Journal articles on the topic 'Portland (Me.)'

In JGS xxxii (1990), a volume devoted to the Portland vase, the sections on the discovery of the vase (85-102) and on the interpretation of its frieze (130-6) are jointly contributed by Kenneth Painter and David Whitehouse (hereafter P. and W.), who refer at some length to my own published views on these problems, but only to dismiss them as untenable. The purpose of this note is to show why they have not persuaded me to change my mind on either.

As an intern at the Maine Center for Economic Policy (MECEP) in 2011, I was given the opportunity to work on many projects which exposed me to the variety of economic issues facing the state of Maine. One such project was commissioned by the Portland Independent Business & Community Alliance (PIBCA), a non-profit organization that supports locally owned, independent businesses in Portland, Maine. The goal of the project was to collect and analyze data on the economic impacts of buying from these types of businesses in Portland.

Street, Sandown, Isle of Wight P036 8AF) writes: 'I am interested in tracing examples of foraminifera from the Portland, Purbeck and Wealden strata of southern England. The most likely sources would probably be in the collections of ostracod workers. If anyone has any material which might be of interest, please contact me.'...

Hot mix asphalt (HMA) overlays on fractured Portland cement concrete (PCC) is a common rehabilitation alternative used for PCC pavements in Pennsylvania. Several fracture techniques including rubblization, crack and seat (C&S), and break and seat (B&S) have been used for decades to minimize reflective cracking by reducing the effective slab length and, with it, expansion/contraction movement. The design of this type of overlay requires knowledge of the structural capacity of the fractured PCC layer. The AASHTO 93 and Pavement ME design methods are used by the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation (DOT). These methods and the Pennsylvania DOT documentation recommend certain values to characterize the structural capacity of the fractured PCC. However, the guidance envisaged the selection of these values provided by these design methods and the Pennsylvania DOT documentation is limited. The objective of this study is to determine realistic Pennsylvania-specific elastic modulus (EPCC) values and layer coefficients (LC) to characterize the in situ behavior of fractured PCC layer for jointed reinforced concrete pavements (JRCP) and jointed plain concrete pavements (JPCP). To obtain these structural properties, 11 different rehabilitation projects located in Pennsylvania were analyzed using falling weight deflectometer (FWD) data, backcalculation programs, and statistical methods. Based on this analysis, the recommended values of EPCC and LC for C&S overlay design are 360 ksi (kips per square inch) and 0.32, respectively. In the case of B&S overlay design, these values correspond to 400 ksi and 0.34, respectively. The variability of the slab fracturing process and the reduction of the structural capacity caused by fracturing were also analyzed in this investigation.

The mechanistic-empirical pavement design guide (MEPDG) is a commonly accepted design principles guide that aids in jointed plain concrete pavement (JPCP) design and performance analysis. The MEPDG uses three different design parameter input levels, referred to as level one, level two, and level three, providing increasing confidence in the analysis at the lower numbered levels, which use more locally relevant (level two) or project-specific (level one) data. The state-of-the-art pavement ME software (version 2.6.2) uses MEPDG design principles to predict pavement performance. The three performance indicators for JPCP systems (international roughness index (IRI), joint faulting, and transverse cracking) experience significant changes when simulating under a different input level. The IRI and faulting indicator changed by 78 percent when using inputs varying from level one to level three, with the cracking indicator change being more severe at 87 percent. To accommodate the change in performance indicator values between input level one and input level three, increasing the concrete slab thickness is necessary to achieve comparable pavement performance. An increase in the Portland cement concrete (PCC) layer from one inch to two inches is required when input level three simulations are performed, demonstrating the economic and sustainability benefits of using project-specific level one inputs. Understanding the impact of simulation input levels will help to meet design and sustainability goals and improve the lifecycle performance of JPCP systems.

Abstract Background Leishmaniasis has many clinical manifestations and treatment regimens, dependent on species and host. Old world leishmaniasis is found primarily in Africa and Asia, and is associated with visceral disease, while new world disease, seen primarily in Latin America, is more commonly mucocutaneous. We present a case series of pediatric African patients with New World cutaneous leishmaniasis (NWCL). Methods Data extraction was performed via chart review, analyzing travel history, clinical presentation, diagnosis, and management in children with cutaneous leishmaniasis presenting to the pediatric infectious diseases clinic in Portland, ME. Biopsy specimens were sent to the federal CDC for identification by PCR and culture. Results Five cases of NWCL were diagnosed in pediatric patients in Maine from November 2018 through February 2020. Median age of patients was 10 years (range 1.5-15 years). Four cases (80%) occurred in children from Angola or Democratic Republic of Congo, arriving in Maine via Central/South America, with one case in a child from Rwanda who arrived in Maine via Texas. Three patients had multiple skin lesions and two had isolated facial lesions. Leishmaniasis was not initially suspected resulting in median time to diagnosis of 5 months (range 1-7 months). Four patients were initially treated with antibacterials for cellulitis and one was treated with griseofulvin. After no improvement, patients underwent biopsy with 2 patients diagnosed with L panamensis, 1 with L braziliensis, 1 with mixed infection (L panamensis and L mexicana), and 1 with Leishmania species only. One patient was managed with surgical excision, 3 with ketoconazole, and 1 was observed off therapy. Four patients were referred to otolaryngology. All continue to be followed in infectious disease clinic. Conclusion We present five cases of new world cutaneous leishmaniasis in African pediatric patients arriving to Maine through Latin America or Texas. Patients were diagnosed with cellulitis, tinea corporis or atopic dermatitis initially, underscoring importance of high index of suspicion in migrant patients. Detailed travel history and epidemiologic knowledge is essential to diagnosis, as patients may present with illness not congruent with country of origin. Optimal therapy remains unclear. Disclosures All Authors: No reported disclosures

When Oil is the Lesser of Two Evils: Comparative Risk of the Shipwreck EMPIRE KNIGHT Cornell J. Rosiu, First Coast Guard District - Incident Management, 408 Atlantic Ave, Boston MA 02110Stephen M. Lehmann, NOAA - Office of Response and Restoration, 10 George St, #220, Lowell, MA 01852David M. Sherry, Center for Law and Military Operations, Charlottesville, VA 22903Wyman W. Briggs, USCG - Sector Northern New England, 259 High St, South Portland, ME 04106Peter J. Blanchard, Maine DEP – Div. of Response Services, #17 State House Station, Augusta, ME 04333At the height of WWII in February of 1944, the 428-ft British ship EMPIRE KNIGHT ran aground on Boon Island Ledge off York, Maine during a storm. It broke in two and sank with the stern section in 243-ft of water where it remains today. Her hull contained 10,000-bbls of diesel fuel oil, military tank and locomotive parts, 5-in cannon shells and 16,000-lbs of elemental mercury stored in 221 glass and steel carboys. This poster summarizes the wreck disposition and its environmental assessment and ongoing monitoring. In 1993, the U.S. Coast Guard (USCG) oversaw an emergency removal of 1,200-lbs elemental mercury through a hole cut in stern cargo hold #5 representing <10% of the cargo of elemental mercury. Much of the mercury is assumed to have migrated to the lower portion of the shipwreck beneath a cargo of military hardware and live ammunition. Since much of the mercury is believed to remain on-site, a permanent safety zone was established in 1995 within a 1000-yd radius prohibiting activities such as commercial salvage that could spread contamination. Mercury is a priority pollutant that accumulates in marine life and can bio-magnify in the environment. Results of bio-monitoring in 1998, 2004 and 2012 using blue mussels (Mytilus edulis) supported previous findings and indicated mercury does not pose unacceptable risk to human health or the environment. Moreover, average concentrations of mercury across the three years are less than averages in mussels sampled from 2007 to 2009 in areas of the Gulf of Maine coast that have no known point source of mercury contamination. NOAA ranked EMPIRE KNIGHT 12th among 13 RULET shipwrecks in USCG District 1 with “medium” risk of oil discharge. Disturbing the wreck to recover oil onboard has the potential to spread contamination and make the mercury more bioavailable.

e18009 Background: Homeless people encounter many barriers to healthcare and preventative services, while having an increased prevalence of most risk factors for cancer. A group of homeless adults (40) receiving services from Preble Street in Portland Maine were successfully provided access, support and coaching to participate in colon cancer screening using Fecal Immunochemical Test (FIT) over a period of six weeks. Maine Medical Center Cancer Institute (MMCCI) recruited a Physician champion, while Preble Street gathered multiple internal and external community partners and together help plan the project identify resources needed, plan for data collection and address potential barriers for participation. Methods: Community partners (MMCCI, Preble Street, Casco Bay Surgery, NorDx, MaineHealth Care Partners and Homeless Health Partners Case Managers, Me Health LRC, and Maine Medical Center Magnet Council) created a detailed protocol to be used to overcome barriers and facilitate screening. The combination of a simple screening tool and caseworker relationship proved to be an effective strategy. Community Partners were used to identify barriers in the process, monitor all test results and navigate patients testing positive to colonoscopy. Small incentives of $10 food cards were provided for those participating in the screening event. Results: Of the 40 participants who were screened 8 (20%) tested positive and are in colonoscopy follow-up, with ages ranging from 50-74 years. The majority of participants 28 (70%) reported never having a provider conversation about colon cancer screening. Conclusions: Providing cancer prevention education and access to screening can have a positive impact on early detection in the homeless population. Identifying practical barriers and solutions are essential to improving cancer screening participation for homeless people.

Asian soybean rust was first reported on soybean in South Africa (SA) in 2001 (3). The disease has occurred in all ensuing seasons, particularly in the humid, eastern production regions, causing significant losses in soybean fields not protected by fungicides. In April 2005, rust-infected Pueraria lobata (kudzu) was detected near Nelspruit, Mpumalanga, SA. At this location (25°20′41″S, 30°43′30″E), kudzu plants occurred abundantly on road sides, edges of pine plantations, and in natural vegetation. Most vines were infected, with abaxial surfaces of older leaves often showing 100% severity. Following inoculation with rust spores collected from kudzu, soybean line PI200492 (Rpp1) produced tan lesions typical of a susceptible reaction for Asian soybean rust. PI230970 (Rpp2), PI462312 (Rpp3), and PI459025 (Rpp4) showed red-brown lesions typical of a resistant reaction. Using Ppm1/Ppa2 and Ppm1/Ppm2 primer combinations, the amplification profiles of the internal transcribed spacer region (1) of rust DNA extracted from primary leaves of line PI200492 infected with spores collected from kudzu positively identified the pathogen as Phakopsora pachyrhizi. The Ppm1/Pme2 primer combination specific for P. meibomiae (1) did not yield an amplification product. The Qualiplate ELISA test kit (EnviroLogix Inc., Portland, ME) verified the identification of P. pachyrhizi on an original kudzu sample as well as the leaf material used for DNA analysis. A survey of kudzu at the Nelspruit site during July 2005 confirmed the presence of the pathogen during the offseason for soybean. At that time, incidence of kudzu rust remained high, but few leaves showed high severity. The susceptibility of kudzu to Asian soybean rust has been reported in controlled infection studies in SA (2). To our knowledge, this is the first report of P. pachyrhizi causing rust on a large, naturally occurring kudzu population in SA. References: (1) R. D. Frederick et al. Phytopathology 92:217, 2002. (2) A. Nunkumar. M.Sc. thesis. University of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, 2006. (3) Z. A. Pretorius et al. Plant Dis. 85:1288, 2001.

Intramammary infections, which cause mastitis, can increase treatment and labor costs, decrease milk production, and affect milk quality. Meters that measure quarter somatic cell count (SCC) could be used to make more informed dry cow therapy decisions. The objective of this study was to compare the RT-10 iPhone adapter (RT-10; Dairy Quality Inc., Newmarket, ON, Canada), DeLaval Cell Counter (DSCC; DeLaval, Gurnee, IL, USA), Porta Check Quick Test (PortaCheck, White City, OR, USA), California Mastitis Test (ImmuCell, Portland, ME USA), pH meter (Hanna Instruments, Smithfield, RI, USA), electrical conductivity meter (OHAUS, Parsippany, NJ, USA), and the dual laser infrared temperature thermometer (Klein Tools, Lincolnshire, IL, USA) for measuring SCC in individual Holstein mammary quarters in comparison to a reference standard, the Fourier Transform Spectrometer 600 Combi System (Combi; Bentley Instruments, Chaska, MN, USA). Meters were evaluated using 658 individual cow quarter samples and 100 bulk-tank samples to measure SCC. Individual quarter milk samples from 160 cows from four commercial dairy herds were collected just before dry off and tested within 4 h of collection. To test bulk-tank SCC, 100 bulk-tank milk samples (25 mL) were collected from UC Davis Veterinary Medicine Teaching and Research Milk Quality Lab. Meter SCC values were regressed on observed Combi SCC. Goodness of fit was then evaluated by partitioning the mean square predicted error (MSPE). For individual quarter SCC, RT-10 had the highest coefficient of determination (R2 = 0.86), lowest MSPE, and highest proportion of MSPE due to random variation (96%). Both the RT-10 and DSCC had the highest sensitivity and specificity for identifying quarter SCC above and below 200,000 cells/mL. For bulk-tank SCC, DSCC had the highest coefficient of determination (R2 = 0.45), lowest MSPE, and highest proportion of MSPE due to random variation (80%). The RT-10 and DSCC could be used to measure individual quarter SCC to determine which cows to treat at dry off potentially reducing antibiotic use.

Abstract Introduction The COVID-19 pandemic has challenged researchers to use remote data collection. Our project includes determining DLMO phase, requiring a family-friendly without face-to-face interaction. We describe here our protocol, experiences, lessons learned, and findings from the first 15 participants. Methods Fifteen urban-dwelling children with moderate to severe persistent asthma [7 girls, ages 7 (n=1) to 10 years; and 8 boys, 8 or 9 years] and caregiver (CG) participated. CG tracked bedtimes and risetimes in daily diaries for 10-14 days; average bedtimes from 5 nights preceding saliva collection were used to determine timing for 10 half-hourly samples. CG and child were oriented and then watched a demo video. A “spit-kit” was delivered to the home the afternoon of the study. Kits included a small cooler bag with bottle of water, 10 numbered and 5 spare Salivette tubes (Starstedt, Germany), plastic bag, dark wraparound glasses with securing strap, and log sheet. Data collection began with a zoom call with staff, CG, and child to reiterate the instructions, answer questions, and observe the first sample. Thereafter, a staff member telephoned the caregiver every 30 minutes to prompt the next sample and query whether glasses had been kept on. CG placed kit outside the home for morning pick up. Samples were centrifuged and frozen (-20°) until sending to the assay lab (SolidPhase, Portland, ME) for melatonin radioimmunoassay (Alpco, Windham, NH). Results DLMO phase was determined with a 4pg/ml threshold for 11 children. DLMO phases (mtime=21:46±68 min) and average bedtimes (mtime=20:40±88min) were positively correlated (r=.87). Challenges identified for missed DLMOs included: one child supervised by a teenaged sibling (not CG); one child/CG identified as potentially uncooperative. The other two “misses” likely arose from low saliva quantity, inconsistencies with staff training, and inadequate description of requirements for wearing glasses. Procedure modifications included strategies tailored to families’ needs, experiences, and home environment that can challenge adherence to protocol, greater emphasis on wearing glasses, and cartoon reminder card and scales added to kit. Subsequent samples were successful. Conclusion Our approach was effective for determining DLMO phase in children using a remote approach with careful application of methods. Support (If Any) R01HL142058, P20GM139743

Asian soybean rust, caused by Phakopsora pachyrhizi H. Sydow & Sydow, was first detected in the continental United States in soybean (Glycine max (L.) Merr.) in Louisiana on 6 November 2004 (3) and in kudzu (Pueraria montana var. lobata) in Florida during February 2005 (1). Soybean rust was first confirmed in North Carolina in commercial soybean fields in Brunswick, Columbus, and Robeson counties on 25 October 2005 (2). Subsequently, the disease was detected in soybean in 18 counties, but not in kudzu, even when it was growing adjacent to infected soybean. During 2006, soybean rust was first detected in North Carolina in soybean on 14 September 2006 from a sample from Columbus County that was submitted to the North Carolina State University Plant Disease and Insect Clinic (NCSU-PDIC). Thus, the first detection of soybean rust in North Carolina occurred almost 6 weeks earlier in 2006 than in 2005. Subsequently, in 2006, soybean rust was found in soybean in 42 counties in North Carolina through survey, sentinel plot monitoring, and samples submitted to the NCSU-PDIC. In addition, what appeared to be soybean rust was observed in two samples of kudzu collected on 3 and 6 November 2006 from Moore (35.28313°N, 79.38020°W) and Johnston (35.42742°N, 78.18154°W) counties of North Carolina. The diagnosis of P. pachyrhizi in kudzu was confirmed visually and by ELISA protocol supplied with the EnviroLogix QualiPlate kit (Portland, ME). ELISA tests for each kudzu sample were run in triplicate. PCR was also conducted on infected kudzu samples with a protocol previously reported (1). The PCR master mix that was used came from a dilution scheme based on previous PCR work completed by G. Z. Abad. A total of 24 reactions were run, including four 1-kb molecular markers, four positive controls, four negative controls, and four infected kudzu leaf tissue samples. The results of all diagnostic techniques confirmed the presence of P. pachyrhizi in diseased kudzu. To our knowledge, this is the first report of P. pachyrhizi in kudzu in North Carolina. References: (1) P. F. Harmon et al. Online publication. doi:10.1094/PHP-2005-0613-01-RS. Plant Health Progress, 2005. (2) S. R. Koenning et al. Plant Dis. 90:973, 2006. (3) R. W. Schneider et al. Plant Dis. 89:774, 2005.

Asian soybean rust, caused by Phakopsora pachyrhizi Sydow, has been known to occur in the eastern hemisphere for nearly a century. More recently, it was reported from South America in 2002 and the continental United States in Louisiana in November 2004 (1,2). Subsequently, P. pachyrhizi was confirmed in Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Florida, Missouri, Mississippi, South Carolina, and Tennessee in 2004. Surveys conducted in North Carolina in late November 2004 failed to detect this pathogen. Symptoms of the disease were first observed on soybean (Glycine max (L.) Merr.) in North Carolina on 25 October 2005 in farmers' fields in the counties of Brunswick, Columbus, and Robeson. Typical pustules and urediniospores were readily apparent on infected leaves when viewed with a dissecting microscope. Urediniospores were obovoid to broadly ellipsoidal, hyaline to pale yellowish brown with a minutely echinulate thin wall, and measured 18 to 37 × 15 to 24 μm. This morphology is typical of soybean rust caused by P. pachyrhizi or P. meibomiae, the latter is a less aggressive species causing soybean rust in the western hemisphere (1). DNA was extracted from leaves containing sori using the Qiagen DNeasy Plant Mini kit (Valencia, CA). P. pachyrhizi was detected using a real-time polymerase chain reaction (PCR) protocol that differentiates between P. pachyrhizi and P. meibomiae in a Cepheid thermocycler (Sunnyvale, CA) with appropriate positive and negative controls. The PCR master mix was modified to include OmniMix beads (Cepheid). Field diagnosis of P. pachyrhizi was confirmed by the USDA/APHIS on 28 October 2005. Soybean rust was identified in subsequent surveys of soybean fields and leaf samples submitted by North Carolina Cooperative Extension Agents in an additional 15 counties. These samples also were assayed using a traditional PCR protocol and by the enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay protocol included in the EnviroLogix QualiPlate kit (Portland, ME) for soybean rust. Ten soybean specimens from 10 sites were confirmed positive by these methods. Disease was not found on three kudzu samples, although one kudzu sample was adjacent to a soybean field that was positive for P. pachyrhizi. Although soybean rust was eventually detected in 18 North Carolina counties in 2005, no soybean yield loss occurred since the pathogen was detected when more than 80% of the soybean crop was mature. To our knowledge, this is the first report of P. pachyrhizi in North Carolina and the northern most find on soybean in the continental United States in 2005. References: (1) R. D. Frederick et al. Phytopathology 92:217, 2002. (2) R. W. Schneider et al. Plant Dis. 89:774 2005.

The Asian soybean rust fungus, Phakopsora pachyrhizi H. Sydow & Sydow, was found on a 0.4-ha patch of kudzu (Pueraria lobata) near Dayton (Liberty County) in East Texas on November 2, 2005. Nearly 100% of the 300 leaflets examined were diseased with severity ranging from 5 to >100 lesions per leaflet. Eleven soybean fields as much as 20 km away were scouted and no infected plants were found. Asian soybean rust was also found on a 0.4-ha field of soybean (Glycine max cv. Vernal) on February 14, 2006 at the Texas A&M Agricultural Experiment Station in Weslaco (Hidalgo County) in the Lower Rio Grande Valley (LRGV) of Texas. Disease incidence was 100% (severity ranging from 5 to >100 lesions per leaflet) on 50 younger plants with green leaves along the edges of the field, whereas most of the plants in this field had senesced. These plants were not symptomatic and were at the R6 stage (full seed) when this field was previously scouted on December 19, 2005. Lesions on leaflets of kudzu and soybean were small and angular with erumpent uredinia typical of P. pachyrhizi. Urediniospores were ovoid or globose, hyaline, and measured 25 to 30 × 14 to 21 μm. Leaf samples with pustules were positive for P. pachyrhizi using enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay (ELISA) (Envirologix, Portland, ME). Morphological and polymerase chain reaction (PCR) identification of P. pachyrhizi from kudzu and soybean samples were confirmed by the USDA-APHIS-PPQ NIS and CPHST laboratories in Beltsville, MD as previously described (2). The kudzu in East Texas is not likely to support overwintering of the pathogen because it usually dies back during the winter. Leaves at this site were dead by January 17, 2006. This is the southernmost infestation of kudzu in Texas known to us. In contrast, the LRGV has a subtropical climate that would favor year-round survival of the fungus (3). This area, where 120 to 160 ha of soybeans are grown, may be a source of inoculum for soybean rust epidemics in the Midwest. Spore movement would follow the same pattern as seen with cereal rusts (1). However, soybeans are typically absent from the LRGV between late December and early March, so survival of the fungus during this interval would require other hosts. Regardless of whether the fungus overwinters here, or moves in from elsewhere, the LRGV spring crop could serve as an early indicator of a potential rust epidemic. References: (1) M. G. Eversmeyer and C. L. Kramer. Annu. Rev. Phytopathol. 38:491, 2000. (2) J. M. Mullen et al. Plant Dis. 90:112, 2006. (3) S. Pivonia et al. Plant Dis. 89:678, 2005.

Soybean rust, caused by Phakopsora pachyrhizi Syd., first was observed in the continental United States during 2004 on soybean (Glycine max (L.) Merr.) in Louisiana (4), and on kudzu (Pueraria montana (Lour.) Merr. var. lobata (Willd.) Maesen & Almeida) in Florida (2). Kudzu is a leguminous weed that is prevalent in the southern United States with its range extending northward into other states including Illinois. In October 2009, a kudzu patch located in Pulaski County in southern Illinois was investigated for the presence of soybean rust. Twenty-five leaflets were collected, and the abaxial sides of leaflets were evaluated visually for the presence of uredinia with a dissecting microscope. Uredinia and urediniospores were found on two leaflets. When viewed with a compound microscope, urediniospores were hyaline, echinulate, and measured 20 × 25 μm. On the basis of uredinia and urediniospores, the disease tentatively was identified as soybean rust caused by P. pachyrhizi. To confirm the identification, one leaflet with pustules was assayed with a Soybean Rust QuickStix Diagnostic Kit (Envirologix, Portland, ME). For the other leaflet, the area of the pustule was excised (approximately 28 mm2) and an area of the leaflet at the margin on the opposite half of the leaflet with no visible pustule (approximately 54 mm2) was excised. DNA was extracted from the excised areas of the leaflet for confirmation by quantitative PCR (Q-PCR) using primers and probe specific to P. pachyrhizi and P. meibomiae (Arthur) Arthur (1). Both the QuickStix Diagnostic Kit and the Q-PCR confirmed the diagnosis as soybean rust caused by P. pachyrhizi. Q-PCR also suggested the presence of a nonsporulating latent rust infection on the same kudzu leaflet at the margin on the opposite side of the midrib. Soybean rust first was confirmed on soybean in Illinois in 2006 (3), but to our knowledge, this is the first observation of the disease on kudzu in the state. This report confirms that at least some kudzu plants in Illinois are susceptible to soybean rust and that latent kudzu infection may exist without outward signs of the fungus. Currently, this is the most northern observation of soybean rust on kudzu in North America. It is unknown what role, if any, Illinois kudzu will play in the epidemiology of soybean rust in the state. Since kudzu tops die after the first frost, there is no expectation of P. pachyrhizi to overwinter in Illinois on kudzu as it does in some states adjacent to the Gulf of Mexico. References: (1) R. D. Frederick et al. Phytopathology 92:217, 2002. (2) P. F. Harmon et al. Online publication. doi:10.1094/PHP-2005-0613-01-RS. Plant Health Progress, 2005. (3) G. L. Hartman et al. Plant Dis. 91:466, 2007. (4) R. W. Schneider et al. Plant Dis. 89:774, 2005.

Working With Space: An opportunity to be considerate and reflective as a human being As a visual artist, my work is primarily focused on building site-specific installation works for museums and galleries. This visual site work affords me the opportunity to research, understand, and underline the dynamics of place, highlighting the totality of the function of sculptural elements to each other and within site. Formally and structurally, my interest is in the details, quality of connections, quality of structure, and an understanding of all physical parts to a whole. This work is fueled and influenced by my research of system dynamics, primarily a holistic investigation of ecosystem function and observations of nature with supportive comparative study in architectural theory, urban development, and the psychology of space as it supports this inquiry and excitement for the dynamism of parts to the whole. Within my research, my main interest has been looking at the quality of thriving function, not dysfunction, found in nature, which observes an awareness of its environment and responds accordingly. As a point of reference for art making/installation building, I have been utilizing two themes from distinctive research: structural/physical qualities found in species connections and functional growth relationships in nature. This has included studying, most recently, growth dynamics from plant observation of species in groups and species next to species. How plants negotiate around boundaries and root length and dynamics, have been central to my interest in recent research. Ultimately, this research resonates with my observations on human survival and the plight of human relationships, and fuels the visual large-scale installation pieces. In my artwork, not only does content stem from holistic sustainability interests, but also material and processes are involved in making choices about being considerate and being a part of a global system, some of which are distinctive in the field. One of these methods utilizes paperclay, a construction material of a blended mix of clay and paper that offers unique lightweight and large-scale installation opportunity that can be fired or non-fired. I use either clay found close to the site or a dry EPK. The paper (100% cellulose) is either foraged from place in its natural state (grass or stalks) and boiled, or recycled from old clothes (100% natural fibers), both are beaten to a pulp in a papermaker’s beater called a Hollander beater. The paperclay material, when blended at 70/30 ratio, is strong and offers construction diversity; it can be dipped, sprayed, cast, modeled, or stuccoed. It can also be non-fired and fixed with a white glue or Portland cement to be presented at a variety of hardness densities. Or, of course, fired out, losing the paper percent in weight. Building on site with this mud mixture gives flexibility by allowing the installations to be built, making choices as I go, responding to the space and the sculptural forms responding to each other. Ultimately, the installation also accommodates the viewer. It provides a physical passage to move through the piece to consider the relationships between the forms, and the relationship of the forms to the space, offering the consideration of the sensitivities of all integral parts being of value to the potential whole. Please view RebeccaHutchinson.com

Viral diseases have not previously been described in lettuce (Lactuca sativa) in Puerto Rico. In April 2013, lettuce samples from a hydroponic greenhouse in Guayanilla were submitted to the Plant Disease Clinic at the University of Puerto Rico's Juana Díaz Experimental Station. Lettuce plants were symptomatic for virus and had thrips. Eight samples reacted with Tomato spotted wilt virus (TSWV) DAS-ELISA (Envirologix, Portland, ME) and lateral flow immunoassay (Envirologix). Further sampling at the hydroponic greenhouse, which had 45,000 lettuce plants in different growth stages, revealed leaf symptoms of necrotic ringspots and browning with an incidence of 38%. Losses were high because plants had to be destroyed, resulting in $160,000 of lost earnings to date. Symptoms appeared in the younger core leaves 5 days after transplanting and consisted of small chlorotic spots that developed into necrotic ringspots. The leaves became pale, then brown and wilted. In 15-day-old plants, lesions coalesced and within 1 to 2 days, leaf tissue appeared burned. Soft rot in the crown was observed in 5% of the affected plants. Stunting was also observed when young plants were affected. Due to recent identification of Tomato chlorotic spot virus (TCSV) in Puerto Rico (4) and known cross reaction of TSWV serological reagents with closely related tospoviruses, plants were tested for TCSV, TSWV, and Groundnut ringspot virus (GRSV) by reverse transcription (RT)-PCR as previously described (4). Total RNA was extracted from representative symptomatic leaves of two lettuce plants using RNeasy Plant Mini Kit (Qiagen, Valencia, CA) and tested by RT-PCR with TCSV-specific nucleocapsid (N) or RNA-dependent RNA polymerase (L) gene primers (4) or movement protein (NSm) gene primers (2). Amplicons of the expected sizes were produced with all three TCSV primer sets from both samples, whereas primers specific for the N gene of TSWV (1) or GRSV (3) did not amplify products from either sample. Three TCSV amplicons (N, L, and NSm) from one sample were gel-purified and cloned (pGEM-T, Promega, Madison, WI). Six clones of each amplicon were sequenced in both directions and consensus sequences were deposited in GenBank (KF819827 to 29). All three genes showed greater than 96% nucleotide identity with all TCSV isolates in GenBank, including 99 to 100% nucleotide identity with previously characterized TCSV isolates from tomato, pepper, and jimsonweed in Puerto Rico (4). Consistent with the identification of TCSV, the known TCSV vector Frankliniella schultzei was identified in the lettuce with an adult population of 10 to 21 thrips per plant. Symptomatic lettuce leaves were used to mechanically inoculate 10-day-old lettuce and 56-day-old tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum) plants. Symptoms reminiscent of the original lettuce developed, and the presence of TCSV was confirmed by RT-PCR as described above. This is the first report of TCSV infection of lettuce in Puerto Rico and demonstrates that TCSV can be a limiting factor to lettuce production here and elsewhere in the Caribbean. References: (1) S. Adkins and E. N. Rosskopf. Plant Dis. 86:1310, 2002. (2) M. S. Silva et al. Arch. Virol. 146:1267, 2001. (3) C. G. Webster et al. Virology 413:216, 2011. (4) C. G. Webster et al. Plant Health Progress doi:10.1094/PHP-2013-0812-01-BR, 2013.

A different name than English literature, ‘Anglo-Indian Literature’, was given to the body of literature in English that emerged on account of the British interaction with India unlike the case with their interaction with America or Australia or New Zealand. Even the Indians’ contributions (translations as well as creative pieces in English) were classed under the caption ‘Anglo-Indian’ initially but later a different name, ‘Indo-Anglian’, was conceived for the growing variety and volume of writings in English by the Indians. However, unlike the former the latter has not found a favour with the compilers of English dictionaries. With the passage of time the fine line of demarcation drawn on the basis of subject matter and author’s point of view has disappeared and currently even Anglo-Indians’ writings are classed as ‘Indo-Anglian’. Besides contemplating on various connotations of the term ‘Indo-Anglian’ the article discusses the related issues such as: the etymology of the term, fixing the name of its coiner and the date of its first use. In contrast to the opinions of the historians and critics like K R S Iyengar, G P Sarma, M K Naik, Daniela Rogobete, Sachidananda Mohanty, Dilip Chatterjee and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak it has been brought to light that the term ‘Indo-Anglian’ was first used in 1880 by James Payn to refer to the Indians’ writings in English rather pejoratively. However, Iyengar used it in a positive sense though he himself gave it up soon. The reasons for the wide acceptance of the term, sometimes also for the authors of the sub-continent, by the members of academia all over the world, despite its rejection by Sahitya Akademi (the national body of letters in India), have also been contemplated on. 
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Using conversation analysis and usage-based linguistics, I focus on a beginning L2 user in an ESL classroom and trace his use of a “family of expressions” which, from the perspective of linguistic theory, are instantiations of either the ditransitive dative construction (e.g., “he told me the story”) or a prepositional dative construction (e.g., “he told the story to me”). The semantics of both constructions denotes transfer of an object, physically or metaphorically, from one agent to another. Therefore, I investigate them as one type of object-transfer construction. The instances of the construction are found predominantly in instruction sequences, and I show how the L2 user co-employs talk and recycled embodied work that elaborates the deictic references of the talk and the relation of agent-object-recipient roles among them. Through my analyses, I will showcase the embodied nature of linguistic categorization (Langacker, 1987) but take the argument further and suggest that the semiotic resource known as “language” is a residual of embodied social sense-making practices (aus der Wieschen and Eskildsen, 2019). The study draws on the MAELC database at Portland State University, a longitudinal audio-visual corpus of American English L2 classroom interaction.

El Archivo Cultural de Cañar es el producto de dos décadas de trabajo documentando las comunidades indígenas que habitan en las montañas en el sur de Ecuador. La primera vez que visité el pueblo de Cañar fue durante los inicios de la década de los noventa. Me encontraba trabajando como voluntaria en un trabajo investigativo con el objetivo de adiestrar a dos hombres cañari, en destrezas en fotografía e historia oral.Veinte años después, mis lazos con Ecuador se han estrechado más a fondo. Durante el transcurso de estos años he tenido la oportunidad de viajar a Ecuador en múltiples ocasiones para dar clases e instalar exhibiciones. También he escrito dos libros, recibido tres becas Fulbright y construido mi “hogar en las nubes”. Actualmente junto a mi esposo compartimos la experiencia de vivir seis meses del año en Cañar y seis meses en la ciudad de Portland, Oregon.

Laboratory diagnosis of blastomycosis relies on a combination of methods, including antigen detection. We assessed performance of analyte specific reagents from Gotham Biotech (Portland, ME) for quantitative detection of Blastomyces dermatitidis galactomannan (GM) in urine using an enzyme immunoassay (EIA), compared to the Blastomyces quantitative EIA from MiraVista Diagnostics (Indianapolis, IN). Residual urine from 232 unique patients previously tested by the MiraVista assay were evaluated using the Gotham EIA, which showed 97.4% (74/76), 100% (156/156), and 99.1% (230/232) positive, negative, and overall agreement, respectively. Correlation between the quantitative B. dermatitidis antigen levels by the Gotham and MiraVista EIAs was low (R 2 =0.20). Medical records were available for 36 of the 232 patients, among whom four had confirmed blastomycosis and both the Gotham and MiraVista EIAs were positive. Nine of these patients had histoplasmosis, and the Gotham and MiraVista EIAs yielded negative results in 44.4% (4/9) and 22.2% (2/9) of cases, respectively. Both assays were negative in the remaining 23 patients. Post-laboratory implementation of the Gotham EIA, chart reviews were performed on the first 50 unique patients (51 samples) tested by the assay in our hospital. Among these, 3/50 (6%) samples were positive by the Gotham EIA; two samples from a patient with culture-confirmed blastomycosis and one from a patient with histoplasmosis (also positive by the MiraVista Blastomyces EIA). All remaining patients were negative by the Gotham EIA and had alternative diagnoses. Our findings show comparable performance between the Gotham and MiraVista quantitative EIAs for detection of B. dermatitidis GM in urine.

<p>Penggunaan <em>supplementary cementing material</em> yang bersifat <em>pozzolan</em> seperti <em>fly ash</em> banyak dipertimbangkan karena selain efektif me-<em>reduce</em> penggunaan <em>portland cement</em>, <em>fly ash</em> juga merupakan limbah pembakaran batu bara yang kurang termanfaatkan.<em> High volume fly ash self compacting concrete </em>dapat menghasilkan <em>sustainable concrete </em>dengan <em>mechanical strength</em> yang tinggi dan <em>workability</em> yang baik. Penelitian ini bertujuan untuk menganalisis pengaruh persentase <em>fly ash</em> terhadap kuat tekan HVFASCC. Penelitian menggunakan 1 <em>mix design</em> beton normal usia 28 hari dan 3 variasi <em>mix design </em>HVFASCC usia 90 hari dengan <em>fly ash replacement ratio</em> 50%, 60% dan 70% dengan <em>total cementitious</em> 500 kg/m<sup>3</sup>. Spesimen yang digunakan adalah silinder 150 x 300 mm sejumlah 3 buah untuk tiap <em>mix design</em>. Pengujian yang dilakukan meliputi pengujian beton segar dan <em>hardened concrete</em>. Untuk <em>destructive test</em> dilakukan sesuai standar ASTM C469 dengan <em>compressive testing machine</em>. Hasil pengujian beton segar menunjukkan <em>workability</em> semakin baik seiring peningkatan <em>fly ash replacement ratio</em>. Pengujian <em>hardened concrete</em> untuk NC.90, HVFA.90.50, HVFA.90.60, HVFA.90.70 menghasilkan kuat tekan 74,98 MPa, 74,60 MPa, 58,95 MPa, 46,50 MPa. Adanya perbedaan kuat tekan terjadi karena adanya evolusi dari reaksi yang terjadi pada <em>fly ash-cement blends</em> yang melibatkan <em>degree of hydration </em>dan <em>degree of reaction. </em></p>

Despite numerous critics describing him as an auteur (i.e. a film-maker who ‘does’ everything and fulfils every production role [Bordwell and Thompson 37] and/or with a signature “world-view” detectable in his/her work [Caughie 10]), Rolf de Heer appears to have declined primary authorship of Dance Me to My Song (1997), his seventh in an oeuvre of twelve feature films. Indeed, the opening credits do not mention his name at all: it is only with the closing credits that the audience learns de Heer has directed the film. Rather, as the film commences, the viewer is informed by the titles that it is “A film by Heather Rose”, thus suggesting that the work is her singular creation. Direct and uncompromising, with its unflattering shots of the lead actor and writer (Heather Rose Slattery, a young woman born with cerebral palsy), the film may be read as a courageous self-portrait which finds the grace, humanity and humour trapped inside Rose’s twisted body. Alternatively, it may be read as yet another example of de Heer’s signature interest in foregrounding a world view which gives voice to marginalised characters such as the disabled or the disadvantaged. For example, the developmentally retarded eponyme of Bad Boy Bubby (1993) is eventually able to make art as a singer in a band and succeeds in creating a happy family with a wife and two kids. The ‘mute’ girl in The Quiet Room (1996) makes herself heard by her squabbling parents through her persistent activism. In Ten Canoes (2006) the Indigenous Australians cast themselves according to kinship ties, not according to the director’s choosing, and tell their story in their own uncolonised language. A cursory glance at the films of Rolf de Heer suggests he is overtly interested in conveying to the audience the often overlooked agency of his unlikely protagonists. In the ultra-competitive world of professional film-making it is rare to see primary authorship ceded by a director so generously. However, the allocation of authorship to a member of a marginalized population re-invigorates questions prompted by Andy Medhurst regarding a film’s “authorship test” (198) and its relationship to a subaltern community wherein he writes that “a biographical approach has more political justification if the project being undertaken is one concerned with the cultural history of a marginalized group” (202-3). Just as films by gay authors about gay characters may have greater credibility, as Medhurst posits, one might wonder would a film by a person with a disability about a character with the same disability be better received? Enabling authorship by an unknown, crippled woman such as Rose rather than a famous, able-bodied male such as de Heer may be cynically regarded as good (show) business in that it is politically correct. This essay therefore asks if the appellation “A film by Heather Rose” is appropriate for Dance Me to My Song. Whose agency in telling the story (or ‘doing’ the film-making), the able bodied Rolf de Heer or the disabled Heather Rose, is reflected in this cinematic production? In other words, whose voice is enabled when an audience receives this film? In attempting to answer these questions it is inevitable that Paul Darke’s concept of the “normality drama” (181) is referred to and questioned, as I argue that Dance Me to My Song makes groundbreaking departures from the conventions of the typical disability narrative. Heather Rose as Auteur Rose plays the film’s heroine, Julia, who like herself has cerebral palsy, a group of non-progressive, chronic disorders resulting from changes produced in the brain during the prenatal stages of life. Although severely affected physically, Rose suffered no intellectual impairment and had acted in Rolf de Heer’s cult hit Bad Boy Bubby five years before, a confidence-building experience that grew into an ongoing fascination with the filmmaking process. Subsequently, working with co-writer Frederick Stahl, she devised the scenario for this film, writing the lead role for herself and then proactively bringing it to de Heer’s attention. Rose wrote of de Heer’s deliberate lack of involvement in the script-writing process: “Rolf didn’t even want to read what we’d done so far, saying he didn’t want to interfere with our process” (de Heer, “Production Notes”). In 2002, aged 36, Rose died and Stahl reports in her obituary an excerpt from her diary: People see me as a person who has to be controlled. But let me tell you something, people. I am not! And I am going to make something real special of my life! I am going to go out there and grab life with both hands!!! I am going to make the most sexy and honest film about disability that has ever been made!! (Stahl, “Standing Room Only”) This proclamation of her ability and ambition in screen-writing is indicative of Rose’s desire to do. In a guest lecture Rose gave further insights into the active intent in writing Dance Me to My Song: I wanted to create a screenplay, but not just another soppy disability film, I wanted to make a hot sexy film, which showed the real world … The message I wanted to convey to an audience was “As people with disabilities, we have the same feelings and desires as others”. (Rose, “ISAAC 2000 Conference Presentation”) Rose went on to explain her strategy for winning over director de Heer: “Rolf was not sure about committing to the movie; I had to pester him really. I decided to invite him to my birthday party. It took a few drinks, but I got him to agree to be the director” (ibid) and with this revelation of her tactical approach her film-making agency is further evidenced. Rose’s proactive innovation is not just evident in her successfully approaching de Heer. Her screenplay serves as a radical exception to films featuring disabled persons, which, according to Paul Darke in 1998, typically involve the disabled protagonist struggling to triumph over the limitations imposed by their disability in their ‘admirable’ attempts to normalize. Such normality dramas are usually characterized by two generic themes: first, that the state of abnormality is nothing other than tragic because of its medical implications; and, second, that the struggle for normality, or some semblance of it in normalization – as represented in the film by the other characters – is unquestionably right owing to its axiomatic supremacy. (187) Darke argues that the so-called normality drama is “unambiguously a negation of ascribing any real social or individual value to the impaired or abnormal” (196), and that such dramas function to reinforce the able-bodied audience’s self image of normality and the notion of the disabled as the inferior Other. Able-bodied characters are typically portrayed positively in the normality drama: “A normality as represented in the decency and support of those characters who exist around, and for, the impaired central character. Thus many of the disabled characters in such narratives are bitter, frustrated and unfulfilled and either antisocial or asocial” (193). Darke then identifies The Elephant Man (David Lynch, 1980) and Born on the Fourth of July (Oliver Stone, 1989) as archetypal films of this genre. Even in films in which seemingly positive images of the disabled are featured, the protagonist is still to be regarded as the abnormal Other, because in comparison to the other characters within that narrative the impaired character is still a comparatively second-class citizen in the world of the film. My Left Foot is, as always, a prime example: Christy Brown may well be a writer, relatively wealthy and happy, but he is not seen as sexual in any way (194). However, Dance Me to My Song defies such generic restrictions: Julia’s temperament is upbeat and cheerful and her disability, rather than appearing tragic, is made to look healthy, not “second class”, in comparison with her physically attractive, able-bodied but deeply unhappy carer, Madelaine (Joey Kennedy). Within the first few minutes of the film we see Madelaine dissatisfied as she stands, inspecting her healthy, toned and naked body in the bathroom mirror, contrasted with vision of Julia’s twisted form, prostrate, pale and naked on the bed. Yet, in due course, it is the able-bodied girl who is shown to be insecure and lacking in character. Madelaine steals Julia’s money and calls her “spastic”. Foul-mouthed and short-tempered, Madelaine perversely positions Julia in her wheelchair to force her to watch as she has perfunctory sex with her latest boyfriend. Madelaine even masquerades as Julia, commandeering her voice synthesizer to give a fraudulently positive account of her on-the-job performance to the employment agency she works for. Madelaine’s “axiomatic supremacy” is thoroughly undermined and in the most striking contrast to the typical normality drama, Julia is unashamedly sexual: she is no Christy Brown. The affective juxtaposition of these two different personalities stems from the internal nature of Madelaine’s problems compared to the external nature of Julia’s problems. Madelaine has an emotional disability rather than a physical disability and several scenes in the film show her reduced to helpless tears. Then one day when Madelaine has left her to her own devices, Julia defiantly wheels herself outside and bumps into - almost literally - handsome, able-bodied Eddie (John Brumpton). Cheerfully determined, Julia wins him over and a lasting friendship is formed. Having seen the joy that sex brings to Madelaine, Julia also wants carnal fulfilment so she telephones Eddie and arranges a date. When Eddie arrives, he reads the text on her voice machine’s screen containing the title line to the film ‘Dance me to my song’ and they share a tender moment. Eddie’s gentleness as he dances Julia to her song (“Kizugu” written by Bernard Huber and John Laidler, as performed by Okapi Guitars) is simultaneously contrasted with the near-date-rapes Madelaine endures in her casual relationships. The conflict between Madeline and Julia is such that it prompts Albert Moran and Errol Vieth to categorize the film as “women’s melodrama”: Dance Me to My Song clearly belongs to the genre of the romance. However, it is also important to recognize it under the mantle of the women’s melodrama … because it has to do with a woman’s feelings and suffering, not so much because of the flow of circumstance but rather because of the wickedness and malevolence of another woman who is her enemy and rival. (198-9) Melodrama is a genre that frequently resorts to depicting disability in which a person condemned by society as disabled struggles to succeed in love: some prime examples include An Affair to Remember (Leo McCarey, 1957) involving a paraplegic woman, and The Piano (Jane Campion, 1993) in which a strong-spirited but mute woman achieves love. The more conventional Hollywood romances typically involve attractive, able-bodied characters. In Dance Me to My Song the melodramatic conflict between the two remarkably different women at first seems dominated by Madelaine, who states: “I know I’m good looking, good in bed ... better off than you, you poor thing” in a stream-of-consciousness delivery in which Julia is constructed as listener rather than converser. Julia is further reduced to the status of sub-human as Madelaine says: “I wish you could eat like a normal person instead of a bloody animal” and her erstwhile boyfriend Trevor says: “She looks like a fuckin’ insect.” Even the benevolent Eddie says: “I don’t like leaving you alone but I guess you’re used to it.” To this the defiant Julia replies; “Please don’t talk about me in front of me like I’m an animal or not there at all.” Eddie is suitably chastised and when he treats her to an over-priced ice-cream the shop assistant says “Poor little thing … She’ll enjoy this, won’t she?” Julia smiles, types the words “Fuck me!”, and promptly drops the ice-cream on the floor. Eddie laughs supportively. “I’ll just get her another one,” says the flustered shop assistant, “and then get her out of here, please!” With striking eloquence, Julia wheels herself out of the shop, her voice machine announcing “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me”, as she departs exultantly. With this bold statement of independence and defiance in the face of patronising condescension, the audience sees Rose’s burgeoning strength of character and agency reflected in the onscreen character she has created. Dance Me to My Song and the films mentioned above are, however, rare exceptions in the many that dare represent disability on the screen at all, compliant as the majority are with Darke’s expectations of the normality drama. Significantly, the usual medical-model nexus in many normality films is ignored in Rose’s screenplay: no medication, hospitals or white laboratory coats are to be seen in Julia’s world. Finally, as I have described elsewhere, Julia is shown joyfully dancing in her wheelchair with Eddie while Madelaine proves her physical inferiority with a ‘dance’ of frustration around her broken-down car (see Starrs, "Dance"). In Rose’s authorial vision, audience’s expectations of yet another film of the normality drama genre are subverted as the disabled protagonist proves superior to her ‘normal’ adversary in their melodramatic rivalry for the sexual favours of an able-bodied love-interest. Rolf de Heer as Auteur De Heer does not like to dwell on the topic of auteurism: in an interview in 2007 he somewhat impatiently states: I don’t go in much for that sort of analysis that in the end is terminology. … Look, I write the damn things, and direct them, and I don’t completely produce them anymore – there are other people. If that makes me an auteur in other people’s terminologies, then fine. (Starrs, "Sounds" 20) De Heer has been described as a “remarkably non-egotistical filmmaker” (Davis “Working together”) which is possibly why he handed ownership of this film to Rose. Of the writer/actor who plied him with drink so he would agree to back her script, de Heer states: It is impossible to overstate the courage of the performance that you see on the screen. … Heather somehow found the means to respond on cue, to maintain the concentration, to move in the desired direction, all the myriad of acting fundamentals that we take for granted as normal things to do in our normal lives. (“Production NHotes”) De Heer’s willingness to shift authorship from director to writer/actor is representative of this film’s groundbreaking promotion of the potential for agency within disability. Rather than being passive and suffering, Rose is able to ‘do.’ As the lead actor she is central to the narrative. As the principle writer she is central to the film’s production. And she does both. But in conflict with this auteurial intent is the temptation to describe Dance Me to My Song as an autobiographical documentary, since it is Rose herself, with her unique and obvious physical handicap, playing the film’s heroine, Julia. In interview, however, De Heer apparently disagrees with this interpretation: Rolf de Heer is quick to point out, though, that the film is not a biography.“Not at all; only in the sense that writers use material from their own lives.Madelaine is merely the collection of the worst qualities of the worst carers Heather’s ever had.” Dance Me to My Song could be seen as a dramatised documentary, since it is Rose herself playing Julia, and her physical or surface life is so intense and she is so obviously handicapped. While he understands that response, de Heer draws a comparison with the first films that used black actors instead of white actors in blackface. “I don’t know how it felt emotionally to an audience, I wasn’t there, but I think that is the equivalent”. (Urban) An example of an actor wearing “black-face” to portray a cerebral palsy victim might well be Gus Trikonis’s 1980 film Touched By Love. In this, the disabled girl is unconvincingly played by the pretty, able-bodied actress Diane Lane. The true nature of the character’s disability is hidden and cosmeticized to Hollywood expectations. Compared to that inauthentic film, Rose’s screenwriting and performance in Dance Me to My Song is a self-penned fiction couched in unmediated reality and certainly warrants authorial recognition. Despite his unselfish credit-giving, de Heer’s direction of this remarkable film is nevertheless detectable. His auteur signature is especially evident in his technological employment of sound as I have argued elsewhere (see Starrs, "Awoval"). The first distinctly de Heer influence is the use of a binaural recording device - similar to that used in Bad Boy Bubby (1993) - to convey to the audience the laboured nature of Julia’s breathing and to subjectively align the audience with her point of view. This apparatus provides a disturbing sound bed that is part wheezing, part grunting. There is no escaping Julia’s physically unusual life, from her reliance on others for food, toilet and showering, to the half-strangled sounds emanating from her ineffectual larynx. But de Heer insists that Julia does speak, like Stephen Hawkings, via her Epson RealVoice computerized voice synthesizer, and thus Julia manages to retain her dignity. De Heer has her play this machine like a musical instrument, its neatly modulated feminine tones immediately prompting empathy. Rose Capp notes de Heer’s preoccupation with finding a voice for those minority groups within the population who struggle to be heard, stating: de Heer has been equally consistent in exploring the communicative difficulties underpinning troubled relationships. From the mute young protagonist of The Quiet Room to the aphasic heroine of Dance Me to My Song, De Heer’s films are frequently preoccupied with the profound inadequacy or outright failure of language as a means of communication (21). Certainly, the importance to Julia of her only means of communication, her voice synthesizer, is stressed by de Heer throughout the film. Everybody around her has, to varying degrees, problems in hearing correctly or understanding both what and how Julia communicates with her alien mode of conversing, and she is frequently asked to repeat herself. Even the well-meaning Eddie says: “I don’t know what the machine is trying to say”. But it is ultimately via her voice synthesizer that Julia expresses her indomitable character. When first she meets Eddie, she types: “Please put my voice machine on my chair, STUPID.” She proudly declares ownership of a condom found in the bathroom with “It’s mine!” The callous Madelaine soon realizes Julia’s strength is in her voice machine and withholds access to the device as punishment for if she takes it away then Julia is less demanding for the self-centred carer. Indeed, the film which starts off portraying the physical superiority of Madelaine soon shows us that the carer’s life, for all her able-bodied, free-love ways, is far more miserable than Julia’s. As de Heer has done in many of his other films, a voice has been given to those who might otherwise not be heard through significant decision making in direction. In Rose’s case, this is achieved most obviously via her electric voice synthesizer. I have also suggested elsewhere (see Starrs, "Dance") that de Heer has helped find a second voice for Rose via the language of dance, and in doing so has expanded the audience’s understandings of quality of life for the disabled, as per Mike Oliver’s social model of disability, rather than the more usual medical model of disability. Empowered by her act of courage with Eddie, Julia sacks her uncaring ‘carer’ and the film ends optimistically with Julia and her new man dancing on the front porch. By picturing the couple in long shot and from above, Julia’s joyous dance of triumph is depicted as ordinary, normal and not deserving of close examination. This happy ending is intercut with a shot of Madeline and her broken down car, performing her own frustrated dance and this further emphasizes that she was unable to ‘dance’ (i.e. communicate and compete) with Julia. The disabled performer such as Rose, whether deliberately appropriating a role or passively accepting it, usually struggles to placate two contrasting realities: (s)he is at once invisible in the public world of interhuman relations and simultaneously hyper-visible due to physical Otherness and subsequent instantaneous typecasting. But by the end of Dance Me to My Song, Rose and de Heer have subverted this notion of the disabled performer grappling with the dual roles of invisible victim and hyper-visible victim by depicting Julia as socially and physically adept. She ‘wins the guy’ and dances her victory as de Heer’s inspirational camera looks down at her success like an omniscient and pleased god. Film academic Vivian Sobchack writes of the phenomenology of dance choreography for the disabled and her own experience of waltzing with the maker of her prosthetic leg, Steve, with the comment: “for the moment I did displace focus on my bodily immanence to the transcendent ensemble of our movement and I really began to waltz” (65). It is easy to imagine Rose’s own, similar feeling of bodily transcendence in the closing shot of Dance Me to My Song as she shows she can ‘dance’ better than her able-bodied rival, content as she is with her self-identity. Conclusion: Validation of the Auteurial OtherRolf de Heer was a well-known film-maker by the time he directed Dance Me to My Song. His films Bad Boy Bubby (1993) and The Quiet Room (1996) had both screened at the Cannes International Film Festival. He was rapidly developing a reputation for non-mainstream representations of marginalised, subaltern populations, a cinematic trajectory that was to be further consolidated by later films privileging the voice of Indigenous Peoples in The Tracker (2002) and Ten Canoes (2006), the latter winning the Special Jury prize at Cannes. His films often feature unlikely protagonists or as Liz Ferrier writes, are “characterised by vulnerable bodies … feminised … none of whom embody hegemonic masculinity” (65): they are the opposite of Hollywood’s hyper-masculine, hard-bodied, controlling heroes. With a nascent politically correct worldview proving popular, de Heer may have considered the assigning of authorship to Rose a marketable idea, her being representative of a marginalized group, which as Andy Medhurst might argue, may be more politically justifiable, as it apparently is with films of gay authorship. However, it must be emphasized that there is no evidence that de Heer’s reticence about claiming authorship of Dance Me to My Song is motivated by pecuniary interests, nor does he seem to have been trying to distance himself from the project through embarrassment or dissatisfaction with the film or its relatively unknown writer/actor. Rather, he seems to be giving credit for authorship where credit is due, for as a result of Rose’s tenacity and agency this film is, in two ways, her creative success. Firstly, it is a rare exception to the disability film genre defined by Paul Darke as the “normality drama” because in the film’s diegesis, Julia is shown triumphing not simply over the limitations of her disability, but over her able-bodied rival in love as well: she ‘dances’ better than the ‘normal’ Madelaine. Secondly, in her gaining possession of the primary credits, and the mantle of the film’s primary author, Rose is shown triumphing over other aspiring able-bodied film-makers in the notoriously competitive film-making industry. Despite being an unpublished and unknown author, the label “A film by Heather Rose” is, I believe, a deserved coup for the woman who set out to make “the most sexy and honest film about disability ever made”. As with de Heer’s other films in which marginalised peoples are given voice, he demonstrates a desire not to subjugate the Other, but to validate and empower him/her. He both acknowledges their authorial voices and credits them as essential beings, and in enabling such subaltern populations to be heard, willingly cedes his privileged position as a successful, white, male, able-bodied film-maker. In the credits of this film he seems to be saying ‘I may be an auteur, but Heather Rose is a no less able auteur’. References Bordwell, David and Kristin Thompson. Film Art: An Introduction, 4th ed. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1993. Capp, Rose. “Alexandra and the de Heer Project.” RealTime + Onscreen 56 (Aug.-Sep. 2003): 21. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.realtimearts.net/article/issue56/7153›. Caughie, John. “Introduction”. Theories of Authorship. Ed. John Caughie. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981. 9-16. Darke, Paul. “Cinematic Representations of Disability.” The Disability Reader. Ed. Tom Shakespeare. London and New York: Cassell, 1988. 181-198. Davis, Therese. “Working Together: Two Cultures, One Film, Many Canoes.” Senses of Cinema 2006. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/06/41/ten-canoes.html›. De Heer, Rolf. “Production Notes.” Vertigo Productions. Undated. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.vertigoproductions.com.au/information.php?film_id=10&display=notes›. Ferrier, Liz. “Vulnerable Bodies: Creative Disabilities in Contemporary Australian Film.” Australian Cinema in the 1990s. Ed. Ian Craven. London and Portland: Frank Cass and Co., 2001. 57-78. Medhurst, Andy. “That Special Thrill: Brief Encounter, Homosexuality and Authorship.” Screen 32.2 (1991): 197-208. Moran, Albert, and Errol Veith. Film in Australia: An Introduction. Melbourne: Cambridge UP, 2006. Oliver, Mike. Social Work with Disabled People. Basingstoke: MacMillan, 1983. Rose Slattery, Heather. “ISAAC 2000 Conference Presentation.” Words+ n.d. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.words-plus.com/website/stories/isaac2000.htm›. Sobchack, Vivian. “‘Choreography for One, Two, and Three Legs’ (A Phenomenological Meditation in Movements).” Topoi 24.1 (2005): 55-66. Stahl, Frederick. “Standing Room Only for a Thunderbolt in a Wheelchair,” Sydney Morning Herald 31 Oct. 2002. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2002/10/30/1035683471529.html›. Starrs, D. Bruno. “Sounds of Silence: An Interview with Rolf de Heer.” Metro 152 (2007): 18-21. ———. “An avowal of male lack: Sound in Rolf de Heer’s The Old Man Who Read Love Stories (2003).” Metro 156 (2008): 148-153. ———. “Dance Me to My Song (Rolf de Heer 1997): The Story of a Disabled Dancer.” Proceedings Scopic Bodies Dance Studies Research Seminar Series 2007. Ed. Mark Harvey. University of Auckland, 2008 (in press). Urban, Andrew L. “Dance Me to My Song, Rolf de Heer, Australia.” Film Festivals 1988. 6 June 2008. ‹http://www.filmfestivals.com/cannes98/selofus9.htm›.

BackgroundEpidemiologic evidence suggests that periconceptional maternal folate intake is associated with decreased risk for autism spectrum disorder (ASD), but the biochemical underpinnings of this relationship and direct maternal folate measurement have not been reported.ObjectiveTo examine the association between first trimester in utero maternal metabolic risk factors (including methyl donors and folate metabolites, markers of oxidative stress and inflammation, and maternal BMI) and risk of ASD at age 4–7years.MethodsUsing a case‐control design, we identified 44 four to seven year old children with an ADOS‐confirmed diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder treated at Maine Medical Center Developmental Behavioral Pediatrics Clinic (Portland, ME). Archived maternal blood samples from the first trimester of pregnancy (11–13 weeks gestational age) were identified for these cases at the Foundation for Blood Research in Scarborough, ME. 44 control samples from the biorepository were identified based on five matching criteria (sex of child, maternal age, maternal smoking status, age of sample, gestational age of sample collection.) All samples were linked with birth certificate data to identify covariates. We measured unmetabolized folic acid (FA), 5‐methyl tetrahydrofolate (MTHF), vitamin B12, homocysteine and high Sensitivity C Reactive protein (CRP) from the samples. We examined the associations between these factors in pregnancy and diagnosis of ASD with logistic regression using SAS version 9.2.ResultsMaternal and infant characteristics for cases and controls are shown in table 1. Although in other cohorts maternal obesity has been associated with increased risk of ASD, maternal obesity was not associated with ASD diagnosis in our cohort, although our power for this comparison was low. As shown in table 2, maternal first trimester serum concentration of 5‐MTHF in the lower 2 tertiles (T1, T2) (compared to the highest tertile, T3) was associated with increased odds of ASD diagnosis in offspring [OR (95% CI) T1: 6.04 (1.25, 29.30) and T2: 7.10 (1.38, 36.46)]. Maternal CRP, FA, vitamin B12, and homocysteine were not significantly associated with risk of ASD (Table 2).ConclusionsLower first trimester serum maternal 5‐MTHF concentration was associated with increased risk of developing autism in offspring in an unadjusted analysis. Analysis of markers of oxidative stress and products of folate catabolism in these samples as well as adjustment for potential confounders is underway. If these findings are confirmed in larger cohorts, this may present an opportunity for prenatal intervention to reduce the risk for autism.Support or Funding InformationThe Alden Trust Characteristics of mother‐infant pairs of ASD cases and controls. Characteristic Cases (n= 44) Controls (n= 44) p n (%) Mother's BMI at blood draw <25 kg/m2 14 (32%) 17 (39%) 0.61 25–<30 kg/m2 12 (27%) 14 (32%) 30–<35kg/m2 7 (16%) 9 (20%) 35+ kg/m2 11 (25%) 4 (9%) Gestational age at birth <37 weeks 7 (16%) 6 (14%) 0.43 37–40 weeks 36 (82%) 33 (75%) >40 weeks 1 (2%) 5 (11%) Maternal tobacco use No 35 (81%) 36 (83%) 0.32 Yes 8 (19%) 7 (17%) Unknown 1 1 Gestational diabetes No 42 (95%) 43 (98%) 0.56 Yes 2 (5%) 1 (2%) Maternal Education HS or less 13 (30%) 11 (25%) 0.26 Some college or degree 22 (50%) 22 (50%) Post college 9 (20%) 11 (25%) Paternal Education HS or less 13 (52%) 8 (32%) 0.09 Some college or degree 4 (16%) 11 (44%) Post college 8 (32%) 6 (24%) Missing 18 16 Mother's Race/ethnicity Black 2 (5%) 0 (0%) White 40 (91%) 43 (98%) Asian 2 (5%) 1 (2%) Gestational Age at blood draw (wks) 11 12 (27%) 10 (23%) 0.57 12 18 (41%) 18 (41%) 13 14 (32%) 16 (36%) Year of blood draw 2008 9 (20%) 8 (18%) 0.90 2009 11 (25%) 12 (27%) 2010 16 (36%) 14 (32%) 2011 8 (18%) 10 (23%) Infant Male Sex 30 (68%) 30 (68%) 1.00 Odds ratios (OR) and 95% CIs for associations between first trimester maternal metabolic markers and ASD diagnosis at 4–7 years compared to controls. Maternal Metabolic Marker OR (95% CI) Unmetabolized Folic Acid (FA) nmol/L <0.293 1.06 (0.36, 3.13) 0.293–<1.89 1.28 (0.40, 4.08) 1.89+ 1.00 (Referent) Serum 5‐Methyl THF nmol/L <19.3 6.04 (1.25, 29.30) 19.3–<27.4 7.10 (1.38, 36.46) 27.4+ 1.00 (Referent) Serum Vitamin B12 pg/ml <450 0.74 (0.25, 2.18) 450–<702 0.72 (0.26,1.96) 702+ 1.00 (Referent) Homocysteine micromol/L <3.09 0.65 (0.22, 1.96) 3.09–<3.68 1.25 (0.41, 3.81) 3.68+ 1.00 (Referent) Serum High Sensitivity CReactive protein (CRP) mg/L <1.7 1.00 (Referent) 1.7–<7.2 0.84 (0.29, 2.47) 7.2+ 0.68 (0.20, 2.32)

The femme fatale of film noir has come to be regarded as an expression or symptom of male paranoia about the shifting dynamics of gendered power relations in patriarchal Western culture. This theoretical perspective is influenced by Freudian psychoanalytic theory, which, according to philosopher Paul Ricoeur, is grounded in the “School of Suspicion” because it sees consciousness as false, an illusion shrouding darker, disturbing truths (Ricoeur 33). However, while the femme fatale has become firmly established as a subject of suspicion, her male incarnation, the homme fatal, has generally been overlooked and any research that has been done on the figure to date has attempted to align him with the same latent anxieties as those underpinning the femme fatale. I will explore the validity of this assumption by examining the neo-noir films Mr Brooks (Bruce A. Evans, 2007) and The Killer Inside Me (Michael Winterbottom, 2010). Earl Brooks (Kevin Costner), the eponymous character in Mr Brooks, is a husband, father, extremely wealthy and successful businessman, philanthropist, and Portland Chamber of Commerce man of the year. But this homme fatal character is also a “deadly man” who has a powerful addiction to serial murder. On the one hand Earl enjoys killing immensely, but the rational, logical part of his mind tells him that he should stop before he gets caught. This creates an internal battle which is played out on screen, with these two sides of Earl’s psyche portrayed by two different people: realistic Earl and reckless, indulgent Marshall (William Hurt). In The Killer Inside Me, Deputy Sheriff and homme fatal Lou Ford (Casey Affleck) narrates the tale of how he came to be a brutal and sadistic serial killer, offering a variety of psychoanalytically grounded reasons and excuses for his despicable behaviour that ultimately leave the audience no more enlightened about his state of mind at the end of the film than at the beginning. I will argue that these figures are problematic within the context of Ricoeur’s theory of suspicion and that the self-reflexive insight and knowledge of Freudian theory depicted by these hommes fatals suggests that the construct cannot be read merely as a male incarnation of the femme fatale. Rather than being a subject or object of paranoid expression, I contend that the homme fatal is instead a catalyst for it. Psychoanalysis and the School of SuspicionThe premise of Freudian theory is that our consciousness is just the surface of our mental apparatus, and that hidden underneath in the unconscious part of our mind is a vast body of other material such as fears and desires that we have repressed because they are too disturbing for the conscious mind to contend with. Although we are unaware of these buried emotions they still impact upon our lives, surfacing in the form of neurotic symptoms (Freud 357–58). For Freud, the latent content of the psyche can be brought to the fore through psychoanalysis and by accessing and understanding unpalatable truths, the manifest symptoms they create can be alleviated (358). Thus, for Ricoeur psychoanalysis functions as a “demystification of meaning” (32) because it seeks to explain irrational symptoms. Ricoeur argues that Freud and fellow theorists Karl Marx and Friedrich Nietzsche are “masters of suspicion” (35) because of their common view of consciousness as false, opening the path for critical interpretation as an “exercise of suspicion” (33). However, suspicious interpretation is not just a practice for mental health practitioners and philosophers. It also has an established history as a method for exploring the relationship between socio-cultural anxieties and their expression in film and popular culture. According to literary theorist Rita Felski, the popularity of the use of psychoanalysis to study culture is partly inspired by the deeply ingrained and taken-for-granted nature of Freudian schemata (5), but a suspicious analysis also brings with it a form of substantive pleasure: “a sense of prowess in the exercise of ingenious interpretation, the satisfying economy and elegance of explanatory patterns; the gratifying charge of inciting surprise or admiration in fellow readers” (Felski 18). In film theory psychoanalysis is a well-recognised way of exploring underlying socio-cultural fears and anxieties that manifest on screen through visual and narrative depictions. The Femme Fatale and SuspicionThe femme fatale of film noir is a popular subject for suspicious interpretation by feminist film scholars including Mary Ann Doane, Elisabeth Bronfen, Pam Cook, and Kate Stables. Her beautiful, powerfully seductive exterior juxtaposed with a cold, cunning, and ruthless interior has earned the femme fatale a reputation as a manifestation of male fears about female sexuality and feminism (Doane 3). As Bronfen asserts: “One could speak of her as a male fantasy, articulating both fascination for the sexually aggressive woman, as well as anxieties about female domination” (106). In classic film noir of the 1940s and 1950s the femme fatale is generally considered to represent a projection of paranoid male fears over increased economic and sexual independence of women generated by World War II (Cook 70). Similarly, in neo-noir productions such as Basic Instinct (Paul Verhoeven, 1992) and The Last Seduction (John Dahl, 1994), the femme fatale is seen to function as an expression of anxiety over the postmodern collapse of traditional roles governing sexual difference occasioned by second-wave feminist movements, along with an increased presence of women in the public sphere (Stables 167). For example, in both Basic Instinct and The Last Seduction the femmes fatales are successful businesswomen who are also ruthless killers with an insatiable appetite for sex, wealth, and power. The Homme FatalWhile the femme fatale has been prowling around the dark alleys of noir, another deadly creature, the homme fatal, has also been skulking in the cinematic landscape. He can be found in early thrillers such as Alfred Hitchcock’s 1941 classic Suspicion, George Cukor’s Gaslight (1944), Experiment Perilous (Jacques Tourner, 1944), and A Kiss Before Dying (Gerd Oswald, 1956). He can also be located in many neo-noir thrillers including Blue Steel (Kathryn Bigelow, 1990), Internal Affairs (Mike Figgis, 1990), Guilty as Sin (Sidney Lumet, 1993), In The Cut (Jane Campion, 2003), Twisted (Phillip Kaufman, 2004), Taking Lives (J.D. Caruso, 2004), as well as Mr Brooks and The Killer Inside Me. One of the few scholars to examine the homme fatal from a psychoanalytic perspective is Margaret Cohen. In her paper “The ‘Homme Fatal,’ the Phallic Father, and the New Man” Cohen explores breakdown of gender divisions to emerge in neo-noir thrillers of the 1980s and 1990s, which saw a popular movement towards films featuring a female investigator pitted against a deadly male (for example, Internal Affairs, Blue Steel, and Guilty as Sin). Focusing on Internal Affairs, Cohen contends that corrupt cop and homme fatal Dennis Peck (Richard Gere) is a “larger-than-life alternative to the femme fatale” (113). Like the deadly woman, Peck has no morals, he is obsessed with power and wealth, and has no qualms about employing his sex appeal or collapsing sexual intimacy into business in order to get what he wants (Cohen 115–16). According to Cohen, just as the femme fatale is a manifestation of male paranoia about social transformations of gendered power, Internal Affairs crystallises male anxieties about the transformations in gender roles and the place of the new man in 1980s and 1990s postmodern culture (114). However, while hommes fatals such as Dennis Peck can be aligned with the femme fatale as a subject or object of psychoanalytic interpretation regarding repressed fears, other hommes fatals subvert such an analysis through their predisposed insight into psychoanalytic theory and suspicious interpretation. Aside from the films Mr Brooks and The Killer Inside Me, which I will explore in detail in the coming section, the hommes fatals in Gaslight and Experiment Perilous display a knowledge of Freudian theory, using it to convince their female victims that they are insane, and in Taking Lives the homme fatal uses his psychological prowess to fool a female FBI behavioural specialist assigned to profile him. The psychoanalytical insight depicted by these deadly men is something the femme fatale is not ordinarily privy to (with the exception of Catherine Trammell [Sharon Stone] in Basic Instinct, who has a degree in psychology). This suggests that the homme fatal is not simply a male incarnation of the female archetype, but rather a figure with a certain insight into latent socio-cultural anxieties who deliberately sabotages suspicious interpretation. Pleasure, Subversion, and the Homme Fatal Part of the pleasure of a suspicious analysis of a text is that it allows the critical theorist to act as a detective—“solving mysteries, nailing down answers, piecing together a coherent narrative, explaining away ambiguity through interpretation of clues” (Felski 13). However, in The Killer Inside Me, homme fatal Lou Ford subverts this process, using his knowledge of psychoanalysis in a way that prevents him from being subject to suspicious interpretation. In her paper on the source text from which Winterbottom’s film was adapted, “Being’s Wound: (Un) Explaining Evil in Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me,” literary theorist Dorothy Clark argues that “if Lou Ford provides a Grand Narrative, it is one in which he uses the appearance/reality outer/inner world motif to pitch to us a too-apparent Freudian psychoanalytic explanation for his actions” (54). A suspicious reading of The Killer Inside Me is disrupted and subverted by Lou’s employment of a psychoanalytic model to explain what he calls “the sickness.” By offering up a rational explanation for his otherwise irrational behaviour and grounding it in suspicion, Lou continually constructs and then deconstructs the narrative in such a way that it “conceals rather than reveals, continually eluding containment and definition” (Clark 59). According to Clark (51), what distinguishes The Killer Inside Me from the standard detective narrative is that rather than progressing from a state of enigma to one of knowledge, the story eludes knowledge, becoming increasingly complex and uncertain. Although Clark’s discussion focuses on the hard-boiled novel by Jim Thompson (1952), her observations about the character of Lou Ford are equally relevant to the 2010 neo-noir cinematic remake, which is a direct adaptation of the original novel. (Many classic films noir are reworkings of hard-boiled novels. For example, director Robert Montgomery’s 1947 film The Lady in the Lake was based on a novel originally written in 1943 by Raymond Chandler.) In the film The Killer Inside Me, as in the novel, Lou pragmatically detaches himself from his behaviour, and his dialogue creates a continuous state of puzzlement and perplexity that constantly undermines any attempt at understanding through interpretation. In Mr Brooks, any effort at a suspicious reading is equally well thwarted, but the strategy employed is the polar opposite to that used in The Killer Inside Me. In a more conventional “whodunit” narrative structure, Brooks, known as the “thumbprint killer,” might be presented as a mystery. The audience might be provided with the same clues and limited insights that Detective Atwood (Demi Moore) is given, embarking on the same journey of reconstruction, conjecture, and interpretation that she does. A picture might gradually emerge about the killer: his motivations, his rationale, what his fetishes and weak points are, and ultimately, who he is. Instead, the audience is presented not only with the identity of the killer, but the inner-most workings of his mind. According to psychoanalytic theorists, the psychical mechanism that cuts off unpleasant repressed material, blocking it from entering and disrupting the consciousness, is the ego. For Freud, the ego responds to the external world and is grounded in common sense, control, planning, and intellectual rationale (“Ego & Id” 363). However, the repressed can still communicate with the ego through the id. The psychical id is where the powerful pleasure principle reigns unrestricted; it is the primitive, infantile part of the mind in which immediate satisfaction is all that counts, despite the ego’s best attempts to “bring the influence of the external world to bear upon the id and its tendencies” (Freud, “Ego & Id” 363). For Freud, the psyche also contains a third element—the super-ego, a portion of the ego that sets itself over the rest of the ego, creating a tension that is felt consciously as a sense of guilt (Freud, “Ego & Super-Ego” 374). It is a part of Earl’s psyche that only surfaces when he realises that his daughter may have inherited the same killing impulses as him. In Mr Brooks, Marshall represents Earl’s id. He is like an evil clown, set up in opposition to the controlled, methodical, and sensible Earl, whose primary concern is that he might get caught. All Marshall wants to do is have “fun.” With pleasure his sole preoccupation, much of the film centres on the various levels of conflict between Earl and Marshall. Sometimes they are like best friends, laughing together, united in their pursuit of pleasure; at other times, when Earl tries to ignore Marshall or control him by attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings (without revealing the nature of his own addiction), it becomes a battle of wills, with Marshall trying to undermine, goad, and torment Earl into giving in to his impulses. Early in the film Marshall’s persistence pays off when Earl breaks his two-year drought and surrenders to Marshall, indulging in the pure ecstasy of murder. Here, the play between the two characters clearly represents the psychical interaction between the ego and the id. This interplay provides the audience with seemingly transparent insight into the latent mechanisms of Earl’s psyche, eluding enigma entirely and jumping straight into knowledge of the most intimate kind. One cannot speculate about Earl’s latent thoughts because they are there, laid bare on the screen. Further, Earl makes no apologies for his behaviour. He kills because he likes and enjoys it, period, a fact that Marshall is continually reminding him of. His desire to stop is motivated only by the logical, rational, common sense part of his psyche, his ego. Despite the two different approaches to the subject of the killer inside them, both Earl and Lou manage to successfully subvert a suspicious analysis and with it the pleasure to be found in such an investigation. Lou does so by playing games with the audience’s assumptions that there is an underlying reason for his behaviour, expending a great deal of energy providing psychoanalytically grounded excuses for it: he is the victim of childhood sexual trauma, a victim of elemental human passion, he has dementia praecox, he has paranoid schizophrenia, he wants revenge, he is a flower misplaced and wrongly labelled a weed, or perhaps he is just cold-blooded and as smart as hell (Clark 46–49). Mr Brooks, on the other hand, cuts right through all the diversionary tactics and gets straight to the core of what really motivates Earl—a raw instinctual desire for pleasure. Conclusion In feminist film theory (and Western culture in general) suspicious interpretation has become a deeply ingrained and almost taken-for-granted way of understanding meaning. Part of the popularity of a suspicious analysis is the pleasure readers/viewers/critics find in the mystery-solving process of interpretation and the chance to act as detective. However, the neo-noir thrillers Mr Brooks and The Killer Inside Me exhibit a self-reflexive insight into Freudian theory, the school of suspicion, and the assumptions that accompany it, using that knowledge to deliberately subvert the opportunity for suspicious analysis. Lou plays guessing games with the audience’s desire to solve the riddle of his psyche, generating his own pleasure in the process. In Mr Brooks the audience is denied the opportunity for speculation when it comes to Earl’s mind because the innermost workings of it are laid bare for all to see, leaving no room for interpretation. The only pleasure to be had is Earl’s—the raw and brutal pleasure of killing. In patriarchal Western society the femme fatale is considered to be symptomatic of male paranoia surrounding the breakdown of gender difference and power relations. While, as Cohen suggests, this may also be true of the homme fatal, the figure’s propensity to undermine understanding through psychoanalysis suggests that as a male manifestation of male paranoia the construct of the homme fatal is an insightful catalyst of fear rather than a subject or object of it. ReferencesA Kiss Before Dying. Dir. Gerd Oswald, 1956.Blue Steel. Dir. Kathryn Bigelow, 1990.Bronfen, Elisabeth. “Femme Fatale: Negotiations of Tragic Desire.” New Literary History. 35.1 (2004): 103–16. Clark, Dorothy. “Being’s Wound: (Un) Explaining Evil in Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me.” The Journal of Popular Culture. 42.1 (2009): 49–65. Cohen, Margaret. “The ‘Homme Fatal,’ the Phallic Father, and the New Man.” Cultural Critique. 23 (1992–93): 111–36. Copjec, Joan. Shades of Noir: A Reader. New York: Verso, 1993. Doane, Mary Ann. Femme Fatales: Feminism, Film Theory, Psychoanalysis. New York: Routledge, 1991. Experiment Perilous. Dir. Jacques Tourner. RKO, 1944.Felski, Rita. “Suspicious Minds.” Poetics Today. 32.2 (2011) 215–34. Freud, Sigmund. On Metapsychology: The Theory of Psychoanalysis, Beyond the Pleasure Principle, The Ego and the Id and Other Works. London: Penguin, 1991. Gaslight. Dir. George Cukor. MGM, 1944.Guilty as Sin. Dir. Sidney Lumet. Hollywood Pictures, 1993.Internal Affairs. Dir. Mike Figgis. Paramount Pictures, 1990.In The Cut. Dir. Jane Campion. Screen Gems / Columbia Pictures, 2003.Killer Inside Me, The. Dir. Michael Winterbottom. Icon, 2010.Mr Brooks. Dir. Bruce A. Evans. Metro – Goldwyn – Mayer, 2007.Ricoeur, Paul. Freud and Philosophy: An Essay on Interpretation. New Haven: Yale UP, 1970. Spicer, Andrew. Film Noir. Harlow: Pearson Education, 2002. Suspicion. Dir. Alfred Hitchcock. RKO, 1941.Taking Lives. Dir. D. J. Caruso. Warner Brothers, 2004.Thompson, Jim. The Killer Inside Me. London: Orion, 2006.

IntroductionAlt, or alternative, accounts are secondary profiles people use in addition to a main account on a social media platform. They are a kind of automediation, a way of representing the self, that deliberately displays a different identity facet, and addresses a different audience, to what someone considers to be their main account. The term “alt” seems to have originated from videogame culture and been incorporated into understandings of social media accounts. A wiki page about alternate accounts on virtual world Second Life calls an alt “an account used by a resident for something other than their usual activity or to do things in privacy” (n.p.).Studying alts gives an insight into practices of managing and contextualising identities on networked platforms that are visible, persistent, editable, associable (Treem and Leonardi), spreadable, searchable (boyd), shareable (Papacharissi "Without"), and personalised (Schmidt). When these features of social media are understood as limitations that lead to context collapse (Marwick and boyd 122; Wesch 23), performative incoherence (Papacharissi Affective 99), and the risk of overexposure, people respond by developing alternative ways to use platforms.Plenty of scholarship on social media identities claims the self is fragmented, multifaceted, and contextual (Marwick 355; Schmidt 369). But the scholarship on multiple account use on single platforms is still emerging. Joanne Orlando writes for The Conversation that teens increasingly have more than one account on Instagram: “finstas” are “fake” or secondary accounts used to post especially candid photos to a smaller audience, thus they are deployed strategically to avoid the social pressure of looking polished and attractive. These accounts are referred to as “fake” because they are often pseudonymous, but the practice of compartmentalising audiences makes the promise that the photos posted are more authentic, spontaneous, and intimate. Kylie Cardell, Kate Douglas, and Emma Maguire (162) argue that while secondary accounts promise a less constructed version of life, speaking back to the dominant genre of aesthetically pleasing Instagram photos, all social media posts are constructed within the context of platform norms and imagined audiences (Litt & Hargittai 1). Still, secondary accounts are important for revealing these norms (Cardell, Douglas & Maguire 163). The secondary account is particularly prevalent on Twitter, a platform that often brings together multiple audiences into a public profile. In 2015, author Emily Reynolds claimed that Twitter alts were “an appealingly safe space compared to main Twitter where abuse, arguments and insincerity are rife” (n.p.).This paper draws on a survey of Twitter users with alts to argue that the strategic use of pseudonyms, profile photos without faces, locked accounts, and smaller audiences are ways to overcome some of the built-in limitations of social media automediality.Identity Is Multiple Chris Poole, founder of anonymous bulletin board 4chan, believes identity is a fluid concept, and designed his platform as a space in which people could connect over interests, not profiles. Positioning 4chan against real-name platforms, he argues:Your identity is prismatic […] we’re all multifaceted people. Google and Facebook would have you believe that you’re a mirror, that there is one reflection that you have, there is one idea of self. But in fact we’re more like diamonds. You can look at people from any angle and see something totally different, but they’re still the same. (n.p.)Claiming that identities are contextual performances stems from longstanding sociological and philosophical work on identity from theorists like Erving Goffman, who in the 1950s proposed a dramaturgical framework of the self to consider interactions as fundamentally social and performative rather than reflecting one core, essential inner self.Social media profiles allow people to use the language of the platform to represent themselves (Marwick 362), meaning identity performances are framed by platform architecture and features, formal and informal rules, and social ties (Schmidt 369). Social media profiles shape how people can engage in how they represent themselves, argue Shelly Farnham and Elizabeth Churchill, who claim that the assumption that a single, unified online identity is sufficient is a problematic trend in platform design. They argue that when facets of their lives are incompatible, people segment those lives into separate areas in order to maintain social norms and boundaries.Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson consider identity multiplicities to be crucial to automediality, which is built on an aesthetic of bricolage and pastiche rather than understanding subjectivity to be the essence of the self. In her work on automediality and online girlhood, Maguire ("Home"; "Self-Branding" 74) argues that an automedial approach attends to how mediation shapes the way selves can be represented online, claiming that the self is brought into being through these mediation practices.This article understands alt accounts as a type of social media practice that Nick Couldry (52) identifies as presencing: sustaining a public presence with media. I investigate presencing through studying alts as a way to manage separate publics, and the tension between public and private, on Twitter by surveying users who have a main and an alt account. Although research into multiple account use is nascent, Alice Marwick lists maintaining multiple accounts as a tactic to mitigate context collapse, alongside other strategies such as using nicknames, only sharing posts when they are appropriate for multiple audiences, and keeping more personal interactions to private messenger and text message.Ben Light argues that while connection is privileged on social media, disconnective practices like editing out, deleting, unfriending, untagging, rejecting follower requests, and in this case, creating alt accounts, are crucial. Disconnecting from some aspects of the social media experience allows people to stay connected on a particular platform, by negotiating the dynamics that do not appeal to them. While the disconnective practice of presencing through an alt has not been studied in detail, research I discuss in the next section focuses on multi-account use to argue that people who have more than one account on a single platform are aware of their audiences, and want control over which people see which posts.Multi-Platform and Multi-Account UseA conference presentation by Frederic Stutzman and Woodrow Hartzog calls maintaining multiple profiles on a single platform a strategy for boundary regulation, through which access is selectively granted to specific people. Stutzman and Hartzog interviewed 20 people with multiple profiles to determine four main motives for this kind of boundary regulation: privacy, identity management, utility (using one profile for a distinct purpose, like managing a restaurant page), and propriety (conforming to social norms around appropriate disclosure).Writing about multiple profiles on Reddit, Alex Leavitt argues that temporary or “throwaway” accounts give people the chance to disclose sensitive or off-topic information. For example, some women use throwaways when posting to a bra sizing subreddit, so men don’t exploit their main account for sexual purposes. Throwaways are a boundary management technique Leavitt considers beneficial for Redditors, and urges platform designers to consider implementing alternatives to single accounts.Jessa Lingel and Adam Golub also call for platforms to allow for multiple accounts, suggesting Facebook should let users link their profiles at a metadata level and be able to switch between them. They argue that this would be especially beneficial for those who take on specific personas, such as drag queens. In their study of drag queens with more than one Facebook profile, Lingel and Golub suggest that drag queens need to maintain boundaries between fans and friends, but creating a separate business page for their identity as a performer was inadequate for the kind of nuanced personal communication they engaged in with their fans. Drag queens considered this kind of communication relationship maintenance, not self-branding. This demonstrates that drag queens on Facebook are attentive to their audience, which is a common feature of users posting to social media: they have an idea, no matter how accurate, of who they are posting to.Eden Litt and Eszter Hargittai (1) call this perception the imagined audience, which serves as a guide for how to present the self and what to post about when an audience is unknown or not physically present. People in their study would either claim they were posting to no-one in particular, or that they had an audience in mind, whether this was personal ties (close friends, family, specific individuals like a best friend), communal ties (people interested in cleaning tips, local art community, people in Portland), professional ties (colleagues, clients, my radio show audience), and phantasmal ties (people with whom someone has an imaginary relationship, like famous people, brands, animals, and the dead).Based on these studies of boundary regulation, throwaway accounts, separate Facebook pages for fans and friends, and imagined audiences on social media, I designed a short survey that would prompt respondents to reflect on their own practices of negotiating platform limitations through their alt account.Asking Twitter about AltsTo research alts, I asked my own Twitter followers to tell me about theirs. I’ve been tweeting from @emvdn since 2010, and I have roughly 5,500 followers, mostly Melbourne academics, writers, and professionals. This method of asking my own Twitter followers questions builds on a study by Alice Marwick and danah boyd, in which they investigated context collapse on social media by tweeting questions like “who do you tweet to?” and monitoring the replies.I sent out a tweet with a link to the survey on 31 January 2018, and left it open for responses until I submitted this draft article on 18 February 2018:I’m writing about alt (alternative/secondary) accounts on social media. If you have an alt account, on Twitter or elsewhere, could you tell me about it, in survey form? (van der Nagel)The tweet was retweeted 161 times, spreading the survey to other accounts and contexts, and I received a total of 326 responses to the survey. For a full list of survey questions, see Appendix. I asked people to choose one alt (if they had more than one), and answer questions about it, including what prompted them to start the account, how they named it, who the audience is for their main and their alt, and how similar they perceived their main and alt to be. I also asked whether they would like to remain anonymous or be quoted under a pseudonym, which I have followed in this article.Of course, by posting the Twitter survey to my own followers, I am necessarily asking a specific group of people whose alt practices might not be indicative of broader trends. Just like any research done on Twitter, this research attracted a particular group: the results of this survey give a snapshot of the followers of a 29 year old female Melbourne academic, and the wider networks it was retweeted into.Although I asked anyone with more than one account on the same platform to fill out the survey, I’ll be focusing on pseudonymous alts here. Not everyone is pseudonymous on their alt: 61 per cent of respondents said they use a pseudonym, and half (51 per cent) said theirs was locked, or unavailable to the public. Some people have an alt in order to distinguish themselves from their professional account, some are connecting with those who share a specific interest, and others deliberately created an alt to harass and troll others on Twitter. But I regard pseudonymous alts as especially important to this article, as they evidence particular understandings of social media.Asking how people named their alt gave me an insight into how they framed it: as another facet of their identity: “I chose something close, but not too close to my main twitter handle,” or directed towards one particular subject they use the alt for: “I wanted a personal account which would be about all sorts, and one just for women’s sport” (Danielle Warby). Some changed the name of their account often, to further hide the account away: “I have renamed it several times, usually referencing in jokes with friends.”Many alt usernames express that the account is an alternative to a main one: people often said their alt username was their main username with a prefix or suffix like “alt,” “locked,” “NSFW” (Not Safe For Work, adult content), “priv” (short for “private”), or “2”, so if their main account was @emvdn, their alt account might be @emvdn_alt. Some used a username or nickname from another part of their life, used a pop culture reference, or wanted a completely random username, so they used a username generator or simply mashed the keyboard to get a string of random characters. Others used their real name for their alt account: “It’s my name. The point wasn’t to hide, it was to separate/segment conversiations [sic]” (knitmeapony).When asked who their audience was for their main and their alt, most people spoke of a smaller, more intimate audience of close friends or trusted accounts. On Twitter, people with locked accounts must approve followers before they can see their tweets, so it’s likely they are thinking of a specific group. One person said their alt was “locked behind a trust-wall (like a paywall, but you need to pay with a life-long friendship).” A few people said their audience for their alt was just one person: themselves. While their main account was for friends, or just “anyone who wants to follow me” (Brisbane blogger), their alt would simply be for them alone, to privately post and reflect.Asking how similar the main and alt account was led people reflecting on how they used multiple accounts to manage their multifaceted identity. “My alt account is just me unfiltered,” said one anonymous respondent, and another called their accounts “two sides of the same coin. Both me, just public and private versions.” One respondent said, “I would communicate differently in the boardroom from the bedroom. And I guess my alt is more like a private bedroom party, so it doesn’t matter if my bra comes off.”Many people signalled their awareness or experience of harassment when asked about benefits or drawbacks of alt accounts: people started theirs to avoid being harassed, bullied, piled-on, or judged. While an alt account gave people a private, safe channel in which to reach close friends and share intimate parts of their life, they also spoke about difficulties with maintaining more than one account, and potential awkwardness if someone requested to follow them that they did not want to connect with.It seemed that asking about benefits and drawbacks of alts led to articulations of labour—keeping accounts separate, and deciding on who to allow into this private space—but fears about social media more generally also surfaced. Although creating an alt meant people were consciously taking steps to compartmentalise their identity, this did not make them feel completely impervious to harassment, context collapse, and overexposure. “Some dingus will screencap and create drama,” was one potential drawback of having an alt: just because confessions and intimate or sexual photos were shared privately doesn’t mean they will stay private. People were keen to acknowledge that alts involved ongoing labour and platform negotiations.Multiple Identity Facets; Multiple AccountsWhen I released the survey, I was expecting most people to discuss their alt, locked, private account, which existed in contrast to their main, unlocked, professional one. Some people did just that, like Sarah:I worked in the media and needed a place to put my thoughts ABOUT my job/the media that I didn’t want my boss reading – not necessarily negative, just private thoughts I wanted to write somewhere.Wanting to maintain a public presence while still having an intimate space for personal self-disclosure was a common theme, which showed an awareness of imagined audiences, and a desire to disconnect from certain audiences, particularly colleagues and family members. Some didn’t necessarily want an intimate alt, but a targeted one: there were accounts for dog photos, weight loss journeys, fandoms, pregnancies, fetishes, a positive academic advice account using a Barbie doll called @barbie_phd, and one for cataloguing laundromats around London. It also seemed alts were contagious: people regularly admitted they began theirs because a friend had one. “Friends were using alts and it looked like a cool world;” “my friends seemed to be having a good time with it, and I wanted to try something they were interested in;” “wanted to be part of the ‘little twitter’ community.”Fluidities I wasn’t expecting also emerged. One respondent considered both of their accounts to be primary:it’s not clear for me which of my accounts is the “alt”. i had my non-professional one first, but i don’t consider either of them secondary, though the professional one is much more active.Along with those that changed the name of their alt often, L said they “initially kept private to only me to rant, record very private thoughts etc., have since extended it to 3 followers.” Platforms encourage continuous, active, engaged participation with ever-expanding networks of followers and friends. As José van Dijck (12) argues, platforms privilege connections, even as they stress human connectedness and downplay the automated connectivity from which they profit. Twitter’s homepage urges people to “follow your interests. Hear what people are talking about. Join the conversation. See what’s happening in the world right now,” and encourages people to keep adding more connections by featuring a recommendation panel that displays suggestions next to the main feed for “who to follow”, and links to import contacts from Gmail and other address books. In this instance, L’s three followers is an act of resistance, a disconnective practice that only links L with the very specific people they want to be an audience for their private thoughts, not to the extended networks of people L knows.ConclusionThis article has provided further evidence that on social media platforms, people don’t just have one account with their real name that faithfully expresses their one true identity. Even among those with alts, practices vary immensely, with some people using their alt as a quieter, more private space, and others creating a public identity and stream of posts catering to a niche audience.When users understand social media’s visibility, persistence, editability, association, spreadability, searchability, shareability, and personalisation as limitations, they seek ways to compartmentalise their identity facets so they can have access to the conversations, contexts, and audiences they want.There is scope for future research in this area on how alts are created, perceived, and managed, and how they relate to the broader social media landscape and its emphasis on real names, expanding networks, and increasingly sophisticated connections between people, platforms, and data. 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Appendix: List of Survey QuestionsDemographic informationAll the questions in this survey are optional, so feel free to skip any if you’re not comfortable sharing.How old are you?What is your gender identity?What is your main occupation?What is your city and country of residence?Which social media platforms do you use? Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, Snapchat, LinkedIn, Tumblr, YouTube, Tencent QQ, WeChat, KakaoTalk, Renren, other?Which social media platforms do you have an alt account on? Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, Snapchat, Google+, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Tumblr, YouTube, Tencent QQ, WeChat, KakaoTalk, Renren, other?Your alt accountThis section asks you to pick one of your alt accounts - for example, your locked account on Twitter separate from your main account, a throwaway on Reddit, or a close-friends-only Facebook account - and tell me about it.Which platform is your alt account on?Is your alt locked (unavailable to the public)? Yes/NoWhat prompted you to start your alt account?Do you use a pseudonym on your alt? Yes/NoDo you use a photo of yourself as the profile image? Yes/NoDo you share photos of yourself on your alt? Yes/NoCan you tell me about how you named your alt?Which account do you use more often? My main/my alt/I use them about the sameWhich has a bigger audience? My main/my alt/They’re about the sameWho is the audience for your main account? Who is the audience for your alt account? What topics would you post about on your alt that you’d never post about on your main? How similar do you think your main and alt accounts are? What are the benefits of having an alt?What are the drawbacks of having an alt? Thank you!If I quote you in my research project, what name/pseudonym would you like me to use? My name/pseudonym is___________ OR I would like to remain anonymous and be assigned a participant number

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 The paper discusses mobility in the context of displacement. How is the mobile phone appropriated by refugees in immigration detention? What does the mobile phone, and indeed, mobility, signify in an Australian policy landscape of mandatory detention of asylum seekers and formerly prohibited access to mobile phones for detainees inside immigration detention centres? What does this intimate about the perceived dangers of “new” and mobile media? The author’s preliminary research with refugees in Australian immigration detention centres compares policy and practice. Firstly, it interrogates the unwritten policies regulating refugees’ access to media technologies when incarcerated in immigration detention. As there is no written policy on technology access and practices vary across immigration detention centres, the information in this paper has been given by detainees and has not been verified by the management of detention centres. The paper suggests that the utopian promises of mobile media echo those made about cyberspace in the 1990s. Furthermore, the residual effects of such rhetoric have infiltrated government policy in terms of perceiving mobile media as dangerous when adopted by marginalised groups such as refugees. Secondly, the research examines how and why the mobile phone has been adopted by immigration detainees despite their former prohibition. It explores the ways in which refugees practice an imagined mobility through media whilst in detention, and finds that this is critical to sustaining connection with their imagined communities. Why Refugees? In the context of increased forced migration of people due to circumstances such as political instability, war, natural disaster and famine; it is necessary to better understand how refugees mobilise and organise in situations of displacement. As new technologies encourage the capacity for borderlessness, such advantages also have to be contrasted with the potential dangers of spontaneous border crossings. The study of the behaviour and practices of refugees in relation to communication technologies offers an insight into the efficacy of immigration detention policy in filtering movement and interaction, both physical and virtual, between Australia and other countries. Although the study of refugees is a discipline in its own right, there has been minimal examination of how they appropriate technology, particularly that which facilitates and complements their mobility, to maintain connections with their diasporic networks while in situations of displacement. The studies that have been undertaken concentrate on the use of technology by refugees living in the wider community (see Glazebrook, McIver Jr. and Prokosch; Howard and Owens), rather than in the context of detention. In previous research of diasporas within the discipline of Cultural Studies, technology has been regarded as vital to subcultures and minority groups. Technology has been the tool by which such communities respond to their structural conditions (see Cunningham; Hall; Halleck). Such investigations have concentrated on the intersection of class, gender and ethnicity and how they inscribe meanings to specific technologies, which in turn, become intrinsic to the identities of the groups and communities. The research extends the work that has been done within Cultural Studies by similarly focusing on a marginalised group, refugees, and their participation in particular technologies. A review of literature across refugee studies, diaspora studies and technology studies has shown that: The study of technology use by refugees has had minimal investigation The study of diasporas has rarely included refugees The study of communities and communication practices which surround particular technologies has concentrated on groups other than refugees The escalation of issues of asylum and border control in public discourse warrant more knowledge about refugees and their networks of communication beyond the boundaries of detention and Australia The notion of “networks” refers to people, technologies, processes and practices that form the relationships between refugees in institutionalised immigration detention and the outside world. The Australian Immigration Detention Context Between 1992 and 1994, Australian law moved from permitting (but not enforcing) limited detention of asylum seekers, to a blanket policy of mandatory detention (HREOC) which, at one point, had up to 12,000 individuals in detention (Castan Centre for Human Rights Law). The detention context is particularly relevant to Australia, because its policy of mandatory detention means that refugees have restricted contact with the world outside of the detention centre. In 2005, the Migration Amendment (Detention Arrangements) Bill allowed detained families with children to live in community detention, that is, in residential accommodation outside of an immigration detention centre. Although community detention carries with it specific conditions, families are unaccompanied and have more freedom of movement. This paper discusses the author’s preliminary work with refugees in immigration detention, prior to the introduction of community detention. The research sought to investigate how asylum seekers use technology to sustain connections with their virtual communities in situations of displacement. Specifically, it explored how technology is appropriated to mediate communication in the context of institutionalised detention. The key research questions addressed by the research were: what kinds of technologies are available to refugees? How are these used? How are their benefits and limitations perceived? What, if any, kinds of social networks surround these technologies? How are relationships of power surrounding these technologies negotiated? Can technology assist refugees in sustaining connections with their communities of choice and reducing their sense of isolation? Can technology play a role in reducing the well-documented effects of this incarceration by providing mediated social interaction? What are the implications for policy, especially in relation to permitted technologies and surveillance of communication practices? Access to informants was gained by working with a refugee community advocacy group, which has established links with refugees in detention and experience in dealing with the management of detention centres. One such group is ChilOut, which organises visitor programs to immigration detention centres. This affiliation was important in gaining access to, and trust of, detainees who were willing to participate in the research. It presented opportunities to interact with detainees on a social basis. Semi-structured interviews with the research subjects were conducted to ascertain the strategies and resources currently utilised to counter the effects of mandatory detention. In 2005, detainees had access to a range of technology which can be broadly termed “old media”, while access to “new media” – such as the Internet and mobile phones – are prohibited. At the time of printing, detainees reported that mobile phones without cameras were only recently permitted. Detainees have access to pay phones inside the centre. Visitors are allowed to give detainees phone cards so they can use the pay phones without charge or the need for change. In addition to pay phones, detainees are provided with access to a fax and photocopier, which are generally used to liaise with and send relevant documentation to lawyers. There is distrust of using the fax machine at the detention centre because it is in a management office area and the detainees require permission to use it. It means the guards can read the faxes that are sent, as well as those that are received before notifying the detainees that they have received one. Detainees also have television, videos, DVDs and newspapers, so there is the possibility of feeling like part of an imagined community (Anderson) through these media. There are computers available, but no Internet access. Some of the children load computer games on them to play, others have Playstation in their rooms. It is noteworthy that the only technology to which detainees have access and which facilitates real-time person-to-person interaction is the telephone. The phone offers the opportunity for direct contact with the outside world without the visual and other sensory realities of detention. The telephone is able to mask the extent of imprisonment as it does not show the barbed razor wire surrounding the compound. Yet detainees were not permitted to have mobile phones for a long time. Thus, the key question remains: why were they deprived of access to mobile phones while allowed access to pay phones and landlines? What does this suggest about the perceived dangers of mobile media and the resonance of last century’s techno-utopian discourses? Given that detainees were only given access to “old media”, it seems that this tired but resolutely upbeat rhetoric about new technology which celebrates it as inherently liberating actually inflected policies determining the kinds of technologies to which detainees have access. It confirms the pessimistic assertions of media theorists such as Schiller and Mosco, that new technologies further alienate disadvantaged groups. As the Australian government attempts to regulate the physical movement of people across its borders, mantras of the dot.com era such as “everyone is a free agent” (Kumar 77) appear to undermine this agenda. The assumptions of liberty and democracy embedded in this “free agency” are implicit in policies that denied refugees access to “new media” such as the Internet and mobile phones. The “liberating” nature of such technology was regarded as unsafe in the hands of refugees, whose freedom of movement is institutionally contained by the Australian government through mandatory detention. The physical movement of refugees, as well as the agency and freedom with which they can claim asylum in a country, is actively discouraged through immigration detention policy and limitations on access to technology. The promise of self-expression afforded by mobile media seemed antithetical to the prejudicial administration of refugees, which is premised upon a distrust of their claims of identity and asylum. Subsequently, their use of mobile technology was also assumed to be suspect and therefore had to be restricted. Detained refugees serve as a reminder of the parameters of upbeat discourses about new technology. That is, the utopian possibilities of mobile media appear to be conditional such that its “power” can only be entrusted to certain groups. In policy terms, the mobile phone is a rich site of signification. Not only does the technology itself imply a way of being (that is free, mobile, always accessible and always able to access), but it also connotes an ideal type of user, one that is appropriate and deserving of such technology. It seems that refugees are not entitled to their mobility and, therefore, do not have rights to media that is considered to facilitate such mobility, in spite of their detention. Furthermore, there is a suggested dichotomy in the government’s classification of the technologies to which refugees have access. The fact of detention means refugees are surrounded by technology, held captive by it and are inevitably in close proximity to it. It is technology which is seen as antithetical to mobility and therefore could be described as “static”: phones, faxes, photocopiers, television, video – all of which may be characterised as “old media”. The binary opposite of such technology is that which can be regarded as mobile or new or interactive media; that which resonates with the residual effects of 1990s techno-utopian rhetoric; and could be considered as threatening in the hands of those who have physically made unauthorised border crossings. However, prior investigations of “mobile” technologies, demonstrates that such dualisms are flawed as the lowest technologies also have the capacity to facilitate mobility. Examples include Paul Gilroy’s work on the Black Atlantic, which notes that books and records have been vital in carrying oppositional ideologies and philosophies across the black diaspora. Within Asian diasporas, the exchange of video letters and taped Bollywood movies have been interpreted as forms of localised challenges to the centralised power of the broadcast media industries (Ang; Gillespie). These economies of exchange as facilitated by older forms of mobile media have been studied in relation to issues of migration and marginalisation. Given that refugees are also affected by such issues, their mobile media practices are a sobering reminder that mobility is not necessarily hi-tech nor confined to the realms of the affluent, educated and socio-economically advantaged. Rather, mobility can be a tenuous state of being displaced and itinerant, with technology adopted to manage and adapt to its challenges. The Mobile Media Practices of Detained Refugees The initial findings from the fieldwork indicate that for refugees, the mobile phone is not a technology of choice but instead, a technology of necessity and survival. Every technology that is available to them is used to sustain connection to their localized and globalised networks. The restriction to their physical movement of detainees is compensated through use of technology which allows any sort of interaction and communication. Being part of a technologically-mediated community appears to minimise the marginalisation and isolation they experience. Such feelings of dislocation have been well-documented in studies of the impact of incarceration on the mental health of refugees (see Mares and Jureidini; RANZCP; Hodes). It seems that the telephone and fax are the mainstays of their communication networks. However, such technologies are closely monitored, as landline phone calls can be traced or even tapped, and faxes have to be sent from an office manned by guards. An experienced visitor to detention centres commented that “most” detainees had mobile phones and when they were contraband, guards knew about them but generally ignored their use by detainees. Only mobile phones offer the potential for communication to be free from the surveillance by detention centres staff. The ways in which mobile phones are used by detainees is decidedly lo-tech, for example, for communication with family where use of a landline is impractical. One of the detainees said that he speaks to his wife and children on the centre pay phone every few days. However, the call costs are expensive as his family only has a mobile phone, not a landline, at their place of residence. For them to call him is also expensive and awkward, because they have to call the pay phone and if somebody answers, they have then to locate him somewhere within the compound. Thus, the connections between the detainees and their loved ones are very fragile in that they are almost totally dependent on the phone to maintain these relationships. In this instance, the mobile phone offers another means for managing the tenuous nature of these ties. The mobile phone, particularly SMS technology, offers a suitable alternative as the detainee can communicate with his family cheaply and quickly. It compensates for the constraints of the pay phone. The informal interactions afforded by the mobile phone also extend beyond family members of detainees to their supporters and advocates. Likewise, the mobile phone complements the communication practices facilitated through permitted technologies. For example, when detainees are liaising with the Department of Immigration (DIMIA), they will ask advice from the regular visitors to the immigration detention centre who come from an array of organizations such as churches, refugee advocacy groups, law firms and health organizations. Visitors generally offer whatever assistance they can by obtaining necessary forms from the department, searching the Internet, undertaking letter writing campaigns, and lobbying government ministers. Something worked in amongst all the network activity that took place over the course of this week. As promised to the family, I scoured the DIMIA web site for a form for applying under Section 417. While there didn’t seem to be an official form, I used the opportunity to research the section of the Migration Act. Googling turned up a 12 page “guide to section 417 applications” written by a barrister, which I printed out and faxed to them. So as to ensure that the family received the fax, I SMS-ed them to let them know a fax was on its way and how many pages to expect. They responded to me by fax, saying that they had been notified that they too were going to be released into community detention in the coming weeks. (Extract from fieldwork diary) The mobile phone serves the function of anticipating and verifying communications which may potentially be surveilled by staff of detention centres. Where detainees may not trust that they are being given all the letters or faxes that have been sent to them, the mobile phone enables a degree of privacy so that they at least know what to expect from their correspondents. Furthermore, it provides the opportunity for detainees to speak about matters related to their case for asylum that are regarded as too sensitive to risk being discussed in a public place such as on the centre pay phone. Often this involves seeking assistance with their application for asylum. He rang T on the centre pay phone and said that he would like to speak with me, but did not have my number. He didn’t have a pen and paper to jot down my details at the time, so he gave T his mobile number and asked her to pass it onto me, so I could ring him on it. When I rang, he had returned to his room where he could talk freely. He told me about the visit from the Commonwealth Ombudsman, who undertook to look into his case over the next couple of weeks. We talked about what would assist the Ombudsman in reviewing the case. I said I would write a letter or email in the first instance, and if he wanted other letters of support, I could circulate details of his case on the ChilOut newsletter. He said he didn’t want publicity at this stage. I offered to fax him a copy of my email, but he preferred that I give it to him in person as the fax machine in the office was too public and any documents received could be read. Again, the mobile seems to be the most appropriate technology for coordinating and organising privately away from centre surveillance… (Extract from fieldwork diary) Fear of breaches of confidentiality form only part of detainees’ desire for privacy from detention centre staff. There is also a need for private space away from other detainees as their imprisonment necessitates the constant use of communal facilities such as the pay phone. In addition to being used for its capacity for private communication, the mobile phone was also exploited as a broadcast technology by detained refugees. Text messages proved an effective way of providing brief updates to family and friends about the status of their case: 20 September 200510:24:07 Hi Linda. I am fine thank u. not news yet, I think they’ll come to see me soon, if I got news, I’ll let u know. Wish u have a good time. 15 October 200516:31:49 HI Linda, I was interview by Ombudsman yesterday, we talked about one hour and a half, it sound good…Thank u for yr concern 25 December 200520:26:54 Hi Linda. I am still in [detention centre]. No any news from Ombudsman, may be early next year. I am fine here, thanks. Tuesday 17 October 200613:44:41 Hi Linda…I transferd to [community] housing. Its much better here. How a u? takecare ur health, thanks. Thursday 16 November 200618:46:23 HI There is a good news to let u know I got the decision from that I won the FC case. Thus, for detained refugees, the mobile phone has been adopted for simple, lo-tech use. None of the respondents indicated a desire for a camera function on their mobile phones. However, one detainee did suggest that she would like to use a webcam to see and hear her child in China, whom she has not seen in eight years. While she did use the Internet for this purpose when she was on the “outside”, now she can only rely on weekly telephone conversations made from inside the detention centre. Conclusion What happens when technology is placed in the hands of those for whom it was never meant? It makes explicit what is often implied in studies of adoption of new technology, that the “utopian promise” is confined to a narrow socio-economic demographic: the advantaged, the affluent and the educated. Those who fall outside these perimeters are perceived as undeserving and untrustworthy of such technology. This is exemplified in the Australian government’s policy to deny refugees access to “new” and mobile media whilst being compulsorily detained. The decision to withhold mobile technology from mobile communities who are not so materially privileged is not only ironic but unwarranted in light of the empirical data. This has since been acknowledged by allowing detainees use of mobile phones. The mobile phone practices of detained refugees show that it is being used as a complementary and alternative technology, that is, to compensate for the inadequacies of the communication media allowed by detention centres. The mobile phone is exploited for the functions that permitted technologies do not offer: firstly, the ability to communicate with friends and family more immediately and effectively; secondly, the capacity to communicate privately with less probability of surveillance; thirdly, the opportunity to broadcast content one to many. In such communications, use of the mobile phone is simple and lo-tech: it is deployed for straightforward (but improved) interaction with detainees’ imagined communities which would otherwise be possible anyway through the “old” media technologies provided in detention. In practice, there was no evidence of the use of the hi-tech functions of mobile phones; nor was there any indication, as implied by policy, of the possible dangers that may ensue if such features of mobile media were available to detained refugees. Potentially, the research can impact on immigration detention policy, particularly in terms of reviewing the conditions under which technology is made available to refugees in institutionalised detention contexts. However, further research is required, especially a comparison of the former prohibited use of mobile media in immigration detention centres with the permitted use of these in community immigration detention. References Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities. 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 Leung, Linda. "Mobility and Displacement: Refugees' Mobile Media Practices in Immigration Detention." M/C Journal 10.1 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0703/10-leung.php>. APA Style
 Leung, L. (Mar. 2007) "Mobility and Displacement: Refugees' Mobile Media Practices in Immigration Detention," M/C Journal, 10(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0703/10-leung.php>.