week before the shooting). The videos feature the man firing his weapon at a location that appears to be a shooting range. On the day of the shooting, Tuesday 23 September 2008, he included a link to his Massacre in Kauhajoki file package, which contained the videos “You will die next”, “Goodbye”, and “Me and my Walther,” as well as an aerial shot of the school centre and photos of him aiming the weapon at the camera (Sumiala and Tikka 17-29).It is therefore clear that the shooter had planned his media strategy carefully before he committed his crime: he left plenty of visual traces, easy to find and distribute, after the catastrophe. In this respect, he also followed the pattern of his predecessors in Virginia Tech and in Jokela: these shooters had also activated social media sites to circulate violent material before taking any action (Kellner 39-43; Sumiala and Tikka 17-29). The killer started shooting in the school centre at around 10:46. The emergency response centre was notified of a fire and of the shooting at 10:47. Altogether, he shot ten people: nine students and one teacher. Around noon, the killer shot himself, but didn’t die immediately. His death, from gunshot wounds, was reported at Tampere University Hospital at 17:40 that evening. The first pieces of information about the shooting appeared on the social media site MuroBBS (a chat room) about half an hour after the shooting had started. About five minutes later, people chatting on the MuroBBS site made a connection between the shooter and his YouTube videos and IRC-gallery material. The IRC-gallery server removed his videos at 11:29 and the YouTube server an hour later, but they had already been uploaded by other users of social media and thus could not be totally destroyed by the server (Hakala 100-18). The online tabloid Iltalehti, published the first of the shooter’s images about 45 minutes after he had shot himself but was still alive. At this point, his face was not recognisable in the images because it was obscured by a black box. The tabloid headline said (in English translation) “Is he the shooter?” Later in the afternoon, all three online papers, Helsingin Sanomat, Iltalehti, and Ilta-Sanomat, published online images of the killer shooting and pointing his gun at the camera, and of his face (as originally published in IRC-gallery). With regard to issues of mobility, the online images travelled much faster than people with cameras. Kauhajoki, the town where the massacre took place, is situated far away from Helsinki, the capital of Finland, and centre of the country’s largest media and news organisations. Only the most well-resourced news organisations were able to send journalists and photographers to the scene of the crime with helicopters and planes; other journalists and broadcasters had to sit in a car or in a train for hours to get to Kauhajoki. Consequently, the critical moment had passed by the time they finally arrived (Hakala 99-118). By contrast, the images posted by the killer himself were available on the Web as soon the shooting started. And it was the social media sites that were the first to make the connection between the shooter and his images. This early annexing of images by the social media users was thus crucial in putting the massacre into circulation in its virtual form (Sumiala and Tikka 17-29). As noted above, social media operators in IRC-gallery and YouTube started to remove the shooter’s material less than an hour after the tragedy started at Kauhajoki. But, when searching YouTube or googling “Kauhajoki” at around 14:00 on the same day, one could still find at least 15 (and probably many more) of his videos (or at least, clips) on YouTube. The titles of these videos included: “School Massacre in Finland (Kauhajoki) 9/23/2008”, “The Shooter at the Massacre in Kauhajoki”, “Kauhajoki Killer Shooting his Deadly Weapon”. One of the crucial aspects of circulation is the issue of which material gets into circulation and what value is attached to it. In the case of the Kauhajoki school shootings, one needs to ask which were the texts or images that started to circulate in the national media, as it is the national media (in particular, television) that play a crucial role in transforming a local news event it into a national media catastrophe (see e.g. Liebes 71-84). The newscasts analysed for this research included evening news from every national news channel: YLE: channel 1 (20:30); channel 2 (21:50); MTV3 (19:00); and TV4 (23.00). All of them showed the shooter’s own images as part of their broadcasts. YLE channels 1 and 2 were more cautious about showing visual material, whereas the commercial channels MTV3 and TV4 used more airtime (and a larger number of images, both still and moving) to profile the killer. By the end of the day, the “Kauhajoki Killer” had become “the star” of the shootings (both nationwide and internationally), largely on account of the visual material he had left behind on the Web and which was so easy to circulate from one medium to another (Hakala 48-98). Needless to day, the “victims” of the shooting (nine students and a teacher) all but faded from view. Events the next day only increased this emphasis. The two tabloids Iltalehti and Ilta-Sanomat brought out extra issues featuring the killer’s own visual material on several double-page spreads. Especially interesting was Iltalehti’s double page (24-25), covered with images from the international online papers: Spiegel Online, Mail Online, CNN.com, BBC news, El Pais.com, Expressen and Aftonbladet, all but one of which had chosen to display the killer’s face on the front page. Helsingin Sanomat also chose to give the killer’s face extraordinary visibility; in Finland, the front page of the daily is usually always sold for advertisements and there are only very few instances in its history that have been an exception to this rule. The Kauhajoki massacre was one of these rare moments in history. Community Through this short media ethnography, I hope to have illustrated some of the ways in which circulation features in a contemporary media context through the example of the “Kauhajoki School Shooter”. The direction of this “circulation” was clearly from the social media to the mainstream media: from online to offline. As a media event, it was diachronic (i.e. “historical”—it evolved “across time”), but also synchronic inasmuch as the images multiplied on the Web in an instant (Sumiala and Tikka 17-29). In the circulation of the Kauhajoki shooter’s images, digital communication technology clearly played an absolutely central role. The images were easily accessible on social media sites and they were in a digital format that was simple to convert from one medium to another. This enabled instant and sensational “remediation”, to use Bolter and Grusin’s formulation. Not only were the images transformed from one medium to another; they became remediated, especially in commercial electronic and print media, as they all (MTV3, TV4, Helsingin Sanomat, Iltalehti, and Ilta-Sanomat) circulated images from the killer’s own online sites. Yet I do not wish to give the impression that the media circulation of the Kauhajoki killer images is an “innocent” or inconsequential cultural phenomenon in the context of mobilised social life. Circulation, as a means of communication, has the power to influence social imaginaries: how belonging is imagined and acted out in the age of mobility. In his book Fear of Small Numbers, Arjun Appadurai has argued that, in the contemporary era, communities are not only organised around communications that nurture positive imaginaries, but also circulate violence, fear, destruction, and uncertainty. By copying, repeating, and “recycling” violent material—by keeping circulation on the move, in other words—social imaginaries of violence are spread, not only on a national scale but globally. In this sense, it is arguable that they become distinctly glocal phenomena. Some of the circulation of the violent material is condensed on Web-based “hate groups”: this refers to those global communities that share a common hatred or anger regarding a given phenomenon or issue. The cause of hatred is often race, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or gender, but it can also be misanthropy of a more general kind (Duffy 292). The attitudes towards the objects of hatred that are revealed may vary in both nature and degree, but the “national” exporting of violence from one country to another arguably follows a similar trajectory to the migrant flow of human subjects (Sumiala and Tikka 17-29) and therefore adds to the impression that circulatory “flows” have become the dominant trope of contemporary life the world over. Imaginary communities, as de-territorialised forms of belonging, can, in fact, be regarded as the communities of the era of mobility (see also Pikner in this issue). They cannot be physically perceived, but they do have social momentum. The shooter in Kauhajoki was a member of a large number of global virtual communities himself and arguably succeeded in exporting both himself, and “Finland”, to the rest of the world. He had, as we’ve seen, registered with YouTube, IRC-gallery, Suomi24 (Finland’s largest online community), and Battlefield 2 long before the massacre took place. It is also worth noting that, in these virtual communities, the killer took up his place as a resident rather than a visitor. Having established his online profile, he sought out contact with like-minded users, and engaged in social relationships in global online communities that were, quite literally, a world away from his home in Finland. In the virtual “hate communities” to which the Kauhajoki shooter belonged, dispersed people from around the world came together through a discourse of violence, hate, and destruction; I call these ephemeral encounters of stranger sociability networked communities of destruction. These are virtual global communities held together by a social imaginary constructed around the visualisation of texts of death and violence that emanate from a specific nation (in this case, Finland) but almost instantly transcend it. These communities cancel the distance between centre and periphery and cohere around the discourses of hate and destruction (Coman and Rothenbuhler 6). By remaking and circulating the Kauhajoki shooter’s photos and videos, these communities render a figure like the Kauhajoki killer immortal in an unprecedented way. The promise of post-mortem fame for a potential school shooter is thus kept vividly alive in today’s networked communities through the endless circulation of imaginaries of violence and destruction, raising issues of ethics and digital/media responsibility that have only just begun to be addressed. References Appadurai, Arjun. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Appadurai, Arjun. Fear of Small Numbers: An Essay on the Geography of Anger. London: Duke University Press, 2006. Bolter, Jay David, and Richard Grusin. Remediation. Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998. Castells, Manuel. Communication Power. New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. Coman, Mihai, and Eric Rothenbuhler. “The Promise of Media Anthropology.” Media Anthropology. Thousand Oaks: Sage, 2005. 1-11. Dayan, Daniel. “The Pope at Reunion: Hagiography, Casting, and Imagination.” Media Anthropology. Ed. Eric Rothenbuhler and Mihai Coman. Thousand Oaks and London: Sage, 2005. 165-75. Delanty, Gerard. Community. 2nd ed. London: Routledge, 2010. Duffy, Margaret. “Web of Hate: A Fantasy Theme Analysis of the Rhetorical Vision of Hate Groups Online.” Journal of Communication Inquiry 27 (2003): 291-312. Gaonkar, Dilip Parameshwar. “Toward New Imaginaries: An Introduction.” Public Culture 14 (2002): 1-19. Hakala, Salli. Koulusurmat verkostoyhteiskunnassa. Analyysi Jokelan ja Kauhajoen kriisien viestinnästä. Helsingin yliopisto: CRC/Viestinnän laitos, 2009. ‹http://www.valt.helsinki.fi/blogs/crc/koulusurmat.htm›. Kellner, Douglas. Guys and Guns Amok: Domestic Terrorism and School Shootings from the Oklahoma City Bombing to the Virginia Tech Massacre. Boulder: Paradigm Publishers, 2008. Latour, Bruno. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Lee, Benjamin, and Edward LiPuma. “Cultures of Circulation: The Imaginations of Modernity.” Public Culture 14 (2002): 191-214. Liebes, Tamar. “Television’s Disaster Marathons: A Danger for Democratic Processes?” Media, Ritual and Identity. Eds. Tamar Liebes and James Curran. London : Routledge, 1998. 71-84. Sumiala, Johanna. “Circulation.” Keywords in Religion, Media, and Culture. Ed. David Morgan. London: Routledge, 2008. 44-55. Sumiala, Johanna, and Minttu Tikka. “‘Web First’ to Death: The Media Logic of the School Shootings in the Era of Uncertainty. Nordicom Review 31 (2010): 17-29. ‹http://www.nordicom.gu.se/eng.php?portal=publ&amp;main=info_publ2.php&amp;ex=325&amp;me=2%22%20%5Ct%20%22_blank›. Taylor, Charles. “Modern Social Imaginaries.” Public Culture 14 (2002): 91-124. Urry, John. Mobilities. Cambridge: Polity, 2008.

Introduction: Bubbles and Sport The ephemeral materiality of bubbles – beautiful, spectacular, and distracting but ultimately fragile – when applied to protect or conserve in the interests of sport-media profit, creates conditions that exacerbate existing inequalities in sport and society. Bubbles are usually something to watch, admire, and chase after in their brief yet shiny lives. There is supposed to be, technically, nothing inside them other than one or more gasses, and yet we constantly refer to people and objects being inside bubbles. The metaphor of the bubble has been used to describe the life of celebrities, politicians in purpose-built capital cities like Canberra, and even leftist, environmentally activist urban dwellers. The metaphorical and material qualities of bubbles are aligned—they cannot be easily captured and are liable to change at any time. In this article we address the metaphorical sporting bubble, which is often evoked in describing life in professional sport. This is a vernacular term used to capture and condemn the conditions of life of elite sportspeople (usually men), most commonly after there has been a sport-related scandal, especially of a sexual nature (Rowe). It is frequently paired with connotatively loaded adjectives like pampered and indulged. The sporting bubble is rarely interrogated in academic literature, the concept largely being left to the media and moral entrepreneurs. It is represented as involving a highly privileged but also pressurised life for those who live inside it. A sporting bubble is a world constructed for its most prized inhabitants that enables them to be protected from insurgents and to set the terms of their encounters with others, especially sport fans and disciplinary agents of the state. The Covid-19 pandemic both reinforced and reconfigured the operational concept of the bubble, re-arranging tensions between safety (protecting athletes) and fragility (short careers, risks of injury, etc.) for those within, while safeguarding those without from bubble contagion. Privilege and Precarity Bubble-induced social isolation, critics argue, encourages a loss of perspective among those under its protection, an entitled disconnection from the usual rules and responsibilities of everyday life. For this reason, the denizens of the sporting bubble are seen as being at risk to themselves and, more troublingly, to those allowed temporarily to penetrate it, especially young women who are first exploited by and then ejected from it (Benedict). There are many well-documented cases of professional male athletes “behaving badly” and trying to rely on institutional status and various versions of the sporting bubble for shelter (Flood and Dyson; Reel and Crouch; Wade). In the age of mobile and social media, it is increasingly difficult to keep misbehaviour in-house, resulting in a slew of media stories about, for example, drunkenness and sexual misconduct, such as when then-Sydney Roosters co-captain Mitchell Pearce was suspended and fined in 2016 after being filmed trying to force an unwanted kiss on a woman and then simulating a lewd act with her dog while drunk. There is contestation between those who condemn such behaviour as aberrant and those who regard it as the conventional expression of youthful masculinity as part of the familiar “boys will be boys” dictum. The latter naturalise an inequitable gender order, frequently treating sportsmen as victims of predatory women, and ignoring asymmetries of power between men and women, especially in homosocial environments (Toffoletti). For those in the sporting bubble (predominantly elite sportsmen and highly paid executives, also mostly men, with an array of service staff of both sexes moving in and out of it), life is reflected for those being protected via an array of screens (small screens in homes and indoor places of entertainment, and even smaller screens on theirs and others’ phones, as well as huge screens at sport events). These male sport stars are paid handsomely to use their skill and strength to perform for the sporting codes, their every facial expression and bodily action watched by the media and relayed to audiences. This is often a precarious existence, the usually brief career of an athlete worker being dependent on health, luck, age, successful competition with rivals, networks, and club and coach preferences. There is a large, aspirational reserve army of athletes vying to play at the elite level, despite risks of injury and invasive, life-changing medical interventions. Responsibility for avoiding performance and image enhancing drugs (PIEDs) also weighs heavily on their shoulders (Connor). Professional sportspeople, in their more reflective moments, know that their time in the limelight will soon be up, meaning that getting a ticket to the sporting bubble, even for a short time, can make all the difference to their post-sport lives and those of their families. The most vulnerable of the small minority of participants in sport who make a good, short-term living from it are those for whom, in the absence of quality education and prior social status, it is their sole likely means of upward social mobility (Spaaij). Elite sport performers are surrounded by minders, doctors, fitness instructors, therapists, coaches, advisors and other service personnel, all supporting athletes to stay focussed on and maximise performance quality to satisfy co-present crowds, broadcasters, sponsors, sports bodies and mass media audiences. The shield offered by the sporting bubble supports the teleological win-at-all-costs mentality of professional sport. The stakes are high, with athlete and executive salaries, sponsorships and broadcasting deals entangled in a complex web of investments in keeping the “talent” pivotal to the “attention economy” (Davenport and Beck)—the players that provide the content for sale—in top form. Yet, the bubble cannot be entirely secured and poor behaviour or performance can have devastating effects, including permanent injury or disability, mental illness and loss of reputation (Rowe, “Scandals and Sport”). Given this fragile materiality of the sporting bubble, it is striking that, in response to the sudden shutdown following the economic and health crisis caused by the 2020 global pandemic, the leaders of professional sport decided to create more of them and seek to seal the metaphorical and material space with unprecedented efficiency. The outcome was a multi-sided tale of mobility, confinement, capital, labour, and the gendering of sport and society. The Covid-19 Gilded Cage Sociologists such as Zygmunt Bauman and John Urry have analysed the socio-politics of mobilities, whereby some people in the world, such as tourists, can traverse the globe at their leisure, while others remain fixed in geographical space because they lack the means to be mobile or, in contrast, are involuntarily displaced by war, so-called “ethnic cleansing”, famine, poverty or environmental degradation. The Covid-19 global pandemic re-framed these matters of mobilities (Rowe, “Subjecting Pandemic Sport”), with conventional moving around—between houses, businesses, cities, regions and countries—suddenly subjected to the imperative to be static and, in perniciously unreflective technocratic discourse, “socially distanced” (when what was actually meant was to be “physically distanced”). The late-twentieth century analysis of the “risk society” by Ulrich Beck, in which the mysterious consequences of humans’ predation on their environment are visited upon them with terrifying force, was dramatically realised with the coming of Covid-19. In another iteration of the metaphor, it burst the bubble of twenty-first century global sport. What we today call sport was formed through the process of sportisation (Maguire), whereby hyper-local, folk physical play was reconfigured as multi-spatial industrialised sport in modernity, becoming increasingly reliant on individual athletes and teams travelling across the landscape and well over the horizon. Co-present crowds were, in turn, overshadowed in the sport economy when sport events were taken to much larger, dispersed audiences via the media, especially in broadcast mode (Nicholson, Kerr, and Sherwood). This lucrative mediation of professional sport, though, came with an unforgiving obligation to generate an uninterrupted supply of spectacular live sport content. The pandemic closed down most sports events and those that did take place lacked the crucial participation of the co-present crowd to provide the requisite event atmosphere demanded by those viewers accustomed to a sense of occasion. Instead, they received a strange spectacle of sport performers operating in empty “cathedrals”, often with a “faked” crowd presence. The mediated sport spectacle under the pandemic involved cardboard cut-out and sex doll spectators, Zoom images of fans on large screens, and sampled sounds of the crowd recycled from sport video games. Confected co-presence produced simulacra of the “real” as Baudrillardian visions came to life. The sporting bubble had become even more remote. For elite sportspeople routinely isolated from the “common people”, the live sport encounter offered some sensory experience of the social – the sounds, sights and even smells of the crowd. Now the sporting bubble closed in on an already insulated and insular existence. It exposed the irony of the bubble as a sign of both privileged mobility and incarcerated athlete work, both refuge and prison. Its logic of contagion also turned a structure intended to protect those inside from those outside into, as already observed, a mechanism to manage the threat of insiders to outsiders. In Australia, as in many other countries, the populace was enjoined by governments and health authorities to help prevent the spread of Covid-19 through isolation and immobility. There were various exceptions, principally those classified as essential workers, a heterogeneous cohort ranging from supermarket shelf stackers to pharmacists. People in the cultural, leisure and sports industries, including musicians, actors, and athletes, were not counted among this crucial labour force. Indeed, the performing arts (including dance, theatre and music) were put on ice with quite devastating effects on the livelihoods and wellbeing of those involved. So, with all major sports shut down (the exception being horse racing, which received the benefit both of government subsidies and expanding online gambling revenue), sport organisations began to represent themselves as essential services that could help sustain collective mental and even spiritual wellbeing. This case was made most aggressively by Australian Rugby League Commission Chairman, Peter V’landys, in contending that “an Australia without rugby league is not Australia”. In similar vein, prominent sport and media figure Phil Gould insisted, when describing rugby league fans in Western Sydney’s Penrith, “they’re lost, because the football’s not on … . It holds their families together. People don’t understand that … . Their life begins in the second week of March, and it ends in October”. Despite misgivings about public safety and equality before the pandemic regime, sporting bubbles were allowed to form, re-form and circulate. The indefinite shutdown of the National Rugby League (NRL) on 23 March 2020 was followed after negotiation between multiple entities by its reopening on 28 May 2020. The competition included a team from another nation-state (the Warriors from Aotearoa/New Zealand) in creating an international sporting bubble on the Central Coast of New South Wales, separating them from their families and friends across the Tasman Sea. Appeals to the mental health of fans and the importance of the NRL to myths of “Australianness” notwithstanding, the league had not prudently maintained a financial reserve and so could not afford to shut down for long. Significant gambling revenue for leagues like the NRL and Australian Football League (AFL) also influenced the push to return to sport business as usual. Sport contests were needed in order to exploit the gambling opportunities – especially online and mobile – stimulated by home “confinement”. During the coronavirus lockdowns, Australians’ weekly spending on gambling went up by 142 per cent, and the NRL earned significantly more than usual from gambling revenue—potentially $10 million above forecasts for 2020. Despite the clear financial imperative at play, including heavy reliance on gambling, sporting bubble-making involved special licence. The state of Queensland, which had pursued a hard-line approach by closing its borders for most of those wishing to cross them for biographical landmark events like family funerals and even for medical treatment in border communities, became “the nation's sporting hub”. Queensland became the home of most teams of the men’s AFL (notably the women’s AFLW season having been cancelled) following a large Covid-19 second wave in Melbourne. The women’s National Netball League was based exclusively in Queensland. This state, which for the first time hosted the AFL Grand Final, deployed sport as a tool in both national sports tourism marketing and internal pre-election politics, sponsoring a documentary, The Sporting Bubble 2020, via its Tourism and Events arm. While Queensland became the larger bubble incorporating many other sporting bubbles, both the AFL and the NRL had versions of the “fly in, fly out” labour rhythms conventionally associated with the mining industry in remote and regional areas. In this instance, though, the bubble experience did not involve long stays in miners’ camps or even the one-night hotel stopovers familiar to the popular music and sport industries. Here, the bubble moved, usually by plane, to fulfil the requirements of a live sport “gig”, whereupon it was immediately returned to its more solid bubble hub or to domestic self-isolation. In the space created between disciplined expectation and deplored non-compliance, the sporting bubble inevitably became the scrutinised object and subject of scandal. Sporting Bubble Scandals While people with a very low risk of spreading Covid-19 (coming from areas with no active cases) were denied entry to Queensland for even the most serious of reasons (for example, the death of a child), images of AFL players and their families socialising and enjoying swimming at the Royal Pines Resort sporting bubble crossed our screens. Yet, despite their (players’, officials’ and families’) relative privilege and freedom of movement under the AFL Covid-Safe Plan, some players and others inside the bubble were involved in “scandals”. Most notable was the case of a drunken brawl outside a Gold Coast strip club which led to two Richmond players being “banished”, suspended for 10 matches, and the club fined $100,000. But it was not only players who breached Covid-19 bubble protocols: Collingwood coaches Nathan Buckley and Brenton Sanderson paid the $50,000 fine imposed on the club for playing tennis in Perth outside their bubble, while Richmond was fined $45,000 after Brooke Cotchin, wife of team captain Trent, posted an image to Instagram of a Gold Coast day spa that she had visited outside the “hub” (the institutionally preferred term for bubble). She was subsequently distressed after being trolled. Also of concern was the lack of physical distancing, and the range of people allowed into the sporting bubble, including babysitters, grandparents, and swimming coaches (for children). There were other cases of players being caught leaving the bubble to attend parties and sharing videos of their “antics” on social media. Biosecurity breaches of bubbles by players occurred relatively frequently, with stern words from both the AFL and NRL leaders (and their clubs) and fines accumulating in the thousands of dollars. Some people were also caught sneaking into bubbles, with Lekahni Pearce, the girlfriend of Swans player Elijah Taylor, stating that it was easy in Perth, “no security, I didn’t see a security guard” (in Barron, Stevens, and Zaczek) (a month later, outside the bubble, they had broken up and he pled guilty to unlawfully assaulting her; Ramsey). Flouting the rules, despite stern threats from government, did not lead to any bubble being popped. The sport-media machine powering sporting bubbles continued to run, the attendant emotional or health risks accepted in the name of national cultural therapy, while sponsorship, advertising and gambling revenue continued to accumulate mostly for the benefit of men. Gendering Sporting Bubbles Designed as biosecurity structures to maintain the supply of media-sport content, keep players and other vital cogs of the machine running smoothly, and to exclude Covid-19, sporting bubbles were, in their most advanced form, exclusive luxury camps that illuminated the elevated socio-cultural status of sportsmen. The ongoing inequalities between men’s and women’s sport in Australia and around the world were clearly in evidence, as well as the politics of gender whereby women are obliged to “care” and men are enabled to be “careless” – or at least to manage carefully their “duty of care”. In Australia, the only sport for women that continued during the height of the Covid-19 lockdown was netball, which operated in a bubble that was one of sacrifice rather than privilege. With minimum salaries of only $30,000 – significantly less than the lowest-paid “rookies” in the AFL – and some being mothers of small children and/or with professional jobs juggled alongside their netball careers, these elite sportswomen wanted to continue to play despite the personal inconvenience or cost (Pavlidis). Not one breach of the netballers out of the bubble was reported, indicating that they took their responsibilities with appropriate seriousness and, perhaps, were subjected to less scrutiny than the sportsmen accustomed to attracting front-page headlines. National Netball League (also known after its Queensland-based naming rights sponsor as Suncorp Super Netball) players could be regarded as fortunate to have the opportunity to be in a bubble and to participate in their competition. The NRL Women’s (NRLW) Premiership season was also completed, but only involved four teams subject to fly in, fly out and bubble arrangements, and being played in so-called curtain-raiser games for the NRL. As noted earlier, the AFLW season was truncated, despite all the prior training and sacrifice required of its players. Similarly, because of their resource advantages, the UK men’s and boy’s top six tiers of association football were allowed to continue during lockdown, compared to only two for women and girls. In the United States, inequalities between men’s and women’s sports were clearly demonstrated by the conditions afforded to those elite sportswomen inside the Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA) sport bubble in the IMG Academy in Florida. Players shared photos of rodent traps in their rooms, insect traps under their mattresses, inedible food and blocked plumbing in their bubble accommodation. These conditions were a far cry from the luxury usually afforded elite sportsmen, including in Florida’s Walt Disney World for the men’s NBA, and is just one of the many instances of how gendered inequality was both reproduced and exacerbated by Covid-19. Bursting the Bubble As we have seen, governments and corporate leaders in sport were able to create material and metaphorical bubbles during the Covid-19 lockdown in order to transmit stadium sport contests into home spaces. The rationale was the importance of sport to national identity, belonging and the routines and rhythms of life. But for whom? Many women, who still carry the major responsibilities of “care”, found that Covid-19 intensified the affective relations and gendered inequities of “home” as a leisure site (Fullagar and Pavlidis). Rates of domestic violence surged, and many women experienced significant anxiety and depression related to the stress of home confinement and home schooling. During the pandemic, women were also more likely to experience the stress and trauma of being first responders, witnessing virus-related sickness and death as the majority of nurses and care workers. They also bore the brunt of much of the economic and employment loss during this time. Also, as noted above, livelihoods in the arts and cultural sector did not receive the benefits of the “bubble”, despite having a comparable claim to sport in contributing significantly to societal wellbeing. This sector’s workforce is substantially female, although men dominate its senior roles. Despite these inequalities, after the late March to May hiatus, many elite male sportsmen – and some sportswomen - operated in a bubble. Moving in and out of them was not easy. Life inside could be mentally stressful (especially in long stays of up to 150 days in sports like cricket), and tabloid and social media troll punishment awaited those who were caught going “over the fence”. But, life in the sporting bubble was generally preferable to the daily realities of those afflicted by the trauma arising from forced home confinement, and for whom watching moving sports images was scant compensation for compulsory immobility. The ethical foundation of the sparkly, ephemeral fantasy of the sporting bubble is questionable when it is placed in the service of a voracious “media sports cultural complex” (Rowe, Global Media Sport) that consumes sport labour power and rolls back progress in gender relations as a default response to a global pandemic. Covid-19 dramatically highlighted social inequalities in many areas of life, including medical care, work, and sport. For the small minority of people involved in sport who are elite professionals, the only thing worse than being in a sporting bubble during the pandemic was not being in one, as being outside precluded their participation. Being inside the bubble was a privilege, albeit a dubious one. But, as in wider society, not all sporting bubbles are created equal. Some are more opulent than others, and the experiences of the supporting and the supported can be very different. The surface of the sporting bubble may be impermanent, but when its interior is opened up to scrutiny, it reveals some very durable structures of inequality. Bubbles are made to burst. They are, by nature, temporary, translucent structures created as spectacles. As a form of luminosity, bubbles “allow a thing or object to exist only as a flash, sparkle or shimmer” (Deleuze, 52). In echoing Deleuze, Angela McRobbie (54) argues that luminosity “softens and disguises the regulative dynamics of neoliberal society”. The sporting bubble was designed to discharge that function for those millions rendered immobile by home confinement legislation in Australia and around the world, who were having to deal with the associated trauma, risk and disadvantage. Hence, the gender and class inequalities exacerbated by Covid-19, and the precarious and pressured lives of elite athletes, were obscured. We contend that, in the final analysis, the sporting bubble mainly serves those inside, floating tantalisingly out of reach of most of those outside who try to grasp its elusive power. Yet, it is a small group beyond who wield that power, having created bubbles as armoured vehicles to salvage any available profit in the midst of a global pandemic. References AAP. “NRL Makes Desperate Plea to Government as It Announces Season Will Go Ahead.” 7News.com.au 15 Mar. 2020. 8 Mar. 2021 &lt;https://7news.com.au/sport/rugby-league/nrl-makes-desperate-plea-to-government-as-it-announces-season-will-go-ahead-c-745711&gt;. Al Jazeera English. “Sports TV: Faking Spectators and Spectacles.” The Listening Post 26 Sep. 2020 &lt;https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AlD63s26sQ&amp;feature=youtu.be&amp;t=827&gt;. 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McGrath, Pat. “Racing Victoria Got $16.6 Million in Emergency COVID Funding: Then Online Horse Racing Gambling Revenue Skyrocketed.” ABC News 3 Nov. 2020. 8 Mar. 2021 &lt;https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-11-03/racing-victoria-emergency-coronavirus-COVID-funding/12838012&gt;. McRobbie, Angela. The Aftermath of Feminism: Gender, Culture and Social Change. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2009. Madden, Helena. “Lebron James’s Suite in the NBA Bubble Is Fit for a King.” Robb Report 16 Sep. 2020. 8 Mar. 2021 &lt;https://robbreport.com/travel/hotels/lebron-james-nba-bubble-suite-1234569303&gt;. Maguire, Joseph. “Sportization.” The Blackwell Encyclopedia of Sociology. Ed. George Ritzer. Oxford: Blackwell, 2007. 4710–11. Mathieson, Craig. “Michael Jordan Pierces the Bubble of Elite Sport in Juicy ESPN Doco.” Sydney Morning Herald. 13 May 2020. 8 Mar. 2021 &lt;https://www.smh.com.au/culture/tv-and-radio/michael-jordan-pierces-the-bubble-of-elite-sport-in-juicy-espn-doco-20200511-p54rwc.html&gt;. 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Introduction In an era of upheaval and uncertainty for higher education institutions around the world, scholars, like those in many in other professions, are increasingly using social media to build communities around mutual support and professional development. These communities appear to offer opportunities for participants to exert more positive influence over the types of interactions they engage in with colleagues, in many cases being valued as more altruistic, transformational, or supportive than established academic structures (Gibson, and Gibbs; Mewburn, and Thomson; Maitzen). What has been described as ‘digital scholarship’ applies social media to “different facets of scholarly activity in a helpful and productive way” (Carrigan 5), with online scholarly communities being likened to evolutions of face-to-face practices including peer mentoring (Ferguson, and Wheat) or a “virtual staffroom” (Mewburn, and Thomson). To a large extent, these accounts of scholarly practice adapted for digital media have resonance. From writing groups (O’Dwyer, McDonough, Jefferson, Goff, and Redman-MacLaren) to conference attendance (Spilker, Silva, and Morgado) and funding (Osimo, Priego, and Vuorikari), the transformational possibilities of social media have been applied to almost every facet of existing academic practices. These practices have increasingly attracted scrutiny from higher education institutions, with social media profiles of staff both a potential asset and risk to institutions’ brands. Around the world, institutions use social media for marketing, student recruitment, student support and alumni communication (Palmer). As such, social media policies have emerged in recent years in attempts to ensure staff engage in ways that align with the interests of their employers (Solberg; Carrigan). However, engagement via social media is also still largely considered “supplementary to ‘real’ scholarly work” (Mussell 347).Paralleling this trend, guides to effectively managing an online profile as a component of professional reputation have also become increasingly common (e.g. Carrigan). While public relations and management literatures have approached reputation management in terms of how an organisation is regarded by its multiple stakeholders (Fombrun) this is increasingly being applied to individuals on social media. According to Gandini a “reputation economy” (22) has come to function for knowledge workers who seek to cultivate a reputation as a good community member through sociality in order to secure more (or better) work.The popularity of professional social media communities and scrutiny of participants raises questions about the work involved in building and participating in them. This article explores these questions through analysis of tweets from the first year of #ECRchat, a Twitter group for early career researchers (ECRs). The group was established in 2012 to provide an opportunity for ECRs (typically within five years of PhD completion) to discuss career-related issues. Since it was founded, the group has been administered through partnerships between early career scholars using a Twitter account (@ECRchat) and a blog. Tweets, the posts of 140 characters or fewer, which appear on a user’s profile and in followers’ feeds (Twitter) are organised into a ‘chat’ by participants through the use of the hashtag ‘#ECRchat’. Participants vote on chat topics and take on the role of hosting on a volunteer basis. The explicit career focus of this group provides an ideal case study to explore how work is represented in an online professionally-focused community, in order to reflect on what this might mean for the norms of knowledge work.Digital Labour The impact of Internet Communication Technologies (ICT), including social media, on the lives of workers has long been a source of both concern and hope. Mobile devices, wireless Internet and associated communications software enable increasing numbers of people to take work home. This flexibility has been welcomed as the means by which workers might more successfully access jobs and manage competing commitments (Raja, Imaizumi, Kelly, Narimatsu, and Paradi-Guilford). However, hours worked from home are often unpaid and carry with them a strong likelihood of interfering with rest, recreation and family time (Pocock and Skinner). Melissa Gregg describes this as “presence bleed” (2): the dilutions of focus from everyday activities as workers increasingly use electronic devices to ‘check in’ during non-work time. Moving beyond the limitations of this work-life balance approach, which tends to over-state divisions between employment and other everyday life practices, a growing literature seeks to address work in online environments by analysing the types of labour being practiced, rather than seeing such practices as adjunct to physical workplaces. Responding to claims that digital communication heralds a new age of greater freedom, creativity and democratic participation, this work draws attention to the reliance of such networks on unpaid labour (e.g. Hearn; Hesmondhalgh) with ratings, reviews and relationship maintenance serving business’ economic ends alongside the individual interests which motivate participants. The immaterial, affective, and often precarious labour that has been observed is “simultaneously voluntarily given and unwaged, enjoyed and exploited” (Terranova). This work builds particularly on feminist analysis of work (see McRobbie for a discussion of this), with behind the scenes moderator, convenor, and community builder roles largely female and largely unrecognised, be they activist (Gleeson), creative (Duffy) or consumer (Arcy) groups. For some, this suggests the emergence of a new ‘women’s work’ of affective immaterial labour which goes into building transformational communities (Jarrett). Yet, digital labour has not yet been foregrounded within research into higher education, where it is largely practiced in the messy intersections of employment, unpaid professional development, and leisure. Joyce Goggin argues that convergence of these spheres is a feature of digital labour. Consequently, this article seeks to add a consideration of digital labour, specifically the cultural politics of work that emerge in these spaces, to the literature on digital practices as a translation of existing academic responsibilities online. In the context of widespread concerns over academic workload and job market (Bentley, Coates, Dobson, Goedegebuure, and Meek) and the growing international engagement and impact agenda (Priem, Piwowar, and Hemminger), it raises questions about the implications of these practices. Researching Twitter Communities This article analyses tweets from the publicly available Twitter timeline, containing the hashtag #ECRchat, during scheduled chats, from 1 July 2012 to 31 July 2013 (the first year of operation). Initially, all tweets in this time period were analysed in anonymised form to determine the most commonly mentioned topics during chats. This content analysis removed the most common English language words, such as: the; it; I; and RT (which stands for retweet), which would otherwise appear as top results in almost any content analysis regardless of the community of interest. This was followed by qualitative analysis of tweets, to explore in more depth how important issues were articulated and rationalised within the group. This draws on Catherine Driscoll’s and Melissa Gregg’s idea of “sympathetic online cultural studies” which seeks to explore online communities first and foremost as communities rather than as exemplars of online communications (15-20). Here, a narrative approach was undertaken to analyse how participants curated, made sense of, and explained their own career stories (drawing on Pamphilon). Although I do not claim that participants are representative of all ECRs, or that the ideas given the most attention during chats are representative of the experiences of all participants, representations of work articulated here are suggestive of the kinds of public utterances that were considered reasonable within this open online space. Participants are identified according to the twitter handle and user name they had chosen to use for the chats being analysed. This is because the practical infeasibility of guaranteeing online anonymity (readers need only to Google the text of any tweet to associate it with a particular user, in most cases) and the importance of actively involving participants as agents in the research process, in part by identifying them as authors of their own stories, rather than informants (e.g. Butz; Evans; Svalastog and Eriksson).Representations of Work in #ECRchat The co-creation of the #ECRchat community through participant hosts and community votes on chat topics gave rise to a discussion group that was heavily focused on ‘the work’ of academia, including its importance in the lives of participants, relative appeal over other options, and negative effects on leisure time. I was clear that participants regarded participation as serving their professional interests, despite participation not being paid or formally recognised by employers. With the exception of two discussions focused on making decisions about the future of the group, #ECRchat discussions during the year of analysis focused on topics designed to help participants succeed at work such as “career progression and planning”, “different routes to postdoc funding”, and “collaboration”. At a micro-level, ‘work’ (and related terms) was the most frequently used term in #ECRchat, with its total number of uses (1372) almost double that of research (700), the next most used term. Comments during the chats reiterated this emphasis: “It’s all about the work. Be decent to people and jump through the hoops you need to, but always keep your eyes on the work” (Magennis).The depth of participants’ commitment comes through strongly in discussions comparing academic work with other options: “pretty much everyone I know with ‘real jobs’ hates their work. I feel truly lucky to say that I love mine #ECRchat” (McGettigan). This was seen in particular in the discussion about ‘careers outside academia’. Hashtags such as #altac (referring to alternative-academic careers such as university research support or learning and teaching administration roles) and #postac (referring to PhD holders working outside of universities in research or non-research roles) used both alongside the #ECRchat hashtag and separately, provide an ongoing site of these kinds of representations. While participants in #ECRchat sought to shift this perception and were critically aware that it could lead to undesirable outcomes: “PhDs and ECRs in Humanities don’t seem to consider working outside of academia – that limits their engagement with training #ECRchat” (Faculty of Humanities at the University of Manchester), such discussions frequently describe alternative academic careers as a ‘backup plan’, should academic employment not be found. Additionally, many participants suggested that their working hours were excessive, extending the professional into personal spaces and times in ways that they did not see as positive. This was often described as the only way to achieve success: “I hate to say it, but one of the best ways to improve track record is to work 70+ hours a week, every week. Forever. #ecrchat” (Dunn). One of the key examples of this dynamic was the scheduling of the chat itself. When founded in 2012, #ECRchat ran in the Australian evening and UK morning, eliding the personal/work distinction for both its coordinators and participants. While considerable discussion was concerned with scheduling the chat during times when a large number of international participants could attend, this discussion centred on waking rather than working hours. The use of scheduled tweets and shared work between convenors in different time zones (Australia and the United Kingdom) maintained an around the clock online presence, extending well beyond the ordinary working hours of any individual participant.Personal Disclosure The norms that were articulated in #ECRchat are perhaps not surprising for a group of participants seeking to establish themselves in a profession where a long-hours culture and work-life interference are common (Bentley, Coates, Dobson, Goedegebuure, and Meek). However, what is notable is that participation frequently involved the extension of the personal into the professional and in support of professional aims. In the chat’s first year, an element of personal disclosure and support for others became key to acting as a good community member. Beyond the well-established norms of white collar workers demonstrating professionalism by deploying “courtesy, helpfulness, and kindness” (Mills xvii), this community building relied on personal disclosure which to some extent collapsed personal and professional boundaries.By disclosing individual struggles, anxieties, and past experiences participants contributed to a culture of support. This largely functioned through discussions of work stress rather than leisure: “I definitely don’t have [work-life balance]. I think it’s because I don’t have a routine so work and home constantly blend into one another” (Feely). Arising from these discussions, ideas to help participants better navigate and build academic careers was one of the main ways this community support and concern was practiced: “I think I’m often more productive and less anxious if I'm working on a couple of things in parallel, too #ecrchat” (Brian).Activities such as preparing meals, caring for family, and leisure activities, became part of the discussion. “@snarkyphd Sorry, late, had to deal with toddler. Also new; currently doing casual teaching/industry work &amp; applying for postdocs #ecrchat” (Ronald). Exclusively professional profiles were considered less engaging than the combination of personal and professional that most participants adopted: “@jeanmadams I’ve answered a few queries on ResearchGate, but agree lack of non-work opinions / personality makes them dull #ecrchat” (Tennant). However, this is not to suggest that these networks become indistinguishable from more informal, personal, or leisurely uses of social media: “@networkedres My ‘professional’ online identity is slightly more guarded than my ‘facebook’ id which is for friends and family #ECRchat” (Wheat). Instead, disclosure of certain kinds of work struggles came to function as a positive contribution to a more reflexive professionalism. In the context of work-focused discussion, #ECRchat opens important spaces for scholars to question norms they considered damaging or at least make these tacit norms explicit and receive support to manage them. Affective Labour The professional goals and focus of #ECRchat, combined with the personal support and disclosure that forms the basis for the supportive elements in this group is arguably one of its strongest and most important elements. Mark Carrigan suggests that the practices of revealing something of the struggles we experience could form the basis for a new collegiality, where common experiences which had previously not been discussed publicly are for the first time recognised as systemic, not individual challenges. However, there is work required to provide context and support for these emotional experiences which is largely invisible here, as has typically been the case in other communities. Such ‘affective labour’ “involves the production and manipulation of affect and requires (virtual or actual) human contact, labour in the bodily mode … the labour is immaterial, even if it is corporeal and affective, in the sense that its products are intangible, a feeling of ease, well-being, satisfaction, excitement or passion” (Hardt, and Negri 292). In #ECRchat, this ranges from managing the schedule and organising discussions – which involves following up offers to help, assisting people to understand the task, and then ensuring things go ahead as planned –to support offered by members of the group within discussions. This occurs in the overlaps between personal and professional representations, taking a variety of forms from everyday reassurance, affirmation, and patience: “Sorry to hear - hang in there. Hope you have a good support network. #ECRchat” (Galea) to empathy often articulated alongside the disclosure discussed earlier: “The feeling of guilt over not working sounds VERY familiar! #ecrchat” (Vredeveldt).The point here is not to suggest that this work is not sufficiently valued by participants, or that it does not parallel the kinds of work undertaken in more formal job roles, including in academia, where management, conference convening or participation in professional societies, and teaching, as just a few examples, involve degrees of affective labour. However, as a consequence of the (semi)public nature of these groups, the interactions observed here appear to represent a new inflection of professional reputation work, where, in building online professional communities, individuals peg their professional reputations to these forms of affective labour. Importantly, given the explicitly professional nature of the group, these efforts are not counted as part of the formal workload of those involved, be they employed (temporarily or more securely) inside or outside universities, or not in the paid workforce. Conclusion A growing body of literature demonstrates that online academic communities can provide opportunities for collegiality, professional development, and support: particularly among emerging scholars. These accounts demonstrate the value of digital scholarly practices across a range of academic work. However, this article’s discussion of the work undertaken to build and maintain #ECRchat in its first year suggests that these practices at the messy intersections of employment, unpaid professional development, and leisure constitute a new inflection of professional reputation and service work. This work involves publicly building a reputation as a good community member through a combination of personal disclosure and affective labour.In the context of growing emphasis on the economic, social, and other impacts of academic research and concerns over work intensification, this raises questions about possible scope for, and impact of, formal recognition of digital academic labour. While institutions’ work planning and promotion processes may provide opportunities to recognise work developing professional societies or conferences as a leadership or service to a discipline, this new digital service work remains outside the purview of such recognition and reward systems. Further research into the relationships between academic reputation and digital labour will be needed to explore the implications of this for institutions and academics alike. AcknowledgementsI would like to gratefully acknowledge the contributions and support of everyone who participated in developing and sustaining #ECRchat. Both online and offline, this paper and the community itself would not have been possible without many generous contributions of time, understanding and thoughtful discussion. In particular, I would like to thank Katherine L. Wheat, co-founder and convenor, as well as Beth Montague-Hellen, Ellie Mackin, and Motje Wolf, who have taken on convening the group in the years since my involvement. ReferencesArcy, Jacquelyn. “Emotion Work: Considering Gender in Digital Labor.” Feminist Media Studies 16.2 (2016): 365-68.Bentley, Peter, Hamish Coates, Ian Dobson, Leo Goedegebuure, and Lynn Meek. Job Satisfaction around the Academic World. Dordrecht: Springer, 2013. Brian, Deborah (@deborahbrian). “I think I’m often more productive and less anxious if I’m working on a couple of things in parallel, too #ecrchat” (11 April 2013, 10:25). 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<strong>Abstract: </strong>Diphtheria is a vaccine-preventable disease, yet immunization can wane over time to non-protective levels. We have developed a low-cost, miniaturized electroanalytical biosensor to quantify anti-diphtheria toxin (DTx) immunoglobulin G (IgG) antibody to minimize the risk for localized outbreaks. Two epitopes specific to DTx and recognized by antibodies generated post-vaccination were selected to create a bi-epitope peptide, biEP, by synthesizing the epitopes in tandem. The biEP peptide was conjugated to the surface of a pencil-lead electrode (PLE) integrated into a portable electrode holder. Captured anti-DTx IgG was measured by square wave voltammetry from the generation of hydroquinone (HQ) from the resulting immunocomplex. The performance of the biEP reagent presented high selectivity and specificity for DTx. Under the optimized working conditions, a logarithmic calibration curve showed good linearity over the concentration range of 10^&minus;5‒10^&minus;1 IU mL^&minus;1 and achieved a limit of detection of 5&times;10^&minus;6 IU mL^&minus;1. The final device proved suitable for interrogating the immunity level against DTx in actual serum samples with results that showed good agreement wit 1. Introduction The respiratory and cutaneous disease Diphtheria (DIPH) is caused by toxins released from the bacteria <em>Corynebacterium diphtheriae</em> and <em>C. ulcerans</em> during pharynx infections, tonsils, or skin. In severe cases, a visible pseudomembrane can develop in the upper respiratory tract along with polyneuritis and myocarditis. If not treated, the clinical presentation of the disease can quickly worsen with an overall fatality rate from 5 to 10% [1,2]. Fortunately, DIPH is a vaccine-preventable disease with the efficacy of the toxoid-based vaccine varying between 54‒87%. For herd immunity, 80‒85% of the population needs to be vaccinated [3]. A major issue is that the immunity induced by the vaccines can wane over time, and any drop in the protection levels in a population could allow for an opportunistic return of this transmissible disease leading to an outbreak [1,4]. Previous studies suggest that 49% of the French adult population presents an antibody titer below protective levels [4]. To maintain the antibody titer at a protective level, booster shots are required. The World Health Organization (WHO) recommends booster vaccinations at 10-year intervals to everyone who lives in low- or non-endemic areas to ensure life-long protection [4]. Access to a simple, rapid serological test to determine the titer of antitoxin antibodies could be highly relevant to disease control. Currently, the titer of neutralizing antibodies in the serum is determined by assays for toxin neutralization and immunoblotting, and 5]. Despite their accuracy, these diagnostics are time-consuming, require a laboratory facility and skilled personnel. The dependence on these conditions to perform the analysis is challenging, especially in resource-limited settings or out of standard laboratories [6&ndash;8]. Point-of-care (POC) technologies are urgently needed that provide a decentralized assay, fast response, and reliable results to determine anti-diphtheria toxin (anti-DTx) antibody titer. Electrochemical sensors could meet this demand through their characteristics; simple, portable, sensitive, easy-to-use, miniaturize, and operatable with a portable instrument [6,9&ndash;13]. When combined with biological recognition elements (i.e., enzymes, nucleic acid, antibodies, among others), electrochemical transducer-based POC devices have been developed to detect glucose [14&ndash;16], neurotransmitters [14], infectious agents, or their antibodies [12,17&ndash;21], pharmaceutical compounds [22&ndash;24], biomarker, [25] and DNA [26]. Furthermore, electrochemical sensors associated with biomimetic materials (i.e., nanozymes, synzymes, and metal complexes) display good robustness, long-term activity, and minimal matrix interference [9]. Numerous materials such as carbon and silver inks [25,29], tin and gold-sputtered layers [24,26], gold leaf [30], gold nanoparticles suspension [31], and microwires [32] have been used to fabricate disposable devices. However, pencil-lead electrodes (PLEs) stand out for their high electrochemical performance combined with the presence of dangling carbon bonds, carboxyl, carbonyl functional groups, and sp2-hybridized carbon atoms on the basal plane and edge [22,33,34]. These surface moieties permit a variety of different means to conjugate biological components that can be broadly applied to develop electrochemical sensors in the fields of clinical diagnosis [35], forensic [36], and environmental [37]. There are significant concerns for antibody recognition in serum when whole antigens are used in serological tests due to the presence of a variety of epitopes that can react with antibodies against pathogens [28]. Rapid, sensitive, and specific electrochemical immunosensors for infectious diseases have been successfully developed with synthetic linear peptides [19,27]. When the peptides represent epitopes, which are antibody binding sites in pathogen proteins are positioned on the molecule&rsquo;s surface [28], improvements can be achieved in the sensitivity and selectivity of diagnostic assays along with the elimination of cross-reactivity. Beginning with selecting two particular and reactive epitopes identified in the diphteria toxin (DTx), this study focused on developing a low-cost and accurate electrochemical device to determine the titer of anti-DTx IgG in serum. The epitopes were synthesized in tandem and conjugated to a PLE integrated into a miniaturized three-electrode holder containing reusable reference and auxiliary electrodes using Ag/AgCl and a bare PLE, respectively. Antibodies captured by the random peptide were measured by an indirect immunoassay using a secondary antibody conjugated with alkaline phosphatase that in the presence of hydroquinone (HQ), diphosphate generates HQ electroactive-molecule detectable by square wave voltammetry (SWV). After optimization, a logarithmic calibration curve with good linearity over a wide concentration range and a low detection limit was realized. The final setup was evaluated for its capacity to measure the immunity level against diphtheria by quantifying IgG in actual serum samples and comparing it to a commercial ELISA. The high correlation in the results suggests that the peptide-modified PLE is a promising platform to assist in vaccination control programs, and the flexibility of the technology can be applied to a wide array of diseases. 2. Materials and Methods 2.1. Patients serum samples Blood samples were collected from DTP (Diphtheria/Tetanus/Pertussis)-vaccinated volunteers with no evidence of acute infection or known history of whooping cough or DIPH [38]. &nbsp; <strong>2.2. Chemicals and reagents</strong> <em>N</em>-(3-Dimethylaminopropyl)-<em>N&rsquo;</em>-ethyl carbodiimide hydrochloride (EDC), <em>N</em>-Hydroxysuccinimide (NHS), bovine serum albumin (BSA), and 2(<em>N</em>-morpholino) ethanesulfonic acid (MES), Tris(hydroxymethyl)aminomethane hydrochloride (Tris-HCl), NaH₂PO₄, Na&shy;₂HPO₄, MgCl₂, and NaCl were purchased from Sigma-Merck (St Louis, MO, USA). The 0.5 mm graphite pencil lead refills (2H, H, HB, 2B, 3B, and 4B from Pentel (Tokyo, Japan) were purchased in the local stationery. Goat anti-human IgG conjugated with alkaline phosphatase (secondary IgG antibody, sec-IgG) was purchased from Thermo (Walthan, MA, USA). The manufacturer&#39;s recommendation was restored in 1 mL of deionized water; its final concentration was 0.6 mg mL^&minus;1. A commercial ELISA kit for anti-DTx quantitative immunoassay and negative/positive standard serum samples (human serum; negative for anti-human immunodeficiency virus antibody, hepatitis B-virus surface antigen, anti-hepatitis C virus antibody) were purchased from Serion Diagnostics (W&uuml;rzburg, Germany). Hydroquinone diphosphate (diPho-HQ) salt was purchased from Dropsens (Llanera, Spain). Fuming HCl was purchased from Merck (New Jersey, USA). Deionized water with a resistivity &gt;18.1 M&Omega; cm was obtained from Nanopure Diamond (Barnstead, Dubuque, IA, USA) and used to prepare all solutions.&nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>2.3. Solid-phase peptide synthesis</strong> A peptide (biEP) containing two DTx specific epitopes (<strong>GSFVMENFSS</strong>GG<strong>VDIGF</strong>) (biEP) was synthesized as a linked tandem with the insertion of two glycine residues by solid-phase chemistry using the 9-fluorenylmethoxy carbonyl (F-moc) strategy on an automated synthesizer (Multipep-1, CEM Corporation, USA) as previously described [28]. Briefly, benzotriazole-1-yloxytripyrrolidinophosphonium hexafluorophosphate (PyBOP) was added to the F-moc amino acid. The reaction was run in the reactor with a sintered glass filter containing Wang-Fmoc-Arg resin (Pmc). The F-moc moiety was removed with 25% 4-methylpyridine (Sigma-Merck, St Louis, MO, USA), and the F-moc amino acid coupling reagents were 0.1 mM oximes (Sigma-Merk) in dimethylformamide and 8% N-methyl morpholine. The resin-bound peptide was deprotected and cleaved using trifluoroacetic acid (Sigma-Aldrich) and triisopropylsilane (Sigma-Aldrich). The peptides were precipitated with diethyl ether and lyophilized. The concentration of the peptides was determined by measuring the optical density using the molar extinction coefficient generated by the PROTPARAM software package [http://www.expasy.ch]. The peptide sequence was confirmed by mass spectrometry (MALDI-TOF MS; Matrix-Assisted Laser Desorption Ionization Time-of-Flight). &nbsp; <strong>Fabrication of the electrochemical immunosensor</strong> Working PLEs were fabricated from pencil lead refills (60 mm x 0.5 mm rods). Approximately half of the lead was coated with a glaze (Metal and Wood, Sherwin-Williams, Sumar&eacute;, Brazil) that insulated the lateral surface of the rod. The unglazed portion was used for connecting electrical leads. The glaze on the end that would constitute the electrode&#39;s working surface was removed mechanically, bypassing the rod vertically on paper (<strong>Figure 1).</strong> The exposed surface was oxidized through chronoamperometry by immersion in PBS (pH 7.4) under vigorous stirring and applying +2 V (vs. Ag/AgCl) for the 50s using a CompactState portable potentiostat (Ivium Technologies B. V., Eindhoven, Netherlands). This was followed by four cycles of cyclic voltammetry (CV) with a scan rate of 100 mV/sec over a potential range +0.4 to &minus;1.4 V. Auxiliary, and reference electrodes were bare PLE and Ag/AgCl, respectively. Next, the PLE tip was immersed in 10 &micro;L of 0.4 M NHS prepared in 0.1 M MES and 0.5 M NaCl solution (pH 6.0) for 30 min to activate the carboxyl groups [39]. The PLE tip was then dipped for 60 min into PBS (pH 7.4) with biEP. After rinsing three times in PBS, the PLE+biEP was blocked overnight in PBS with 0.1% BSA at 4&nbsp;&deg;C. To normalize for surface variations, the electroactive area of each electrode was estimated by chronoamperometry using the applied potential of 0.35 V for 150 s and the Cottrell equation in a 5 mmol L^&minus;1 [Fe(CN)₆]^4&minus; the solution was prepared in 0.1 M KCl [40]. The parameters employed in the equation were: the number of electrons (n = 1), Faraday constant (F = 96,485 C mol L^-1), the concentration of&nbsp; [Fe(CN)₆]^4&minus;= 5&times;10^&minus;6 mol cm^-3, and the average diffusion coefficient value of the [Fe(CN)₆]^4&minus; in 0.1M KCl= 5.38&times;10^-6 cm²/sec [41]. &nbsp; <strong>Electrochemical assay to detect antibodies anti-diphtheria toxin</strong> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Anti-DTx IgG detection was based on an indirect immunoassay wherein anti-IgG secondary antibodies conjugated with alkaline phosphatase hydrolyzed dPho-HQ to hydroquinone (HQ) resulted in changes in electrical signals, as shown schematically in <strong>Figure 1</strong>. Briefly, anti-DTx IgG was captured onto the sensitized working surface of the PLE by a 30 min incubation at 25 &deg;C in a 10 &micro;l solution of patient serum (1:1000 in PBS) or control antibody. After rinsing in PBS, PLEs were immersed 30 min into an anti-human IgG secondary antibody solution conjugated with alkaline phosphatase at 25 &deg;C. Next, the PLE was inserted into a custom electrode setup that also contained reference (Ag/AgCl) and auxiliary (bare PLE) electrodes, which is described in supporting information (Figure S1). The setup permitted the insertion of all three electrodes into a solution of 0.1 M Tris-HCl and 20 mM MgCl₂ (pH 9.8) with 5 mM dPho-HQ. The conversion to HQ was measured by square wave voltammetry (SWV),¹⁹, which employed 10 mV, 6.3 Hz, 10 mV, &minus;0.6 to 0.6 V (vs. Ag/AgCl) as the values for amplitude, frequency, step, and applied potential window were, respectively. Each cycle required 19 s, and a stable measurement was observed after the fourth cycle (76 s total time) corrected by the working electrode electroactive area calculated previously. &nbsp; <strong>Enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay</strong> The anti-DTx IgG in sera was quantified by the indirect immunoassay using a commercial ELISA kit (Serion Diagnostics, W&uuml;rzburg, Germany) following the manufacturer&#39;s instructions and solutions. Briefly, each well of a 96-well ELISA plate was sensitized with diphtheria toxin antigen followed by washing and blocking with BSA. For the assay, 100 &micro;L of a 1:100 dilution of patient serum was added along with negative and standardized positive controls provided with the kit. After a 60 min incubation at 37 &deg;C, wells were rinsed with PBS and then incubated with anti-human IgG secondary conjugated with alkaline phosphatase (1:15,000) for 30 min at 37 &deg;C. Next, the wells were rinsed four times was PBS followed by the addition of p-nitrophenylphosphatase and a 30 min incubation at 37 &deg;C in the dark. Finally, 100 &micro;L of 0.1 N NaOH/40 mM EDTA was added as a stop solution. The optical density was measured at 405 nm wavelength using a spectrophotometer (Multiskan SkyHigh, Thermo Fisher Scientific). &nbsp; <strong>Analytical curve and analysis of blood serum samples </strong> To assess the analytical performance, a standard curve was generated from the positive sample by diluting 0.35 IU/ml of positive IgG from the commercial ELISA kit into a negative patient serum to prepare a range of IgG concentrations from 10^&minus;5 to 10^&minus;1 IU/ml. The indirect immunoassay was accomplished to detect IgG as described. The sera were diluted at a ratio of 1:1,000 with PBS and used 1:50,000 diluted sec-IgG solution. In both cases, the incubation time was 30 min. They were analyzed by indirect immunoassay. The intensity of current density is proportional to the IgG concentration, correlated by the analytical curve. 3. Results 3.1. Preparation of a PLE electrochemical immunosensor An electrochemical immunosensor was developed using graphite rods in pencil lead refills bound with a peptide consisting of two epitopes of DTx linked in tandem by two glycines. The epitopes chosen were previously identified by us through a SPOT synthesis analysis [38]. As shown in <strong>Figure 1A</strong>, this arrangement would allow the stepwise attachment of anti-DTx antibodies and AP-conjugated secondary antibodies that would permit the generation of HQ, a redox molecule measurable by square wave voltammetry (SWV). Each fabricated PLE was intended to be a single-use sensor. To create an electrically isolated surface, one-half of a PLE was coated with a glaze and physically manipulated on paper to expose the working area (<strong>Figure 1B</strong>). Next, it was oxidized by applying a constant potential to create graphene oxide-like structures (<strong>Figure S1)</strong>, which carry oxygenated groups such as carboxyl and aldehyde [42]. These were essential chemical groups for activation with EDC/NHS that would allow the covalent attachment of biEP through an amide bond [38]. To improve the ratio between the faradaic and non-faradaic currents, and before treatment with EDC/NHS, the PLE was reduced by being subjected to cyclic voltammetry (<strong>Figure S2</strong>). The electrochemical treatment resulted in an electrode that presented a less bright and rougher appearance than before electrochemical treatment, as shown in the optical micrographs (<strong>Figure 1B</strong>), which improved device performance. &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>Figure 1:</strong> Scheme of the process to fabricate the PLE. Optical micrographs of the side view and tip of PLE (&Oslash; = 0.5 mm) in the following steps: <strong>(a)</strong> bare, <strong>(b)</strong> protected by glaze, <strong>(c)</strong> polished, <strong>(d)</strong> treated electrochemically followed by EDC/NHS activation. The drawings show the prepared surface <strong>(e),</strong> exposure to biEP <strong>(f)</strong>, and followed by blocking with BSA <strong>(g)</strong>. &nbsp; The choice of PLE type was critical for obtaining the desired electrochemical responses. In the market, pencil lead refills vary over a scale from 9H (harder/lighter) to 9B (blacker/softer). The H types have a high amount of wax and clay in their composition. In contrast, B types have a high content of graphite powder [43]. Here, the 4B exhibited a higher SWV readout in response to the production of HQ compared to the others (<strong>Figure 2A</strong>). In addition, its ratio for the signal to standard deviation was the highest (<strong>Figure 2A inset</strong>) and presented the most minor signal variation (0.3 &plusmn; 0.015 &micro;A). Next, the optimal concentration of biEP to conjugate to 4B was determined over a range of concentrations combined with an assay using the positive control included with the commercial ELISA kit. The biEP concentration on the PLE surface clearly affected the current measured from the immunoreaction (<strong>Figure 2B</strong>). The ratio between SWV signals obtained after incubation in positive and negative samples only increased after exceeding 10 &micro;g/ml of peptide (<strong>Figure 2B inset</strong>). Increasing the biEP concentration to 50 &micro;g/ml resulted in the highest signal and the most significant ratio between positive and negative samples suggesting that more anti-DTx antibodies were captured, and non-specific interactions decreased. Interestingly, the highest biEP concentration tested, 200 &micro;g/mL, leading to a drop in the SWV signal. One possible reason was that the higher density of biEP on the electrode blocked the surface, hindering the HQ diffusion. Therefore, the most suitable biEP concentration was determined to be 50 &micro;g/ml and was used to produce all subsequent PLEs. &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>Figure 2:</strong> Optimization of the PLE fabrication. <strong>(A)</strong> As described in the Materials and Methods, six commercially available pencil lead refills (2H, H, HB, 2B, 3B, and 4B) were used to prepare electrodes. Each was incubated with a control anti-DTx antibody obtained from the commercial ELISA assay (0.2 IU/ml) for 60 min. After rinsing, electrodes were incubated with anti-human IgG conjugated with alkaline phosphate diluted 1:5000 in PBS for 30 min. Lastly, electrodes were placed in a solution of 0.1 M Tris-HCl and 20mM MgCl₂ (pH 9.8) with 5 mM dPho-HQ. Square wave voltammetry was performed with the parameters for amplitude, frequency, step, and applied potential window set at 10 mV, 6.3 Hz, 10 mV, &minus;0.6 to 0.6 V (vs. Ag/AgCl), respectively. Each PLE type was assayed with three independently prepared electrodes. The inset graph represents the ratio between signal and standard deviation according to the kind of PLE.&nbsp; <strong>(B)</strong> The optimal concentration of the Bi-epitope peptide to sensibilize the working surface of the 4B-PLE was determined by using a range of biEP concentrations from 0.2-200 &micro;g/ml. Next, PLEs were used to perform assays consisting of a 30 min incubation in either positive (0.2 UI/ml antibody solution from the commercial ELISA kit) or negative serum. After a 30 min incubation with an anti-human IgG antibody conjugated with alkaline phosphate (1:5000 in PBS), SWV was performed as described above. The median current densities from experiments performed in triplicate are plotted for positive (red) and negative (black) samples. The inset graph displays the ratio between positive and negative measurements according to the biEP concentration.&nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>3.2. Optimization of experimental parameters, reproducibility, and stability </strong> To optimize the analytical signal, the level of dilution for patient serum and secondary antibodies was evaluated and the incubation times. To fix the patient dilution factor, a 1hr incubation time was chosen for both the primary and secondary antibodies, diluted 1:5000. As the dilution of the positive antibody control was increased under these conditions, there was an increase in the signal intensity up to a dilution factor of 1000, followed by a decrease at the highest dilution factor of 1:5000 <strong>(Figure 3A)</strong>. The non-specific binding of antibodies to the surface of the biEP sensitized PLE showed decreasing signals with higher dilutions. However, the ratio between positive and background showed a maximum difference at a dilution of 1:1000 (<strong>Figure 3A inset</strong>), which suggested that the biEP/IgG-specific interaction was favored, and a higher dilution ratio impaired the signal due to a reduction in the availability of IgG. When using the optimal serum dilution factor at different incubation times, it was observed that 30 min was sufficient to achieve the highest signal and that a more prolonged incubation was not necessary (<strong>Figure 3B</strong>). Another critical factor was the sec-IgG concentration that identifies the biEP/IgG immunocomplexes. While a higher secondary antibody concentration leads to a higher SWV response (<strong>Figure 3C</strong>), it generates background signals with the negative control. The background signal decreased to the lowest levels at a dilution of 1:50,000, which did not impact the signal from the positive control and provided the most prominent sign-to-noise ratio (<strong>Figure 3C insert</strong>). Although longer times had a minor influence on SWV responses, a 30 min incubation was sufficient to obtain near-maximal signals (<strong>Figure 3D</strong>). The reproducibility of the PLEs was analyzed by evaluating electrodes prepared on different days using the same protocol. A relative standard deviation (RSD) of 6% in the SWV HQ response was calculated from 5 other measurements of a 10&minus;4 IU mL&minus;1 IgG solution, which demonstrated the practical reproducibility of the system (<strong>Figure S4, orange traces</strong>). To test stability, PLEs prepared on the same day were stored at 4 &deg;C in PBS. After 4 days of storage, the signal obtained from a 10&minus;4 IU/mL IgG solution showed a slight decay (5%) compared to using the PLE on the same day as its preparation with an RSD of 7% (n=3) (<strong>Figure S4, blue traces)</strong>. The SWV current decreased by 19% after 28 days of storage and presented an RSD of 10% (n = 3) (<strong>Figure S3, black traces</strong>). &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>Figure 3:</strong> Variations in antibody dilutions and incubation times for optimized signals. All PLEs were prepared with 50 &micro;g/ml biEP peptide and 4B refills with SWVs recorded in 0.1 M Tris-HCl and 20 mM MgCl₂ (pH 9.8) with 5 mM dPho-HQ. <strong>(A)</strong> Recordings after exposing PLEs for 60 min with a range of dilutions of positive (red) and negative (black) patient sera prepared in PBS, washing, and a 60 min incubation with secondary antibody (1:5000). <strong>(B)</strong> Recordings after exposing PLEs for different times with positive patient serum (1:1000 in PBS), washing, and a 60 min incubation with secondary (1:5000). <strong>(C)</strong> Recordings after exposing PLEs for 30 min to 1:1000 dilutions of positive (red) and negative (black) patient serum, washing, and 60 min incubations over a range of secondary antibody dilutions. <strong>(D)</strong> Recordings after exposing PLEs for 30 min to 1:1000 dilutions of positive (red) and negative (black) patient serum, washing, and incubations over a range of time with secondary antibody diluted 1:50,000. Error bars represent analysis in triplicate obtained with different electrodes. The parameters of SWVs such as amplitude, frequency, step, and applied potential window were 10 mV, 6.3 Hz, 10 mV, &minus;0.6‒0.6 V (vs. Ag/AgCl), respectively. Inset graphs represent the ratio between positive and negative signals.&nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>Biosensor performance</strong> The performance of the PLEs was evaluated by indirect immunoassay incubating them in 0.1 mol L^&minus;1 PBS (pH 7.4) with an increasing quantity of anti-DTx IgG from 0 to 10^&minus;1 IU/ml. The current density varied proportionally to IgG concentration, reaching a saturation region after 10^&minus;3 IU mL^&minus;1 (<strong>Figures 4A and 4B</strong>). After the linearization, the logarithmic analytical curve varied in a wide range of 10^&minus;5‒10^&minus;1 IU/ml and showed a sensitivity of 800 &micro;A/cm2 decade^&minus;1 (<strong>Figure 4C</strong>). The limit of detection (LOD) and the limit of quantification was 5&times;10^&minus;6 and 1.5&times;10^&minus;5 I/mL, based on 3 and 10 times the standard deviation, respectively. Considering the WHO report on a seroepidemiological study [2], the antibody levels for protective immunogenicity were designated on the graph. Antibodies levels below 10^&minus;5 IU/ml are considered non-protective while between 10^&minus;5‒10^&minus;4 IU/mL confers primary protection, and above 10&minus;4, IU/mL provides complete protection against DIPH. To simulate a real-world application, the PLE was used to quantify anti-DTx IgG in serum samples collected from DTP-vaccinated volunteers, compared to a commercial kit. <strong>Figure 4D</strong> shows the excellent correlation between the results from the two methods with an RSD and accuracy average varied between 8‒20% and 92‒117%, respectively (<strong>Table 1)</strong> 70‒120% variations and RSD &le; 20% are acceptable for an analytical method [44-46]. All volunteers analyzed presented antibody levels corresponding to full-protection antibody levels. &nbsp; <strong>Figure 4:</strong> Detection of anti-DTx antibodies by bi-EP sensitized PLEs. <strong>(A)</strong> Individual SWV measurements for a 5-log change in anti-DTx IgG concentration (0, 10^-5, 5&times;10^-5, 10^-4, 10^-3, 10^-2, 10^-1 IU/mL). <strong>(B)</strong> Relationship between the measured SWV current density and IgG concentration (0‒10^-1 IU/mL). <strong>(C)</strong> The logarithmic analytical curve of IgG concentration range (10^-5‒10^-1 IU/mL) and current density with the mean and standard deviation from three independent measurements. The level of protection against diphtheria disease is indicated as full (&gt;10^-4 IU mL^-1), basic (10^-5‒10^-4 IU mL^-1), and absent (&lt;10^-5 IU mL^-1). The calibration equation and correlation are j/mA cm^&minus;2 = 0.8 mA cm^&minus;2 decade^&minus;1&middot;log[IgG/IU mL^&minus;1] + 8.7 and R² = 0.97, respectively. <strong>(D)</strong> Correlation between the measured anti-DTx level in patient serum samples obtained using PLEs and a commercial ELISA assay. The linearity of the relationship was y = 1.1x &minus; 0.9 (R² = 0.97). &nbsp; <strong>Table 1:</strong> Results of diphtheria IgG concentration determined using GRA/biEP/BSA and ELISA &nbsp; 4. Discussion The observation that the protection afforded by vaccines against diphtheria can wane over time drives the necessity for diagnostic methods to measure the level of neutralizing antibodies. Further, alternatives are needed to replace the dependence on lab-based assays such as ELISAs and neutralization assays that are time-consuming and expensive. Here, we proposed implementing an electrochemical based on an electrode consisting of a pencil lead refill comprised of graphite that can be sensitized with a peptide to capture anti-DTx antibodies. Each PLE unit can be manufactured for a low cost and, in combination with our easily manufactured housing (<strong>Figure S4</strong>), would be mobile and provide rapid on-site results.&nbsp;&nbsp; Conceptually, the development of an electrochemical immunosensor consists of an electron-conducting solid surface where the molecule of interest (antibody) can be captured, and its presence can alter an electrical property. Thus, a key element is a biological component that can be immobilized onto the surface. Here, the PLE was modified with a peptide representing two selected epitopes in DTx linked in tandem (biEP) by two glycines, which improved the availability of the antigen to antibody [28,38]. This biEP works as a binding target for anti-DTx IgG and the epitopes are uniquely found in DTx, situated within a coiled structure on the protein surface that is available to the immune system and recognizable by B-cells antibodies [38]. Previous studies showed high specificity and sensitivity of 100% and 99.96%, respectively, in ELISA assays towards a panel of 92 sera with several diseases [38]. PLE modification with the biEP was verified by SWV recorded in Fe(CN)63&minus;/4&minus; solution.The size and insulating nature of the molecules of the electrode surface hindered the probe diffusion, which caused a decrease in the current as of the peptide and blocking BSA were added (<strong>Figure S5</strong>). However, the remaining signal would prove to be sufficient to provide the dynamic range needed to evaluate patient sera for neutralizing antibodies. The final results displayed a LOD was far lower than the toxin neutralization method, a sensitive and precise assay that detects antitoxins levels as low as 10^&minus;3 IU/ml [5]. Furthermore, the biEP displayed no cross-reactivity against serum from seropositive patients with Chagas disease, Chikungunya, Leishmaniosis, Pertussis, and COVID-19 disease (<strong>Figure S6</strong>). The proposed device provided a reliable method for determining the titer of anti-DTx antibodies in serum and could be performed at room temperature and rapid measurement (76 s), compared with 30 min required for ELISA conducted at 37 &deg;C. Furthermore, the simple construction, ease of electrode preparation and use, accuracy, and low cost suggest a high possibility for its use as a point of care diagnostic assay. Notably, the measurements can be performed in volumes &lt;100 &micro;l, which translates to the need for 0.1 &micro;l of serum obtained from a finger prick sample of blood. Furthermore, considering that the measurements performed were defined by the biEP peptide, the surface of the electrode can be sensitized by peptides that represent other pathogens or diseases. Lastly, by converting to the spectroscopy impedance, a label-free imunossensor can be fabricated to eliminate the need for a secondary since the captured antibodies possess insulating characteristics. 5. Conclusions This section is not mandatory but can be added to the manuscript if the discussion is unusually long or complex. A portable electroanalytical biosensor is described to assist in controlling diphtheria vaccination programs by accurately determining anti-DTx IgG titer in serum. A disposable working electrode was made from pencil lead refills to create electrodes modified with a particular and reactive peptide consisting of two epitopes in tandem. This was integrated into a reusable and miniaturized electrode holder with reference (Ag/AgCl) and auxiliary (bare PLE) electrodes. The immobilized peptide on the electrode surface could capture anti-DTx IgG antibodies for measurement by an indirect immunoassay using an enzyme-conjugated secondary antibody that enzymatically hydrolyzed dPho-HQ into HQ, which was detected by square wave voltammetry. Under optimized working conditions, its logarithmic calibration curve exhibited good linearity across a wide concentration range of antibody concentrations that covered the protective levels of vaccinated individuals with a limit of detection far lower than the commonly used assays to determine the capacity for toxin neutralization. Notably, the results were in excellent agreement with those obtained from the commercial ELISA. Overall, our PLE setup could measure the immunity level against diphtheria toxin in serum samples, and the platform has the flexibility to meet the demands for other pathogens and their respective diseases. &nbsp; <strong>Supplementary Materials:</strong> <strong>Figure S1: </strong>Oxidation of the working surface of the PLE. <strong>(A)</strong> Chronoamperogram obtained by the application of +2V for 50 s in a vigorously stirred solution of 0.1M PBS (pH 7.4) using a bare GRA as the working electrode. The initial oxidation in boxed. <strong>(B)</strong> Cyclic voltagram of the first (black) and second (red) cycle showing the improvement by the oxidization of GRA as working electrode. The reference and auxiliary electrodes were Ag/AgCl (3 mol L^-1 KCl) and GRA, respectively. <strong>Figure S2: </strong>Influence of surface modification on the performance of PLE. Cyclic voltammetry (CV) recorded in 0.1 mol L^-1 PBS (pH 7.4) alone (dashed line) or with 3 mM Fe[(CN)₆]^4- (solid line) for unmodified PLE (A), oxidized graphite (B) and reduced graphite (C). Before and after electrochemical treatment (Reduced graphite), the peak separation decreased from 670 mV to 90 mV. The peak intensity increased 7-fold featuring an electron transfer improvement. The oxidized graphite presented a large capacitive current and poor electron transfer property demonstrated by less defined peaks. In all cases, the scan rate was 100 mV/sec with bare GRA and Ag/AgCl (KCl 3 mol L^-1) as auxiliary and reference electrodes, respectively. <strong>Figure S3: </strong>SWVs were recorded in a mixture of&nbsp; 5 mmol L^&minus;1Fe(CN)₆^{3&minus;/4&minus;} in 0.1 mol L^&minus;1 KCl in each stage of the GRA surface modification. Bare GRA (<strong>black line</strong>), GRA/biEP (<strong>red line</strong>), and GRA/biEP/BSA (<strong>blue line</strong>). SWV parameters: amplitude of 10 mV, a step of 10 mV, and frequency of 6.3 Hz. <strong>Figure S4:</strong> SWVs were recorded in 5 mmol L^&minus;1 of dPho-HQ prepared in 0.1 mol L^&minus;1 Tris-HCl/0.02 mol L^&minus;1 MgCl₂ solution (pH 9.8) after incubating GRA/biEP/BSA in 10^&minus;4 IU mL^&minus;1IgG solution to evaluate the device&rsquo;s reproducibility (<strong>orange line</strong>, n = 5) and stability after 4 (blue line, n = 3) and 28 (black line, n = 3) days of storage at 4 &deg;C. The experiments were performed using different electrodes; in the case of the reproducibility test, they were prepared in the same manner on different days. <strong>Figure S5: (I)</strong> Drawing the electrode holder. They were made stacking three sheets of PMMA where A, B, and C are the top view of the top, middle and bottom layers, respectively. 1 &ndash; hole for the reference electrode. 2 &ndash; Three holes to add PLEs electrodes. 3 &ndash;places for nuts, 4 -places for nuts and screws for electrode hold, 5 &ndash; places for screws to adjust the holder height. (<strong>II)</strong> Top view of the disassembled electrode holder. A, B and C are the top, middle and bottom layers, respectively. 1 - hole for the reference electrode, 2 - Three holes to place the PLEs. 3 &ndash; places for nuts. 4 - Screws to hold the PLEs. 5 - Nuts. 6 - Places to add the screws to height adjust. (<strong>III and IV)</strong> Photo of the (III) dis- and (IV) assembled holder. 4 &ndash; Screws to hold the PLEs. 6 &ndash; Screws to height adjust. 7 &ndash; Reference electrode. 8 &ndash; PLEs&nbsp; 9 &ndash; microcentrifuge tube or its cap. <strong>Figure S6: </strong>In-house electrode holder and schematics. An advantage of the use of PLEs and electrochemical detection of antibodies is ability to perform measurements in small volumes (&ge;10 &micro;l). Panel I shows the final assemply of the multi-electrode setup to permit the insertion of the PLE, working and reference electrode in a small volume. Panel II shows an exploded view on the individual components of the assembly. Panel III shows the schematics of the three layers that comprise the set up for securing the electrods. The final assembly consists of three layers of PMMA sheets (A, B and C) that provide: a hole for the reference electrode (1); three holes to introduce PLEs electrodes (2); sites to secure nuts (3); sites to secure nuts and bolts (4) and sites to introduce nut and bolt assemblies to serve as adjustable (5). &nbsp; <strong>Author Contributions:</strong> Conceptualization, G.A.A. and S.G. D-S.; validation, W.A.A., L.R.G..; investigation, V.N.A, P.N-P., E.T.C., M.O.S.; resources, S.G. D-S; data curation, G.A.A.; writing&mdash;original draft preparation, G.A.A., V.N.A , M.O.S., T. R. L. C. P, E.T.C, writing&mdash;review and editing, G.A.A., D.W.P and S.G.D-S; visualization, W.A.A., M.O.S., V.N.A., T. R. L. C. P; supervision, S.G.D-S; M.O.S.; funding acquisition, S.G.D-S. All authors have read and agreed to the published version of the manuscript. &nbsp; <strong>Funding</strong>: This research was funded by FIOCRUZ/INOVA (#VPPCB-007FIO-18-2-27 21, #VPPIS-005FIO- 20-2-51, to SGS. &nbsp; <strong>Institutional Review Board Statement: </strong>The study was approved by the UNIGRANRIO (CAAE: 24856610.0.00 00.5283) study center ethics committee and conducted under good clinical practice and all applicable regulatory requirements including the Declaration of Helsinki. &nbsp; <strong>Informed Consent Statement: </strong>This information is contained in the review board statement. <strong>Data Availability Statement: </strong>Data presented in this study are available on request from the corresponding author. <strong>Acknowledgments:</strong> Thanks are due to Dr Sergian Cardoso for obtaining sera from vaccinated children. G.A.A., L.R.G and P.N.-P., are Post Doc fellows from FIOCRUZ/INOVA (#VPPIS-005FIO- 20-2-51), FAPERJ (# 202.272/2019, Bolsista nota 10) and CAPES/FIOCRUZ (#380.623/2019-6), respectively. <strong>Conflicts of Interest:</strong> The authors declare no conflict of interest. The funders had no role in the study&#39;s design, in the collection, analyses, or interpretation of data, in the writing of the manuscript, or in the decision to publish the results. &nbsp; <strong>Appendix A</strong> <strong>Fabrication of the electrode holder and electrochemical cell configuration: </strong>Disposable devices can be integrated on a reusable platform to gain robustness, versatility, and facility handling and eliminate additional device fabrication steps such as geometrical area delimitation and reference/auxiliary fabrication [47-49]. They can be fabricated by 3D printing to delimit the electrod device&#39;s geometrical area, isolate electrical contact, and work as an electrochemical reservoir [47,49]. Another approach uses a folded transparency sheet with sewn metal wires as a reusable reference and auxiliary electrodes [50]. Here, built a holder to position the electrodes to allow working with 100 &micro;L of dPho-HQ solutions. Figure S1 shows the design of the parts. It was made using three PMMA sheets (3 mm thick) cut on a laser cutter (Work Special M&aacute;quinas e Equipamentos Ltda, WS9060C, S&atilde;o Paulo, Brazil) and glued using chloroform. The holder had four holes, three sizes to accommodate PLEs. The fourth was more significant than the previous ones to a miniaturized reference electrode with a conical shape fabricated according to the procedure available in the literature4. They were made close to the center to suspend the electrodes over the reservoir made of the microcentrifuge tube cap. The number of holes allows the holder to accommodate one reference electrode, one bare PLE as the auxiliary electrode, plus two PLE working electrodes for multiplexed detection. However, for this work, used just one working electrode. To hold and adjust the immersion depth of the electrodes, the PLEs were fixed using screws (3 mm) and kept laterally. For this purpose, three nuts (3 mm) were embedded in the holder structure. Thus, its immersion depth was regulated by four screws and nuts located at the ends of the holder. The PLEs fixing screws themselves were also used as electrical contacts with the potentiostat terminals, as shown in Figure S1. Thus, each electrode holder unit can be manufactured for a total cost of&nbsp;<strong>$0.14</strong>, including PMMA sheets, nuts, screws, and a micro centrifuge tube. This value presented an excellent cost-benefit as it can reuse it after cleaning with water. &nbsp; References 1. 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In addition, the flexibility for conjugating other capture molecules to PLEs suggests that this technology could be easily adapted to the diagnoses of other pathogens. &nbsp;