Journal articles on the topic 'Rex Stout'

ABSTRACTDevonian miospores have been discovered in the previously poorly dated Old Red Sandstone volcanic sequence of Papa Stour. They occur at two sites in minor sedimentary deposits between the lavas, and fossil fish remains are also present. The age range of the miospores is mid Eifelian to early Givetian, probably more specifically late Eifelian and from a position close to the Achanarras horizon. This allows a correlation of the Papa Stour volcanic sequence with that of the Upper Stromness Flags of Orkney and not the tuffaceous horizons in the Eday Sandstones. The good preservation and composition of the miospores indicate a close similarity to other Orcadian Basin sediments and support the view that the Old Red Sandstone sequences W of the Melby Fault have affinities with the Orkney and Caithness successions rather than with Shetland. The age of the volcanic sequence also provides a valuable datum point for plate tectonic models based on the geochemistry of Old Red Sandstone lavas.

The melitid amphipod genus Dulichiella Stout, 1912, is revised. Based on examination of type material or new material from near type localities, we redescribe D. anisochir (Krøyer, 1845) from Brazil, D. appendiculata (Say, 1818) from the south-eastern United States, D. australis (Haswell, 1879) from eastern Australia, D. cotesi (Giles, 1890) from the Andaman Islands, D. cuvettensis Appadoo & Myers, 2005 from Mauritius, D. fresnelii (Audouin, 1826) from the Red Sea, D. pacifica Lowry & Springthorpe, 2005 from Australasia and D. spinosa Stout, 1912 from California. Based on published illustrations and new material we describe six new species: D. guinea sp. nov. from western Africa; D. lecroyae sp. nov. from the south-eastern United States; D. oahu sp. nov. from Hawaii; D. terminos sp. nov. from south-eastern Mexico; D. tomioka sp. nov. from Japan and D. tulear sp. nov. from Madagascar. The new genus Verdeia is described for two established species, Melita grandimana Chevreux, 1908 from the Cape Verde Islands and Melita subchelata Schellenberg, 1925 from Namibia. We provide a key to the world species of these genera.

The first phylogenetic study of Callibaetis Eaton indicated an unrevealed diversity in this genus, including four new species named as Callibaetis sp. A, B, C and D, and the undescribed nymph of Callibaetis (Abaetetuba) fasciatus (Pictet). Given that neither the nymph of C. (Ab.) fasciatus nor the four new species received a proper description, the objective of this study is to describe them. The nymph of C. (Ab.) fasciatus differs from the others species in the subgenus by the presence of one row of setae on basal part of inner-dorsal row of maxilla and metanotum without spines; Callibaetis sp. A is described as Callibaetis (Abaetetuba) cochlea sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus by having trapezoid segment III of labial palp in nymphs; Callibaetis sp. B is described as Callibaetis (Aiso) calophenigyn sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus by the absence of stout setae on dorsal surface of glossa in nymphs, and from the others species in the genus by the forewing with red C and Sc areas in female imago; Callibaetis sp. D is described as Callibaetis (Callibaetis) molinerii sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus, from South America, by the maxilla with tuft of stout setae on outer margin proximad of palp insertion and paraglossa without row of stout setae on ventral surface; Callibaetis sp. C is described as Callibaetis (Cunhaporanga) imperator sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus by the presence of a complete row of setae on outer margin of maxilla. Additionally, new keys for species of Callibaetis from South America are proposed.

The first phylogenetic study of Callibaetis Eaton indicated an unrevealed diversity in this genus, including four new species named as Callibaetis sp. A, B, C and D, and the undescribed nymph of Callibaetis (Abaetetuba) fasciatus (Pictet). Given that neither the nymph of C. (Ab.) fasciatus nor the four new species received a proper description, the objective of this study is to describe them. The nymph of C. (Ab.) fasciatus differs from the others species in the subgenus by the presence of one row of setae on basal part of inner-dorsal row of maxilla and metanotum without spines; Callibaetis sp. A is described as Callibaetis (Abaetetuba) cochlea sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus by having trapezoid segment III of labial palp in nymphs; Callibaetis sp. B is described as Callibaetis (Aiso) calophenigyn sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus by the absence of stout setae on dorsal surface of glossa in nymphs, and from the others species in the genus by the forewing with red C and Sc areas in female imago; Callibaetis sp. D is described as Callibaetis (Callibaetis) molinerii sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus, from South America, by the maxilla with tuft of stout setae on outer margin proximad of palp insertion and paraglossa without row of stout setae on ventral surface; Callibaetis sp. C is described as Callibaetis (Cunhaporanga) imperator sp. nov. and differs from the others species in the subgenus by the presence of a complete row of setae on outer margin of maxilla. Additionally, new keys for species of Callibaetis from South America are proposed.

AbstractHuman food waste is considered to be richer in carbohydrates, lipids and proteins than most natural food supplies; however, it is very well digested in scats. So, as an indication of this kind of food in the diet, we have used each indigestible, anthropogenic origin element found in faeces (e.g., glass, plastic, rubber, etc.). There are few studies discussing the importance of garbage in the diet of mammalian predators living in farmland; definitely, most focus on this issue in urban areas. We studied the contribution of garbage in the diet of raccoon dog (Nyctereutes procyonoides), red fox (Vulpes vulpes), marten (Martessp.), polecat (Mustela putorius), stoat (Mustela erminea), American mink (Neovison vison) and Eurasian otter (Lutra lutra) in the agricultural areas of western Poland in 2006-2010. In addition, we examined the spatial changes in the diet of red fox and polecat. The largest contribution of garbage was found in scats of raccoon dog (8.8%), red fox (4.8%) and marten (4.3%). The diet of polecat, stoat and Eurasian otter contained 2.5%, 1.7% and 0.2% garbage items respectively. The most frequent item was plastic. Our analysis showed that garbage consumption by red fox and polecat was greater closer to human settlements. The results reveal a continuous gradient in the garbage consumption that corresponds with the degree of synanthropization of particular species.

Parapercis randalli sp. nov. is described on the basis of four specimens collected in southern Taiwan by angling at a depth of 5–150 m. It differs from its congeners in having five broad reddish brown saddles on the dorsal surface; both jaws and anterior portion of snout reddish orange; a yellow bar with red margin on cheek; a series of 8 red bars below body axis; configuration of spots on head, dorsal and caudal fins; and a combination of morphological characters: three pairs of canine teeth anteriorly in lower jaw; no palatine teeth; vomerine teeth stout, in a single curved row; lateral-line scales 53; margin of preopercle smooth; 4th dorsal spine longest; caudal fin slightly rounded on ventral half, truncate on dorsal half, with a prolonged upper lobe; appressed pelvic fin extends beyond anus. A total of 21 valid pinguipedid species are now recorded from Taiwanese waters.

BackgroundAlthough it is common practice to wait for an ‘embedding time’ during mechanical thrombectomy (MT) to allow strut integration of a stentriever device into an occluding thromboembolic clot, there is a scarcity of evidence demonstrating the value or optimal timing for the wide range of thrombus compositions. This work characterizes the behavior of clot analogs of varying fibrin and cellular compositions subject to indentation forces and embedding times representative of those imparted by a stentriever during MT. The purpose of this study is to quantify the effect of thrombus composition on device strut embedding, and to examine the precise nature of clot integration into a stentriever device at a microstructural level.MethodClot analogs with 0% (varying densities), 5%, 40%, and 80% red blood cell (RBC) content were created using ovine blood. Clot indentation behavior during an initial load application (loading phase) followed by a 5-min embedding time (creep phase) was analyzed using a mechanical tester under physiologically relevant conditions. The mechanism of strut integration was examined using micro-computed tomography (µCT) with an EmboTrap MT device (Cerenovus, Galway, Ireland) deployed in each clot type. Microstructural clot characteristics were identified using scanning electron microscopy (SEM).ResultsCompressive clot stiffness measured during the initial loading phase was shown to be lowest in RBC-rich clots, with a corresponding greatest maximum indentation depth. Meanwhile, additional depth achieved during the simulated embedding time was most pronounced in fibrin-rich clots. SEM imaging identified variations in microstructural mechanisms (fibrin stretching vs rupturing) which was dependent on fibrin:cellular content, while µCT analysis demonstrated the mechanism of strut integration was predominantly the formation of surface undulations rather than clot penetration.ConclusionsDisparities in indentation behavior between clot analogs were attributed to varying microstructural features induced by the cellular:fibrin content. Greater indentation was identified in clots with higher RBC content, but with an increased level of fibrin rupture, suggesting an increased propensity for fragmentation. Additional embedding time improves strut integration, especially in fibrin-rich clots, through the mechanism of fibrin stretching with the majority of additional integration occurring after 3 mins. The level of thrombus incorporation into the EmboTrap MT device (Cerenovus, Galway, Ireland) was primarily influenced by the stentriever design, with increased integration in regions of open architecture.

A new species of the family Gastropteridae from tropical Australia is described. The main focus of the description is the external morphology, the radula morphology and the histology of all organ systems. Siphopteron leah sp. nov. is a small species with a bright yellow body colour and red lines along the siphonal crest, the parapodia, across the visceral hump and at the flagellum. The species is characterised by the presence of glandular cells along the inner side of the large parapodia, by two large spines on the penial bulb, by a three parted prostate and by a muscular pocket at the vagina. The inner lateral teeth of the radula are very distinct bearing a long curved cusp and two small stout denticles. This is the first detailed histological description of all organ systems in Siphopteron providing new insights into the anatomical structure and functional biology of these animals.

Petalidium kaokoense, here described as a new species, is only known from the Hartmann Mountains and one other location on the inland plateau in the Kaokoveld Centre of Endemism, northwestern Namibia, where it grows on hillsides and mountain slopes. Diagnostic characters for P. kaokoense include the stout trunk on older plants, white bark, peeling on the younger branches in long, narrow strips, stellate trichomes, short inflorescences of racemoid dichasia with acute linear-oblanceolate or linear-lanceolate bracts, flowers with maroon corollas with the two upper lobes connate towards the base and the lower lobe with two yellow spots near the base. A comparison of some of the more prominent morphological features to differentiate between Petalidium kaokoense and its presumed close relative, the morphologically similar P. physaloides, is provided. Based on IUCN Red List categories and criteria, a conservation assessment of Vulnerable (VU D1) is recommended for the new species.

Intracellular amino acid levels and the characteristics of amino acid transport were investigated in red blood cells of a primitive vertebrate, the Pacific hagfish (Eptatretus stouti Lockington). In contrast to red cells from euryhaline teleosts and elasmobranchs, which contain high concentrations of β-amino acids, those from hagfish exhibited an intracellular amino acid pool (approx. lOOmmoll−1cell water) composed almost entirely of conventional aαamino acids. Red cell:plasma distribution ratios for individual amino acids ranged from 219, 203 and 173 for alanine, αaminonbutyrate and proline, respectively, to 11 and 13 for lysine and arginine. Corresponding distribution ratios for Na+, K+ and Cl− were 0.043, 21 and 0.32, respectively. The cellular uptake of amino acids, with the exception of Lproline and glycine, was Na+-independent. Compared with mammalian and avian red cells, those from hagfish exhibited 104-fold higher rates of L-alanine transport. Uptake of this amino acid from the extracellular medium was concentrative, but occurred as a 1:1 exchange with intracellular amino acids. The L-alanine transport mechanism was identified as an asc-type system on the basis of its Na+ independence and selectivity for neutral amino acids of intermediate size. A volume-sensitive amino acid channel, which is found in both euryhaline teleosts and in elasmobranchs, is absent from hagfish red cells.

The present study is based on material collected in the intertidal and shallow subtidal areas of two Islands in the Persian Gulf, Abu-Musa and Larak. The new species, Synalpheus pentaspinosus n. sp., is closely related to S. quinquedens Tattersall, 1921. These two species share a very characteristic, sixth pleonite armed posteriorly with five stout sharp teeth, a feature unique within the genus. The color of ovaries or freshly laid eggs, red-orange in S. pentaspinosus n. sp. vs. green in S. quinquedens, is the most obvious character, by which the new species may be distinguished from S. quinquedens in the field. In addition, the two species can be separated by two characters on the dactylus of the minor cheliped. In the new species, the dactylus is furnished with two prominent rows of setae, one dorsally and one mesially, and has a small concavity on the cutting edge, contrasting to only one mesial row of setae and no obvious concavity in S. quinquedens.

Tracer uptake studies identified the major routes for K+ transport in hagfish red cells, resolving them into ouabain-sensitive, loop diuretic-sensitive, and residual components. The K½ values for ouabain, bumetanide, and furosemide were 10−5, 6 × 10−7, and 5 × 10−6 M, respectively. The properties of the Na–K–Cl co-transporter were investigated further by varying K+, Na+, and Cl− concentrations. The measured K½ values were similar to those for human red cells. Finally, the stoichiometry of Na:K:Cl uptake was determined, giving 1:1 for K+:Cl−; in contrast, no significant Na+ flux could be measured, although Na+ content must be present for measurable bumetanide-dependent K+ or Cl− flux to occur. The Na–K–Cl transport therefore shows Na+-dependent KCl co-transport or partial flux of the system.Key words: Na–K–Cl co-transport, hagfish red blood cells, Eptatretus stouti.

Small ruptured aneurysms present a unique problem to endovascular therapy. We report a case in which a patient presented with subarachnoid hemorrhage and a very small ruptured ophthalmic artery aneurysm, for which endovascular therapy was preferred secondary to severe cardiac comorbidities. Due to the aneurysm size, a small 1.5 mm coil was needed, but presented a significant risk of migration. Conventional stent assisted coiling was considered suboptimal as the small coil could have easily migrated through the strut. We present a novel technique of flow diverter assisted coil embolization in which a coil was placed within the aneurysm and a pipeline embolization device was then partially deployed, jailing the microcatheter and coil mass. Once in place, the coil was detached, securing the aneurysm, and preventing coil migration. Through the use of a flow diverter, some degree of aneurysm protection would still be expected in the event of coil migration toward the ophthalmic artery origin.

Tyrannosaurid cranial bones — including a maxilla, dentary, and pterygoid — were collected from a monodominant Edmontosaurus bonebed in the Horseshoe Canyon Formation exposed near the city of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. The maxilla can be identified as Albertosaurus sarcophagus based on the narrow interfenestral strut and relatively deep dental pits along the length of the palatal shelf. Cranial bones are interpreted to have come from a single large individual that was incorporated into the site during, or temporally close to, the formation of the final taphocoenosis. This discovery constitutes the northernmost record of A. sarcophagus, and helps to narrow the geographic gap of latest Cretaceous tyrannosaurs between Alberta and Alaska. The geographic distribution of A. sarcophagus — eclipsed only in areal extent by Tyrannosaurus rex in North America — attests to the adaptability of this species, which endured regional changes in climate that forced extirpation of many ornithischian taxa during deposition of the Horseshoe Canyon Formation.

The application of a novel Poly(3,4-ethylenedioxythiophene)-Tyrosinase/Sonogel-Carbon electrode (PEDOT-Tyr/SNGC) biosensor to beers and wines analysis is proposed. This biosensor implies a new Sinusoidal Current (SC) electrodeposition method to immobilize the enzyme generating a nanostructure surface. The biosensors were characterized electrochemically, employing cyclic voltammetry and electrochemical impedance spectroscopy. Sensitivity, limit of detection, and correlation coefficients of the linear fitting were 2.40 × 10−4 µA·µM−1, 4.33 µM, and R2 = 0.9987, respectively. Caffeic acid is used as the reference polyphenol. A sampling of nine beers (four lager, three stout, and two non-alcoholic beers), and four wines (three red and one white wine) purchased in a local store was performed. The Polyphenol indeces for beers and wines have been assessed using the proposed biosensor, and the obtained values are in agreement with the literature data. Antioxidant properties of the samples using the 2,2′-azino-bis(3-ethylbenzothiazoline-6-sulphonic acid (ABTS) radical spectrophotometric method were also evaluated. The correlation between the polyphenol index and the antioxidant capacity was obtained for beers and wines.

ABSTRACTNanoparticles can increase the solubility of compounds, reduce the treatment dose and increase absorption. Flavonoid and phenol compounds in red galangal can inhibit the growth of bacteria that have been resistant to antibiotics. The bioactivity of red galangal compounds is expected to increase when the size of nanoparticles increases antibacterial activity. This study aims to determine the inhibition of the content of Red Galangal nanoparticles (Alpinia purpurata K.Schum) using chitosan on the growth of Klebsiella pneumoniae bacterial urine isolates of UTI antibiotic-resistant Ciprofloxacin. Nanoparticles extracts of red galangal rhizome was made using ionic gelation method, using extract concentration of 0.4%, tested for antibacterial activity using the wells method with a comparison of chitosan 0.4%, acetic acid 5%, red galangal extract 25%. Red galangal rhizome nanoparticles gave antibacterial activity value to the bacteria Klebsiella pneumoniae of 13.5 mm. Therefore, red galangal extracts nanoparticles can inhibit the growth of Klebsiella pneumoniae urine isolate in patients with urinary tract infections with strong inhibitory categories based on Davis and Stout categories.Keywords: Alpinia purpurata K. Schum, Klebsiella pneumonia, Nanoparticles. ABSTRAK Nanopartikel dapat meningkatkan kelarutan senyawa, mengurangi dosis pengobatan dan meningkatkan absorbsi. Senyawa flavonoid dan fenol dalam lengkuas merah mampu menghambat pertumbuhan bakteri yang telah resisten terhadap antibiotik. Sifat bioaktivitas senyawa lengkuas merah diharapkan akan meningkat ketika berukuran nanopartikel untuk meningkatkan aktivitas antibakteri. Penelitian ini bertujuan untuk mengetahui daya hambat kandungan nanopartikel rimpang Lengkuas Merah (Alpinia purpurata K.Schum) menggunakan kitosan terhadap pertumbuhan bakteri Klebsiella pneumoniae isolat urin penderita ISK yang resisten antibiotik Ciprofloxacin. Nanopartikel ekstrak rimpang lengkuas merah dibuat dengan menggunakan metode gelasi ionik, dengan menggunakan konsentrasi esktrak sebesar 0,4 %, dilakukan pengujian aktivitas antibakteri mengunakan metode sumuran dengan pembanding kitosan 0,4%, asam asetat 5%, ekstrak lengkuas merah 25%. Nanopartikel rimpang lengkuas merah memberikan nilai aktifitas antibakteri terhadap bakteri Klebsiella pneumoniae sebesar 13,5 mm. Oleh karena itu nanopartikel ekstrak rimpang lengkuas merah dapat menghambat pertumbuhan bakteri Klebsiella pneumoniae isolate urin penderita infeksi saluran kemih dengan kategori daya hambat kuat berdasrkan kategori Davis dan Stout.Kata Kunci: Alpinia purpurata K. Schum, Nanopartikel, Klebsiella pneumoniae

Herniation, with possible embolization, of coils into the parent vessel following aneurysm coiling remains a frequent challenge. For this reason, balloon or stent assisted embolization remains an important technique. Despite the use of balloon remodeling, there are occasions where, on deflation of the balloon, some coils, or even the entire coil mass, may migrate. We report the successful use of a simultaneous adjacent stent deployment bailout technique in order to salvage coil prolapse during balloon remodeling in three patients. Case No 1 was a wide neck left internal carotid artery bifurcation aneurysm, measuring 9 mm×7.9 mm×6 mm with a 5 mm neck. Case No 2 was a complex left superior hypophyseal artery aneurysm, measuring 5.3 mm×4 mm×5 mm with a 2.9 mm neck. Case No 3 was a ruptured right posterior communicating artery aneurysm, measuring 4 mm×4 mm×4.5 mm with a 4 mm neck. This technique successfully returned the prolapsed coil mass into the aneurysm sac in all cases without procedural complications. The closed cell design of the Enterprise VRD (Codman and Shurtleff Inc, Raynham, Massachusetts, USA) makes it ideal for this bailout technique, by allowing the use of an 0.021 inch delivery catheter (necessary for simultaneous access) and by avoiding the possibility of an open cell strut getting caught on the deflated balloon. We hope this technique will prove useful to readers who may find themselves in a similar predicament.

In heart and red muscle of dogfish (Squalus acanthias), the maximal activities of the fatty acid catabolizing enzyme carnitine palmitoyltransferase (CPT) are less than 5% the rate in the same tissues of teleosts (carp, Cyprinus carpio; trout, Salmo gairdneri). CPT activities in these tissues of hagfish (Eptatretus stouti) are approximately 10% the rate in teleosts. However, the maximal activities of the beta-oxidation enzyme beta-hydroxyacyl-CoA dehydrogenase (HOAD) in dogfish red muscle and heart are similar to these tissues in the other species. This paradox prompted a more detailed study on the capacity of mitochondria from dogfish cardiac and red skeletal muscles to utilize fatty acids, possibly by a CPT-independent pathway. Free fatty acids were not oxidized by mitochondria from red muscle (hexanoate, octanoate, decanoate, and palmitate) or from heart (octanoate, palmitate). Neither hyposmotic incubation nor addition of 5 mM ATP could stimulate oxidation of octanoate or palmitate in either preparation, suggesting that these tissues have little capacity to oxidize fatty acids by a carnitine-independent pathway. Palmitoyl carnitine oxidation was detectable at very low rates in these mitochondria only with hyposmotic incubation. Octanoyl carnitine was oxidized at greater rates than palmitoyl carnitine, 10% the rate of pyruvate in both tissues, suggesting that medium-chain fatty acids could be physiologically relevant fuels in elasmobranchs if available to heart and red muscle. One potential source of medium-chain fatty acids is hepatic peroxisomal beta-oxidation, which occurs in dogfish liver at maximal activities similar to carp and trout liver. However, based on relative rates of oxidation, it is likely that dogfish heart and red muscle metabolism are fueled primarily by carbohydrate and ketone bodies.

Abstract Morphological features of the endemic Erodium somanum are investigated based on the specimens collected from natural populations from Soma in Manisa. Almost all morphological characteristics are expanded and some morphological characteristics are firstly determined in this study. E. somanum is a dioecious species and in this study drawings of male and female individuals are given for the first time. An umbel is 3-5 flowered in female plants and 6-11 flowered in male plants, pedicels accrescent to 20-25 mm in fruit. Flower morphology was identified in detail and drawings are given for the first time. Stigma color ranges from yellow to red in populations. The fruit is long-beaked 4.8-8 cm, stout and adpressed pilose, glandular below. Mericarp morphology investigated for fruit characters has a special diagnostic value for systematic studies. The mericarp micromorphology and seed micromorphology were determined for the first time. Mericarp size 9-12 mm, mericarps have two apical shallow pits (foveoles) without furrow beneath. Mericarp surface ornamentation is foveate with crowded bristles of dissimilar size, some longer and others shorter. Mericarp pit is crowded with eglandular hairs and some sparse, long-stalked glands which are also at the start of the awn. Seed size is 4.5-6×1.5-2 mm, seed type is narrowly ovate, seed surface is ruminate.

A theory of consciousness, whatever else it may do, must address the structure of experience. Our perceptual experiences are richly structured. Simply seeing a red apple, swaying between green leaves on a stout tree, involves symmetries, geometries, orders, topologies, and algebras of events. Are these structures also present in the world, fully independent of their observation? Perceptual theorists of many persuasions—from computational to radical embodied—say yes: perception veridically presents to observers structures that exist in an observer-independent world; and it does so because natural selection shapes perceptual systems to be increasingly veridical. Here we study four structures: total orders, permutation groups, cyclic groups, and measurable spaces. We ask whether the payoff functions that drive evolution by natural selection are homomorphisms of these structures. We prove, in each case, that generically the answer is no: as the number of world states and payoff values go to infinity, the probability that a payoff function is a homomorphism goes to zero. We conclude that natural selection almost surely shapes perceptions of these structures to be non-veridical. This is consistent with the interface theory of perception, which claims that natural selection shapes perceptual systems not to provide veridical perceptions, but to serve as species-specific interfaces that guide adaptive behavior. Our results present a constraint for any theory of consciousness which assumes that structure in perceptual experience is shaped by natural selection.

Middle Triassic radiolarian bedded cherts in the Mino Belt, central Japan, include a sequence showing an abrupt facies change from the lower to the upper, where grey–black bedded cherts enriched in carbonaceous matter and framboidal pyrite are overlain by brick-red hematitic bedded cherts. Brownish-yellow chert enriched in goethite and purple-red chert occur at the boundary between the grey–black bedded cherts and the brick-red bedded cherts. This facies change is in accordance with stratigraphic variations of geochemical characteristics; the lower section grey–black bedded cherts, compared with the upper section brick-red bedded cherts, are enriched in Ctot and Stot, and are characterized by lower MnO/TiO2, higher FeO/Fe2O3* (total iron as Fe2O3) and more variable Fe2O3*/TiO2 values. Some of the lower section samples, in addition, are characterized by an enrichment in some transition metals (Ni, Cu, and Zn). The covariation of mineralogical and geochemical characteristics indicates that sedimentary environments and diagenetic processes were different between the lower and the upper section bedded cherts. During the deposition of the lower section bedded cherts, the sedimentary environment was anoxic and bacterial sulphate reduction occurred during the early diagenetic stage. In contrast, the upper section bedded cherts were subjected to less reducing diagenetic processes; active sulphate reduction did not occur. The change of sedimentary environment and diagenetic process at the site of deposition is likely to be attributed to the fluctuated concentration of dissolved oxygen in the water mass of a semi-closed marginal ocean basin, which was potentially caused by sea-level change that occurred during Middle Triassic time.

AbstractDemicheleite-(I), ideally BiSI, is the iodine-dominant analogue of demicheleite-(Br) and demicheleite-(Cl). It was found in an active medium-temperature intracrateric fumarole at La Fossa crater, Vulcano Island, Aeolian archipelago, Sicily, Italy. The mineral is the first bismuth sulphoiodide so far discovered in a wholly natural environment, and corresponds to the already known synthetic compound. It occurs as acicular to stout, translucent crystals up to 0.25 mm long in an altered pyroclastic breccia, together with demicheleite-(Br), bismoclite, bismuthinite, godovikovite, panichiite, aiolosite, brontesite, adranosite and other new phases under study. The colour is dark red to black, the lustre submetallic. The unit cell is orthorhombic, space group Pnam, with a = 8.4501(7) Å, b = 10.1470(9) Å , c = 4.1389(4) Å , V = 354.88(4) Å3, and Z = 4. The crystal habit is prismatic, with the main forms {110} and {111} inferred from analogy with demicheleite-(Br). Twinning was not observed. The strongest 6 lines in the X-ray powder diffraction pattern [dobs.(Å) (I/I0) (hkl)] are: 6.490 (100) (110); 4.346 (94) (120); 3.896 (90) (210); 2.709 (60) (310); 2.161 (38) (330); 3.243 (22) (220). The chemical analysis obtained by WDS electron microprobe gave: Bi 58.32, S 9.43, I 23.69, Br 5.66, Cl 1.01, totalling 98.11 wt.%, corresponding to an empirical formula (based on 3 a.p.f.u.) of: Bi0.97S1.03(I0.65Br0.25Cl0.10)Σ1.00. The unit-cell data are close to those of the synthetic compound, whose crystal structure is already known. The calculated density is 6.411 g cm–3.

In the Theatre of a Two-Headed Calf's production of Drum of the Waves of Horikawa, Jess Barbagallo plays the curiously named Eesogay Yougayman, bedecked in a flowing black coat, a wig fit for Ziggy Stardust, and a badgerlike streak of black makeup across her face. The live music falls somewhere between the rhythmic, repetitive structures of kabuki and the more chaotic yet just as percussive style of punk rock, allowing Yougayman (implied to be a traditionally male character) to strut and plunge with violent swagger. She stalks the stage and falls to her knees before the object of her affection, Otane, played by Heidi Shreck, who wears a blood-red kimono and combat boots. Yougayman stares lasciviously into the audience, describing how she abandoned her studies as a samurai to see Otane: “My sickness was a ruse and yet not entirely so, for I was suffering from the malady called love. And you were the cause, Otane!” An exaggerated, almost parodic struggle ensues, in which Otane is caught by Yougayman, whose tongue wags in rhapsodic anticipation of the sexual conquest she is about to force upon Otane as the music and guttural “huhs” from the musicians heighten to a rough, almost unbearable climax.

AbstractIntroductionThe administration of blood products to critically ill patients can be life-saving, but is not without risk. During helicopter transport, confined work space, communication challenges, distractions of multi-tasking, and patient clinical challenges increase the potential for error. This paper describes the in-flight red blood cell transfusion practice of a rural aeromedical transport service (AMTS) with respect to whether (1) transfusion following an established protocol can be safely and effectively performed, and (2) patients who receive transfusions demonstrate evidence of improvement in condition.MethodsA two-year retrospective review of the in-flight transfusion experience of a single-system AMTS servicing a rural state was conducted. Data elements recorded contemporaneously for each transfusion were analyzed, and included hematocrit and hemodynamic status before and after transfusion. Compliance with an established transfusion protocol was determined through structured review by a multidisciplinary quality review committee.ResultsDuring the study, 2,566 missions were flown with 45 subjects (1.7%) receiving in-flight transfusion. Seventeen (38%) of these transports were scene-to-facility and 28 (62%) were inter-facility. Mean bedside and in-flight times were 22 minutes (range 3-109 minutes) and 24 minutes (range 8-76 minutes), respectively. The most common conditions requiring transfusion were trauma (71%), cardiovascular (13%) and gastrointestinal (11%). An average of 2.4 liters (L) of crystalloid was administered pre-transfusion. The mean transfusion was 1.4 units of packed red blood cells. The percentages of subjects with pre- and post-transfusion systolic blood pressures of <90 mmHg were 71% and 29%, respectively. The pre- and post-transfusion mean arterial pressures were 62 mmHg and 82 mmHg, respectively. The pre- and post- transfusion mean hematocrit levels were 17.8% and 30.4%, respectively. At the receiving institution, 9% of subjects died in the Emergency Department, 18% received additional transfusion within 30 minutes of arrival, 36% went directly to the operating room, and 36% were directly admitted to intensive care. Thirty-one percent of subjects died prior to hospital discharge. There were no protocol violations or reported high-risk provider blood exposure incidents or transfusion complications. All transfusions were categorized as appropriate.ConclusionsIn this rural AMTS, transfusion was an infrequent, likely life-saving, and potentially high-risk emergent therapy. Strict compliance with an established transfusion protocol resulted in appropriate and effective decisions, and transfusion proved to be a safe in-flight procedure for both patients and providers.Higgins GL 3rd, Baumann MR, Kendall KM, Watts MA, Strout TD. Red blood cell transfusion: experience in a rural aeromedical transport service. Prehosp Disaster Med. 2012;27(3):1-4.

The cultivation of strawberry needs of technological innovation to gain competitive advantage strawberry fruit quality and quantity. This is motivated because the decline in the production of strawberries in the area and quality of strawberry fruit is still low. Since 2012 until now, Laboratory of Genetics has identified and developed the character of phenotype and genotype of strawberry plants in Agro Banyuroto, Village Banyuroto Sawangan District of Magelang regency. Character genotypes studied through the identification of ploidy with cytogenetic approach and apply poliploidisasi technology that aims to double the number of sets of chromosomes in order to obtain a plant that has the character of superior phenotype compared with the control. The purpose of this activity was to awaken the capacity of communities that were able to develop and utilize natural resources to meet human needs while maintaining the environmental implementing action plans that lead to sustainable development in a sustainable manner. The method was executed in this activity was the cultivation of strawberries by exploiting natural resources Banyuroto village environment that was using bamboo, strawberry cultivation techniques with vertikultur systems. Moreover, the carrying capacity was also supported by the promotion of village tourism as central region Banyuroto strawberry cultivation of strawberries superior to tourists every week, promotion through Online system (in the network) by utilizing Information Technology and Computing and community empowerment with the diversification of food made from strawberries. The end result of this activity was obtained hallmarks of crops polyploidy were plant growth faster, the ability of the formation of stolons and nursery faster, leaf area and stem diameter was wider, the stem stout and roots were longer, the fruit produced was greater and a sweeter taste with more red fruit color. Innovation strawberry crop is expected to be followed by the cultivation of sustainable optimal as possible so that the results obtained are able to improve the welfare of farmers in Banyuroto strawberries.

Ginseng (Panax ginseng) is a perennial plant belonging to the genus Panax of the family Araliaceae, and it is a precious traditional Chinese medicine with immunity-enhancing, anti-tumor, anti-atherosclerosis, and other functions. Jilin Province, China, is the world's largest ginseng cultivation area, accounting for about 70% of global production. The root rots of ginseng caused by Fusarium spp. are one of the most serious threats to ginseng production. Seriously infected ginseng roots are not marketable, leading to enormous losses. The canopy of infected ginseng plants exhibit symptoms of red or yellow leaves from lower to upper during early plant development and growth, wither and wilt in the later stages, and lastly die. All parts of the root can be infected; brown or black lesions were mainly formed on surface and expanded gradually, and mature lesions are gray-brown. Samples of 208 Fusarium rotted roots (cv. landrace damaya) from Ji'an city (126°18′ E, 41°12′ N) and Dunhua city (128°23′ E, 43°36′ N) of Jilin Province were collected from April to September, 2012. Small tissue pieces were placed on potato dextrose agar (PDA), and all isolates were purified from single spore cultured at the condition of 25°C, 12-h/12-h light-dark cycle. Among the obtained purified 518 isolates, 10 isolates were different from the others. Colonies of the 10 isolates grew rapidly and produced profuse aerial mycelium with carmine red undersurface. When cultured on carnation leaf-piece agar (CLA), macroconidia were stout, thick-walled, apical and basal cells curved, usually 4 to 5 septa, 23.9 to 41.2 × 5.2 to 7.3 μm, but did not produce microconidia. Abundant chlamydospores were produced from mycelium or spores, singly or in chains. According to the morphological characteristics, all 10 isolates were consistent with the descriptions of F. cerealis (1). Further, identity of all isolates was confirmed by sequencing the partial rDNA internal transcribed spacer (ITS), translation elongation factor (TEF-1α) gene (3) and putative reductase (RED) gene (2). The sequences of all 10 isolates were homologous and BLAST analysis of the submitted sequences (KF530831, KF530830, and KF530829) showed 100% identity to the sequences (DQ459869, AF212464, and EF428900) of F. cerealis in the NCBI and the FUSARIUM-ID databases. As a result, 10 isolates of Fusarium spp. were identified as F. cerealis. Pathogenicity was tested by inoculating ginseng root in vitro and healthy plants in a greenhouse. The surface of healthy ginseng roots were washed with water and disinfested in 70% alcohol for 3 min and planted in flowerpots with sterilized soil and sorghum grain infested with each isolate and incubated in greenhouse (20 to 25°C). Five ginseng roots and five healthy plants were inoculated with agar cake and sterilized sorghum seed as controls. Root rots similar to the naturally symptoms were observed on inoculated ginseng roots in vitro and healthy plants after 3 days and 21 days, respectively, but no root rots developed on the controls. The pathogens were successfully re-isolated and were are identical to those of the originals. To our knowledge, this is the first report of F. cerealis causing root rot on ginseng in China. References: (1) J. F. Leslie and B. A. Summerell. The Fusarium Laboratory Manual. Blackwell Publishing, Ames, IA, 2006. (2) K. O'Donnell et al. Proc. Nat. Acad. Sci. 97:7905, 2000. (3) K. O'Donnell et al. Mycologia 92:919, 2000.

Aegisthidae is one of the most abundant and diverse families of harpacticoid copepods living in deep-sea benthos, and the phylogenetic relationships within the family are in state of flux. Females of two new deep-water species of harpacticoid copepods belonging to the Hasegen. n. (Aegisthidae: Cerviniinae) are described. The first taxonomic description of marine copepod species based on the combined use of interference and confocal microscopy for the study of the habitus and dissected appendages is presented here. CLSM (Confocal Laser Scanning Microscopy) is a non-destructive method, comparable in quality to SEM (scanning electron microscopy) at the same magnifications. To observe and reconstruct in detail the habitus and dissected appendages, whole specimens and dissected parts were stained with Congo Red, mounted on slides with glycerine for CLSM and scanned under three visible-light lasers. Hase lagomorphicusgen. et sp. n. and Hase talpamorphicusgen. et sp. n. were collected from the sediments of the Southern Atlantic and the Norwegian Sea, from 2270 m and 5468 m depths, respectively. Hasegen. n. is included within Cerviniinae based on the caudal rami which are relatively divergent. Hasegen. n. is the sister taxon of Cerviniella based on the following synapomorphies: sturdy body, exopodites 1–3 of pereopods 1–3 heavily built, transformed into digging limbs, with strong outer and distal spines/setae, two-segmented endopod on the pereopods 2 and 3, and a reduced pereopod 5. Compared to Cerviniella, Hasegen. n. exhibits a more developed armature on the pereopod 1, which has outer and distal elements transformed into strong and long spines vs. stiff setae on Cerviniella.Hasegen. n. has one or two strong and long spines on the inner margin of the exopodite 3 of pereopod 4 and pereopod 5 is fused to the somite, ornamented with three distal setae. The telson of Hasegen. n. is subquadratic, and the furca is among the shortest yet described for Aegisthidae. The new species differ in a number of diagnostic characters, three of which are: a) the somite bearing pereopods 3 and 4 with latero-distal spiniform processes in H. talpamorphicusgen. et sp. n. but smooth in H. lagomorphicusgen. et sp. n., b) antenna is armed with three stout spines on the lateral inner margin of the exopod in H. talpamorphicusgen. et sp. n. and two proximal setae in H. lagomorphicusgen. et sp. n., and c) pereopod 4 exopodite 3 has two long and strong spines on the inner margin in H. lagomorphicusgen. et sp. n. and one spine in H. talpamorphicusgen. et sp. n. The high quality of CLSM images should foster discussion about the use of high quality digital images as type or as part of the type series in zoological studies, especially when studying rare and small macrofaunal and meiofaunal taxa.

In 1999 and 2000, greenhouse-grown leek (Allium porrum) transplants produced in coastal California (Monterey County) developed a root and basal rot. Affected roots were initially gray and water soaked in appearance and later became pink, soft, and rotted. Basal plates were also affected, becoming water soaked and rotted. Severely affected transplants grew poorly and had chlorotic older leaves; many of these plants collapsed. Disease incidence varied greatly, though some transplant plantings had more than 50% disease. Similar symptoms were found in commercial, field-planted leek crops in the same region. The problem caused significant economic loss to transplant producers because of the loss of plants and the reduction in quality of surviving infected plants. Isolations from transplant and field samples consistently recovered a Fusarium species from both root and basal plate tissues. Single-spore subcultures were grown on carnation leaf agar and incubated under fluorescent light. All isolates produced abundant macroconidia that were stout, thick walled, and had prominent septa. Foot cells were indistinct to slightly notched. Conidiophores were monophialidic. Microconidia were absent and chlamydospores were present. Colonies on potato dextrose agar produced abundant, dense, white, aerial mycelium. The undersurface of these cultures was carmine red. Based on these features, all isolates were identified as Fusarium culmorum. To confirm the identification, a partial sequence (645 bp) of the translation elongation factor (EF-1α) was obtained for one isolate using primers EF-1 and EF-2 (2). The EF-1α sequence from the leek isolate was identical to that of two F. culmorum isolates in Genbank (Accession Nos. AF212462 and AF212463). The next closest match was F. cerealis, which differed from the leek isolate at six nucleotide positions. To test pathogenicity of the leek isolates of F. culmorum, we prepare inocula of four isolates from transplants and three isolates from field plants. A conidial suspension (1 × 105 conidia/ml) of each isolate was applied to the roots of 3-month-old potted leek (cvs. Autumn Giant, Blauwgroene, and Cisco). For the control treatment, leek plants were treated with water. All plants were maintained in a greenhouse at 25°C. After 1 month, inoculated plants showed foliar and root symptoms similar to those observed on the original samples. F. culmorum was reisolated from these symptomatic plants. Control plants did not develop symptoms. Using the same procedures, the seven isolates were inoculated onto other Allium species, but did not cause any symptoms on shallot (A. cepa var. ascalonicum) or eight cultivars of onion (A. cepa). Two of the seven isolates caused slight root symptoms on garlic (A. sativum). All experiments were conducted two times and the results of both tests were similar. To our knowledge, this is the first report of a root and basal rot of leek in California caused by F. culmorum. The occurrence of this disease on transplants grown in a soilless rooting medium and on raised benches in enclosed greenhouses provides circumstantial evidence that the pathogen could possibly be seedborne. This disease was reported recently in Spain (1). References: (1) J. Armengol et al. Plant Dis. 85:679, 2001. (2) K. O'Donnell et al. Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. 95:2044, 1998.

In his seminar 'Cultural Spirals' at the Stout Research Centre on 24 September 1997, Peter Cleave described the use of Maori images by Cordon Waiters and other pakeha artists and mentioned in passing the activities of Theo Schoon and Rex Fairbum. Frank Rogers here gives more detail of the involvement of these two men in recording and using the Maori rock drawings. These works do not appear to have been claimed by iwi as taonga so that they have not been subject to the kind of restraints upon pakeha use as Peter Cleave has described in other cases.

A new species of gobiid, Hazeus ingressus sp. nov. (Teleostei: Gobiidae) is described from the Levantine coast of Turkey. The species probably originates from the Red Sea and represents the 11th alien gobiid species in the Mediterranean Sea. The new species is distinguished from its Indo-Pacific congeners by a combination of the following characters: no dark blotch on the first dorsal fin; caudal fin coloration; scales in lateral series 25-28 (modally 27); second dorsal fin rays I,8; anal fin rays I,8-9; predorsal scales ctenoid 7; short, stout gill rakers 2+8. This finding suggests that the Lessepsian invasion intensely continues with the inclusion of the known species as well as undescribed species.

Introduction: Acinetobacter species are short, stout, gram-negative coccobacilli, generally considered to be a relatively low-grade pathogen. However, its resistance towards multiple classes of antibiotics through an array of resistance mechanisms including its ability to form biofilm has led to its emergence as an important pathogen in hospital settings. This study was done to determine the prevalence of biofilm former and Extended-spectrum Beta-Lactamase producer among Acinetobacter species. Methods: A descriptive cross-sectional study was done in the clinical microbiology laboratory, Kathmandu Medical College from January to June 2019. Convenient sampling method was used. Ethical approval was taken from the Institutional Review Committee, Ref no. 2812201805. Preliminary identification followed by characterization of Acinetobacter species was done. Antibiotic susceptibility test was done using the Kirby-Bauer method following Clinical and Laboratory Standards Institute guidelines. Extended-spectrum Beta-Lactamase was detected by combined disc method and Biofilm detection was done using congo red agar method. Statistical Package for Social Sciences 16.0 version statistical software package was used for statistical analysis. Point estimate at 95% Confidence Interval was calculated along with frequencyand proportion for binarydata. Results: Among 108 Acinetobacter species, 86 (79.7%) Acinetobacter calcoaceticus-A. baumannii complex was seen. Seventy-eight (72%) of the isolates were multidrug-resistant, 34 (31%) of the isolates were Extended-spectrum Beta-Lactamase producer and only 10 (9.3%) of the isolates, were biofilm producers. Conclusions: Multidrug-resistant Acinetobacter spp. with the ability to produce Extended-spectrum Beta-Lactamase is prevalent in our hospital settings. Strict compliance with infection control practices is necessary to curb its spread.

The feasibility of implementing magnetic struts into drug-eluting stents (DESs) to mitigate the adverse hemodynamics which precipitate stent thrombosis is examined. These adverse hemodynamics include platelet-activating high wall shear stresses (WSS) and endothelial dysfunction-inducing low wall shear stresses. By magnetizing the stent struts, two forces are induced on the surrounding blood: (1) magnetization forces which reorient red blood cells to align with the magnetic field and (2) Lorentz forces which oppose the motion of the conducting fluid. The aim of this study was to investigate whether these forces can be used to locally alter blood flow in a manner that alleviates the thrombogenicity of stented vessels. Two-dimensional steady-state computational fluid dynamics (CFD) simulations were used to numerically model blood flow over a single magnetic drug-eluting stent strut with a square cross section. The effects of magnet orientation and magnetic flux density on the hemodynamics of the stented vessel were elucidated in vessels transporting oxygenated and deoxygenated blood. The simulations are compared in terms of the size of separated flow regions. The results indicate that unrealistically strong magnets would be required to achieve even modest hemodynamic improvements and that the magnetic strut concept is ill-suited to mitigate stent thrombosis.

Background: To investigate a novel self-expanding Nitinol stent model in treatment of aortic aneurysms. Methods: A novel large self-expanding Nitinol stent method was designed with strut thickness of 70µM x 70µM width and it was deployed in a virtual aneurysm model of 6cm wide x 6cm long fusiform hyper-elastic anisotropic model. At cell width of 9mm, there was no buckling of the deployed stent. The peak wall stress and stress-strain properties of the aortic aneurysm wall; and the adjacent normal segments of aorta were studied at various pressures with or without stent. The radial force of the stents was tested after parametric variations. A prototype 300µM x 150µM stent with cell width of 9mm was evaluated similarly for maximal stress distribution after embedding in the aortic wall and with a tissue overgrowth of 1mm over the stent. Results: The 300µM x 150µM stent reduced the peak wall stress by 70% in the aneurysm and 50% reduction in compliance after a tissue overgrowth of 1mm over the stent struts. Conclusions: There is potential for a novel Nitinol based self-expanding stent in the therapy of aortic aneurysms.

<p>F&oslash;rste gang publiceret i UNEV nr. 7: E-l&aelig;ring i sprogfag, juni 2006, red. Signe Hvid Maribo og Ole Lauridsen.<br />ISSN 1603-5518. <br /><br />NetDansk er et webbaseret kursus i dansk for udenlandske studerende og yngre akademikere, som skal tilbringe en periode i Danmark. M&aring;lgruppen har p&aring; alle m&aring;der v&aelig;ret afg&oslash;rende for kursets indhold og form. Der er i tilrettel&aelig;ggelsen af materialet taget hensyn til mediets muligheder og begr&aelig;nsninger, ligesom der er lagt stor v&aelig;gt p&aring; at tilgodese de l&aelig;rendes forskellige l&aelig;ringsstilspr&aelig;ferencer. For at den enkelte kan f&aring; s&aring; stort udbytte af kurset som muligt, er der en introduktion til selvst&aelig;ndig l&aelig;ring, l&aelig;ringsstile og refleksion samt brugervejledninger og en v&aelig;rkt&oslash;jskasse i NetDansk (www.netdansk.net).</p>

<p>F&oslash;rste gang publiceret i UNEV nr. 4: Undervisere og e-l&aelig;ring - problemer og perspektiver, september - december 2004, red. Poul G&oslash;tke og Annette Lorentsen. ISSN 1603-5518.</p><p>Denne artikel har som tema gent&aelig;nkning af l&aelig;rer- og elevroller i undervisning, hvor netmedieret kommunikation og face-to-face kommunikation blandes. Gymnasieskolen har gennem et stort antal projekter indsamlet mange erfaringer med IT. For universiteterne kan der v&aelig;re relevante informationer knyttet til gymnasiel&aelig;reres og -elevers refleksioner over roller og funktioner, n&aring;r netmedieret kommunikation introduceres i uddannelsessammenh&aelig;ng. Denne artikel tager derfor et empirisk materiale fra gymnasiet op. Artiklen indledes med en kort pr&aelig;sentation af den anvendte teoretiske ramme, hvorefter der inddrages et eksempel p&aring; gymnasiel&aelig;reres kommunikation om roller og funktioner i forbindelse med projektorganiseret netst&oslash;ttet undervisning. Herefter f&oslash;lger uddrag af interviews, hvor elevernes erfaringer med roller og funktioner i tre projektperioder i efter&aring;ret 2003 bliver fremlagt. Dette empiriske materiale inddrager projektorganiserede forl&oslash;b p&aring; &eacute;n skole og femten &oslash;vrige gymnasiefors&oslash;g i 2002-2004. De empirisk funderede eksempler er t&aelig;nkt som en invitation til &rsquo;refleksiv inspiration&rsquo; til undervisere, der st&aring;r overfor at skulle kombinere tilstedev&aelig;relsesbaserede undervisningsformer og netmedierede undervisningsmilj&oslash;er.</p>

Aim: To determine the effects of chromatographic fractions of Abrus precatorius leaf extracts on the histology of the ovary and uterus. Study Design: Abrus precatorius plant contain woods in a twinning form and belong to the Fabaceae (Leguminosae) family. It has red and black seeds. Abrus precatorius also possess a pod which is short and stout brownish in color [1]. The plant grows in bushes and farm and sometimes in hedge. Abrus precatorius are said to be taken for tuberculosis and painful swellings [2]. According to Ross [3], they can be used as laxative, expectorant and aphrodisiac medicines and are sometimes used in urticaria, eczema, stomatitis, conjunctivitis, alopecia areata, migraine, lymphomas/leukemia and dysmenorrhea. Experiment has demonstrated that the seed have the ability to retard fertility both in male and female [4]. Studies done in the past revealed that the plant Abrus precatorius can kill cells or cause cell death at the same time leading to death of tumor [5]. Extraction of the leaves of A. precatorius with methanol has shown through previous study to possess bronchodilatory effect and its use traditionally in the management of asthma [6]. Extracts obtained from the roots, has good antibacterial activity especially against Staphylococcus aureus (Prabha et al. 2015). In a study performed in Tanzania, it was confirmed that boiling the leaves of A. precatorius with water and taking it orally as three table spoonful in twice daily dosage regimen for the treatment of epilepsy is helpful [7]. Female wistar rats were treated with chromatographic fractions of A. precatorius, F1, F2, F3 and F4 (30 mg/kg, 60 mg/kg, 90 mg/kg, 120 mg/kg and 150 mg/kg) for thirty days. One hundred and ten Wistar rats were divided into twenty-two (22) groups of five rats each. All the rats were weighed before and during the experiment. Group 1 (Control) received 0.5 mls, Phosphate Buffer Solution (PBS); Group 3-7. received 30 mg/kg, 60 mg/kg, 90 mg/kg, 120 mg/kg and 150 mg/kg of F1. Group 8-12 received 30 mg/kg, 60 mg/kg, 90 mg/kg, 120 mg/kg and 150 mg/k of F2. Group13-17 received 30 mg/kg, 60 mg/kg, 90 mg/kg, 120 mg/kg and 150 mg/kg of F3 and Group 18-22 received 30 mg/kg, 60 mg/kg, 90 mg/kg, 120 mg/kg and 150 mg/kg of F4 respectively. The fractions/drugs were administered orally. The rats were treated with chromatographic fractions of A. precatorius, F1, F2, F3 and F4 (30 mg/kg, 60 mg/kg, 90 mg/kg, 120 mg/kg and 150 mg/kg) for 30 days. The animals were sacrificed, dissected and the uterus and ovaries obtained for histology study. The study revealed histological evidence that the chromatographic fractions of Abrus precatorius leaf do not have any potential adverse effect on the ovary and uterus of the Wistar Albino rats.

Melon (Cucumis melo L.) is a member of the Cucurbitaceae family, an important economical and horticultural crop, which is widely grown in China. In May 2020, fruit rot disease with water-soaked lesions and pink molds on cantaloupe melons was observed in several greenhouses with 50% disease incidence in Ningbo, Zhejiang Province in China. In order to know the causal agent, diseased fruits were cut into pieces, surface sterilized for 1 min with 1% sodium hypochlorite (NaClO), 2 min with 75% ethyl alcohol, rinsed in sterile distilled water three times (Zhou et al. 2018), and then placed on potato dextrose agar (PDA) medium amended with streptomycin sulfate (100 μg/ml) plates at 25°C for 4 days. The growing hyphae were transferred to new PDA plates using the hyphal tip method, putative Fusarium colonies were purified by single-sporing. Twenty-five fungal isolates were obtained and formed red colonies with white aerial mycelia at 25°C for 7 days, which were identified as Fusarium isolates based on the morphological characteristics and microscopic examination. The average radial mycelial growth rate of Fusarium isolate Fa-25 was 11.44 mm/day at 25°C in the dark on PDA. Macroconidia were stout with curved apical and basal cells, usually with 4 to 6 septa, and 29.5 to 44.2 × 3.7 to 5.2 μm on Spezieller Nährstoffarmer agar (SNA) medium at 25°C for 10 days (Leslie and Summerell 2006). To identify the species, the internal transcribed spacer (ITS) region and translational elongation factor 1-alpha (TEF1-α) gene of the isolates were amplified and cloned. ITS and TEF1-α was amplified using primers ITS1/ITS4 and EF1/EF2 (O’Donnell et al. 1998), respectively. Sequences of ITS (545 bp, GenBank Accession No. MT811812) and TEF1-α (707 bp, GenBank Acc. No. MT856659) for isolate Fa-25 were 100% and 99.72% identical to those of F. asiaticum strains MSBL-4 (ITS, GenBank Acc. MT322117.1) and Daya350-3 (TEF1-α, GenBank Acc. KT380124.1) in GenBank, respectively. A phylogenetic tree was established based on the TEF1-α sequences of Fa-25 and other Fusarium spp., and Fa-25 was clustered with F. asiaticum. Thus, both morphological and molecular characterizations supported the isolate as F. asiaticum. To confirm the pathogenicity, mycelium agar plugs (6 mm in diameter) removed from the colony margin of a 2-day-old culture of strain Fa-25 were used to inoculate melon fruits. Before inoculation, healthy melon fruits were selected, soaked in 2% NaClO solution for 2 min, and washed in sterile water. After wounding the melon fruits with a sterile needle, the fruits were inoculated by placing mycelium agar plugs on the wounds, and mock inoculation with mycelium-free PDA plugs was used as control. Five fruits were used in each treatment. The inoculated and mock-inoculated fruits were incubated at 25°C with high relative humidity. Symptoms were observed on all inoculated melon fruits 10 days post inoculation, which were similar to those naturally infected fruits, whereas the mock-inoculated fruits remained symptomless. The fungus re-isolated from the diseased fruits resembled colony morphology of the original isolate. The experiment was conducted three times and produced the same results. To our knowledge, this is the first report of fruit rot of melon caused by F. asiaticum in China.

Saturday, 24 July 1971, Tower Mill Hotel The man jiggles the brick, gauges its weight. His stout hand, a flash of his watch dial, the sleeve rolled back, muscles on the upper arm bundled tight. His face half-erased by the dark. There’s something going on beneath the surface that Murray can’t grasp. He thinks of the three witches in Polanski’s Macbeth, huddled together on the beach, digging a circle in the sand with bare hands, unwrapping their filthy bundle. A ritual. The brick’s in the air and it’s funny but Murray expected it to spin but it doesn’t, it holds its position, arcs forward, as though someone’s taken the sky and pulled it sideways to give the impression of movement, like those chase scenes in the Punch and Judy shows you don’t see anymore. The brick hits the cement and fractures. Red dust on cops’ shined shoes. Murray feels the same sense of shock he’d felt, sitting in the sagging canvas seat at one of his film nights, recognising the witches’ bundle, a severed human arm, hacked off just before the elbow; both times looking so intently, he had no distance or defence when the realisation came. ‘What is it?’ says Lan. Murray points to the man who threw the brick but she is looking the other way, at a cop in a white riot helmet, head like a globe, swollen up as though bitten. Lan stands on Murray’s feet to see. The pig yells through a megaphone: ‘You’re occupying too much of the road. It’s illegal. Step back. Step back.’ Lan’s back is pressed against Murray’s stomach; her bum fits snugly to his groin. He resists the urge to plant his cold hands on her warm stomach, to watch her squirm. She turns her head so her mouth is next to his ear, says, ‘Don’t move.’ She sounds winded, her voice without force. He’s pinned to the ground by her feet. Again, ‘Step back. Step back.’ Next to him, Roger begins a chant. ‘Springboks,’ he yells, the rest of the crowd picking up the chant, ‘out now!’ ‘Springboks!’ ‘Out now!’ Murray looks up, sees a hand pressed against the glass in one of the hotel’s windows, quickly withdrawn. The hand belongs to a white man, for sure. It must be one of the footballers, although the gesture is out of keeping with his image of them. Too timid. He feels tired all of a sudden. But Jacobus Johannes Fouché’s voice is in his head, these men—the Springboks—represent the South African way of life, and the thought of the bastard Bjelke inviting them here. He, Roger and Lan were there the day before when the footballers pulled up outside the Tower Mill Hotel in a black and white bus. ‘Can you believe the cheek of those bastards?’ said Roger when they saw them bounding off the bus, legs the span of Murray’s two hands. A group of five Nazis had been lined up in front of the glass doors reflecting the city, all in uniform: five sets of white shirts and thin black ties, five sets of khaki pants and storm-trooper boots, each with a red sash printed with a black and white swastika tied around their left arms, just above the elbow. The Springboks strode inside, ignoring the Nazi’s salute. The protestors were shouting. An apple splattered wetly on the sidewalk. Friday, 7 April 1972, St Lucia Lan left in broad daylight. Murray didn’t know why this upset him, except that he had a vague sense that she should’ve gone in the night time, under the cover of dark. The guilty should sneak away, with bowed heads and faces averted, not boldly, as though going for an afternoon walk. Lan had pulled down half his jumpers getting the suitcase from the top of the cupboard. She left his clothes scattered across the bedroom, victims of an explosion, an excess of emotion. In the two days after Lan left, Murray scours the house looking for some clue to where she was, maybe a note to him, blown off the table in the wind, or put down and forgotten in the rush. Perhaps there was a letter from her parents, bankrupt, demanding she return to Vietnam. Or a relative had died. A cousin in the Viet Cong napalmed. He finds a packet of her tampons in the bathroom cupboard, tries to flush them down the toilet, but they keep floating back up. They bloat; the knotted strings make them look like some strange water-dwelling creature, paddling in the bowl. He pees in the shower for a while, but in the end he scoops the tampons back out again with the holder for the toilet brush. The house doesn’t yield anything, so he takes to the garden, circles the place, investigates its underbelly. The previous tenant had laid squares of green carpet underneath, off-cuts that met in jagged lines, patches of dirt visible. Murray had set up two sofas, mouldy with age, on the carpeted part, would invite his friends to sit with him there, booze, discuss the state of the world and the problem with America. Roger rings in the afternoon, says, ‘What gives? We were supposed to have lunch.’ Murray says, ‘Lan’s left me.’ He knows he will cry soon. ‘Oh Christ. I’m so sorry,’ says Roger. Murray inhales, snuffs up snot. Roger coughs into the receiver. ‘It was just out of the blue,’ says Murray. ‘Where’s she gone?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘She didn’t say anything?’ ‘No,’ says Murray. ‘She could be anywhere. Maybe you should call the police, put in a missing report,’ says Roger. ‘I’m not too friendly with the cops,’ says Murray, and coughs. ‘You sound a bit crook. I’ll come over,’ says Roger. ‘That’d be good,’ says Murray. Roger turns up at the house an hour later, wearing wide pants and a tight collared shirt with thick white and red stripes. He’s growing a moustache, only cuts his hair when he visits his parents. Murray says, ‘I’ll make us a cuppa.’ Roger nods, sits down at the vinyl table with his hands resting on his knees. He says, ‘Are you coming to 291 on Sunday?’ 291 St Paul’s Terrace is the Brisbane Communist Party’s headquarters. Murray says, ‘What’s on?’ ‘Billy needs someone to look after the bookshop.’ Murray gives Roger a mug of tea, sits down with his own mug between his elbows, and cradles his head in his hands so his hair falls over his wrists. After a minute, Roger says, ‘Does her family know?’ Murray makes a strange noise through his hands. ‘I don’t even know how to contact them,’ he says. ‘She wrote them letters—couldn’t afford to phone—but she’s taken everything with her. The address book. Everything.’ Murray knows nothing of the specifics of Lan’s life before she met him. She was the first Asian he’d ever spoken to. She wore wrap-around skirts that changed colour in the sun; grew her hair below the waist; sat in the front row in class and never spoke. He liked the shape of her calf as it emerged from her skirt. He saw her on the great lawn filming her reflection in a window with a Sony Portapak and knew that he wanted her more than anything. Murray seduced her by saying almost nothing and touching her as often as he could. He was worried about offending her. What reading he had done made him aware of his own ignorance, and his friend in Psych told him that when you touch a girl enough — especially around the aureole — a hormone is released that bonds them to you, makes them sad when you leave them or they leave you. In conversation, Murray would put his hand on Lan’s elbow, once on the top of her head. Lan was ready to be seduced. Murray invited her to a winter party in his backyard. They kissed next to the fire and he didn’t notice until the next morning that the rubber on the bottom of his shoe melted in the flames. She moved into his house quickly, her clothes bundled in three plastic bags. He wanted her to stay in bed with him all day, imagined he was John Lennon and she Yoko Ono. Their mattress became a soup of discarded clothes, bread crumbs, wine stains, come stains, ash and flakes of pot. He resented her when she told him that she was bored, and left him, sheets pulled aside to reveal his erection, to go to class. Lan tutored high-schoolers for a while, but they complained to their mothers that they couldn’t understand her accent. She told him her parents wanted her to come home. The next night he tidied the house, and cooked her dinner. Over the green peas and potato—Lan grated ginger over hers, mixed it with chili and soy sauce, which she travelled all the way to Chinatown on a bus to buy—Murray proposed. They were married in the botanic gardens, surrounded by Murray’s friends. The night before his father called him up and said, ‘It’s not too late to get out of it. You won’t be betraying the cause.’ Murray said, ‘You have no idea what this means to me,’ and hung up on him. Sunday, 9 April 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray perches on the backless stool behind the counter in The People’s Bookshop. He has the sense he is on the brink of something. His body is ready for movement. When a man walks into the shop, Murray panics because Billy hadn’t shown him how to use the cash register. He says, ‘Can I help?’ anyway. ‘No,’ says the man. The man walks the length of the shelves too fast to read the titles. He stops at a display of Australiana on a tiered shelf, slides his hand down the covers on display. He pauses at Crocodile Hunt. The cover shows a drawing of a bulky crocodile, scaled body bent in an S, its jaws under the man’s thumb. He picks it up, examines it. Murray thinks it odd that he doesn’t flip it over to read the blurb. He walks around the whole room once, scanning the shelves, reaches Murray at the counter and puts the book down between them. Murray picks it up, turns it over, looking for a price. It’s stuck on the back in faded ink. He opens his mouth to tell the man how much, and finds him staring intently at the ceiling. Murray looks up too. A hairline crack runs along the surface and there are bulges in the plaster where the wooden framework’s swollen. It’s lower than Murray remembers. He thinks that if he stood on his toes he could reach it with the tips of his fingers. Murray looks down again to find the man staring at him. Caught out, Murray mutters the price, says, ‘You don’t have it in exact change, do you?’ The man nods, fumbles around in his pocket for a bit and brings out a note, which he lays at an angle along the bench top. He counts the coins in the palm of his hand. He makes a fist around the coins, brings his hand over the note and lets go. The coins fall, clinking, over the bench. One spins wildly, rolls past Murray’s arm and across the bench. Murray lets it fall. He recognises the man now; it is the act of release that triggers the memory, the fingers spread wide, the wrist bent, the black watch band. This is the man who threw the brick in the Springbok protest. Dead set. He looks up again, expecting to see the same sense of recognition in the man, but he is walking out of the shop. Murray follows him outside, leaving the door open and the money still on the counter. The man is walking right along St Paul’s Terrace. He tucks the book under his arm to cross Barry Parade, as though he might need both hands free to wave off the oncoming traffic. Murray stands on the other side of the road, unsure of what to do. When Murray came outside, he’d planned to hail the man, tell him he recognised him from the strike and was a fellow comrade. They give discounts to Communist Party members. Outside the shop, it strikes him that perhaps the man is not one of them at all. Just because he was at the march doesn’t make him a communist. Despite the unpopularity of the cause —‘It’s just fucking football,’ one of Murray’s friends had said. ‘What’s it got to do with anything?’— there had been many types there, a mixture of labour party members; unionists; people in the Radical Club and the Eureka Youth League; those not particularly attached to anyone. He remembers again the brick shattered on the ground. It hadn’t hit anyone, but was an incitement to violence. This man is dangerous. Murray is filled again with nervous energy, which leaves him both dull-witted and super-charged, as though he is a wind-up toy twisted tight and then released, unable to do anything but move in the direction he’s facing. He crosses the road about five metres behind the man, sticks to the outer edge of the pavement, head down. If he moves his eyes upwards, while still keeping his neck lowered, he can see the shoes of the man, his white socks flashing with each step. The man turns the corner into Brunswick Street. He stops at a car parked in front of the old Masonic Temple. Murray walks past fast, unsure of what to do next. The Temple’s entry is set back in the building, four steps leading up to a red door. Murray ducks inside the alcove, looks up to see the man sitting in the driver’s seat pulling out the pages of Crocodile Hunt and feeding them through the half wound-down window where they land, fanned out, on the road. When he’s finished dismembering the book, the man spreads the page-less cover across the back of the car. The crocodile, snout on the side, one eye turned outwards, stares out into the street. The man flicks the ignition and drives, the pages flying out and onto the road in his wake. Murray sits down on the steps of the guild and smokes. He isn’t exactly sure what just happened. The man must have bought the book just because he liked the picture on the front of the cover. But it’s odd though that he had bothered to spend so much just for one picture. Murray remembers how he had paced the shop and studiously examined the ceiling. He’d given the impression of someone picking out furniture for the room, working out the dimensions so some chair or table would fit. A cough. Murray looks up. The man’s standing above him, his forearm resting on the wall, elbow bent. His other arm hangs at his side, hand bunched up around a bundle of keys. ‘I wouldn’t of bothered following me, if I was you,’ the man says. ‘The police are on my side. Special branch are on my side.’ He pushes himself off the wall, stands up straight, and says, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Tuesday April 19, 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray brings his curled fist down on the door. It opens with the force of his knock and he feels like an idiot for even bothering. The hallway’s dark. Murray runs into a filing cabinet, swears, and stands in the centre of the corridor, with his hand still on the cabinet, calling, ‘Roger! Roger!’ Murray told Roger he’d come here when he called him. Murray was walking back from uni, and on the other side of the road to his house, ready to cross, he saw there was someone standing underneath the house, looking out into the street. Murray didn’t stop. He didn’t need to. He knew it was the man from the bookshop, the Nazi. Murray kept walking until he reached the end of the street, turned the corner and then ran. Back on campus, he shut himself in a phone box and dialed Roger’s number. ‘I can’t get to my house,’ Murray said when Roger picked up. ‘Lock yourself out, did you?’ said Roger. ‘You know that Nazi? He’s back again.’ ‘I don’t get it,’ said Roger. ‘It doesn’t matter. I need to stay with you,’ said Murray. ‘You can’t. I’m going to a party meeting.’ ‘I’ll meet you there.’ ‘Ok. If you want.’ Roger hung up. Now, Roger stands framed in the doorway of the meeting room. ‘Hey Murray, shut up. I can hear you. Get in here.’ Roger switches on the hallway light and Murray walks into the meeting room. There are about seven people, sitting on hard metal chairs around a long table. Murray sits next to Roger, nods to Patsy, who has nice breasts but is married. Vince says, ‘Hi, Murray, we’re talking about the moratorium on Friday.’ ‘You should bring your pretty little Vietnamese girl,’ says Billy. ‘She’s not around anymore,’ says Roger. ‘That’s a shame,’ says Patsy. ‘Yeah,’ says Murray. ‘Helen Dashwood told me her school has banned them from wearing moratorium badges,’ says Billy. ‘Far out,’ says Patsy. ‘We should get her to speak at the rally,’ says Stella, taking notes, and then, looking up, says, ‘Can anyone smell burning?’ Murray sniffs, says ‘I’ll go look.’ They all follow him down the hall. Patsy says, behind him, ‘Is it coming from the kitchen?’ Roger says, ‘No,’ and then the windows around them shatter. Next to Murray, a filing cabinet buckles and twists like wet cardboard in the rain. A door is blown off its hinges. Murray feels a moment of great confusion, a sense that things are sliding away from him spectacularly. He’s felt this once before. He wanted Lan to sit down with him, but she said she didn’t want to be touched. He’d pulled her to him, playfully, a joke, but he was too hard and she went limp in his hands. Like she’d been expecting it. Her head hit the table in front of him with a sharp, quick crack. He didn’t understand what happened; he had never experienced violence this close. He imagined her brain as a line drawing with the different sections coloured in, like his Psych friend had once showed him, except squashed in at the bottom. She had recovered, of course, opened her eyes a second later to him gasping. He remembered saying, ‘I just want to hold you. Why do you always do this to me?’ and even to him it hadn’t made sense because he was the one doing it to her. Afterwards, Murray had felt hungry, but couldn’t think of anything that he’d wanted to eat. He sliced an apple in half, traced the star of seeds with his finger, then decided he didn’t want it. He left it, already turning brown, on the kitchen bench. Author’s Note No one was killed in the April 19 explosion, nor did the roof fall in. The bookstore, kitchen and press on the first floor of 291 took the force of the blast (Evans and Ferrier). The same night, a man called The Courier Mail (1) saying he was a member of a right wing group and had just bombed the Brisbane Communist Party Headquarters. He threatened to bomb more on Friday if members attended the anti-Vietnam war moratorium that day. He ended his conversation with ‘Heil Hitler.’ Gary Mangan, a known Nazi party member, later confessed to the bombing. He was taken to court, but the Judge ruled that the body of evidence was inadmissible, citing a legal technicality. Mangan was not charged.Ian Curr, in his article, Radical Books in Brisbane, publishes an image of the Communist party quarters in Brisbane. The image, entitled ‘After the Bomb, April 19 1972,’ shows detectives interviewing those who were in the building at the time. One man, with his back to the camera, is unidentified. I imagined this unknown man, in thongs with the long hair, to be Murray. It is in these gaps in historical knowledge that the writer of fiction is free to imagine. References “Bomb in the Valley, Then City Shots.” The Courier Mail 20 Apr. 1972: 1. Curr, Ian. Radical Books in Brisbane. 2008. 24 Jun. 2011 < http://workersbushtelegraph.com.au/2008/07/18/radical-books-in-brisbane/ >. Evans, Raymond, and Carole Ferrier. Radical Brisbane: An Unruly History. Brisbane: Vulgar Press, 2004.

When the National Trust was established in 1895 its founders, Canon Rawnsley, Sir Robert Hunter and Octavia Hill, were, as Cannadine notes, “primarily concerned with preserving open spaces of outstanding natural beauty which were threatened with development or spoliation.” This was because, like Ruskin, Morris and “many of their contemporaries, they believed that the essence of Englishness was to be found in the fields and hedgerows, not in the suburbs and slums” (Cannadine 227). It was important to protect these sites of beauty and historical interest from development not only for what they were but for what they purportedly represented—an irreplaceable repository of the nation’s “spiritual values”, and thus a vital antidote to the “base materialism” of the day. G.M. Trevelyan, who I am quoting here, noted in two pieces written on behalf of the Trust in the 1920s and 30s, that the “inexorable rise of bricks and mortar” and the “full development of motor traffic” were laying waste to the English countryside. In the face of this assault on England’s heartland, the National Trust provided “an ark of refuge” safeguarding the nation’s cherished physical heritage and preserving its human cargo from the rising waters of materialism and despair (qtd. in Cannadine 231-2).Despite the extension of the road network and increasing private ownership of cars (up from 200,000 registrations in 1918 to “well over one million” in 1930), physical distance and economic hardship denied the majority of the urban population access to the countryside (Taylor 217). For the urban working classes recently or distantly displaced from the land, the dream of a return to rural roots was never more than a fantasy. Ford Madox Ford observed that “the poor and working classes of the towns never really go back” (Ford 58).Through the later nineteenth century the rural nostalgia once most prevalent among the working classes was increasingly noted as a feature of middle class sensibility. Better educated, with more leisure time and money at their disposal, these sentimental ruralists furnished a ready market for a new consumer phenomenon—the commodification of the English countryside and the packaging of the values it notionally embodied. As Valentine Cunningham observes, this was not always an edifying spectacle. By the late 1920s, “the terrible sounds of ‘Ye Olde England’ can already be heard, just off-stage, knocking together its thatched wayside stall where plastic pixies, reproduction beer-mugs, relics of Shakespeare and corn-dollies would soon be on sale” (Cunningham 229). Alongside the standard tourist tat, and the fiction and poetry that romanticised the rural world, a new kind of travel writing emerged around the turn of the century. Through an analysis of early-twentieth century notions of Englishness, this paper considers how the north struggled to find a place in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927).In Haunts of Ancient Peace (1901), the Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin, described a journey through “Old England” as a cultural pilgrimage in quest of surviving vestiges of the nation’s essential identity, “or so much of it as is left” (Austin 18). Austin’s was an early example of what had, by the 1920s and 30s become a “boom market … in books about the national character, traditions and antiquities, usually to be found in the country” (Wiener 73). Longmans began its “English Heritage” series in 1929, introduced by the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, with volumes on “English humour, folk song and dance, the public school, the parish church, [and] wild life”. A year later Batsford launched its series of books on “English Life” with volumes featuring “the countryside, Old English household life, inns, villages, and cottages” (Wiener 73). There was an outpouring of books with an overtly conservationist agenda celebrating journeys through or periods of residence in the countryside, many of them written by “soldiers like Henry Williamson and Edmund Blunden, who returned from the First War determined to preserve the rural England they’d known” (Cunningham 229; Blunden, Face, England; Roberts, Pilgrim, Gone ; Williamson). In turn, these books engendered an efflorescence of critical analyses of the construction of England (Hamilton; Haddow; Keith; Cavaliero; Gervais; Giles and Middleton; Westall and Gardiner).By the 1920s it was clear that a great many people thought they knew what England was, where it might be found, and if threatened, which parts of it needed to be rescued in order to safeguard the survival of its essential identity. By the same point, there were large numbers who felt, in Patrick Wright’s words, that “Some areas of the nation had been lost forever and in these no one should expect to find the traditional nation at all” (Wright 87).A key guide to the nation’s sacred sites in this period, an inventory of their relics, and an illustration of how its lost regions might be rescued for or erased from its cultural map, was provided in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927). Initially published as a series of articles in the Daily Express in 1926, In Search of England went through nine editions in the two and a half years after its appearance in book form in 1927. With sales in excess of a million copies, as John Brannigan notes, the book went through a further twenty editions by 1943, and has remained continuously in print since (Brannigan).In his introduction Morton proposes In Search of England is simply “the record of a motor-car journey round England … written without deliberation by the roadside, on farmyard walls, in cathedrals, in little churchyards, on the washstands of country inns, and in many another inconvenient place” (Morton vii). As C.R. Perry notes, “This is a happy image, but also a misleading one” (Perry 434) for there was nothing arbitrary about Morton’s progress. Even a cursory glance at the map of his journey confirms, the England that Morton went in search of was overwhelmingly rural or coastal, and embodied in the historic villages and ancient towns of the Midlands or South.Morton’s biographer, Michael Bartholomew suggests that the “nodal points” of Morton’s journey are the “cathedral cities” (Bartholomew 105).Despite claims to the contrary, his book was written with deliberation and according to a specific cultural objective. Morton’s purpose was not to discover his homeland but to confirm a vision that he and millions of others cherished. He was not in search of England so much as reassuring himself and his readers that in spite of the depredations of the factory and the motor vehicle, it was still out there. These aims determined Morton’s journey; how long he spent in differing parts, what he recorded, and how he presented landscapes, buildings, people and material culture.Morton’s determination to celebrate England as rural and ancient needed to negotiate the journey north into an industrial landscape better known for its manufacturing cities, mining and mill towns, and the densely packed streets of the poor and working classes. Unable to either avoid or ignore this north, Morton needed to settle upon a strategy of passing through it without disturbing his vision of the rural idyll. Narratively, Morton’s touring through the south and west of the country is conducted at a gentle pace. In my 1930 edition of the text, it takes 185 of the book’s 280 pages to bring him from London via the South Coast, Cornwall, the Cotswolds and the Welsh marches, to Chester. The instant Morton crosses the Lancashire border, his bull-nosed Morris accelerates through the extensive northern counties in a mere thirty pages: Warrington to Carlisle (with a side trip to Gretna Green), Carlisle to Durham, and Durham to Lincoln. The final sixty-five pages return to the more leisurely pace of the south and west through Norfolk and the East Midlands, before the journey is completed in an unnamed village somewhere between Stratford upon Avon and Warwick. Morton spends 89 per cent of the text in the South and Midlands (66 per cent and 23 per cent respectively) with only 11 per cent given over to his time in the north.If, as Genette has pointed out, narrative deceleration results in the descriptive pause, it is no coincidence that this is the recurring set piece of Morton’s treatment of the south and west as opposed to the north. His explorations take dwelling moments on river banks and hill tops, in cathedral closes and castle ruins to honour the genius loci and imagine earlier times. On Plymouth Hoe he sees, in his mind’s eye, Sir Walter Raleigh’s fleet set sail to take on the Armada; at Tintagel it is Arthur, wild and Celtic, scaling the cliffs, spear in hand; at Buckler’s Hard amid the rotting slipways he imagines the “stout oak-built ships which helped to found the British Empire”, setting out on their journeys of conquest (Morton 39). At the other extreme, Genette observes, that narrative acceleration produces ellipsis, where details are omitted in order to render a more compact and striking expression. It is the principle of ellipsis, of selective omission, which compresses the geography of Morton’s journey through the north with the effect of shaping reader experiences. Morton hurries past the north’s industrial areas—shuddering at the sight of smoke or chimneys and averting his gaze from factory and slum.As he crosses the border from Cheshire into Lancashire, Morton reflects that “the traveller enters Industrial England”—not that you would know it from his account (Morton 185). Heading north towards the Lake District, he steers a determined path between “red smoke stacks” rising on one side and an “ominous grey haze” on the other, holding to a narrow corridor of rural land where, to his relief, he observes men “raking hay in a field within gunshot of factory chimneys” (Morton 185-6). These redolent, though isolated, farmhands are of greater cultural moment than the citadels of industry towering on either side of them. While the chimneys might symbolise the nation’s economic potency, the farmhands embody the survival of its essential cultural and moral qualities. In an allusion to the Israelites’ passage through the Red Sea from the Book of Exodus, the land that the workers tend holds back the polluted tide of industry, furnishing relief from the factory and the slum, granting Morton safe passage through the perils of modernity and into the Promised Land–or at least the Lake District. In Morton’s view this green belt is not only more essentially English than trade and industry, it is also expresses a nobler and more authentic Englishness.The “great industrial new-rich cities of northern England—vast and mighty as they are,” Morton observes, “fall into perspective as mere black specks against the mighty background of history and the great green expanse of fine country which is the real North of England” (Morton 208). Thus, the rural land between Manchester and Liverpool expands into a sea of green as the great cities shrink on the horizon, and the north is returned to its origins.What Morton cannot speed past or ignore, what he is compelled or chooses to confront, he transforms, through the agency of history, into something that he and England can bear to own. Tempted into Wigan by its reputation as a comic nowhere-land, a place whose name conjured a thousand music hall gags, Morton confesses that he had expected to find there another kind of cliché, “the apex of the world’s pyramid of gloom … dreary streets and stagnant canals and white-faced Wigonians dragging their weary steps along dull streets haunted by the horror of the place in which they are condemned to live” (Morton 187).In the process of naming what he dreads, Morton does not describe Wigan: he exorcises his deepest fears about what it might hold and offers an incantation intended to hold them at bay. He “discovers” Wigan is not the industrial slum but “a place which still bears all the signs of an old-fashioned country town” (Morton 188). Morton makes no effort to describe Wigan as it is, any more than he describes the north as a whole: he simply overlays them with a vision of them as they should be—he invents the Wigan and the north that he and England need.Having surveyed parks and gardens, historical monuments and the half-timbered mock-Tudor High Street, Morton returns to his car and the road where, with an audible sigh of relief, he finds: “Within five minutes of notorious Wigan we were in the depth of the country,” and that “on either side were fields in which men were making hay” (Morton 189).In little more than three pages he passes from one set of haymakers, south of town, to another on its north. The green world has all but smoothed over the industrial eyesore, and the reader, carefully chaperoned by Morton, can pass on to the Lake District having barely glimpsed the realities of industry and urbanism, reassured that if this is the worst that the north has to show then the rural heartland and the essential identity it sustains are safe. Paradoxically, instead of invalidating his account, Morton’s self-evident exclusions and omissions seem only to have fuelled its popularity.For readers of the Daily Express in the months leading up to and immediately after the General Strike of 1926, the myth of England that Morton proffered, of an unspoilt village where old values and traditional hierarchies still held true, was preferable to the violently polarised urban battlefields that the strike had revealed. As the century progressed and the nation suffered depression, war, and a steady decline in its international standing, as industry, suburban sprawl and the irresistible spread of motorways and traffic blighted the land, Morton’s England offered an imagined refuge, a real England that somehow, magically resisted the march of time.Yet if it was Morton’s triumph to provide England with a vision of its ideal spiritual home, it was his tragedy that this portrait of it hastened the devastation of the cultural survivals he celebrated and sought to preserve: “Even as the sense of idyll and peace was maintained, the forces pulling in another direction had to be acknowledged” (Taylor 74).In his introduction to the 1930 edition of In Search of England Morton approvingly acknowledged that a new enthusiasm for the nation’s history and heritage was abroad and that “never before have so many people been searching for England.” In the next sentence he goes on to laud the “remarkable system of motor-coach services which now penetrates every part of the country [and] has thrown open to ordinary people regions which even after the coming of the railways were remote and inaccessible” (Morton vii).Astonishingly, as the waiting charabancs roared their engines and the village greens of England enjoyed the last hours of their tranquillity, Morton somehow failed to make the obvious connection between these unique cultural and social phenomena or take any measure of their potential consequences. His “motoring pastoral” did more than alert the barbarians to the existence of the nation’s hidden treasures, as David Matless notes it provided them with a route map, itinerary and behavioural guide for their pillages (Matless 64; Peach; Batsford).Yet while cultural preservationists wrung their hands in horror at the advent of the day-tripper slouching towards Barnstaple, for Morton this was never a cause for concern. The nature of his journey and the form of its representation demonstrate that the England he worshipped was more an imaginary than a physical space, an ideal whose precise location no chart could fix and no touring party defile. ReferencesAustin, Alfred. Haunts of Ancient Peace. London: Macmillan, 1902.Bartholomew, Michael. In Search of H.V. Morton. London: Methuen, 2004.Batsford, Harry. How to See the Country. London: B.T. Batsford, 1940.Blunden, Edmund. The Face of England: In a Series of Occasional Sketches. London: Longmans, 1932.———. English Villages. London: Collins, 1942.Brannigan, John. “‘England Am I …’ Eugenics, Devolution and Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts.” The Palgrave Macmillan Literature of an Independent England: Revisions of England, Englishness and English Literature. Eds. Claire Westall and Michael Gardiner. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.Cannadine, David. In Churchill’s Shadow: Confronting the Past in Modern Britain. London: Penguin, 2002.Cavaliero, Glen. The Rural Tradition in the English Novel 1900-1939. Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1977.Cunningham, Valentine. British Writers of the Thirties. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.Ford, Ford Madox. The Heart of the Country: A Survey of a Modern Land. London: Alston Rivers, 1906.Gervais, David. Literary Englands. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993.Giles, J., and T. Middleton, eds. Writing Englishness. London: Routledge, 1995.Haddow, Elizabeth. “The Novel of English Country Life, 1900-1930.” Dissertation. London: University of London, 1957.Hamilton, Robert. W.H. Hudson: The Vision of Earth. New York: Kennikat Press, 1946.Keith, W.J. Richard Jefferies: A Critical Study. Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1965.Lewis, Roy, and Angus Maude. The English Middle Classes. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1949.Matless, David. Landscape and Englishness. London: Reaktion Books, 1998.Morris, Margaret. The General Strike. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976.Morton, H.V. In Search of England. London: Methuen, 1927.Peach, H. Let Us Tidy Up. Leicester: The Dryad Press, 1930.Perry, C.R. “In Search of H.V. Morton: Travel Writing and Cultural Values in the First Age of British Democracy.” Twentieth Century British History 10.4 (1999): 431-56.Roberts, Cecil. Pilgrim Cottage. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1933.———. Gone Rustic. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1934.Taylor, A.J.P. England 1914-1945. The Oxford History of England XV. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975.Taylor, John. War Photography: Realism in the British Press. London: Routledge, 1991.Wiener, Martin. English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit, 1850-1980. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.Williamson, Henry. The Village Book. London: Jonathan Cape, 1930.Wright, Patrick. A Journey through Ruins: A Keyhole Portrait of British Postwar Life and Culture. London: Flamingo, 1992.

This essay combines life writing with meditations on the significance of walking as integral to the ritual practice of pilgrimage, where the individual improves her soul or health through the act of walking to a shrine containing healing relics of a saint. Braiding together insights from medieval literature, contemporary ecocriticism, and memory studies, I reflect on my own pilgrimage practice as it impacts the land itself. Canterbury, England serves as the central shrine for four pilgrimages over decades: 1966, 1994, 1997, and 2003.The act of memory was not invented in the Anthropocene. Rather, the nonhuman world has taught humans how to remember. From ice-core samples retaining the history of Europe’s weather to rocks embedded with fossilized extinct species, nonhuman actors literally petrifying or freezing the past—from geologic sites to frozen water—become exposed through the process of anthropocentric discovery and human interference. The very act of human uncovery and analysis threatens to eliminate the nonhuman actor which has hospitably shared its own experience. How can humans script nonhuman memory?As for the history of memory studies itself, a new phase is arguably beginning, shifting from “the transnational, transcultural, or global to the planetary; from recorded to deep history; from the human to the nonhuman” (Craps et al. 3). Memory studies for the Anthropocene can “focus on the terrestrialized significance of (the historicized) forms of remembrance but also on the positioning of who is remembering and, ultimately, which ‘Anthropocene’ is remembered” (Craps et al. 5). In this era of the “self-conscious Anthropocene” (Craps et al. 6), narrative itself can focus on “the place of nonhuman beings in human stories of origins, identity, and futures point to a possible opening for the methods of memory studies” (Craps et al. 8). The nonhuman on the paths of this essay range from the dirt on the path to the rock used to build the sacred shrine, the ultimate goal. How they intersect with human actors reveals how the “human subject is no longer the one forming the world, but does indeed constitute itself through its relation to and dependence on the object world” (Marcussen 14, qtd. in Rodriguez 378). Incorporating “nonhuman species as objects, if not subjects, of memory [...] memory critics could begin by extending their objects to include the memory of nonhuman species,” linking both humans and nonhumans in “an expanded multispecies frame of remembrance” (Craps et al. 9). My narrative—from diaries recording sacred journey to a novel structured by pilgrimage—propels motion, but also secures in memory events from the past, including memories of those nonhuman beings I interact with.Childhood PilgrimageThe little girl with brown curls sat crying softly, whimpering, by the side of the road in lush grass. The mother with her soft brown bangs and an underflip to her hair told the story of a little girl, sitting by the side of the road in lush grass.The story book girl had forgotten her Black Watch plaid raincoat at the picnic spot where she had lunched with her parents and two older brothers. Ponchos spread out, the family had eaten their fresh yeasty rolls, hard cheese, apples, and macaroons. The tin clink of the canteen hit their teeth as they gulped metallic water, still icy cold from the taps of the ancient inn that morning. The father cut slices of Edam with his Swiss army knife, parsing them out to each child to make his or her own little sandwich. The father then lay back for his daily nap, while the boys played chess. The portable wooden chess set had inlaid squares, each piece no taller than a fingernail paring. The girl read a Junior Puffin book, while the mother silently perused Agatha Christie. The boy who lost at chess had to play his younger sister, a fitting punishment for the less able player. She cheerfully played with either brother. Once the father awakened, they packed up their gear into their rucksacks, and continued the pilgrimage to Canterbury.Only the little Black Watch plaid raincoat was left behind.The real mother told the real girl that the story book family continued to walk, forgetting the raincoat until it began to rain. The men pulled on their ponchos and the mother her raincoat, when the little girl discovered her raincoat missing. The story book men walked two miles back while the story book mother and girl sat under the dripping canopy of leaves provided by a welcoming tree.And there, the real mother continued, the storybook girl cried and whimpered, until a magic taxi cab in which the father and boys sat suddenly appeared out of the mist to drive the little girl and her mother to their hotel.The real girl’s eyes shone. “Did that actually happen?” she asked, perking up in expectation.“Oh, yes,” said the real mother, kissing her on the brow. The girl’s tears dried. Only the plops of rain made her face moist. The little girl, now filled with hope, cuddled with her mother as they huddled together.Without warning, out of the mist, drove up a real magic taxi cab in which the real men sat. For magic taxi cabs really exist, even in the tangible world—especially in England. At the very least, in the England of little Susie’s imagination.Narrative and PilgrimageMy mother’s tale suggests how this story echoes in yet another pilgrimage story, maintaining a long tradition of pilgrimage stories embedded within frame tales as far back as the Middle Ages.The Christian pilgrim’s walk parallels Christ’s own pilgrimage to Emmaus. The blisters we suffer echo faintly the lash Christ endured. The social relations of the pilgrim are “diachronic” (Alworth 98), linking figures (Christ) from the past to the now (us, or, during the Middle Ages, William Langland’s Piers Plowman or Chaucer’s band who set out from Southwark). We embody the frame of the vera icon, the true image, thus “conjur[ing] a site of simultaneity or a plane of immanence where the actors of the past [...] meet those of the future” (Alworth 99). Our quotidian walk frames the true essence or meaning of our ambulatory travail.In 1966, my parents took my two older brothers and me on the Pilgrims’ Way—not the route from London to Canterbury that Chaucer’s pilgrims would have taken starting south of London in Southwark, rather the ancient trek from Winchester to Canterbury, famously chronicled in The Old Road by Hilaire Belloc. The route follows along the south side of the Downs, where the muddy path was dried by what sun there was. My parents first undertook the walk in the early 1950s. Slides from that pilgrimage depict my mother, voluptuous in her cashmere twinset and tweed skirt, as my father crosses a stile. My parents, inspired by Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, decided to walk along the traditional Pilgrims’ Way to Canterbury. Story intersects with material traversal over earth on dirt-laden paths.By the time we children came along, the memories of that earlier pilgrimage resonated with my parents, inspiring them to take us on the same journey. We all carried our own rucksacks and walked five or six miles a day. Concerning our pilgrimage when I was seven, my mother wrote in her diary:As good pilgrims should, we’ve been telling tales along the way. Yesterday Jimmy told the whole (detailed) story of That Darn Cat, a Disney movie. Today I told about Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey, which first inspired me to think of walking trips and everyone noted the resemblance between Stevenson’s lovable, but balky, donkey and our sweet Sue. (We hadn’t planned to tell tales, but they just happened along the way.)I don’t know how sweet I was; perhaps I was “balky” because the road was so hard. Landscape certainly shaped my experience.As I wrote about the pilgrimage in my diary then, “We went to another Hotel and walked. We went and had lunch at the Boggly [booglie] place. We went to a nother hotel called The Swan with fether Quits [quilts]. We went to the Queens head. We went to the Gest house. We went to aother Hotle called Srping wells and my tooth came out. We saw some taekeys [turkeys].” The repetition suggests how pilgrimage combines various aspects of life, from the emotional to the physical, the quotidian (walking and especially resting—in hotels with quilts) with the extraordinary (newly sprung tooth or the appearance of turkeys). “[W]ayfaring abilities depend on an emotional connection to the environment” (Easterlin 261), whether that environment is modified by humans or even manmade, inhabited by human or nonhuman actors. How can one model an “ecological relationship between humans and nonhumans” in narrative (Rodriguez 368)? Rodriguez proposes a “model of reading as encounter [...] encountering fictional story worlds as potential models” (Rodriguez 368), just as my mother did with the Magic Taxi Cab story.Taxis proliferate in my childhood pilgrimage. My mother writes in 1966 in her diary of journeying along the Pilgrims’ Way to St. Martha’s on the Hill. “Susie was moaning and groaning under her pack and at one desperate uphill moment gasped out, ‘Let’s take a taxi!’ – our highborn lady as we call her. But we finally made it.” “Martha’s”, as I later learned, is a corruption of “Martyrs”, a natural linguistic decay that developed over the medieval period. Just as the vernacular textures pilgrimage poems in the fourteeth century, the common tongue in all its glorious variety seeps into even the quotidian modern pilgrim’s journey.Part of the delight of pilgrimage lies in the characters one meets and the languages they speak. In 1994, the only time my husband and I cheated on a strictly ambulatory sacred journey occurred when we opted to ride a bus for ten miles where walking would have been dangerous. When I ask the bus driver if a stop were ours, he replied, “I'll give you a shout, love.” As though in a P. G. Wodehouse novel, when our stop finally came, he cried out, “Cheerio, love” to me and “Cheerio, mate” to Jim.Language changes. Which is a good thing. If it didn’t, it would be dead, like those martyrs of old. Like Latin itself. Disentangling pilgrimage from language proves impossible. The healthy ecopoetics of languages meshes with the sustainable vibrancy of the land we traverse.“Nettles of remorse…”: Derek Walcott, The Bounty Once my father had to carry me past a particularly tough patch of nettles. As my mother tells it, we “went through orchards and along narrow woodland path with face-high nettles. Susie put a scarf over her face and I wore a poncho though it was sunny and we survived almost unscathed.” Certain moments get preserved by the camera. At age seven in a field outside of Wye, I am captured in my father’s slides surrounded by grain. At age thirty-five, I am captured in film by my husband in the same spot, in the identical pose, though now quite a bit taller than the grain. Three years later, as a mother, I in turn snap him with a backpack containing baby Sarah, grumpily gazing off over the fields.When I was seven, we took off from Detling. My mother writes, “set off along old Pilgrims’ Way. Road is paved now, but much the same as fifteen years ago. Saw sheep, lambs, and enjoyed lovely scenery. Sudden shower sent us all to a lunch spot under trees near Thurnham Court, where we huddled under ponchos and ate happily, watching the weather move across the valley. When the sun came to us, we continued on our way which was lovely, past sheep, etc., but all on hard paved road, alas. Susie was a good little walker, but moaned from time to time.”I seem to whimper and groan a lot on pilgrimage. One thing is clear: the physical aspects of walking for days affected my phenomenological response to our pilgrimage which we’d undertaken both as historical ritual, touristic nature hike, and what Wendell Berry calls a “secular pilgrimage” (402), where the walker seeks “the world of the Creation” (403) in a “return to the wilderness in order to be restored” (416). The materiality of my experience was key to how I perceived this journey as a spiritual, somatic, and emotional event. The link between pilgrimage and memory, between pilgrimage poetics and memorial methods, occupies my thoughts on pilgrimage. As Nancy Easterlin’s work on “cognitive ecocriticism” (“Cognitive” 257) contends, environmental knowledge is intimately tied in with memory (“Cognitive” 260). She writes: “The advantage of extensive environmental knowledge most surely precipitates the evolution of memory, necessary to sustain vast knowledge” (“Cognitive” 260). Even today I can recall snatches of moments from that trip when I was a child, including the telling of tales.Landscape not only changes the writer, but writing transforms the landscape and our interaction with it. As Valerie Allen suggests, “If the subject acts upon the environment, so does the environment upon the subject” (“When Things Break” 82). Indeed, we can understand the “road as a strategic point of interaction between human and environment” (Allen and Evans 26; see also Oram)—even, or especially, when that interaction causes pain and inflames blisters. My relationship with moleskin on my blasted and blistered toes made me intimately conscious of my body with every step taken on the pilgrimage route.As an adult, my boots on the way from Winchester to Canterbury pinched and squeezed, packed dirt acting upon them and, in turn, my feet. After taking the train home and upon arrival in London, we walked through Bloomsbury to our flat on Russell Square, passing by what I saw as a new, less religious, but no less beckoning shrine: The London Foot Hospital at Fitzroy Square.Now, sadly, it is closed. Where do pilgrims go for sole—and soul—care?Slow Walking as WayfindingAll pilgrimages come to an end, just as, in 1966, my mother writes of our our arrival at last in Canterbury:On into Canterbury past nice grassy cricket field, where we sat and ate chocolate bars while we watched white-flannelled cricketers at play. Past town gates to our Queen’s Head Inn, where we have the smallest, slantingest room in the world. Everything is askew and we’re planning to use our extra pillows to brace our feet so we won’t slide out of bed. Children have nice big room with 3 beds and are busy playing store with pounds and shillings [that’s very hard mathematics!]. After dinner, walked over to cathedral, where evensong was just ending. Walked back to hotel and into bed where we are now.Up to early breakfast, dashed to cathedral and looked up, up, up. After our sins were forgiven, we picked up our rucksacks and headed into London by train.This experience in 1966 varies slightly from the one in 1994. Jim and I walk through a long walkway of tall, slim trees arching over us, a green, lush and silent cloister, finally gaining our first view of Canterbury with me in a similar photo to one taken almost thirty years before. We make our way into the city through the West Gate, first passing by St. Dunstan’s Church where Henry II had put on penitential garb and later Sir Thomas More’s head was buried. Canterbury is like Coney Island in the Middle Ages and still is: men with dreadlocks and slinky didjeridoos, fire tossers, mobs of people, tourists. We go to Mercery Lane as all good pilgrims should and under the gate festooned with the green statue of Christ, arriving just in time for evensong.Imagining a medieval woman arriving here and listening to the service, I pray to God my gratefulness for us having arrived safely. I can understand the fifteenth-century pilgrim, Margery Kempe, screaming emotionally—maybe her feet hurt like mine. I’m on the verge of tears during the ceremony: so glad to be here safe, finally got here, my favorite service, my beloved husband. After the service, we pass on through the Quire to the spot where St. Thomas’s relic sanctuary was. People stare at a lit candle commemorating it. Tears well up in my eyes.I suppose some things have changed since the Middle Ages. One Friday in Canterbury with my children in 2003 has some parallels with earlier iterations. Seven-year-old Sarah and I go to evensong at the Cathedral. I tell her she has to be absolutely quiet or the Archbishop will chop off her head.She still has her head.Though the road has been paved, the view has remained virtually unaltered. Some aspects seem eternal—sheep, lambs, and stiles dotting the landscape. The grinding down of the pilgrimage path, reflecting the “slowness of flat ontology” (Yates 207), occurs over vast expanses of time. Similarly, Easterlin reflects on human and more than human vitalism: “Although an understanding of humans as wayfinders suggests a complex and dynamic interest on the part of humans in the environment, the surround itself is complex and dynamic and is frequently in a state of change as the individual or group moves through it” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 261). An image of my mother in the 1970s by a shady tree along the Pilgrims’ Way in England shows that the path is lower by 6 inches than the neighboring verge (Bright 4). We don’t see dirt evolving, because its changes occur so slowly. Only big time allows us to see transformative change.Memorial PilgrimageOddly, the erasure of self through duplication with a precursor occurred for me while reading W.G. Sebald’s pilgrimage novel, The Rings of Saturn. I had experienced my own pilgrimage to many of these same locations he immortalizes. I, too, had gone to Somerleyton Hall with my elderly mother, husband, and two children. My memories, sacred shrines pooling in familial history, are infused with synchronic reflection, medieval to contemporary—my parents’ periodic sojourns in Suffolk for years, leading me to love the very landscape Sebald treks across; sadness at my parents’ decline; hope in my children’s coming to add on to their memory palimpsest a layer devoted to this land, to this history, to this family.Then, the oddest coincidence from my reading pilgrimage. After visiting Dunwich Heath, Sebald comes to his friend, Michael, whose wife Anne relays a story about a local man hired as a pallbearer by the local undertaker in Westleton. This man, whose memory was famously bad, nevertheless reveled in the few lines allotted him in an outdoor performance of King Lear. After her relating this story, Sebald asks for a taxi (Sebald 188-9).This might all seem unremarkable to the average reader. Yet, “human wayfinders are richly aware of and responsive to environment, meaning both physical places and living beings, often at a level below consciousness” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 265). For me, with a connection to this area, I startled with recollection emerging from my subconscience. The pallbearer’s name in Sebald’s story was Mr Squirrel, the very same name of the taxi driver my parents—and we—had driven with many times. The same Mr Squirrel? How many Mr Squirrels can there be in this small part of Suffolk? Surely it must be the same family, related in a genetic encoding of memory. I run to my archives. And there, in my mother’s address book—itself a palimpsest of time with names and addressed scored through; pasted-in cards, names, and numbers; and looseleaf memoranda—there, on the first page under “S”, “Mr. Squirrel” in my mother’s unmistakable scribble. She also had inscribed his phone number and the village Saxmundum, seven miles from Westleton. His name had been crossed out. Had he died? Retired? I don’t know. Yet quick look online tells me Squirrell’s Taxis still exists, as it does in my memory.Making KinAfter accompanying a class on a bucolic section of England’s Pilgrims’ Way, seven miles from Wye to Charing, we ended up at a pub drinking a pint, with which all good pilgrimages should conclude. There, students asked me why I became a medievalist who studies pilgrimage. Only after the publication of my first book on women pilgrims did I realize that the origin of my scholarly, long fascination with pilgrimage, blossoming into my professional career, began when I was seven years old along the way to Canterbury. The seeds of that pilgrimage when I was so young bore fruit and flowers decades later.One story illustrates Michel Serres’s point that we should not aim to appropriate the world, but merely act as temporary tenants (Serres 72-3). On pilgrimage in 1966 as a child, I had a penchant for ant spiders. That was not the only insect who took my heart. My mother shares how “Susie found a beetle up on the hill today and put him in the cheese box. Jimmy put holes in the top for him. She named him Alexander Beetle and really became very fond of him. After supper, we set him free in the garden here, with appropriate ceremony and a few over-dramatic tears of farewell.” He clearly made a great impression on me. I yearn for him today, that beetle in the cheese box. Though I tried to smuggle nature as contraband, I ultimately had to set him free.Passing through cities, landscape, forests, over seas and on roads, wandering by fields and vegetable patches, under a sky lit both by sun and moon, the pilgrim—even when in a group of fellow pilgrims—in her lonesome exercise endeavors to realize Serres’ ideal of the tenant inhabitant of earth. Nevertheless, we, as physical pilgrims, inevitably leave our traces through photos immortalizing the journey, trash left by the wayside, even excretions discretely deposited behind a convenient bush. Or a beetle who can tell the story of his adventure—or terror—at being ensconced for a time in a cheese box.On one notorious day of painful feet, my husband and I arrived in Otford, only to find the pub was still closed. Finally, it became time for dinner. We sat outside, me with feet ensconced in shoes blessedly inert and unmoving, as the server brought out our salads. The salad cream, white and viscous, was presented in an elegantly curved silver dish. Then Jim began to pick at the salad cream with his fork. Patiently, tenderly, he endeavored to assist a little bug who had gotten trapped in the gooey sauce. Every attempt seemed doomed to failure. The tiny creature kept falling back into the gloppy substance. Undaunted, Jim compassionately ministered to our companion. Finally, the little insect flew off, free to continue its own pilgrimage, which had intersected with ours in a tiny moment of affinity. Such moments of “making kin” work, according to Donna Haraway, as “life-saving strateg[ies] for the Anthropocene” (Oppermann 3, qtd. in Haraway 160).How can narrative avoid the anthropocentric centre of writing, which is inevitable given the human generator of such a piece? While words are a human invention, nonhuman entities vitally enact memory. The very Downs we walked along were created in the Cretaceous period at least seventy million years ago. The petrol propelling the magic taxi cab was distilled from organic bodies dating back millions of years. Jurassic limestone from the Bathonian Age almost two hundred million years ago constitutes the Caen stone quarried for building Canterbury Cathedral, while its Purbeck marble from Dorset dates from the Cretaceous period. Walking on pilgrimage propels me through a past millions—billions—of eons into the past, dwarfing my speck of existence. Yet, “if we wish to cross the darkness which separates us from [the past] we must lay down a little plank of words and step delicately over it” (Barfield 23). Elias Amidon asks us to consider how “the ground we dig into and walk upon is sacred. It is sacred because it makes us neighbors to each other, whether we like it or not. Tell this story” (Amidon 42). And, so, I have.We are winding down. Time has passed since that first pilgrimage of mine at seven years old. Yet now, here, I still put on my red plaid wollen jumper and jacket, crisp white button-up shirt, grey knee socks, and stout red walking shoes. Slinging on my rucksack, I take my mother’s hand.I’m ready to take my first step.We continue our pilgrimage, together.ReferencesAllen, Valerie. “When Things Break: Mending Rroads, Being Social.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.———, and Ruth Evans. Introduction. Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.Alworth, David J. Site Reading: Fiction, Art, Social Form. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2016.Amidon, Elias. “Digging In.” Dirt: A Love Story. Ed. Barbara Richardson. Lebanon, NH: ForeEdge, 2015.Barfield, Owen. History in English Words. Grand Rapids: William B. 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Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2010. 257-274.Haraway, Donna. “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin.” Environmental Humanities 6 (2015): 159-65.James, Erin, and Eric Morel. “Ecocriticism and Narrative Theory: An Introduction.” English Studies 99.4 (2018): 355-365.Marcussen, Marlene. Reading for Space: An Encounter between Narratology and New Materialism in the Works of Virgina Woolf and Georges Perec. PhD diss. University of Southern Denmark, 2016.Oppermann, Serpil. “Introducing Migrant Ecologies in an (Un)Bordered World.” ISLE 24.2 (2017): 243–256.Oram, Richard. “Trackless, Impenetrable, and Underdeveloped? Roads, Colonization and Environmental Transformation in the Anglo-Scottish Border Zone, c. 1100 to c. 1300.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. 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The first time I read Hélène Cixous’s The Laugh of the Medusa I swooned. I wanted to write the whole thing out, large, and black, and pin it across an entire wall. I was 32 and vulnerable around polemic texts (I was always copying out quotes and sticking them to my walls, trying to hold onto meaning, unable to let the writing I read slip out and away). You must "write your self, your body must be heard" (Cixous 880), I read, as if for the hundredth time, even though it was the first. Those decades old words had an echoing, a resonance to them, as if each person who had read them had left their own mnemonic mark there, so that by the time they reached me, they struck, immediately, at my core (not the heart or the spine, or even the gut, but somewhere stickier; some pulsing place in amongst my organs, somewhere not touched, a space forgotten). The body that read The Laugh was so big its knees had trouble lifting it from chairs (“more body, hence more writing”, Cixous 886), and was soon to have its gallbladder taken. Its polycystic ovaries dreamed, lumpily and without much hope, of zygotes. The body that read The Laugh was a wobbling thing, sheathed in fat (as if this could protect it), with a yearning for sveltness, for muscle, for strength. Cixous sang through its cells, and called it to itself. The body that read The Laugh wrote itself back. It spoke about dungeons, and walls that had collected teenaged fists, and needles that turned it somnambulant and concave and warm until it was not. It wrote trauma in short and staggering sentences (out, get it out) as if narrative could save it from a fat-laden and static decline. Text leaked from tissue and bone, out through fingers and onto the page, and in increments so small I did not notice them, the body took its place. I was, all-of-a-sudden, more than my head. And then the body that read The Laugh performed the ultimate coup, and conceived.The body wrote then about its own birth, and the birth of its mother, and when its own children were born, of course, of course, about them. “Oral drive, anal drive, vocal drive–all these drives are our strengths, and among them is the gestation drive–all just like the desire to write: a desire to live self from within, a desire for the swollen belly, for language, for blood” (Cixous 891). The fat was gone, and in its place this other tissue, that later would be he. What I know now is that the body gets what the body wants. What I know now is that the body will tell its story, because if you “censor the body [… then] you censor breath and speech at the same time” (Cixous 880).I am trying to find a beginning. Because where is the place where I start? I was never a twinkle in my mother’s eye. It was the seventies. She was 22 and then 23–there was nothing planned about me. Her eyes a flinty green, hair long and straight. When I think of her then I remember this photo: black and white on the thick photo paper that is hard to get now. No shiny oblong spat from a machine, this paper was pulled in and out of three chemical trays and hung, dripping, in a dark red room to show me a woman in a long white t-shirt and nothing else. She stares straight out at me. On the shirt is a women’s symbol with a fist in the middle of it. Do you know the one? It might have been purple (the symbol I mean). When I think of her then I see her David Bowie teeth, the ones she hated, and a packet of Drum tobacco with Tally-Hos tucked inside, and some of the scars on her forearms, but not all of them, not yet. I can imagine her pregnant with me, the slow gait, that fleshy weight dragging at her spine and pelvis. She told me the story of my birth every year on my birthday. She remembers what day of the week the contractions started. The story is told with a kind of glory in the detail, with a relishing of small facts. I do the same with my children now. I was delivered by forceps. The dent in my skull, up above my right ear, was a party trick when I was a teenager, and an annoyance when I wanted to shave my head down to the bone at 18. Just before Jem was born, I discovered a second dent behind my left ear. My skull holds the footprint of those silver clamps. My bones say here, and here, this is where I was pulled from you. I have seen babies being born this way. They don’t slide out all sealish and purple and slippy. They are pulled. The person holding the forcep handles uses their whole body weight to yank that baby out. It makes me squirm, all that pulling, those tiny neck bones concertinaing out, the silver scoops sinking into the skull and leaving prints, like a warm spoon in dough. The urgency of separation, of the need to make two things from one. After Jem was born he lay on my chest for hours. As the placenta was birthed he weed on me. I felt the warm trickle down my side and was glad. There was nothing so right as my naked body making a bed for his. I lay in a pool of wet (blood and lichor and Jem’s little wee) and the midwives pushed towels under me so I wouldn’t get cold. He sucked. White waffle weave blankets over both of us. That bloody nest. I lay in it and rested my free hand on his vernix covered back; the softest thing I had ever touched. We basked in the warm wet. We basked. How do I sew theory into this writing? Julia Kristeva especially, whose Stabat Mater describes those early moments of holding the one who was inside and then out so perfectly that I am left silent. The smell of milk, dew-drenched greenery, sour and clear, a memory of wind, of air, of seaweed (as if a body lived without waste): it glides under my skin, not stopping at the mouth or nose but caressing my veins, and stripping the skin from the bones fills me like a balloon full of ozone and I plant my feet firmly on the ground in order to carry him, safe, stable, unuprootable, while he dances in my neck, floats with my hair, looks right and left for a soft shoulder, “slips on the breast, swingles, silver vivid blossom of my belly” and finally flies up from my navel in his dream, borne by my hands. My son (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 141). Is theory more important than this? The smell of milk (dried, it is soursweet and will draw any baby to you, nuzzling and mewling), which resides alongside the Virgin Mother and the semiotics of milk and tears. The language of fluid. While the rest of this writing, the stories not of mothers and babies, but one mother and one baby, came out smooth and fast, as soon as I see or hear or write that word, theory, I slow. I am concerned with the placement of things. I do not have the sense of being free. But if there’s anything that should come from this vain attempt to answer Cixous, to “write your self. Your body must be heard” (880), it should be that freedom and theory, boundary-lessness, is where I reside. If anything should come from this, it is the knowing that theory is the most creative pursuit, and that creativity will always speak to theory. There are fewer divisions than any of us realise, and the leakiness of bodies, of this body, will get me there. The smell of this page is of lichor; a clean but heady smell, thick with old cells and a foetus’s breath. The smell of this page is of blood and saliva and milk mixed (the colour like rotten strawberries or the soaked pad at the bottom of your tray of supermarket mince). It is a smell that you will secretly savour, breathe deeply, and then long for lemon zest or the sharpness of coffee beans to send away that angelic fug. That milk and tears have a language of their own is undeniable. Kristeva says they are “metaphors of non-language, of a ‘semiotic’ that does not coincide with linguistic communication” (Stabat Mater 143) but what I know is that these fluids were the first language for my children. Were they the first language for me? Because “it must be true: babies drink language along with the breastmilk: Curling up over their tongues while they take siestas–Mots au lait, verbae cum lacta, palabros con leche” (Wasserman quoted in Giles 223). The enduring picture I have of myself as an infant is of a baby who didn’t cry, but my mother will tell you a different story, in the way that all of us do. She will tell you I didn’t smile until I was five months old (Soli and Jem were both beaming at three months). Born six weeks premature, my muscles took longer to find their place, to assemble themselves under my skin. She will tell you I screamed in the night, because all babies do. Is this non-language? Jem was unintelligible much of the time. I felt as if I was holding a puzzle. Three o’clock in the morning, having tried breastfeeds, a bath with Nick Drake’s Pink Moon, bouncing him in a baby sling on the fitball (wedged into a corner so that if I nodded off I would hopefully swoon backwards, and the wall would wake me), walking him around and around while rocking and singing, then breastfeeding again, and still he did not sleep, and still he cried and clawed at my cheeks and shoulders and wrists and writhed; I could not guess at what it was he needed. I had never been less concerned with the self that was me. I was all breasts and milk and a craving for barbecued chicken and watermelon at three in the morning because he was drinking every ounce of energy I had. I was arms and a voice. I was food. And then I learnt other things; about let downs and waking up in pools of the stuff. Wet. Everywhere. “Lactating bodies tend towards anarchy” (Bartlett 163). Any body will tend towards anarchy – there is so much to keep in – but there are only so many openings a person can keep track of, and breastfeeding meant a kind of levelling up, meant I was as far from clean and proper as I possibly could be (Kristeva, Powers of Horror 72).In the nights I was not alone. Caren could not breastfeed him, but could do everything else, and never said I have to work tomorrow, because she knew I was working too. During waking hours I watched him constantly for those mystical tired signs, which often were hungry signs, which quickly became overtired signs. There was no figuring it out. But Soli, with Soli, I knew. The language of babies had been sung into my bones. There is a grammar in crying, a calling out and telling, a way of knowing that is older than I’ll ever be. Those tiny bodies are brimming with semiotics. Knees pulled up is belly ache, arching is tired, a look to the side I-want-that-take-me-there-not-there. There. Curling in, the whole of him, is don’t-look-at-me-now-hands-away. Now he is one he uses his hands to tell me what he wants. Sign language because I sign and so, then, does he, but also an emphatic placing of my hands on his body or toys, utensils, swings, things. In the early hours of a Wednesday morning I tried to stroke his head, to close his wide-open eyes with my fingertips. He grabbed my hand and moved it to his chest before I could alight on the bridge of his nose. And yesterday he raised his arm into the air, then got my hand and placed it into his raised hand, then stood, and led me down to the laundry to play with the dustpan and broom. His body, literally, speaks.This is the language of mothers and babies. It is laid down in the darkest part of the night. Laid down like memory, like dreams, stitched into tiredness and circled with dread adrenalin and fear. It will never stop. That baby will cry and I will stare owl-eyed into the dark and bend my cracking knees (don’t shake the baby it will only make it worse don’t shake don’t). These babies will grow into children and then adults who will never remember those screaming nights, cots like cages, a stuffed toy pushed on them as if it could replace the warmth of skin and breath (please, please, little bear, replace the warmth of skin and breath). I will never remember it, but she will. They will never remember it, but we will. Kristeva says too that mothers are in a “catastrophe of identity which plunges the proper Name into that ‘unnameable’ that somehow involves our imaginary representations of femininity, non-language, or the body” (Stabat Mater 134). A catastrophe of identity. The me and the not-me. In the night, with a wrapped baby and aching biceps, the I-was batting quietly at the I-am. The I-am is all body. Arms to hold and bathe and change him, milk to feed him, a voice to sing and soothe him. The I-was is a different beast, made of words and books, uninterrupted conversation and the kind of self-obsession and autonomy I didn’t know existed until it was gone. Old friends stopped asking me about my day. They asked Caren, who had been at work, but not me. It did not matter that she was a woman; in this, for most people we spoke to, she was the public and I was the private, her work mattered and mine did not. Later she would commiserate and I would fume, but while it was happening, it was near impossible to contest. A catastrophe of identity. In a day I had fed and walked and cried and sung and fed and rocked and pointed and read books with no words and rolled inane balls across the lounge room floor and washed and sung and fed. I had circled in and around while the sun traced its arc. I had waited with impatience for adult company. I had loved harder than I ever had before. I had metamorphosed and nobody noticed. Nobody noticed. A catastrophe of identity it was, but the noise and visibility that the word catastrophe invokes was entirely absent. And where was the language to describe this peeling inside out? I was burnished bright by those sleepless nights, by the requirement of the I-am. And in those nights I learned what my mother already knew. That having children is a form of grief. That we lose. But that we gain. At 23, what’s lost is possibility. She must have seen her writer’s life drilling down to nothing. She knew that Sylvia Plath had placed her head, so carefully on its pillow, in that gas filled place. No pungent metaphor, just a poet, a mother, who could not continue. I had my babies at 34 and 36. I knew some of what I would lose, but had more than I needed. My mother had started out with not enough, and so was left concave and edged with desperation as she made her way through inner-city Sydney’s grime, her children singing from behind her wait for me, wait for me, Mama please wait for me, I’m going just as fast as I can.Nothing could be more ‘normal’ than that a maternal image should establish itself on the site of that tempered anguish known as love. No one is spared. Except perhaps the saint or the mystic, or the writer who, by force of language, can still manage nothing more than to demolish the fiction of the mother-as-love’s-mainstay and to identify with love as it really is: a fire of tongues, an escape from representation (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 145).We transformed, she and I. She hoped to make herself new with children. A writer born of writers, the growing and birthing of our tiny bodies forced her to place pen to paper, to fight to write. She carved a place for herself with words but it kept collapsing in on her. My father’s bi-polar rages, his scrubbing evil spirits from the soles of her shoes in the middle of the night, wore her down, and soon she inhabited that maternal image anyway, in spite of all her attempts to side step it. The mad mother, the single mother, the sad mother. And yes I remember those mothers. But I also remember her holding me so hard sometimes I couldn’t breathe properly, and that some nights when I couldn’t sleep she had warm eyes and made chamomile tea, and that she called me angel. A fire of tongues, but even she, with her words, couldn’t escape from representation. I am a writer born of writers born of writers (triply blessed or cursed with text). In my scramble to not be mad or bad or sad, I still could not escape the maternal image. More days than I can count I lay under my babies wishing I could be somewhere, anywhere else, but they needed to sleep or feed or be. With me. Held captive by the need to be a good mother, to be the best mother, no saint or mystic presenting itself, all I could do was write. Whole poems sprang unbidden and complete from my pen. My love for my children, that fire of tongues, was demolishing me, and the only way through was to inhabit this vessel of text, to imbibe the language of bodies and tears and night, and make from it my boat.Those children wrote my body in the night. They taught me about desire, that unbounded scribbling thing that will not be bound by subjectivity, by me. They taught me that “the body is literally written on, inscribed, by desire and signification” (Grosz 60), and every morning I woke with ashen bones and poetry aching out through my pores, with my body writing me.This Mother ThingI maintain that I do not have to leavethe house at nightall leathery and eyelinered,all booted up and raw.I maintain that I do not miss thosesmoky rooms (wait that’s not allowed any more)where we strut and, without looking,compare tattoos.Because two years ago I had you.You with your blonde hair shining, your eyes like a creek after rain, that veinthat’s so blue on the side of your small nosethat people think you’ve been bruised.Because two years ago you cameout of me and landed here and grew. There is no going out. We (she and me) washand cook and wash and clean and love.This mother thing is the making of me but I missthose pulsing rooms,the feel of all of you pressing in onall of me.This mother thing is the making of me. And in text, in poetry, I find my home. “You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing” (Cixous 885). The mother-body writes herself, and is made new. The mother-body writes her own mother, and knows she was always-already here. The mother-body births, and breastfeeds, and turns to me in the aching night and says this: the Medusa? The Medusa is me.ReferencesBartlett, Alison. Breastwork: Rethinking Breastfeeding. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2005.Cixous, Hélène, Keith Cohen, and Paula Cohen (Trans.). "The Laugh of the Medusa." Signs 1.4 (1976): 875-93. Giles, Fiona. Fresh Milk. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2003. Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism. St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1994.Kristeva, Julia, and Leon S. Roudiez (Trans.) Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. New York: Columbia University Press, 1982.Kristeva, Julia, and Arthur Goldhammer (Trans.). "Stabat Mater." Poetics Today 6.1-2 (1985): 133-52.