Academic literature on the topic 'Wilson Reading System'

The pursuit of science is a wonderful journey of discovery along which there are a myriad of avenues to be explored. There have always been so many objects of fascination, so many questions to ask along the way, so many possibilities to understand new principles, that making the decision about which problem to address and then having the self-discipline to explore it in depth challenge all who practice the art. How then are we, as cell biologists, to cope with the mountain of information that is accumulating as we enter the twenty-first century? We now have the potential to decipher the primary sequences of every single cellular protein for several model organisms. Just how are we to put this information into an intelligible framework for understanding cell physiology? The turn of a century is a time at which we can permit ourselves the luxury of looking backwards as well as forwards. Where were we a century ago, what were the challenges that faced us then and how do these questions relate to our future goals? As a cell biologist standing on the threshold of the twentieth century, one must have had a similar feeling of elation and expectation to that which we have at the present time. The Theory of Cells had been established by Schleiden and Schwan in 1838–1839, and in the following fifty years it had led to unifying ideas about the nature of plants and animals, an understanding of embryonic development, and the mysteries of the fertilisation of the egg and genetic continuity in terms of ‘cellular immortality’. These were truly halcyon days. By the end of the nineteenth century many of the central principles of cell biology were firmly established. Virchow had maintained in 1855 that every cell is the offspring of a pre-existing parent cell, but the realisation that the cell nucleus is essential for this continuity had to wait another 30 years. By this time, Miecher had already made in 1871 his famous discovery of nuclein, a phosphorus-rich substance extracted from preparations of nuclei from sperm and pus cells, and over the next twenty years a spectrum of sophisticated dyes became available that facilitated the visualisation of not only nuclein but also asters, spindle fibres, and microsomal components of cytoplasm in fixed preparations of cells. The centrosome, discovered independently by Flemming in 1875 and Van Beneden in 1876, and named by Boveri in 1888, was already considered to be an autonomous organelle with a central role in cell division. The behaviour of chromosomes, centrosomes, astral fibres and spindle fibres throughout mitosis and meiosis had been described in exquisite detail. Galeotti had even concluded by 1893 that the unequal distribution of chromatin in cancer cells correlates with an inequality of the centrosomes and the development of abnormal spindles - a conclusion reinforced by others over a century later (Pihan et al., 1998; Lingle et al., 1998). It had taken 200 years following Leuwenhoek's first observation of sperm to Hertwig's demonstration in 1875 that fertilisation of the egg is accomplished by its union with one spermatozoon. This demonstration was rapidly followed by Van Beneden's discovery - eventually to unify genetics and cell biology - that the nuclei of germ cells each contain one half the number of chromosomes characteristic of body cells. By 1902, both Sutton and Boveri had realised that the behaviour of chromosomes in meiosis precisely parallels the behaviour of Mendel's genetic particles described some 35 years earlier. In many ways we have witnessed during the past 50 years, and particularly in the last quarter century, a series of exciting breakthroughs in establishing an understanding of genetic function and continuity that are comparable to those of the previous century in demonstrating cellular function and continuity. The determination of the structure of DNA in 1953 and the elucidation of the genetic code throughout the 1960s led to the rapid realisation of the code's universality. The parallel development of sophisticated techniques for studying the genetics of the model bacterium Escherichia coli and its plasmids and viruses paved the way for a new era in biology. We were soon to construct recombinant DNA molecules in vitro, propagate them and eventually express them in E. coli, taking full advantage of the universality of the code. The principles of cloning DNA molecules had been clearly enunciated by Berg and Hogness in the early 1970s, and I myself had the great fortune as a young post-doc to share in this excitement and participate in putting some of these principles into their early practice. By the end of that decade, genes had been cloned from a multitude of eukaryotes and, moreover, technologies had been developed by Maxam and Gilbert and by Sanger that enabled these cloned genes to be sequenced. The accelerating accumulation of knowledge enabled by these simple technical breakthroughs has been astounding, leading to the determination of the complete genome sequences of budding yeast, the nematode Caenorhabditis elegans and the fruit fly, Drosophila melanogaster, and the prospect of the complete human sequence within a few years. To date we have managed this accumulating wealth reasonably well. Cloned genes have allowed cell biologists access to the encoded proteins, and as a consequence we have a working knowledge of many cellular processes. The sub-cellular meanderings of molecules have been charted with increasing accuracy, and gene products have been positioned in regulatory pathways. The concerted application of genetic and molecular approaches has given new insights into cell biology. This is particularly evident from work on the yeasts, which have come into their own as model systems with our realisation of the extent to which cell biological processes have been conserved. Nevertheless, the resulting regulatory pathways that emerge from our current ways of looking at the cell are rather unidimensional, gene products being placed into linear pathways as a result of either molecular or genetic analyses. Our current views are often blind to the fact that the cell is a multidimensional structure whose components are arranged in space, have multiple contacts that change with time and can respond simultaneously to a multitude of signals. Glimpses of such complexity are emerging from studies in which microarrays of all the identified open reading frames (ORFs) from the complete budding yeast genome have been screened for changes in patterns of gene expression throughout the cell cycle or upon sporulation. Cell-cycle-dependent periodicity was found for 416 of the 6220 monitored ORFs, and over 25% of these genes were found to be clustered at particular chromosomal sites, which suggesting there are global chromosomal responses in transcriptional control (Cho et al., 1998). The study of sporulation is perhaps the first example of the application of this type of technology to a developmental process. It revealed that, of the 6220 genes, about 500 undergo repression and 500 induction in seven temporally distinct patterns during the sporulation process, identifying potential functions for many previously uncharacterised genes (Chu et al., 1998). These studies already reveal layers of complexity in the regulation of the levels of transcripts as cells prepare for and pass through the different stages of meiosis. How much more complex are these patterns likely to be when viewed in terms of proteins, and their interactions, locations and functions within the cell? It seems clear, however, that a wonderful molecular description of the events of meiosis that can match the cytological understanding revealed by the work of Van Beneden and Boveri one hundred years ago is within our grasp. The cataloguing of all cellular proteins is now feasible through a combination of 2D-gel analysis and mass spectrometry, from which molecular mass data can be correlated with the fragment sizes of peptides predicted from whole genome sequence data (the emerging field of proteomics). It is not an easy task, but it seems just a matter of time before we have all this information at our fingertips. Yet how can we know the functions of all these proteins and have a full 3D picture of how they interact within a cell and the dynamics with which they do so? Yeast may be the first eukaryote for which some of these problems can be approached. Its genome is six-times smaller than that of C. elegans and 200 times smaller than the human genome, and has the further advantage that the genes can be easily disrupted through homologous recombination. Thus the prospect of systematic gene deletion to study the function of the 3700 novel ORFs identified in the whole genome sequence is feasible for this organism (Winzeler et al., 1999). One group in particular has devised a multifaceted approach for doing this: the affected gene is simultaneously tagged with an in-frame transcriptional reporter and further modified to epitope tag the affected protein, which thus allows the latter to be immunolocalised within cells (Ross-MacDonald et al., 1999). We can thus see the glimmerings of a holistic, genome-wide, cell-wide unravelling of cellular physiology. Some of these approaches will be easily adaptable to higher organisms. We will soon have read-outs of RNA expression patterns in cells undergoing a variety of developmental and physiological programmes in normal and diseased states. The analysis of function and the identification of ORFs in higher eukaryotes are likely to be more problematic. However, solutions for the rapid assessment of the functions of novel genes are already emerging. New insights are coming from labs using double-stranded RNA to interfere with cellular processes in C. elegans. It was originally found in this organism that the injection of double-stranded RNA corresponding to part of the mRNA of a gene prevents the expression of that gene through a mechanism that currently remains mysterious (Fire, 1999). The technique works extremely well in the nematode and even in the fruit fly, but doubts had been cast as to whether it would ever be valuable in mammals. The recent finding that the technique does indeed work in the mouse may well accelerate programmes to identify gene function by circumventing the particularly lengthy procedures for disruption of mouse genes (Wianny and Zernicka-Goetz, 2000). The multiple layers of complexity revealed by these emerging studies give some indication of the computational power that will be needed to model the cell. Is it now time for a new breed of mathematical biologists to emerge? Our present generation of cellular and molecular biologists have lost sight of some of the basic principles of physical chemistry, and quantitative analyses are done poorly if at all. Should the quantification of reaction kinetics now come out of the traditional domain of enzymology and be applied to multiple cellular processes - if we are truly to understand the dynamics of the living cell? If the yeast cell is complex, then how much greater complexity will we find in multicellular eukaryotes, given all the potential for cell-cell interactions? These problems are perhaps most alluring in the field of development, in which many phenomena are now demanding attention at the cellular level. In recent decades we have seen classical embryological approaches supplemented by genetic analyses to define the components of many developmental signalling pathways. This has demonstrated the existence of a conserved collection of molecular switches that can be used in a variety of different developmental circumstances. We are perhaps reaching the limits at which conventional genetic analyses can interpret these processes: often the precise relationships between components of regulatory pathways is not clear. We require a better grasp of how the molecules within the pathways interact, which will require the concerted application of sub-cellular fractionation, to identify molecular complexes, and proteomics. This has to be achieved in a way that allows us to interpret the consequences of multiple signalling events between different cell types. In the introduction to his famous text The Cell in Development and Inheritance, E. B. Wilson wrote almost a century ago: ‘It has only recently become possible adequately to formulate the great problems of development and heredity in terms of cellular biology - indeed we can as yet do little more than so formulate them.’ Has our perspective changed during the past one hundred years? Are not these the same challenges that lie ahead for the twenty-first century? It is now rather like being Alice in Wonderland in a room with many doors, each of which marks the onset of a new journey. Undoubtedly, any of the doors will lead to remarkable opportunities, but to what extent can we, as Alice, rely upon drinking from the bottle, or eating the biscuit, that happens to be at hand? We will have to use the existing resources, but it will be fascinating to see what new ingenuities we can bring to bear to help us on our journey through Wonderland. I have the feeling that we are to witness conceptual challenges to the way we think about cell biology that we cannot yet begin to appreciate…but what I would give to be around in one hundred years time to witness the progress we have made on our journeys!

AbstractThe purpose of this study was to contribute to the literature on the promise of the Wilson Reading System (WRS) for students with disabilities. School professionals monitored the growth of students over time using curriculum-based measurements. Participants included 51 students (53% male, 47% female) from six schools (five elementary, one middle school); the vast majority (80%) qualified for free or reduced lunches. All students were receiving special education and related services, and most had either a learning disability or a language impairment (62%). Certified teachers implemented the WRS. Results demonstrated students had significant growth in their reading over time. Directions for future research and practical implications are discussed.


 
 
 If the home is traditionally considered to be a space of safety associated with the warm and cosy feeling of the familial hearth, it is also continuously portrayed as a space under threat from the outside from which we must secure ourselves and our families. Securing the home entails a series of material, discursive and performative strategies, a host of precautionary measures aimed at regulating and ultimately producing security. When I was eleven my family returned home from the local fruit markets to find our house had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn across the floor, electrical appliances were missing and my parents’ collection of jewellery – wedding rings and heirlooms – had been stolen. Few things remained untouched and the very thought of someone else’s hands going through our personal belongings made our home feel tainted. My parents were understandably distraught. As Filipino immigrants to Australia the heirlooms were not only expensive assets from both sides of my family, but also signifiers of our homeland. Added to their despair was the fact that this was our first house – we had rented prior to that. During the police interviews, we discovered that our area, Sydney’s Western suburbs, was considered ‘high-risk’ and we were advised to install security. In their panic my parents began securing their home. Grills were installed on every window. Each external wooden door was reinforced by a metal security door. Movement detectors were installed at the front of the house, which were set to blind intruders with floodlights. Even if an intruder could enter the back through a window a metal grill security door was waiting between the backroom and the kitchen to stop them from getting to our bedrooms. In short, through a series of transformations our house was made into a residential fortress. Yet home security had its own dangers. A series of rules and regulations were drilled into me ‘in case of an emergency’: know where your keys are in case of a fire so that you can get out; remember the phone numbers for an emergency and the work numbers of your parents; never let a stranger into the house; and if you need to speak to a stranger only open the inside door but leave the security screen locked. Thus, for my Filipino-migrant family in the 1990s, a whole series of defensive behaviours and preventative strategies were produced and disseminated inside and around the home to regulate security risks. Such “local knowledges” were used to reinforce the architectural manifestations of security at the same time that they were a response to the invasion of security systems into our house that created a new set of potential dangers. This article highlights “the interplay of material and symbolic geographies of home” (Blunt and Varley 4), focusing on the relation between urban fears circulating around and within the home and the spatial practices used to negotiate such fears. In exploring home security systems it extends the exemplary analysis of home technologies already begun in Lynn Spigel’s reading of the ‘smart home’ (381-408). In a similar vein, David Morley’s analysis of mediated domesticity shows how communications technology has reconfigured the inside and outside to the extent that television actually challenges the physical boundary that “protects the privacy and solidarity of the home from the flux and threat of the outside world” (87). Television here serves as a passage in which the threat of the outside is reframed as news or entertainment for family viewing. I take this as a point of departure to consider the ways that this mediated fear unfolds in the technology of our homes. Following Brian Massumi, I read the home as “a node in a circulatory network of many dimensions (each corresponding to a technology of transmission)” (85). For Massumi, the home is an event-space at the crossroads of media technologies and political technologies. “In spite of the locks on the door, the event-space of the home must be seen as one characterized by a very loose regime of passage” (85). The ‘locked door’ is not only a boundary marker that defines the inside from the outside but another technology that leads us outside the home into other domains of inquiry: the proliferation of security technologies and the mundane, fearful intimacies of the home. In this context, we should heed Iris Marion Young’s injunction to feminist critics that the home does provide some positives including a sense of privacy and the space to build relationships and identities. Yet, as Colomina argues, the traditional domestic ideal “can only be produced by engaging the home in combat” (20). If, as Colomina’s comment suggests, ontological security is at least partially dependent on physical security, then this article explores the ontological effects of our home security systems. Houses at War: Targeting the Family As Beatriz Colomina reminds us, in times of war we leave our homelands to do battle on the front line, but battle lines are also being drawn in our homes. Drawing inspiration from Virilio’s claim that contemporary war takes place without fighting, Colomina’s article ‘Domesticity at War’ contemplates the domestic interior as a “battlefield” (15). The house, she writes, is “a mechanism within a war where the differences between defense [sic] and attack have become blurred” (17). According to the Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999 report conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, 47% of NSW dwellings were ‘secure’ (meaning that they either had a burglar alarm, or all entry points were secured or they were inside a security block) while only 9% of NSW households had no home security devices present (Smith 3). In a similar report for Western Australia conducted in October 2004, an estimated 71% of WA households had window security of some sort (screens, locks or shutters) while 67% had deadlocks on at least one external door (4). An estimated 27% had a security alarm installed while almost half (49%) had sensor lights (Hubbard 4-5). This growing sense of insecurity means big business for those selling security products and services. By the end of June 1999, there were 1,714 businesses in Australia’s security services industry generating $1,395 million of income during 1998-99 financial year (McLennan 3; see also Macken). This survey did not include locksmith services or the companies dealing with alarm manufacturing, wholesaling or installing. While Colomina’s article focuses on the “war with weather” and the attempts to control environmental conditions inside the home through what she calls “counterdomesticity” (20), her conceptualisation of the house as a “military weapon” (17) provides a useful tool for thinking the relation between the home, architecture and security. Conceiving of the house as a military weapon might seem like a stretch, but we should recall that the rhetoric of war has already leaked into the everyday. One hears of the ‘war on drugs’ and the ‘war on crime’ in the media. ‘War’ is the everyday condition of our urban jungles (see also Diken and Lausten) and in order to survive, let alone feel secure, one must be able to defend one’s family and home. Take, for example, Signal Security’s website. One finds a panel on the left-hand side of the screen to all webpages devoted to “Residential Products”. Two circular images are used in the panel with one photograph overlapping the other. In the top circle, a white nuclear family (stereotypical mum, dad and two kids), dressed in pristine white clothing bare their white teeth to the internet surfer. Underneath this photo is another photograph in which an arm clad in a black leather jacket emerges through a smashed window. In the foreground a black-gloved hand manipulates a lock, while a black balaclava masks an unrecognisable face through the broken glass. The effect of their proximity produces a violent juxtaposition in which the burglar visually intrudes on the family’s domestic bliss. The panel stages a struggle between white and black, good and bad, family and individual, security and insecurity, recognisability and unidentifiability. It thus codifies the loving, knowable family as the domestic space of security against the selfish, unidentifiable intruder (presumed not to have a family) as the primary reason for insecurity in the family home – and no doubt to inspire the consumption of security products. Advertisements of security products thus articulate the family home as a fragile innocence constantly vulnerable from the outside. From a feminist perspective, this image of the family goes against the findings of the National Homicide Monitoring Program, which shows that 57% of the women killed in Australia between 2004 and 2005 were killed by an intimate partner while 17% were killed by a family member (Mouzos and Houliaras 20). If, on the one hand, the family home is targeted by criminals, on the other, it has emerged as a primary site for security advertising eager to exploit the growing sense of insecurity – the family as a target market. The military concepts of ‘target’ and ‘targeting’ have shifted into the benign discourse of strategic advertising. As Dora Epstein writes, “We arm our buildings to arm ourselves from the intrusion of a public fluidity, and thus our buildings, our architectures of fortification, send a very clear message: ‘avoid this place or protect yourself’” (1997: 139). Epstein’s reference to ‘architectures of fortification’ reminds us that the desire to create security through the built environment has a long history. Nan Ellin has argued that fear’s physical manifestation can be found in the formation of towns from antiquity to the Renaissance. In this sense, towns and cities are always already a response to the fear of foreign invaders (Ellin 13; see also Diken and Lausten 291). This fear of the outsider is most obviously manifested in the creation of physical walls. Yet fortification is also an effect of spatial allusions produced by the configuration of space, as exemplified in Fiske, Hodge and Turner’s semiotic reading of a suburban Australian display home without a fence. While the lack of a fence might suggest openness, they suggest that the manicured lawn is flat so “that eyes can pass easily over it – and smooth – so that feet will not presume to” (30). Since the front garden is best viewed from the street it is clearly a message for the outside, but it also signifies “private property” (30). Space is both organised and lived, in such a way that it becomes a medium of communication to passers-by and would-be intruders. What emerges in this semiotic reading is a way of thinking about space as defensible, as organised in a way that space can begin to defend itself. The Problematic of Defensible Space The incorporation of military architecture into civil architecture is most evident in home security. By security I mean the material systems (from locks to electronic alarms) and precautionary practices (locking the door) used to protect spaces, both of which are enabled by a way of imagining space in terms of risk and vulnerability. I read Oscar Newman’s 1972 Defensible Space as outlining the problematic of spatial security. Indeed, it was around that period that the problematic of crime prevention through urban design received increasing attention in Western architectural discourse (see Jeffery). Newman’s book examines how spaces can be used to reinforce human control over residential environments, producing what he calls ‘defensible space.’ In Newman’s definition, defensible space is a model for residential environments which inhibits crime by creating the physical expression of a social fabric that defends itself. All the different elements which combine to make a defensible space have a common goal – an environment in which latent territoriality and sense of community in the inhabitants can be translated into responsibility for ensuring a safe, productive, and well-maintained living space (3). Through clever design space begins to defend itself. I read Newman’s book as presenting the contemporary problematic of spatialised security: how to structure space so as to increase control; how to organise architecture so as to foster territorialism; how to encourage territorial control through amplifying surveillance. The production of defensible space entails moving away from what he calls the ‘compositional approach’ to architecture, which sees buildings as separate from their environments, and the ‘organic approach’ to architecture, in which the building and its grounds are organically interrelated (Newman 60). In this approach Newman proposes a number of changes to space: firstly, spaces need to be multiplied (one no longer has a simple public/private binary, but also semi-private and semi-public spaces); secondly, these spaces must be hierarchised (moving from public to semi-public to semi-private to private); thirdly, within this hierarchy spaces can also be striated using symbolic or material boundaries between the different types of spaces. Furthermore, spaces must be designed to increase surveillance: use smaller corridors serving smaller sets of families (69-71); incorporate amenities in “defined zones of influence” (70); use L-shaped buildings as opposed to rectangles (84); use windows on the sides of buildings to reveal the fire escape from outside (90). As he puts it, the subdivision of housing projects into “small, recognisable and comprehensible-at-a-glance enclaves is a further contributor to improving the visual surveillance mechanism” (1000). Finally, Newman lays out the principle of spatial juxtaposition: consider the building/street interface (positioning of doors and windows to maximise surveillance); consider building/building interface (e.g. build residential apartments next to ‘safer’ commercial, industrial, institutional and entertainment facilities) (109-12). In short, Newman’s book effectively redefines residential space in terms of territorial zones of control. Such zones of influence are the products of the interaction between architectural forms and environment, which are not reducible to the intent of the architect (68). Thus, in attempting to respond to the exigencies of the moment – the problem of urban crime, the cost of housing – Newman maps out residential space in what Foucault might have called a ‘micro-physics of power’. During the mid-1970s through to the 1980s a number of publications aimed at the average householder are printed in the UK and Australia. Apart from trade publishing (Bunting), The UK Design Council released two small publications (Barty, White and Burall; Design Council) while in Australia the Department of Housing and Construction released a home safety publication, which contained a small section on security, and the Australian Institute of Criminology published a small volume entitled Designing out Crime: Crime prevention through environmental design (Geason and Wilson). While Newman emphasised the responsibility of architects and urban planners, in these publications the general concerns of defensible space are relocated in the ‘average homeowner’. Citing crime statistics on burglary and vandalism, these publications incite their readers to take action, turning the homeowner into a citizen-soldier. The householder, whether he likes it or not, is already in a struggle. The urban jungle must be understood in terms of “the principles of warfare” (Bunting 7), in which everyday homes become bodies needing protection through suitable architectural armour. Through a series of maps and drawings and statistics, the average residential home is transformed into a series of points of vulnerability. Home space is re-inscribed as a series of points of entry/access and lines of sight. Simultaneously, through lists of ‘dos and don’ts’ a set of precautionary behaviours is inculcated into the readers. Principles of security begin codifying the home space, disciplining the spatial practices of the intimate, regulating the access and mobility of the family and guests. The Architectural Nervous System Nowadays we see a wild, almost excessive, proliferation of security products available to the ‘security conscious homeowner’. We are no longer simply dealing with security devices designed to block – such as locks, bolts and fasteners. The electronic revolution has aided the production of security devices that are increasingly more specialised and more difficult to manipulate, which paradoxically makes it more difficult for the security consumer to understand. Detection systems now include continuous wiring, knock-out bars, vibration detectors, breaking glass detectors, pressure mats, underground pressure detectors and fibre optic signalling. Audible alarm systems have been upgraded to wire-free intruder alarms, visual alarms, telephone warning devices, access control and closed circuit television and are supported by uninterruptible power supplies and control panels (see Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers 19-39). The whole house is literally re-routed as a series of relays in an electronic grid. If the house as a security risk is defined in terms of points of vulnerability, alarm systems take these points as potential points of contact. Relays running through floors, doors and windows can be triggered by pressure, sound or dislocation. We see a proliferation of sensors: switching sensors, infra-red sensors, ultrasonic sensors, microwave radar sensors, microwave fence sensors and microphonic sensors (see Walker). The increasing diversification of security products attests to the sheer scale of these architectural/engineering changes to our everyday architecture. In our fear of crime we have produced increasingly more complex security products for the home, thus complexifying the spaces we somehow inherently feel should be ‘simple’. I suggest that whereas previous devices merely reinforced certain architectural or engineering aspects of the home, contemporary security products actually constitute the home as a feeling, architectural body capable of being affected. This recalls notions of a sensuous architecture and bodily metaphors within architectural discourse (see Thomsen; Puglini). It is not simply our fears that lead us to secure our homes through technology, but through our fears we come to invest our housing architecture with a nervous system capable of fearing for itself. Our eyes and ears become detection systems while our screams are echoed in building alarms. Body organs are deterritorialised from the human body and reterritorialised on contemporary residential architecture, while our senses are extended through modern security technologies. The vulnerable body of the family home has become a feeling body conscious of its own vulnerability. It is less about the physical expression of fear, as Nan Ellin has put it, than about how building materialities become capable of fearing for themselves. What we have now are residential houses that are capable of being more fully mobilised in this urban war. Family homes become bodies that scan the darkness for the slightest movements, bodies that scream at the slightest possibility of danger. They are bodies that whisper to each other: a house can recognise an intrusion and relay a warning to a security station, informing security personnel without the occupants of that house knowing. They are the newly produced victims of an urban war. Our homes are the event-spaces in which mediated fear unfolds into an architectural nervous system. If media plug our homes into one set of relations between ideologies, representations and fear, then the architectural nervous system plugs that back into a different set of relations between capital, fear and the electronic grid. The home is less an endpoint of broadcast media than a node in an electronic network, a larger nervous system that encompasses the globe. It is a network that plugs architectural nervous systems into city electronic grids into mediated subjectivities into military technologies and back again, allowing fear to be disseminated and extended, replayed and spliced into the most banal aspects of our domestic lives. References Barty, Euan, David White, and Paul Burall. Safety and Security in the Home. London: The Design Council, 1980. Blunt, Alison, and Ann Varley. “Introduction: Geographies of Home.” Cultural Geographies 11.1 (2004): 3-6. Bunting, James. The Protection of Property against Crime. Folkestone: Bailey Brothers & Sinfen, 1975. Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers. Security Engineering. London: CIBSE, 1991. Colomina, Beatriz. “Domesticity at War.” Assemblage 16 (1991): 14-41. Department of Housing and Construction. Safety in and around the Home. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service, 1981. Design Council. The Design Centre Guide to Domestic Safety and Security. London: Design Council, 1976. Diken, Bülent, and Carsten Bagge Lausten. “Zones of Indistinction: Security and Terror, and Bare Life.” Space and Culture 5.3 (2002): 290-307. Ellin, Nan. “Shelter from the Storm or Form Follows Fear and Vice Versa.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Epstein, Dora. “Abject Terror: A Story of Fear, Sex, and Architecture.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Fiske, John, Bob Hodge, and Graeme Turner. Myths of Oz: Reading Australian Popular Culture. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1987. Geason, Susan, and Paul Wilson. Designing Out Crime: Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 1989. Hubbard, Alan. Home Safety and Security, Western Australia. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2005. Jeffery, C. Ray. Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Beverley Hills: Sage, 1971. Macken, Julie. “Why Aren’t We Happier?” Australian Financial Review 26 Nov. 1999: 26. Mallory, Keith, and Arvid Ottar. Architecture of Aggression: A History of Military Architecture in North West Europe, 1900-1945. Hampshire: Architectural Press, 1973. Massumi, Brian. Parables of the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation. Durham: Duke University Press, 2002. McLennan, W. Security Services, Australia, 1998-99. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Morley, David. Home Territories: Media, Mobility and Identity. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Mouzos, Jenny, and Tina Houliaras. Homicide in Australia: 2004-05 National Homicide Monitoring Program (NHMP) Annual Report. Research and Public Policy Series 72. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 2006. Newman, Oscar. Defensible Space: Crime Prevention through Urban Design. New York: Collier, 1973. Puglini, Luigi. HyperArchitecture: Space in the Electronic Age. Basel: Bikhäuser, 1999. Signal Security. 13 January 2007 http://www.signalsecurity.com.au/securitysystems.htm>. Smith, Geoff. Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Spigel, Lynn. Welcome to the Dreamhouse: Popular Media and Postwar Suburbs. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2001. Thomsen, Christian W. Sensuous Architecture: The Art of Erotic Building. Munich and New York: Prestel, 1998. Walker, Philip. Electronic Security Systems: Better Ways to Crime Prevention. London: Butterworths, 1983. Young, Iris Marion. “House and Home: Feminist Variations on a Theme.” Feminist Interpretations of Martin Heidegger. Eds. Nancy J. Holland and Patricia Huntington. University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State UP, 2001. 
 
 
 
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