Journal articles: 'Navigational know-how' – Grafiati (2024)

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Every sailor, at the back of his or her mind, is aware that the nearest land is likely to be directly beneath the ship's keel and he or she is interested to know just how near. For over two thousand years, mariners measured depth of water by using a sounding rod in shallow areas and the lead and line in deeper water. This paper considers how, during the “Dark Ages”, sailors in the North Sea might have navigated, including the use of sounding rods and lead lines for way-finding during a time when no other navigational instruments were available. Because of the lack of contemporary records the authors firstly consider the use of depth finding in earlier and later times to shed light on how the early North Sea sailors might have operated. The latter part of this paper takes account of the earlier discussion, together with some records of North Sea voyaging, to suggest how “Dark Age” sailors might have used sounding rods, the lead and line, and other techniques to navigate around and across the North Sea.

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How can we account for the psychopolitical phenomenon of depression in the light of the planetary? In his Sphere trilogy, Peter Sloterdijk uses Dante’s infernology as a navigational device to map out the imaginal geography of what he defines as “depressive space.” This article prolongs this approach by articulating it to a series of anonymous therapeutic exchanges that have taken place by chat in an online support group. The literary aspect of these exchanges is brought to the fore in an attempt to creatively and performatively accompany these precarious expressions of suffering, following Starhawk’s speculative and ethical guidance: “know the dark, and dream it into a new image.”

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Maritime non-commercial communications are performed using the equipment of Global Maritime Distress and Safety System (GMDSS), under the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea (SOLAS). This equipment includes numerous devices of different technologies, features and user interfaces, which every officer of the watch (OOW) must know how to use. Besides, the equipment, i.e., its technology has not changed significantly in the last 30 years. Therefore, the purpose of this research was to collect and analyze information on how often GMDSS devices are used and whether any modernization is needed. The main research method was a questionnaire survey intended for experienced officers. Each question, as well as the answers of the respondents, were analyzed in detail and presented graphically. The results of the survey analysis indicate that the VHF (Very High Frequency) radiotelephone, Navigational Telex (NAVTEX) receiver, and Enhanced Group Call (EGC) receiver are still very used, while Digital Selective Calling (DSC) devices and MF/HF (Medium Frequency/High Frequency) radios (telephone and telex) are almost unused onboard. Additionally, more than 80% of respondents believe that GMDSS needs modernization.

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To create an autonomously moving vessel, it is necessary to know exactly how to determine the current coordinates of the vessel in the selected coordinate system, determine the actual trajectory of the vessel, estimate the motion trend to predict the current coordinates, and calculate the course correction to return to the line of the specified path. The navigational and hydrographic conditions of navigation on each section of the route determine the requirements for the accuracy of observations and the time spent on locating the vessel. The problem of predicting the trajectory of the vessel’s motion in automatic mode is especially important for river vessels or river-sea vessels, predicting the trajectory of the route sections during the maneuvering of the vessel. At the moment, one of the most accurate ways of determining the coordinates of the vessel is by reading the satellite signal. However, when a vessel is near hydraulic structures, problems may arise connected with obtaining a satellite signal due to interference and, therefore, the error in measuring the coordinates of the vessel increases. The likelihood of collisions and various kinds of incidents increases. In such cases, it is possible to correct the trajectory of the movement using an autonomous navigation system. In this work, opportunities of the possible application of artificial neural networks to create such a corrective system using only the coordinates of the ship’s position are discussed. It was found that this is possible on sections of the route where the ship does not maneuver.

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This article investigates three types of content presentation (video documentary, computerized dictionary, and games) within interactive computer use at the Quebec Museum of Civilization. The visitors' viewpoint is particularly relevant for interface designing outcomes, since they argued that terminals require specific content display for disseminating information in the museum. We have identified five factors: 1) effortless knowledge; 2) sorted navigational paths; 3) exhaustiveness of topics; 4) combined audio and video media as first means; and 5) the quiz as a primary source of presentation. As first insight, terminals in exhibitions are perceived as multipurpose tools giving direct access to a wider selection of content, although it was shown that computer literate individuals have experienced problems to gain information, because of the content presentation and ergonomics. In addition, the commands provided did not properly assist visitors. Exhibit interface designers should build a “generic model interface” that best corresponds to the know-how of casual users, in order to avoid an arbitrary perusal of contents.

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AbstractThe way we perform identity in everyday situations nowadays is affected in very concrete ways by our interactions with technology. However, our conceptual understanding of such exchanges has been limited to a handful of concepts or narrative devices (i.e. a cyborg), which have proved their limits when facing extreme complexity. This paper develops a proposal to reexamine various possible assemblages between man and machine – at the level of the self-awareness and self-signifying of an individual vis à vis technological-based entities – by revisiting Greimas’s semiotic square, a tool from classical structural semiotics that could be readjusted to unfold what is at stake in that relationship, and under the semantic category of identity. The paper explains the constituent terms of Greimas’s elementary structure of meaning, unfolds the logic of his semiotic square, and develops some of its key underlying notions. Moreover, the limitations of the semiotic square are also surveyed. Instead of trying to pose a new paradigm, this paper wants to explore its heuristic possibilities and resist any claims of the underlying theory to produce fix typologies, semantic determinisms or stable discursive forms. In that sense, the scope of this essay is not to identify the whole array of cases in which identity is formed out of the contact between man and his machinical other, but to deliver a working scheme that may function as an initial, navigational map, a tool by which we can further explore the idea of how identity is affected by technology as a dynamic, performative process, therefore informing a semantic know-how and granting further access to yet unfamiliar fields of a post-human condition.

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This article explores navigation when knowing is intrinsically difficult. It looks at how irregularized migrants know during their perilous trips to and through Europe, focusing particularly on the significance of digital practices on these journeys. Based on retrospective ethnographic fieldwork conducted with Syrian refugees in and around the Danish-Swedish borderland, the article seeks to engage with digital migration studies, arguing that an understanding of irregularized migrants’ navigation, whether with or without digital practices, must involve the emplacement and embodiment of knowledge. Second, the article brings experiences of instability and danger into the anthropological theorization of knowing in order to explore the shifting positions and capabilities of knowing bodies.

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A research and development programme performed in Sweden over a period of 9 years has created a substantial know-how on the design of satellite navigation user systems. Thus, a basic user system, called the GP & c Total System has been developed and tested over 3 years. This system can serve as a basis for the tailoring of an almost endless number of applications. The system is currently using data from the GPS satellites, but can also be operated with combined GPS/GLONASS receivers. The Swedish GP & c System is an example of how the communication, navigation and surveillance (CNS) concept and the various elements (ADS, ATM, etc.) for a new global Air Navigation System published by the ICAO FANS Committee can be implemented and integrated into a user-friendly operational system. The ICAO 10th Air Navigation Conference (5–20 September 1991) endorsed the FANS concept in which the main elements are based on the implementation of satellite navigation technology.

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A traditional view of cognition is that it involves an internal process that represents, tracks or predicts an external process. This is not a general characteristic of all complex neural processing or feedback control, but rather implies specific forms of processing giving rise to specific behavioural capabilities. In this paper, I will review the evidence for such capabilities in insect navigation and learning. Do insects know where they are, or do they only know what to do? Do they learn what stimuli mean, or do they only learn how to behave?

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The sensor-based navigation for a mobile robot is a problem of how to select a sequence of sensor-based behaviors between start and goal positions. If a mobile robot does not know its 2-d environment completely or partially, it is obliged to rely on sensor information reflected from closer obstacles in order to avoid them on-line. In the on-line framework, we should consider how a mobile robot reaches its goal position in an uncertain 2-d world. Therefore we will study some previous sensor-based navigation algorithms for mobile robots. Our motivations are to ascertain the convergence of a mobile robot to its goal position, compare the lengths of sensor-based sequences made in the previous algorithms, and decrease the length of a sequence of sensor-based motions, which is generated between start and goal positions by a sensor-feedback obstacle avoidance. Because the mobile robot itself, its sensors, and its environment usually have several uncertainties, it is notable as to how a mobile robot arrives at or near its goal in overcoming such uncertainties. It is demonstrated that the sensor-based navigation still has an enormous potential as an actual navigation of a mobile robot in a completely or partially unknown environment.

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<p><strong>Abstract.</strong> Accurate measurement of distances is of paramount importance to transportation infrastructure planning. Be it for estimating travel time, locating accidents and hazards through road markers, planning maintenance services, or setting prices for building contracts, distance is the primary metric upon which all aspects of the job are based, given that transportation infrastructure deals mostly with linear features. Yet, countries with older infrastructure often don’t know for how long their networks run &amp;ndash; especially so in case of developing countries. Brazil currently has over 2640000&amp;thinsp;km of roads, with construction documentation lacking for most of the network. The most used method for generating distance measurements, the car odometer from driving between two points, while apt for doing macro-regional planning, is unfit for large-scale engineering work, as this study shows below.</p><p>The industry standard for measuring distances uses a precision odometer connected to specialized tires, used either on their own or as a “fifth wheel” on a vehicle. Such method, however, is laborious and slow, and only generates a scalar between two points, with any new distance necessitating a new measurement, even if the two sets share a common space, or if one distance is a subset of the other. This paper proposes the usage of systematic mapping techniques to generate topographic linear features with measuring information, from which any distance can be calculated. To generate these features, first a linear path is constructed in GIS software over a route. The height information of each node in the path is then extracted from a source, and then the topographic distance is calculated from the vertical profile. Finally, an M coordinate is generated for each node.</p><p>For comparison between sources, a base path was used as ground truth. This path was constructed from a GNSS survey along the road, collected on cinematic mode at 10Hz (1.1&amp;thinsp;m gap between points), and post-processed with fixed-phase relative positioning tied to a base station. The mean positional quality achieved was 2.5 cm of planimetric, and 4.3&amp;thinsp;cm of altimetric precision. Two other sources of height information were used for comparison, one a flight DTM with 33&amp;thinsp;cm LE90 and 1 m of cell size, and the NASA 1 Arc-second SRTM with a nominal 9&amp;thinsp;m LE90 and 30&amp;thinsp;m cell size. Furthermore, a planimetric distance using a navigational GPS device (C/A code only) was also calculated. Two highways were selected for testing, and divided into 341 segments of 200 meters each, to account for the influence of slope in the calculations.</p><p>As expected, the flight DTM came the closest to the base model, deviating from it at an average of 31.95&amp;thinsp;ppm, with 2.8&amp;thinsp;ppm of standard error. It is, however, the most expensive and time-consuming method. The SRTM deviated an average of 5131.53&amp;thinsp;ppm and showed very high variation, with 8481.96&amp;thinsp;ppm of standard error. The navigation GPS deviated at an average of 685.18 ppm, with 633.11&amp;thinsp;ppm of standard error. Both the SRTM and GPS appear to deviate further from the base model as slope increases, but given that few segments with over 2.5&amp;deg; of slope were present in the sample, a correlation could not yet be established. For comparison, the average of the car odometer method was 16654.51 ppm, with a standard error of 22661.69&amp;thinsp;ppm.</p><p> Given its high deviation, the SRTM is unfit for precision work, but is a big improvement over using the car odometer for general indications. Further studies with mid-range DTMs should be done to provide a remote sensing alternative. The handheld GPS had better results than expected, given its nominal precision of 15&amp;thinsp;m. Despite a probable larger absolute positioning error, its relative error distribution remained steady enough to allow a good distance measurement.</p>

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Mobile robots and animals alike must effectively navigate their environments in order to achieve their goals. For animals goal-directed navigation facilitates finding food, seeking shelter or migration; similarly robots perform goal-directed navigation to find a charging station, get out of the rain or guide a person to a destination. This similarity in tasks extends to the environment as well; increasingly, mobile robots are operating in the same underwater, ground and aerial environments that animals do. Yet despite these similarities, goal-directed navigation research in robotics and biology has proceeded largely in parallel, linked only by a small amount of interdisciplinary research spanning both areas. Most state-of-the-art robotic navigation systems employ a range of sensors, world representations and navigation algorithms that seem far removed from what we know of how animals navigate; their navigation systems are shaped by key principles of navigation in ‘real-world’ environments including dealing with uncertainty in sensing, landmark observation and world modelling. By contrast, biomimetic animal navigation models produce plausible animal navigation behaviour in a range of laboratory experimental navigation paradigms, typically without addressing many of these robotic navigation principles. In this paper, we attempt to link robotics and biology by reviewing the current state of the art in conventional and biomimetic goal-directed navigation models, focusing on the key principles of goal-oriented robotic navigation and the extent to which these principles have been adapted by biomimetic navigation models and why.

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Most motion controls of mobile robots are based on the classical scheme of planning-navigation-piloting. The navigation function, the main part of which consists in obstacle avoidance, has to react with the shortest response time. The real-time constraint hardly limits the complexity of sensor data processing. The described navigator is built around fuzzy logic controllers. Besides the well-known possibility of taking into account human know-how, the approach provides several contributions: a low sensitivity to erroneous or inaccurate measures and, if the inputs of the controllers are normalised, an effective portability on various platform. To show these advantages, the same fuzzy navigator has been implemented on two mobile robots. Their mechanical structures are close, except for size and the sensing system.

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Simulation sickness in virtual reality applications is usually due to the non-realtime display of virtual environment. Realtime display of arbitrarily complex scene is a hard problem in traditional geometry-based computer graphics. Image-based modeling and rendering (IBMR) provides an alternative approach whose rendering time complexity is independent of scene complexity. However, due to the lack of geometrical information, capabilities that are obvious to geometry-based virtual reality become difficult problems in image-based virtual reality. In this paper we discuss how two fundamental capabilities, navigation and illumination control, can be achieved in image-based virtual reality applications. To navigate an image-based scene, we need to know where pixels should be moved to and how to solve their visibility. While correspondences or optical flows can answer the former question, the visibility is more difficult to answer, as depth information may not be available. Deriving from epipolar geometry, we propose a triangle-based visibility-ordering algorithm, which can correctly resolve the occlusion without depth information. To control the illumination, we propose a new image representation that not just allows navigation but also re-rendering under various illuminations. By treating each image pixel as an ordinary surface element, we measure the apparent BRDF of each pixel from reference images. By manipulating these apparent pixel BRDFs, we are able to re-render (change the illumination of the scene in an image) without any geometry information. Even shadows can be correctly re-rendered.

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In the first aerial crossing of the South Atlantic, by Gago Coutinho and Sacadura Cabral in 1922, several methods of astronomical maritime navigation were used with adaptions to aerial navigation. In order to apply these methods, the navigator needed to know the approximate altitude of the aircraft so that its position could be determined. The instrument available at that time, the altimeter, did not give reliable values for altitude. Therefore, Coutinho had to devise a method that enabled the navigator to determine the altitude quickly and efficiently. The method Coutinho devised is based on a mathematical and geometrical procedure. In this paper, we study in detail Coutinho's method to determine altitude, with diagrams to aid understanding of the deductions and calculations. We also present a real example of how this method would be used during the flight.

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The aerial lifestyle of central-place foraging birds allows wide-ranging movements, raising fundamental questions about their remarkable navigation and memory systems. For example, we know that pigeons ( Columba livia ), long-standing models for avian navigation, rely on individually distinct routes when homing from familiar sites. But it remains unknown how they cope with the task of learning several routes in parallel. Here, we examined how learning multiple routes influences homing in pigeons. We subjected groups of pigeons to different training protocols, defined by the sequence in which they were repeatedly released from three different sites, either sequentially, in rotation or randomly. We observed that pigeons from all groups successfully developed and applied memories of the different release sites (RSs), irrespective of the training protocol, and that learning several routes in parallel did not impair their capacity to quickly improve their homing efficiency over multiple releases. Our data also indicated that they coped with increasing RS uncertainty by adjusting both their initial behaviour upon release and subsequent homing efficiency. The results of our study broaden our understanding of avian route following and open new possibilities for studying learning and memory in free-flying animals.

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The purpose of this study was to fundamental develop a Moodle-based learning media and know how to influence the use of instructional media on physics course. This research includes the development of research conducted through three stages that is: preliminary studies, design development, and testing media. Subjects of the study were students at the FPMIPA IKIP Mataram which was following the fundamental Physics course. Moodle-based learning media development in fundamental physics courses have been designed and have done the settings on the story board and page navigation, profile settings, administration settings, and management course settings. Devices and media that have been developed and then validated and tested on a limited scale.

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To qualify the wind it is necessary to know its direction and speed. It may have interference in direction and wind speed location, time of year, air temperature, pressure of the earth's atmosphere, humidity, atmosphere and reliefs. Their knowledge is of essential importance in various sectors of human activity, including aircraft safety, navigation, civil construction, agriculture, renewable energy, transport and etc. The focus of this work is the gusts of wind recorded in different regions of the semiarid state of Alagoas (Arapiraca and Palmeira dos Índios) and Pernambuco (Garanhuns and Petrolina) in the period 2014-2018. were analyzed the seasonal direction of the gusts, mean annual speed and gust distributions (seasonal and daily), Maximum annual bursts, monthly gust distributions, occurrences above 15 m/s and the day of the highest gust on the surface, to observe how behaves the gusts, temperature, pressure and direction at the time of winds peak.

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Hidden Markov model (HMM) has become increasingly popular in the last several years. Real-world problems such as prediction of web navigation are uncertain in nature; in this case, HMM is less appropriate i.e., we cannot assign certain probability values while in fuzzy set theory everything has elasticity. In addition to that, a theory of possibility on fuzzy sets has been developed to handle uncertainity. Thus, we propose a fuzzy hidden Markov chain (FHMC) on possibility space and solve three basic problems of classical HMM in our proposed model to overcome the ambiguous situation. Client's browsing behavior is an interesting aspect in web access. Analysis of this issue can be of great benefit in discovering user's behavior in this way we have applied our proposed model to our institution's website ( www.ssn.edu.in ) to identify how well a given model matches a given observation sequence, next to find the corresponding state sequence which is the best to explain the given observation sequence and then to attempt to optimize the model parameters so as to describe best how a given observation sequence comes about. The solution of these problems help us to know the authenticity of the website.

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The need for skilled and semi-skilled indigenous manpower in the gulf states (e.g., Kuwait. Qatar, United Arab Emirates) is highly noted in the related literature. Technical and vocational education is considered as a dual type of education system that allow students to transfer what they have learned in classrooms, workshops, and laboratories into real work environment. It is the ultimate solution, particularly for the gulf states, to overcome and/or reduce the rate of dependance on expatriates especially in essential sectors in their economy (e.g., oil, electricity and water, health sector). The governments of the gulf states have realized the urgent need to forge technical and vocational colleges and institutions hoping to close the gap with industries and business. Technical and vocational education is completely different from formal education and thus requires a careful design, planning, and monitoring to ensure meeting industrial and business current and future requirements. However, the success of technical and vocational education would depend, to great extent, on the type of management since it requires a specific knowledge, skills, and attitudes that are distinguished technical and vocational education from any other types of education. The Higher Institute of Communications and Navigation, HIC&N, was forged by the Kuwaiti Government with the aim to equipped local manpower with the know-how and know-why that are mostly needed by local industries. The research is focus on measuring the perception of a sample of heads of departments at the Ministry of Communications towards the quality of HIC&N graduates. The research is based on extensive field work that encompasses a review of the related literature, interviews with a sample of heads of departments at the Ministry Communications to assess the quality of field training program and the standard of the HIC&N graduates. Finally, the research will argue that unless the HIC&N recognize and appreciate the value of building a strong linkage with local industries, its contribution in tackling the shortage of skilled and semi-skilled indigenous in essential sectors on the economy will be below the government expectations, thus continuing relaying on expatriates for years ahead.

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We all know that the properties of a material can change with time, but is the inverse possible? How can materials have an effect on time? In the strictest sense, the idea is absurd. However, our ability to keep track of time is clearly dependent on the materials we use to construct our clocks. The performance of many early mechanical clocks depended on the materials of fabrication, and today's high-technology clocks depend no less critically on materials.My objective in this brief article is to divulge a few materials problems involved in clock technology. Since I do not attempt a comprehensive report, I will undoubtedly leave out some issues that colleagues in the field would consider important.Navigation has been a key driving force for the development of accurate timekeeping, at least since the 17th century. While many other important applications require accurate timekeeping (e.g., synchronization for telecommunications and electrical power distribution), I focus on navigation because of its historical significance and its particularly graphic illustration of why clocks have attained such prominence.

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Many accidents are caused by miscommunication between traffic participants. Much research is being conducted in the area of car to car and car to infrastructure communication in order to eliminate this cause of accidents. How-ever, less attention is paid to the question how the behavior of a car can be communicated to pedestrians. Especially considering automated traffic, there is a lack of communication between cars and pedestrians.<br> In this paper, we address the question how an autonomously driving car can inform pedestrians about its intentions. Especially in case of highly automated driving, making eye contact with a driver will give no clue about his or her intensions. We developed a prototype which continuously informs pedestrians about the intentions of the vehicle by projecting visual patterns onto the ground. Furthermore, the system communicates its interpretation of the observed situation to the pedestrians to warn them or to encourage them to perform a certain action. In order to communicate adaptively, the vehicle needs to develop an understanding of the dynamics of a city to know what to expect in certain situations and what speed is appropriate. To support this, we created a dynamic map, which estimates the number of pedestrians and cyclists in a certain area, which is then used to determine how ‘hazardous’ the area is. This dynamic map is obtained from measurement data from many time instances, in contrast to the static car navigation maps, which are prevalent today. Apart from being used for communication purposes, the dynamic map can also influence the speed of a car, be it manually or autonomously driven. Adapting the speed in hazardous areas will avoid accidents where a car drives too fast, so that neither a human nor a computer-operated system would be able to stop in time.

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Theoretical basis Students will need to know basic capital budgeting techniques to value UrsaNav and its divisions. Students must determine which cash flows are relevant and determine an appropriate return on investment. Some of the issues that need to be addressed include: how to handle taxes in a discounted cash flow analysis when valuing an S Corp. where incentives depend on current (known) tax provisions and future (unknown) tax provisions; how to use comparable multiples to develop a cost of capital for a DCF valuation; and how to value a firm using comparable transactions. Research methodology Case information was obtained through interviews with the owner, Charles Schue. In addition, the authors researched industry and comparable company data, along with current events relating to government consulting. Case overview/synopsis UrsaNav is a US-based, international provider of advanced engineering and information management consulting services in the naval navigation industry. After about a decade of operating and growing, the firm had become successfully diversified; however, it had also grown too large to manage effectively. Thus, the company was spun-off into three separate segments: Tagence, Geodesicx and UrsaNav. These segments went “back to the basics,” and focused more on serving customers, with each having a more defined company focus. Is this a move that creates or destroys value? How could it create value for the firms’ founders? Complexity academic level This case is intended for an advanced undergraduate or an MBA corporate finance class or an entrepreneurship elective. Students interested in analyzing whether or not decision makers within a company would want to spin-off divisions, or merge with another company, or divest a company would find this case appealing. Other students who just want to analyze whether the company has grown too much would be good candidates to do this case.

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The growing field of shipping and the changes in the global military strategy of large countries which of course indirectly affect how well a country acts. As an archipelagic nation, Indonesia has the right to conceptualize a Traffic Separation Scheme to improve navigation safety in the Islands Sea Channel, based on Article 53 (6) of the 1982 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) 1982 and also based on the IMO General Provisions for Adoption, Appointment and Replacement of the Islands Sea Plate. Traffic Separation Scheme (TSS) is a dividing line between the navigation boundaries of trade ships and the territorial waters of national jurisdictions. The Traffic Separation Scheme (TSS) Scheme is a traffic management route system governed by the International Maritime Organization or IMO. Then we can know that Indonesia has the right and obligation to regulate its own sea. Departing from this, the concept of the Traffic Separation Scheme (TSS) and Particularly Sensitive Sea Area (PSSA) was coined, as an effort of embodiment, a derivation of "lex specialis" International provisions adopted by all sea users in the world. This study uses a qualitative method with an explanatory approach. The procedure used to obtain this information is through literature review. Data analysis in this study uses SWOT analysis (strength, weakness, opportunity and threat) and POAC (planning, organizing, actuating and controlling). The result for this case study, must prepare carefully for the implementation of TSS and PSSA in the Lombok Strait, as a country that has declared itself as the first archipelagic state in the world that has a separation in its narrow sea. Given that the implementation is just counting the days. Indonesia does not need to doubt the benefits of TSS and PSSA itself, because TSS and PSSA become a "win-win solution" for both the user and coastal countries

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Infectious diseases, such as COVID-19, SARS, MERS, etc., have seriously endangered human safety, economy, and education. During the spread of epidemics, restricting the range of activities of personnel is one of the options for the prevention and treatment of infectious diseases. A global navigation satellite system (GNSS), it can provide accurate coordinates of latitude and longitude to targets with GNSS receivers. However, it is not common to use GNSS coordinates to represent positions in social life. For epidemic management, it is important to know the locations (and addresses) of targets, especially in social life. When there are many targets, it is not easy to efficiently map these coordinates to locations. Therefore, we propose a GNSS-based crowd-sensing strategy for specific geographical areas that can be used to calculate how many targets are in specific geographical areas or whether a target is in a specific area. This strategy is based on the coordinates of latitude and longitude provided by GNSS to find the locations of these coordinates. As simulated data, the data records containing latitude and longitude in a well-known social networking service platform are used. The strategy is also available for mining hot spots or hot areas.

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The primary task of marine surveillance is to construct a perfect marine situational awareness (MSA) system that serves to safeguard national maritime rights and interests and to maintain blue homeland security. Progress in maritime wireless communication, developments in artificial intelligence, and automation of marine turbines together imply that intelligent shipping is inevitable in future global shipping. Computer vision-based situational awareness provides visual semantic information to human beings that approximates eyesight, which makes it likely to be widely used in the field of intelligent marine transportation. We describe how we combined the visual perception tasks required for marine surveillance with those required for intelligent ship navigation to form a marine computer vision-based situational awareness complex and investigated the key technologies they have in common. Deep learning was a prerequisite activity. We summarize the progress made in four aspects of current research: full scene parsing of an image, target vessel re-identification, target vessel tracking, and multimodal data fusion with data from visual sensors. The paper gives a summary of research to date to provide background for this work and presents brief analyses of existing problems, outlines some state-of-the-art approaches, reviews available mainstream datasets, and indicates the likely direction of future research and development. As far as we know, this paper is the first review of research into the use of deep learning in situational awareness of the ocean surface. It provides a firm foundation for further investigation by researchers in related fields.

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Development of Indonesian aerospace industry into the determination of urgency Empowerment Government Regulation of Industry and Technology Development. In this research, an analysis of the potential economic value and mapping of potential national (local industry) in order to meet airport facilities and air navigation. Mapping the potential of the local indust0' is important to know the strentgh and weakness of local industry. From these information it is expected that the government can formulate a roadmap and action plan that can protect local industry. when the products have been used. In addition, how can stimulate the local industry to participate and meet the needs of facilities that still have to be imported from abroad. Pengembangan industri kedirgantaraan Indonesia menjadi urgensi penetapan Peraturan Pemerintah tentang Pemberdayaan Industri dan Pengembangan Teknologi Penerbangan. Untuk menjawab tantangan dalam pengembangan industri dirgantara nasional tersebut, diperlukan dukungan regulasi dan kebijakan pemerintah. Dalam penelitian ini dilakukan analisa mengenai potensi nilai ekonomi (skala ke-ekonomian) dan pemetaan potensi nasional (industri lokal) dalam rangka pemenuhan fasilitas bandar udara dan navigasi penerbangan. Pemetaan potensi industri lokal penting untuk diketahui agar pemerintah dapat mengetahui gambaran fasilitas apa saja yang bisa disuplai dari dalam negeri dan fasilitas apa saja yang masih bergantung pada pihak luar negeri. Dari gambaran ini diharapkan pemerintah dapat menyusun roadmap dan rencana aksi yang dapat melindungi pengusaha lokal bila produk yang dihasilkan telah dapat digunakan. Selain itu juga bagaimana caranya dapat merangsang pihak industri lokal dapat turut serta memenuhi kebutuhan fasilitas yang selama ini masih harus didatangkan dari luar negeri.

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The design methods for shipboard shell-and-tube oil and water coolers are presented. As a result of the review, it was revealed that currently there is no systematic and complete methodological support for the integrated computer-aided design of ship heat exchangers (CAD SHE), which in turn would be integrated into the CAD / CAM / CAE system and later on into the production preparation. From the analysis it follows that not all operating conditions of ship power plants are provided with an oil cooler. This is due to the fact that the surface of the cooler and its flow characteristics were calculated only on the nominal mode, and other operating characteristics were not evaluated. The complexity of the work of ship oil and water coolers lies in the fact that the parameters of the heat load on these devices change, the temperature and salinity of the outboard water change depending on the navigation area. Determining the effect of the oil cooler on changing the power of the power plant when the characteristics of the cooling coolant (seawater) change, such as initial temperature, flow rate, salinity, without additional testing in each mode is difficult. It is also difficult to change the salinity and temperature of the seawater during the tests. Thus, the designer of the power plant does not know how the mode of its operation will change when the ship (ship) in the World Ocean is different. This indicates the need to improve the methods of thermal and hydrodynamic calculations of SHE with their integration into the overall design system. Under these conditions, the problem of using integrated CAD SHE is of particular relevance.

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Static Network Code Dgps Positioning vs. Carrier Phase Single Baseline Solutions for Short Observation time and Medium-Long DistancesGPS land surveys are usually based on the results of processing GPS carrier phase data. Code or pseudorange observations due to considerations of accuracy requirements and robustness are preferred in navigation and some GIS applications. Generally, the accuracy of that positioning is in the range of about 1-2 meters or so, on average. But the main problem in code GPS positioning is to know how to estimate the real accuracy of DGPS positions. It is not such an easy process in code positioning when one reference station is used. In most commercial software, there are no values of accuracy but only positions are presented. DGPS positions without estimated errors cannot be used for surveying tasks and for most GIS applications due to the fact that every point has to be have accuracy determined. However, when we used static GPS positioning, it is well known that the accuracy is determined, both during baseline processing and next by the adjustment of a GPS network. These steps of validation with redundancy in classical static phase baseline solutions allow wide use of static or rapid static methods in the main land surveying tasks. Although these control steps are commonly used in many major surveying and engineering tasks, they are not always effective in terms of short-observation-time sessions. This paper presents a new network DGPS approach of positioning with the use of at least three reference stations. The approach concerns also valid accuracy estimation based on variance-covariance (VC) matrix in the least-squares (LS) calculations. The presented network DGPS approach has the ability of reliable accuracy estimation. Finally, network DGPS positioning is compared with static baselines solutions where five-min sessions were taken into consideration for two different rover stations. It was shown that in a short observation time of GPS positioning, code network DGPS results can give even centimetre accuracy and can be more reliable than static relative phase positioning where gross errors often happen.

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122 Background: All NCI-designated, comprehensive cancer centers report having consultative palliative care services alongside six other supportive care services. Inaccuracies in the understanding of these services among frontline office staff may undermine their accessibility to patients. We investigated how easily new patients could access these services when first contacting a major cancer center. Methods: We used a ‘mystery shopper’ format to simulate calls made by a family member of a recently diagnosed patient. We used a standardized call script, describing a female patient, age 58, recently diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer. We called each center four times on different days and evaluated quantitative and qualitative components. Descriptive statistics were calculated for each quantitative measure. Results: We placed 160 calls to 40 NCI-designated cancer centers. 38.2% of callers were unable to receive complete information about supportive care services. Overall, only 37.6% of callers (60.8% of those reaching someone who could answer questions) were told all 7 supportive care services were offered. In 9.5% of calls, call recipients gave an answer other than “yes” to whether the cancer center offered palliative care. Callers were told regarding palliative care: that it was for end of life patients only (2 calls), that there weren’t doctors who focused on symptom management (3), its availability depends on review of medical records (2), or that the call recipient was unsure either of the availability of palliative care (10), or did not know what the term meant (2). Availability responses other than “yes” were obtained in the following frequencies: multidisciplinary approach (14.6%), patient navigation (12.1%), genetic assessment (9.5%), psychological services (7.6%), and cancer education services (6.4%). Conclusions: Despite the stated availability of seven key supportive care services, accessibility was limited in one-third of calls. In about 10% of cases where a person was reached, the call recipient was unable to confirm that palliative care was offered. Further research is needed to close the availability vs. accessibility gap in oncology palliative and supportive care.

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283 Background: Many cancer centers have developed and fostered several supportive care services to ease the stress of a cancer diagnosis. The availability of such services is key to Commission on Cancer (CoC) for accreditation, which many cancer centers pursue and patients seek as a measure of quality. Despite the stated availability of supportive care services, we wondered how easily new patients could access these services when first contacting a major cancer center. Methods: We used a ‘mystery shopper’ format to simulate calls made by a family member of a recently diagnosed patient to 40 NCI-designated cancer centers. We called each center four times on different days, twice with the caller reporting Medicaid insurance, twice with private insurance. We evaluated quantitative and qualitative components of the call, including time to next available appointment and reported availability of the 7 supportive services reported to the CoC. Descriptive statistics were calculated for each quantitative measure. Results: We placed 160 calls to 40 NCI-designated cancer centers. 38.2% of callers were unable to receive complete information about the number of supportive care services offered, whether because they were unable to reach a person or because the person they reached did not know whether one or more of the services was offered. Overall, only 37.6% of callers (60.8% of those who reached a person who could answer their questions) were told that all seven supportive care services were offered. Call recipients responded with an answer other than yes to whether the cancer center offered a multidisciplinary team approach (14.6%), patient navigation services (12.1%), genetic assessment/counseling (9.5%), palliative care (9.5%), counseling/psychological services (7.6%), or cancer education services (6.4%). Conclusions: Despite the stated availability of seven key supportive care services, we were unable to access all services during a call to establish an appointment about one-third of the time. For individual services, about 10% of the time we were told such services did not exist at the cancer center. Further research is needed to close the availability vs. accessibility gap in oncology supportive care.

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In this paper, I don’tuse the word of “geomancy” but use “feng-shui”, as meaning a set of method and concept for an assessment for environmental impact against human life. Environmental impact assessment, connected with the feng-shui theory of later eras, first began with xiang-zhai (house and community observation), which appeared in the Zhou Period (770~256 BC.), Spring and Autumn/Warring States Periods(770~221 BC.) in China. Now I recognize the meanings of feng-shuiare indicated two kinds. One meaning is a kind of scientific thought through the ancient environmental impact assessment, and another meaning is a method of divination through judgments fortune-telling items. So I will mention about the Japanese history of feng-shuidivided into two kinds of histories. A number of scholars have pointed out the transmission of feng-shui knowledge to Japan, as recorded in the section of the Nihon Shoki (the Book of the ancient Japanese record) which reads: “In 601 AD, a buddhist monk named Kanroku arrived from Paekche (one of the country, ancient Korea) to Japan. As tribute, they brought books of astronomy and geography (same meaning of feng-shui)...”. After this record, terms synonymous with feng-shui can be sporadically seen in the records of ancient Japan. Continuing, in the Book of Ryo-no-gige (chapter of staff inst- ructions) of the 9th century in Japan, it states that 6 yin-yang practitioners of the yin-yang Bureau (Ministry of astronomical and geographical observations) “shall be in charge of divination sticks and souchi (feng-shui)”. Thus, one of the duties of the yin-yang practitioners was souchi. This was a form of divination and observation topography which was a predecessor of the feng-shui theory. Much later in time, we arrive at the Edo Period (1603~1868 AD.). In Wakan-sansai-zue, or Sino-Japanese encyclopaedia from this Period written by Terashima Ryoan, the compass (which developed later) was called a tokei-shin, and it is explained as “an instrument for determining directions and telling time”. According to Terashima Ryoan, it is a compass, like that used in Japan today for kasou (i.e. divining the fortune of a house from its directions and situation). The tokei-shin described by Terashima Ryoan was a “compass for sea navigation” developed further for sea navigation after the invention of the luo-pan (compass) in the Sung Period in China. This “compass for sea navigation” was a simplified version of the luo-pan for land divination (feng-shui), and until very recently, was used as a compass for small boats in Japan. After the luo-pan using a magnetic needle was invented, there is a history in China of using the luo-pan as a surveying instrument, i.e. as a successor of the previous tugui method based on sun shadow measurement. This was not a luo-pan notched with many graduations; rather, it was a luo-pan which attempted to measure accurate directions and angles by using only one type of graduation. This type of luo-pan was also used in Japan in the Edo Period called “banshin- raban”. In the Edo Period, there was active development of mines, and it was necessary to measure accurate bearings and angles for tasks like excavating mine tunnels. In the some of ancient Japanese written historical records, the synonymous words of “Chiri” (in Japanese), or “Dili” (in Chinese) could be recognized as the “geography” which has been used in ancient China. But we know two letters of “feng (wind) and shui (water)” that are widely used today all over the world. When it comes to the Edo period, the name “fuu-sui”, or “geography=Chiri” can be discovered at the time of feng-shui manual named “Kasou-sho”. A book of “Kasou-zukai or feng-shui illustration published in 1798 is commentary various divination ways in the name of “fuu-sui”. Since then, also in many other Edo periods, at the Kasou-sho manual, words and examples of “fuu-sui” are abundantly found, the knowledge of “fuu-sui” as a method of divination had been introduced to Japan. Currently, examples of I know the oldest word of “fuu-sui or feng-shui” in Japan is in a memorial document of “Engaku temple” in the Muromachi era. But I don’t know now that from Muromachi to Edo era, the term of “fuu-sui” has first used in Japan or not. Appeared in a “topography of Youshuu” in the Edo era and “Engaku temple document” in the Muromachi era, “fuu-sui or feng-shui” do not mean the knowledge of “geography” associated with land observations, but means a method how to judge right and wrong about their environmental conditions. We therefore, can recognize about the meaning of “Chiri” that there were two kinds or more of knowledge in Edo era. A Japanese geographer in Edo era named Nyoken Nishikawa wrote his book (1712). His book tells us an example of meaning of “Chiri”. Nyoken Nishikawa said that ranging from one of the house to the entire earth, “Chiri or geography” have various levels of meaning. “Fuu-sui” means “geographical conditions” themselves. There are good or bad conditions in “Chiri” itself, but not exist in human environmental judgments. “Geography” itself means environmental conditions, so there was no need to judge human environment good or bad. However, in the medieval period, Yin-yang diviner or fuu-sui master in Japan had broken out over wide area and using the name of “Chiri or geography”, explaining about the vicissitudes of descendant life, as a result of their adverse effects do not converge till now. At the time of Japan, there were many Yin-yang diviners preached weal or woe of human life for the common people. As the time passed, they were gradually increasing and Kasou-sho were also gradually increasing. Today in Japan and East Asia, we can take many books of feng-shui judgment and Kasou documents in our hand. These are filled with bothersome non-scientific judgment items. And because there are many different items in each feng-shui manuals, of course these books are fortune-telling books, but we can also find “some vestiges of scientific thought” in such feng-shui fortune-telling judgment items. European awareness about the declination was the end of 14th century, that is to say several hundred years later for China. Chinese direction finding methods and land surveying technology and knowledge, whose development was motivated by feng-shui divination and observation, subsequently spread to Europe (12th century) and Arabia (13th century). Therefore, today we must take another look at feng-shui research, on a global scale.

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From immemorial time, many Tyrrhenian places of ancient Sicily and Italy were identified (also by the local people) with the main stages of the return of Ulysses (Cyclopes, Aeolus, Circe, etc.). Some Hellenistic critics (for example Aristarchus and Polybius) assumed that it was from the various ancient and pre-Homeric myths that Homer drew inspiration, in the same way that he did with the myth of the Trojan War, which certainly occurred before him. Thus, the voyage of Ulysses, after his losing the course because of the storm at Cape Malea, had to be located in those sites. But how can one explain the fact that Homer places the voyage from Circe to the Hades over the Ocean? Is it only a pseudogeographic poetic touch, aimed to magnify the exploit? Crates of Mallus did not think so: in his opinion, only some of the numerous adventures had taken place in the Tyrrhenian Sea, whereas Homer had purposefully placed some other exactly on the Atlantic Ocean, beyond the Pillars of Hercules (the ancient name given to the Straits of Gibraltar). Whichever of the two models one chooses, the route of Ulysses seems to be completely unlikely, both from the point of view of objective reality and from the point of view of poetic imagination (if one desires to retain at least some plausibility). It appears to be a senseless coming and going that takes the shape of some sort of a labyrinth. Furthermore, the navigation times suggested by the text do not accord at all (even approximately) with the distances among the real sites. For this reason, Eratosthenes held that, from Cape Malea onwards, Ulysses switched from the real world to that of fantasy, or better still to the world of some narrative fable that does not heed geography at all. The modern critics are inclined to agree with him and this thesis is nowadays the most popular one. Yet, a very serious objection can be raised here: the myth and the epos (since the most archaic era), are strictly linked to the geography and the topography as well – they are radically refractory to a narrative fable that totally contradicts the then realities of time and space. Why should Ulysses plunge from Cape Malea onwards straight into the Neverland kingdom? If we combine Odyssey’s data with those we can reconstruct for the earliest form of the Argonautic saga (taking also into account the chronology of the Greek western colonization), then we get the solution that neither the ancient nor the modern critics have guessed correctly: up to around the middle of the 8th century B.C., the Greeks thought the Ocean to flow just after the Sicily Channel, essentially coinciding with the so-called Tyrrhenian Sea, still completely unknown at that time. This new perspective can well justify the objective disorder of Ulysses’ route. Above all, it also bears a deeper poetic sense: the Hero had the chance to know and to experience not only some far and exotic countries in general terms (as it can happen to any off-course sailor), but he also met the very boundaries of the surfacing lands and the rushing waters which encircle the terrestrial disc, bordering the external cosmic abyss. Ulysses came back home alive. He was able to tell the stories about the lands where no human being could ever sail. This borderline that geographically is clearly located marks at the same time the insurmountable chasm between the physical and the meta-physical world.

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Objective – To determine the perceptions and information behavior of institutional repository (IR) end-users. Design – Semi-structured interviews. Setting – The interviews were conducted over the telephone. Subjects – Twenty end-users of five different IRs were interviewed for the study. Seventeen of the interviewees were recruited via recruitment forms the researchers placed on IR homepages and the other three interviewees were referred to researchers by IR managers. The interviewees’ academic backgrounds varied, including six undergraduates, four masters’ students, three doctorial students, five faculty, and two library or museum staff members. They represented disciplines in Arts and Humanities (5), Science and Health Sciences (10), and Social Sciences (5). Fifteen of the 20 interviewees were recruited through their own institution’s IR. All except two of the interviewees had used the IR for which they were recruited less than six times. Methods – Forty-three potential interviewees were recruited using web recruitment forms and IR manager recommendations. Researchers subsequently excluded 23 (53.5%) of the interviewees because they were primarily IR contributors rather than end-users, or could not be reached by phone. Twenty interviews ranging from 17 to 60 minutes were conducted between January and June 2008. The average interview time was 34 minutes. The recordings were transcribed then analyzed using qualitative data analysis software NVivo7. Coding categories were developed using both the original research questions and emerging themes from the actual transcripts. The final coding scheme had a Holsi Coefficient of Reliability of 0.732 for inter-coder reliability. Main Results – Researchers identified six common themes from the results: How do end-users characterize IRs? While most interviewees recognized that there is a relationship between the IR and its host institution, their understandings of the function and content of IRs varied widely. Interviewees likened the IRs they used to a varying array of information resources and tools, including databases, interface, server, online forums, and “static Wikipedia” (p. 27). Furthermore, six of the interviewees had never heard of the actual term “Institutional Repository” (p. 27). How do end-users access and use IRs? The most common methods of accessing IRs included selecting the link on their institution library’s website and Google searches. Many interviewees found out about the IRs they are using through recommendations from professors, peers, or library workshops. Other interviewees found out about particular IRs “simply because a Google search had landed them there” (p. 29). Interviewees’ preferred method of interacting with an IR were divided between browsing and keyword searching. However, these preferences may have been the result of an IR’s content or interface limitations. For instance, some interviewees expressed difficulties with browsing a particular IR, while another interviewee preferred browsing because “there wasn’t much going on” when searching for a specific topic of interest (p. 30). For what purposes do end-users use IRs? Interviewees commonly cited keeping abreast with research projects from their own university as a reason to access their institutions’ IRs. Student interviewees also used IRs to find examples of theses and dissertations they would be expected to complete. Identifying people doing similar work across different departments in the same institution for collaboration and networking opportunities was another unique purpose for using IRs. How do end-users perceive the credibility of information from IRs? Many interviewees perceived IRs to be more “trustworthy” than Google Scholar (p. 33). In their view, an IR’s credibility was assured by the reputation of its affiliated institution. On the other hand, many interviewees viewed a lack of comprehensiveness in content negatively when judging the credibility of an information source, which placed most IRs in a less favorable light. Additionally, researchers noted conflicting assumptions made by interviewees about IRs in the evaluation process for their content. Some interviewees believed all the content of an IR has been vetted through an approval process, while others distrusted all IR content that was not peer-reviewed. To what extent are end-users willing to return to an IR or recommend it to their peers? The great majority of interviews indicated they were likely to use IRs again in the future, and nearly all indicated they would recommend IRs to their peers. However, most interviewees did not know of any people using IRs. The few interviewees who did often knew of IR contributors rather than end-users. How do IRs fit into end-users’ information seeking behavior? Many interviewees noted that IRs provided them with content that was not commonly available through traditional publishing channels, including conference papers and dissertations. Others felt IRs made content available more quickly than other information sources. However, the results also suggested that most interviewees did not include IRs in their routine research process. Conclusion – This study identified current end-users’ perceptions of IRs and highlighted several areas for future IR development. Areas of improvement for IRs included intensifying publicity efforts; increasing content recruitment; making content recruitment policies more transparent; and improving appearance and navigation functionalities. The findings also suggested new directions for IR marketing, such as emphasizing on the networking and collaborating benefits of using IR.

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About the research question: in the business world, companies increasingly tend to create their websites and apps by conducting exhaustive simultaneous or preliminary research and testing. Surfaces developed in this way are easy to use and understand, and they meet the explicit and implicit needs and expectations of the users. This in turn generates new expectations, that is, citizens need public administration sites to be usable and easy to understand at the same time. They want to be able to search for information, do administrative tasks and carry out other transactions in a straightforward manner (Béres and Zsák, 2007).In the meantime, it is a well known fact that citizens have a problem with orienting themselves on public administration websites in most countries. The interpretation of the information architecture and wording cause difficulty, a lot of things are not found in places where the user would look, and so on. However, if the surface of public administration sites is cumbersome, navigation is complicated, the expressions used there are difficult to understand, citizens will be annoyed, and choose personal administration with a bad feeling. This does not favor the spread of e-government, while, according to the eEurope action plans, public administration should be able to offer complex electronic public services that meet up to date standards of quality, content and functionality.The paper explores the possible backgrounds of the above problems, and presents methods for developing online public administration web surfaces in such a way the results meet the explicit and implicit expectations of users after all.The author gives real answers to the following questions:• How can public administration websites be more simple and straightforward to use?• How can web surfaces be tested, and in which phase of developing is it best to do this?• What kinds of known, tried methods are available for this, and when have they been used?• How did those who “did well” do it?In order to answer the above questions, the paper also presents some case studies, websites developed by governments and cities that specifically kept in mind the explicit expectations, values and points of view of users, and these needs were taken into account during development.Method of the research: following the thorough desk research, the author conducted and complemented the exploration with on site, personal and telephone interviews as well as e-mail communications. The presented examples are based on the author’s research going on since 2009.Main results, conclusion: The examples presented in the study aim to support the point that as well as all other websites, public administrations sites also need to or should be made with continuous testing during development, including the study of mental models (even if this was not a stated explicit need during the development).The presented examples demonstrate that sites that were systematically assessed through preliminary research and testing during development, and the finished page is also continuously developed, meet the expectations of users much better than those where this was not the case (see, for example, Herendy, 2015), and the subsequent studies of the author also confirm this.During the development of the studied sites, designers and developers conducted the following types of research, among others:• Analyzing web analytics, e.g. Google Analytics, in order to learn about the prior and present behavior and needs of the users;• Preparing online survey research, and analyzing the results in order to map the needs of users;• Workshops for designing the information architecture;• Card sorting tests to support the design of the information architecture;• A/B tests, which help developers pick the design that is easier and simpler to use from two options;• Preparing wireframes and prototypes, testing them with members of the target group;• Collecting feedback from users.The British gov.uk site can be an outstanding example to follow for all public administration organs, as it was designed with the use of nearly all the excellent testing and development methods: starting with learning about the needs of users, followed by A / B testing and preparing a prototype. They paid attention to optimizing color coding, the simplest possible presentation of everything, ease of use, iteration, and accessibility. They got to know existing mental models and stuck to them, they coordinated the adjustment of contrast, color, typography, icons, style, sound effects and visual metaphors.The British gov.uk site is also outstanding because it is not just about the government creating and continuously developing and shaping a web surface, but also teaches anyone interested in how they can create this kind of surface themselves, or at least one that meets such high standards.The presented examples represent the state of the sites in the period between 2012 and 2017. Some of the surfaces have been further developed in the meantime, and some were completely restructured.With a view to the harmful development practices that can be observed sometimes – not only in Hungary worldwide – (the development process is poorly planned, it involves no testing or testing is poorly implemented, authentic UX and research experts are not consulted, developments are often made in-house (which tends to happen due to the lack of information, rather than by bad intentions)), the presented examples are still of interest in 2017. This is especially true if we consider the testing and development methods that have been used smoothly for the past 5-10 years.

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<p><strong>Extended Abstract:</strong></p><p>The archaeological site of Torreparedones (Baena) is one of the most outstanding Roman sites in the Province of Cordoba, due to not only the structural remains excavated in recent decades, but also the relevance through the relevance of other recovered materials. In recent years, among the recordings made during excavations and in the area of the north portico of the forum and the temple, an important sculptural group from the high imperial time was documented. The sculptural cycle consists of two dynastic groups, which are currently part of the museum exhibition of Baena. The first, found in the area of the gate, consists of a toga, a female figure, a military sculpture and a fragment ideal statue (of the type hüftmantel). The second group, from the temple or near the same area, consists of two male and female seated statues representing: Divus Augustus, Divus Claudius and Diva Augusta (Livia). The latter offers a representation of idealized types, as characters portraits were produced post-mortem once the senate decreed their deification time. Because of the importance of this second group, a three-dimensional (3D) model of each of the pieces has been created. The main objective of this research, with some results presented in this article, is further development of a mobile application that allows disseminating results and promotes the use of virtual reality in the field of heritage. In order to carry out the development of the app the following lines of action have been followed: 1) Recording by the sculptural 3D scanning cycle; and 2) the development of a 3D digital catalogue for the dissemination and study within the framework of scientific research.</p><p>Data collection of the surface was performed by using a 3D laser scanner, a tool that allows obtaining sub-millimetre resolution and accuracy. After obtaining the results, we processed and checked the quality of the acquired points, best-fit and registration of successive surface recordings, and filtering and cleaning of the point clouds. To disseminate the findings of this research we chose to carry out analyses with a free application called "Sculptural Cycle Torreparedones" available for the Android operating system. With this app, the user can access all the information available, with periodic updates as the progress of other ongoing investigations. This application allows and intuitive and easy way of navigation, see the 3D models of the sculptures, as well as access a virtual tour of Rome in 360° room of the museum of Baena.</p><p>Also, the user can access different multimedia content related to the site. As representative logo for the app, the icon of the half-head portrait of Divus Augustus was selected along with the title “3D Sculptural Cycle Torreparedones” as it is one of the largest and best known general level sculpture images. Since the app has been available since October 2017, a survey for assessing the app was conducted in order to know its impact and anticipate future necessary changes. In the course of this system, we have known the user skills in handling the application and the great interest of the youngest people in 3D.Theresults of this survey confirm that this work is an example of how this communication channel can be of service to the valorization and intelligibility of archaeological heritage. It not only allows knowing the materials recovered during the excavations of Torreparedones but also facilitates the visitor to establish a direct connection between the museum and the archaeological site. The application 3D Sculptural Cycle Torreparedones joins other works developed for 3D models digitized as a virtual catalogue, as is the Epigraphia3D app and other applications made with visits 360° as the case of the mobile application Guadiat VR -Belmez (Spain).</p>

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Education in Oceania continues to reflect the embedded implicit and explicit colonial practices and processes from the past. This paper conceptualises a cultural approach to education and leadership appropriate and relevant to the Republic of the Marshall Islands. As elementary school leaders, we highlight Kanne Lobal, a traditional Marshallese navigation practice based on indigenous language, values and practices. We conceptualise and develop Kanne Lobal in this paper as a framework for understanding the usefulness of our indigenous knowledge in leadership and educational practices within formal education. Through bwebwenato, a method of talk story, our key learnings and reflexivities were captured. We argue that realising the value of Marshallese indigenous knowledge and practices for school leaders requires purposeful training of the ways in which our knowledge can be made useful in our professional educational responsibilities. Drawing from our Marshallese knowledge is an intentional effort to inspire, empower and express what education and leadership partnership means for Marshallese people, as articulated by Marshallese themselves. Introduction As noted in the call for papers within the Waikato Journal of Education (WJE) for this special issue, bodies of knowledge and histories in Oceania have long sustained generations across geographic boundaries to ensure cultural survival. For Marshallese people, we cannot really know ourselves “until we know how we came to be where we are today” (Walsh, Heine, Bigler & Stege, 2012). Jitdam Kapeel is a popular Marshallese concept and ideal associated with inquiring into relationships within the family and community. In a similar way, the practice of relating is about connecting the present and future to the past. Education and leadership partnerships are linked and we look back to the past, our history, to make sense and feel inspired to transform practices that will benefit our people. In this paper and in light of our next generation, we reconnect with our navigation stories to inspire and empower education and leadership. Kanne lobal is part of our navigation stories, a conceptual framework centred on cultural practices, values, and concepts that embrace collective partnerships. Our link to this talanoa vā with others in the special issue is to attempt to make sense of connections given the global COVID-19 context by providing a Marshallese approach to address the physical and relational “distance” between education and leadership partnerships in Oceania. Like the majority of developing small island nations in Oceania, the Republic of the Marshall Islands (RMI) has had its share of educational challenges through colonial legacies of the past which continues to drive education systems in the region (Heine, 2002). The historical administration and education in the RMI is one of colonisation. Successive administrations by the Spanish, German, Japanese, and now the US, has resulted in education and learning that privileges western knowledge and forms of learning. This paper foregrounds understandings of education and learning as told by the voices of elementary school leaders from the RMI. The move to re-think education and leadership from Marshallese perspectives is an act of shifting the focus of bwebwenato or conversations that centres on Marshallese language and worldviews. The concept of jelalokjen was conceptualised as traditional education framed mainly within the community context. In the past, jelalokjen was practiced and transmitted to the younger generation for cultural continuity. During the arrival of colonial administrations into the RMI, jelalokjen was likened to the western notions of education and schooling (Kupferman, 2004). Today, the primary function of jelalokjen, as traditional and formal education, it is for “survival in a hostile [and challenging] environment” (Kupferman, 2004, p. 43). Because western approaches to learning in the RMI have not always resulted in positive outcomes for those engaged within the education system, as school leaders who value our cultural knowledge and practices, and aspire to maintain our language with the next generation, we turn to Kanne Lobal, a practice embedded in our navigation stories, collective aspirations, and leadership. The significance in the development of Kanne Lobal, as an appropriate framework for education and leadership, resulted in us coming together and working together. Not only were we able to share our leadership concerns, however, the engagement strengthened our connections with each other as school leaders, our communities, and the Public Schooling System (PSS). Prior to that, many of us were in competition for resources. Educational Leadership: IQBE and GCSL Leadership is a valued practice in the RMI. Before the IQBE programme started in 2018, the majority of the school leaders on the main island of Majuro had not engaged in collaborative partnerships with each other before. Our main educational purpose was to achieve accreditation from the Western Association of Schools and Colleges (WASC), an accreditation commission for schools in the United States. The WASC accreditation dictated our work and relationships and many school leaders on Majuro felt the pressure of competition against each other. We, the authors in this paper, share our collective bwebwenato, highlighting our school leadership experiences and how we gained strength from our own ancestral knowledge to empower “us”, to collaborate with each other, our teachers, communities, as well as with PSS; a collaborative partnership we had not realised in the past. The paucity of literature that captures Kajin Majol (Marshallese language) and education in general in the RMI is what we intend to fill by sharing our reflections and experiences. To move our educational practices forward we highlight Kanne Lobal, a cultural approach that focuses on our strengths, collective social responsibilities and wellbeing. For a long time, there was no formal training in place for elementary school leaders. School principals and vice principals were appointed primarily on their academic merit through having an undergraduate qualification. As part of the first cohort of fifteen school leaders, we engaged in the professional training programme, the Graduate Certificate in School Leadership (GCSL), refitted to our context after its initial development in the Solomon Islands. GCSL was coordinated by the Institute of Education (IOE) at the University of the South Pacific (USP). GCSL was seen as a relevant and appropriate training programme for school leaders in the RMI as part of an Asia Development Bank (ADB) funded programme which aimed at “Improving Quality Basic Education” (IQBE) in parts of the northern Pacific. GCSL was managed on Majuro, RMI’s main island, by the director at the time Dr Irene Taafaki, coordinator Yolanda McKay, and administrators at the University of the South Pacific’s (USP) RMI campus. Through the provision of GCSL, as school leaders we were encouraged to re-think and draw-from our own cultural repository and connect to our ancestral knowledge that have always provided strength for us. This kind of thinking and practice was encouraged by our educational leaders (Heine, 2002). We argue that a culturally-affirming and culturally-contextual framework that reflects the lived experiences of Marshallese people is much needed and enables the disruption of inherent colonial processes left behind by Western and Eastern administrations which have influenced our education system in the RMI (Heine, 2002). Kanne Lobal, an approach utilising a traditional navigation has warranted its need to provide solutions for today’s educational challenges for us in the RMI. Education in the Pacific Education in the Pacific cannot be understood without contextualising it in its history and culture. It is the same for us in the RMI (Heine, 2002; Walsh et al., 2012). The RMI is located in the Pacific Ocean and is part of Micronesia. It was named after a British captain, John Marshall in the 1700s. The atolls in the RMI were explored by the Spanish in the 16th century. Germany unsuccessfully attempted to colonize the islands in 1885. Japan took control in 1914, but after several battles during World War II, the US seized the RMI from them. In 1947, the United Nations made the island group, along with the Mariana and Caroline archipelagos, a U.S. trust territory (Walsh et al, 2012). Education in the RMI reflects the colonial administrations of Germany, Japan, and now the US. Before the turn of the century, formal education in the Pacific reflected western values, practices, and standards. Prior to that, education was informal and not binded to formal learning institutions (Thaman, 1997) and oral traditions was used as the medium for transmitting learning about customs and practices living with parents, grandparents, great grandparents. As alluded to by Jiba B. Kabua (2004), any “discussion about education is necessarily a discussion of culture, and any policy on education is also a policy of culture” (p. 181). It is impossible to promote one without the other, and it is not logical to understand one without the other. Re-thinking how education should look like, the pedagogical strategies that are relevant in our classrooms, the ways to engage with our parents and communities - such re-thinking sits within our cultural approaches and frameworks. Our collective attempts to provide a cultural framework that is relevant and appropriate for education in our context, sits within the political endeavour to decolonize. This means that what we are providing will not only be useful, but it can be used as a tool to question and identify whether things in place restrict and prevent our culture or whether they promote and foreground cultural ideas and concepts, a significant discussion of culture linked to education (Kabua, 2004). Donor funded development aid programmes were provided to support the challenges within education systems. Concerned with the persistent low educational outcomes of Pacific students, despite the prevalence of aid programmes in the region, in 2000 Pacific educators and leaders with support from New Zealand Aid (NZ Aid) decided to intervene (Heine, 2002; Taufe’ulungaki, 2014). In April 2001, a group of Pacific educators and leaders across the region were invited to a colloquium funded by the New Zealand Overseas Development Agency held in Suva Fiji at the University of the South Pacific. The main purpose of the colloquium was to enable “Pacific educators to re-think the values, assumptions and beliefs underlying [formal] schooling in Oceania” (Benson, 2002). Leadership, in general, is a valued practice in the RMI (Heine, 2002). Despite education leadership being identified as a significant factor in school improvement (Sanga & Chu, 2009), the limited formal training opportunities of school principals in the region was a persistent concern. As part of an Asia Development Bank (ADB) funded project, the Improve Quality Basic Education (IQBE) intervention was developed and implemented in the RMI in 2017. Mentoring is a process associated with the continuity and sustainability of leadership knowledge and practices (Sanga & Chu, 2009). It is a key aspect of building capacity and capabilities within human resources in education (ibid). Indigenous knowledges and education research According to Hilda Heine, the relationship between education and leadership is about understanding Marshallese history and culture (cited in Walsh et al., 2012). It is about sharing indigenous knowledge and histories that “details for future generations a story of survival and resilience and the pride we possess as a people” (Heine, cited in Walsh et al., 2012, p. v). This paper is fuelled by postcolonial aspirations yet is grounded in Pacific indigenous research. This means that our intentions are driven by postcolonial pursuits and discourses linked to challenging the colonial systems and schooling in the Pacific region that privileges western knowledge and learning and marginalises the education practices and processes of local people (Thiong’o, 1986). A point of difference and orientation from postcolonialism is a desire to foreground indigenous Pacific language, specifically Majin Majol, through Marshallese concepts. Our collective bwebwenato and conversation honours and values kautiej (respect), jouj eo mour eo (reciprocity), and jouj (kindness) (Taafaki & Fowler, 2019). Pacific leaders developed the Rethinking Pacific Education Initiative for and by Pacific People (RPEIPP) in 2002 to take control of the ways in which education research was conducted by donor funded organisations (Taufe’ulungaki, 2014). Our former president, Dr Hilda Heine was part of the group of leaders who sought to counter the ways in which our educational and leadership stories were controlled and told by non-Marshallese (Heine, 2002). As a former minister of education in the RMI, Hilda Heine continues to inspire and encourage the next generation of educators, school leaders, and researchers to re-think and de-construct the way learning and education is conceptualised for Marshallese people. The conceptualisation of Kanne Lobal acknowledges its origin, grounded in Marshallese navigation knowledge and practice. Our decision to unpack and deconstruct Kanne Lobal within the context of formal education and leadership responds to the need to not only draw from indigenous Marshallese ideas and practice but to consider that the next generation will continue to be educated using western processes and initiatives particularly from the US where we get a lot of our funding from. According to indigenous researchers Dawn Bessarab and Bridget Ng’andu (2010), doing research that considers “culturally appropriate processes to engage with indigenous groups and individuals is particularly pertinent in today’s research environment” (p. 37). Pacific indigenous educators and researchers have turned to their own ancestral knowledge and practices for inspiration and empowerment. Within western research contexts, the often stringent ideals and processes are not always encouraging of indigenous methods and practices. However, many were able to ground and articulate their use of indigenous methods as being relevant and appropriate to capturing the realities of their communities (Nabobo-Baba, 2008; Sualii-Sauni & Fulu-Aiolupotea, 2014; Thaman, 1997). At the same time, utilising Pacific indigenous methods and approaches enabled research engagement with their communities that honoured and respected them and their communities. For example, Tongan, Samoan, and Fijian researchers used the talanoa method as a way to capture the stories, lived realities, and worldviews of their communities within education in the diaspora (Fa’avae, Jones, & Manu’atu, 2016; Nabobo-Baba, 2008; Sualii-Sauni & Aiolupotea, 2014; Vaioleti, 2005). Tok stori was used by Solomon Islander educators and school leaders to highlight the unique circles of conversational practice and storytelling that leads to more positive engagement with their community members, capturing rich and meaningful narratives as a result (Sanga & Houma, 2004). The Indigenous Aborigine in Australia utilise yarning as a “relaxed discussion through which both the researcher and participant journey together visiting places and topics of interest relevant” (Bessarab & Ng’andu, 2010, p. 38). Despite the diverse forms of discussions and storytelling by indigenous peoples, of significance are the cultural protocols, ethics, and language for conducting and guiding the engagement (Bessarab & Ng’andu, 2010; Nabobo-Baba, 2008; Sualii-Sauni & Aiolupotea, 2014). Through the ethics, values, protocols, and language, these are what makes indigenous methods or frameworks unique compared to western methods like in-depth interviews or semi-structured interviews. This is why it is important for us as Marshallese educators to frame, ground, and articulate how our own methods and frameworks of learning could be realised in western education (Heine, 2002; Jetnil-Kijiner, 2014). In this paper, we utilise bwebwenato as an appropriate method linked to “talk story”, capturing our collective stories and experiences during GCSL and how we sought to build partnerships and collaboration with each other, our communities, and the PSS. Bwebwenato and drawing from Kajin Majel Legends and stories that reflect Marshallese society and its cultural values have survived through our oral traditions. The practice of weaving also holds knowledge about our “valuable and earliest sources of knowledge” (Taafaki & Fowler, 2019, p. 2). The skilful navigation of Marshallese wayfarers on the walap (large canoes) in the ocean is testament of their leadership and the value they place on ensuring the survival and continuity of Marshallese people (Taafaki & Fowler, 2019; Walsh et al., 2012). During her graduate study in 2014, Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner conceptualised bwebwenato as being the most “well-known form of Marshallese orality” (p. 38). The Marshallese-English dictionary defined bwebwenato as talk, conversation, story, history, article, episode, lore, myth, or tale (cited in Jetnil Kijiner, 2014). Three years later in 2017, bwebwenato was utilised in a doctoral project by Natalie Nimmer as a research method to gather “talk stories” about the experiences of 10 Marshallese experts in knowledge and skills ranging from sewing to linguistics, canoe-making and business. Our collective bwebwenato in this paper centres on Marshallese ideas and language. The philosophy of Marshallese knowledge is rooted in our “Kajin Majel”, or Marshallese language and is shared and transmitted through our oral traditions. For instance, through our historical stories and myths. Marshallese philosophy, that is, the knowledge systems inherent in our beliefs, values, customs, and practices are shared. They are inherently relational, meaning that knowledge systems and philosophies within our world are connected, in mind, body, and spirit (Jetnil-Kijiner, 2014; Nimmer, 2017). Although some Marshallese believe that our knowledge is disappearing as more and more elders pass away, it is therefore important work together, and learn from each other about the knowledges shared not only by the living but through their lamentations and stories of those who are no longer with us (Jetnil-Kijiner, 2014). As a Marshallese practice, weaving has been passed-down from generation to generation. Although the art of weaving is no longer as common as it used to be, the artefacts such as the “jaki-ed” (clothing mats) continue to embody significant Marshallese values and traditions. For our weavers, the jouj (check spelling) is the centre of the mat and it is where the weaving starts. When the jouj is correct and weaved well, the remainder and every other part of the mat will be right. The jouj is symbolic of the “heart” and if the heart is prepared well, trained well, then life or all other parts of the body will be well (Taafaki & Fowler, 2019). In that light, we have applied the same to this paper. Conceptualising and drawing from cultural practices that are close and dear to our hearts embodies a significant ontological attempt to prioritize our own knowledge and language, a sense of endearment to who we are and what we believe education to be like for us and the next generation. The application of the phrase “Majolizing '' was used by the Ministry of Education when Hilda Heine was minister, to weave cultural ideas and language into the way that teachers understand the curriculum, develop lesson plans and execute them in the classroom. Despite this, there were still concerns with the embedded colonized practices where teachers defaulted to eurocentric methods of doing things, like the strategies provided in the textbooks given to us. In some ways, our education was slow to adjust to the “Majolizing '' intention by our former minister. In this paper, we provide Kanne Lobal as a way to contribute to the “Majolizing intention” and perhaps speed up yet still be collectively responsible to all involved in education. Kajin Wa and Kanne Lobal “Wa” is the Marshallese concept for canoe. Kajin wa, as in canoe language, has a lot of symbolic meaning linked to deeply-held Marshallese values and practices. The canoe was the foundational practice that supported the livelihood of harsh atoll island living which reflects the Marshallese social world. The experts of Kajin wa often refer to “wa” as being the vessel of life, a means and source of sustaining life (Kelen, 2009, cited in Miller, 2010). “Jouj” means kindness and is the lower part of the main hull of the canoe. It is often referred to by some canoe builders in the RMI as the heart of the canoe and is linked to love. The jouj is one of the first parts of the canoe that is built and is “used to do all other measurements, and then the rest of the canoe is built on top of it” (Miller, 2010, p. 67). The significance of the jouj is that when the canoe is in the water, the jouj is the part of the hull that is underwater and ensures that all the cargo and passengers are safe. For Marshallese, jouj or kindness is what living is about and is associated with selflessly carrying the responsibility of keeping the family and community safe. The parts of the canoe reflect Marshallese culture, legend, family, lineage, and kinship. They embody social responsibilities that guide, direct, and sustain Marshallese families’ wellbeing, from atoll to atoll. For example, the rojak (boom), rojak maan (upper boom), rojak kōrā (lower boom), and they support the edges of the ujelā/ujele (sail) (see figure 1). The literal meaning of rojak maan is male boom and rojak kōrā means female boom which together strengthens the sail and ensures the canoe propels forward in a strong yet safe way. Figuratively, the rojak maan and rojak kōrā symbolise the mother and father relationship which when strong, through the jouj (kindness and love), it can strengthen families and sustain them into the future. Figure 1. Parts of the canoe Source: https://www.canoesmarshallislands.com/2014/09/names-of-canoe-parts/ From a socio-cultural, communal, and leadership view, the canoe (wa) provides understanding of the relationships required to inspire and sustain Marshallese peoples’ education and learning. We draw from Kajin wa because they provide cultural ideas and practices that enable understanding of education and leadership necessary for sustaining Marshallese people and realities in Oceania. When building a canoe, the women are tasked with the weaving of the ujelā/ujele (sail) and to ensure that it is strong enough to withstand long journeys and the fierce winds and waters of the ocean. The Kanne Lobal relates to the front part of the ujelā/ujele (sail) where the rojak maan and rojak kōrā meet and connect (see the red lines in figure 1). Kanne Lobal is linked to the strategic use of the ujelā/ujele by navigators, when there is no wind north wind to propel them forward, to find ways to capture the winds so that their journey can continue. As a proverbial saying, Kanne Lobal is used to ignite thinking and inspire and transform practice particularly when the journey is rough and tough. In this paper we draw from Kanne Lobal to ignite, inspire, and transform our educational and leadership practices, a move to explore what has always been meaningful to Marshallese people when we are faced with challenges. The Kanne Lobal utilises our language, and cultural practices and values by sourcing from the concepts of jouj (kindness, love), kautiej (respect), and jouj eo mour eo (reciprocity). A key Marshallese proverb, “Enra bwe jen lale rara”, is the cultural practice where families enact compassion through the sharing of food in all occurrences. The term “enra” is a small basket weaved from the coconut leaves, and often used by Marshallese as a plate to share and distribute food amongst each other. Bwe-jen-lale-rara is about noticing and providing for the needs of others, and “enra” the basket will help support and provide for all that are in need. “Enra-bwe-jen-lale-rara” is symbolic of cultural exchange and reciprocity and the cultural values associated with building and maintaining relationships, and constantly honouring each other. As a Marshallese practice, in this article we share our understanding and knowledge about the challenges as well as possible solutions for education concerns in our nation. In addition, we highlight another proverb, “wa kuk wa jimor”, which relates to having one canoe, and despite its capacity to feed and provide for the individual, but within the canoe all people can benefit from what it can provide. In the same way, we provide in this paper a cultural framework that will enable all educators to benefit from. It is a framework that is far-reaching and relevant to the lived realities of Marshallese people today. Kumit relates to people united to build strength, all co-operating and working together, living in peace, harmony, and good health. Kanne Lobal: conceptual framework for education and leadership An education framework is a conceptual structure that can be used to capture ideas and thinking related to aspects of learning. Kanne Lobal is conceptualised and framed in this paper as an educational framework. Kanne Lobal highlights the significance of education as a collective partnership whereby leadership is an important aspect. Kanne Lobal draws-from indigenous Marshallese concepts like kautiej (respect), jouj eo mour eo (reciprocity), and jouj (kindness, heart). The role of a leader, including an education leader, is to prioritise collective learning and partnerships that benefits Marshallese people and the continuity and survival of the next generation (Heine, 2002; Thaman, 1995). As described by Ejnar Aerōk, an expert canoe builder in the RMI, he stated: “jerbal ippān doon bwe en maron maan wa e” (cited in Miller, 2010, p. 69). His description emphasises the significance of partnerships and working together when navigating and journeying together in order to move the canoe forward. The kubaak, the outrigger of the wa (canoe) is about “partnerships”. For us as elementary school leaders on Majuro, kubaak encourages us to value collaborative partnerships with each other as well as our communities, PSS, and other stakeholders. Partnerships is an important part of the Kanne Lobal education and leadership framework. It requires ongoing bwebwenato – the inspiring as well as confronting and challenging conversations that should be mediated and negotiated if we and our education stakeholders are to journey together to ensure that the educational services we provide benefits our next generation of young people in the RMI. Navigating ahead the partnerships, mediation, and negotiation are the core values of jouj (kindness, love), kautiej (respect), and jouj eo mour eo (reciprocity). As an organic conceptual framework grounded in indigenous values, inspired through our lived experiences, Kanne Lobal provides ideas and concepts for re-thinking education and leadership practices that are conducive to learning and teaching in the schooling context in the RMI. By no means does it provide the solution to the education ills in our nation. However, we argue that Kanne Lobal is a more relevant approach which is much needed for the negatively stigmatised system as a consequence of the various colonial administrations that have and continue to shape and reframe our ideas about what education should be like for us in the RMI. Moreover, Kannel Lobal is our attempt to decolonize the framing of education and leadership, moving our bwebwenato to re-framing conversations of teaching and learning so that our cultural knowledge and values are foregrounded, appreciated, and realised within our education system. Bwebwenato: sharing our stories In this section, we use bwebwenato as a method of gathering and capturing our stories as data. Below we capture our stories and ongoing conversations about the richness in Marshallese cultural knowledge in the outer islands and on Majuro and the potentialities in Kanne Lobal. Danny Jim When I was in third grade (9-10 years of age), during my grandfather’s speech in Arno, an atoll near Majuro, during a time when a wa (canoe) was being blessed and ready to put the canoe into the ocean. My grandfather told me the canoe was a blessing for the family. “Without a canoe, a family cannot provide for them”, he said. The canoe allows for travelling between places to gather food and other sources to provide for the family. My grandfather’s stories about people’s roles within the canoe reminded me that everyone within the family has a responsibility to each other. Our women, mothers and daughters too have a significant responsibility in the journey, in fact, they hold us, care for us, and given strength to their husbands, brothers, and sons. The wise man or elder sits in the middle of the canoe, directing the young man who help to steer. The young man, he does all the work, directed by the older man. They take advice and seek the wisdom of the elder. In front of the canoe, a young boy is placed there and because of his strong and youthful vision, he is able to help the elder as well as the young man on the canoe. The story can be linked to the roles that school leaders, teachers, and students have in schooling. Without each person knowing intricately their role and responsibility, the sight and vision ahead for the collective aspirations of the school and the community is difficult to comprehend. For me, the canoe is symbolic of our educational journey within our education system. As the school leader, a central, trusted, and respected figure in the school, they provide support for teachers who are at the helm, pedagogically striving to provide for their students. For without strong direction from the school leaders and teachers at the helm, the students, like the young boy, cannot foresee their futures, or envisage how education can benefit them. This is why Kanne Lobal is a significant framework for us in the Marshall Islands because within the practice we are able to take heed and empower each other so that all benefit from the process. Kanne Lobal is linked to our culture, an essential part of who we are. We must rely on our own local approaches, rather than relying on others that are not relevant to what we know and how we live in today’s society. One of the things I can tell is that in Majuro, compared to the outer islands, it’s different. In the outer islands, parents bring children together and tell them legends and stories. The elders tell them about the legends and stories – the bwebwenato. Children from outer islands know a lot more about Marshallese legends compared to children from the Majuro atoll. They usually stay close to their parents, observe how to prepare food and all types of Marshallese skills. Loretta Joseph Case There is little Western influence in the outer islands. They grow up learning their own culture with their parents, not having tv. They are closely knit, making their own food, learning to weave. They use fire for cooking food. They are more connected because there are few of them, doing their own culture. For example, if they’re building a house, the ladies will come together and make food to take to the males that are building the house, encouraging them to keep on working - “jemjem maal” (sharpening tools i.e. axe, like encouraging workers to empower them). It’s when they bring food and entertainment. Rubon Rubon Togetherness, work together, sharing of food, these are important practices as a school leader. Jemjem maal – the whole village works together, men working and the women encourage them with food and entertainment. All the young children are involved in all of the cultural practices, cultural transmission is consistently part of their everyday life. These are stronger in the outer islands. Kanne Lobal has the potential to provide solutions using our own knowledge and practices. Connie Joel When new teachers become a teacher, they learn more about their culture in teaching. Teaching raises the question, who are we? A popular saying amongst our people, “Aelon kein ad ej aelon in manit”, means that “Our islands are cultural islands”. Therefore, when we are teaching, and managing the school, we must do this culturally. When we live and breathe, we must do this culturally. There is more socialising with family and extended family. Respect the elderly. When they’re doing things the ladies all get together, in groups and do it. Cut the breadfruit, and preserve the breadfruit and pandanus. They come together and do it. Same as fishing, building houses, building canoes. They use and speak the language often spoken by the older people. There are words that people in the outer islands use and understand language regularly applied by the elderly. Respect elderly and leaders more i.e., chiefs (iroj), commoners (alap), and the workers on the land (ri-jerbal) (social layer under the commoners). All the kids, they gather with their families, and go and visit the chiefs and alap, and take gifts from their land, first produce/food from the plantation (eojōk). Tommy Almet The people are more connected to the culture in the outer islands because they help one another. They don’t have to always buy things by themselves, everyone contributes to the occasion. For instance, for birthdays, boys go fishing, others contribute and all share with everyone. Kanne Lobal is a practice that can bring people together – leaders, teachers, stakeholders. We want our colleagues to keep strong and work together to fix problems like students and teachers’ absenteeism which is a big problem for us in schools. Demetria Malachi The culture in the outer islands are more accessible and exposed to children. In Majuro, there is a mixedness of cultures and knowledges, influenced by Western thinking and practices. Kanne Lobal is an idea that can enhance quality educational purposes for the RMI. We, the school leaders who did GCSL, we want to merge and use this idea because it will help benefit students’ learning and teachers’ teaching. Kanne Lobal will help students to learn and teachers to teach though traditional skills and knowledge. We want to revitalize our ways of life through teaching because it is slowly fading away. Also, we want to have our own Marshallese learning process because it is in our own language making it easier to use and understand. Essentially, we want to proudly use our own ways of teaching from our ancestors showing the appreciation and blessings given to us. Way Forward To think of ways forward is about reflecting on the past and current learnings. Instead of a traditional discussion within a research publication, we have opted to continue our bwebwenato by sharing what we have learnt through the Graduate Certificate in School Leadership (GCSL) programme. Our bwebwenato does not end in this article and this opportunity to collaborate and partner together in this piece of writing has been a meaningful experience to conceptualise and unpack the Kanne Lobal framework. Our collaborative bwebwenato has enabled us to dig deep into our own wise knowledges for guidance through mediating and negotiating the challenges in education and leadership (Sanga & Houma, 2004). For example, bwe-jen-lale-rara reminds us to inquire, pay attention, and focus on supporting the needs of others. Through enra-bwe-jen-lale-rara, it reminds us to value cultural exchange and reciprocity which will strengthen the development and maintaining of relationships based on ways we continue to honour each other (Nimmer, 2017). We not only continue to support each other, but also help mentor the next generation of school leaders within our education system (Heine, 2002). Education and leadership are all about collaborative partnerships (Sanga & Chu, 2009; Thaman, 1997). Developing partnerships through the GCSL was useful learning for us. It encouraged us to work together, share knowledge, respect each other, and be kind. The values of jouj (kindness, love), kautiej (respect), and jouj eo mour eo (reciprocity) are meaningful in being and becoming and educational leader in the RMI (Jetnil-Kijiner, 2014; Miller, 2010; Nimmer, 2017). These values are meaningful for us practice particularly given the drive by PSS for schools to become accredited. The workshops and meetings delivered during the GCSL in the RMI from 2018 to 2019 about Kanne Lobal has given us strength to share our stories and experiences from the meeting with the stakeholders. But before we met with the stakeholders, we were encouraged to share and speak in our language within our courses: EDP05 (Professional Development and Learning), EDP06 (School Leadership), EDP07 (School Management), EDP08 (Teaching and Learning), and EDP09 (Community Partnerships). In groups, we shared our presentations with our peers, the 15 school leaders in the GCSL programme. We also invited USP RMI staff. They liked the way we presented Kannel Lobal. They provided us with feedback, for example: how the use of the sail on the canoe, the parts and their functions can be conceptualised in education and how they are related to the way that we teach our own young people. Engaging stakeholders in the conceptualisation and design stages of Kanne Lobal strengthened our understanding of leadership and collaborative partnerships. Based on various meetings with the RMI Pacific Resources for Education and Learning (PREL) team, PSS general assembly, teachers from the outer islands, and the PSS executive committee, we were able to share and receive feedback on the Kanne Lobal framework. The coordinators of the PREL programme in the RMI were excited by the possibilities around using Kanne Lobal, as a way to teach culture in an inspirational way to Marshallese students. Our Marshallese knowledge, particularly through the proverbial meaning of Kanne Lobal provided so much inspiration and insight for the groups during the presentation which gave us hope and confidence to develop the framework. Kanne Lobal is an organic and indigenous approach, grounded in Marshallese ways of doing things (Heine, 2002; Taafaki & Fowler, 2019). Given the persistent presence of colonial processes within the education system and the constant reference to practices and initiatives from the US, Kanne Lobal for us provides a refreshing yet fulfilling experience and makes us feel warm inside because it is something that belongs to all Marshallese people. Conclusion Marshallese indigenous knowledge and practices provide meaningful educational and leadership understanding and learnings. They ignite, inspire, and transform thinking and practice. The Kanne Lobal conceptual framework emphasises key concepts and values necessary for collaborative partnerships within education and leadership practices in the RMI. The bwebwenato or talk stories have been insightful and have highlighted the strengths and benefits that our Marshallese ideas and practices possess when looking for appropriate and relevant ways to understand education and leadership. Acknowledgements We want to acknowledge our GCSL cohort of school leaders who have supported us in the development of Kanne Lobal as a conceptual framework. A huge kommol tata to our friends: Joana, Rosana, Loretta, Jellan, Alvin, Ellice, Rolando, Stephen, and Alan. References Benson, C. (2002). Preface. In F. Pene, A. M. Taufe’ulungaki, & C. Benson (Eds.), Tree of Opportunity: re-thinking Pacific Education (p. iv). Suva, Fiji: University of the South Pacific, Institute of Education. Bessarab, D., Ng’andu, B. (2010). Yarning about yarning as a legitimate method in indigenous research. International Journal of Critical Indigenous Studies, 3(1), 37-50. Fa’avae, D., Jones, A., & Manu’atu, L. (2016). Talanoa’i ‘a e talanoa - talking about talanoa: Some dilemmas of a novice researcher. AlterNative: An Indigenous Journal of Indigenous Peoples,12(2),138-150. Heine, H. C. (2002). A Marshall Islands perspective. In F. Pene, A. M. Taufe’ulungaki, & C. Benson (Eds.), Tree of Opportunity: re-thinking Pacific Education (pp. 84 – 90). Suva, Fiji: University of the South Pacific, Institute of Education. Infoplease Staff (2017, February 28). Marshall Islands, retrieved from https://www.infoplease.com/world/countries/marshall-islands Jetnil-Kijiner, K. (2014). Iep Jaltok: A history of Marshallese literature. (Unpublished masters’ thesis). Honolulu, HW: University of Hawaii. Kabua, J. B. (2004). We are the land, the land is us: The moral responsibility of our education and sustainability. In A.L. Loeak, V.C. Kiluwe and L. Crowl (Eds.), Life in the Republic of the Marshall Islands, pp. 180 – 191. Suva, Fiji: University of the South Pacific. Kupferman, D. (2004). Jelalokjen in flux: Pitfalls and prospects of contextualising teacher training programmes in the Marshall Islands. Directions: Journal of Educational Studies, 26(1), 42 – 54. http://directions.usp.ac.fj/collect/direct/index/assoc/D1175062.dir/doc.pdf Miller, R. L. (2010). Wa kuk wa jimor: Outrigger canoes, social change, and modern life in the Marshall Islands (Unpublished masters’ thesis). Honolulu, HW: University of Hawaii. Nabobo-Baba, U. (2008). Decolonising framings in Pacific research: Indigenous Fijian vanua research framework as an organic response. AlterNative: An Indigenous Journal of Indigenous Peoples, 4(2), 141-154. Nimmer, N. E. (2017). Documenting a Marshallese indigenous learning framework (Unpublished doctoral thesis). Honolulu, HW: University of Hawaii. Sanga, K., & Houma, S. (2004). Solomon Islands principalship: Roles perceived, performed, preferred, and expected. Directions: Journal of Educational Studies, 26(1), 55-69. Sanga, K., & Chu, C. (2009). Introduction. In K. Sanga & C. Chu (Eds.), Living and Leaving a Legacy of Hope: Stories by New Generation Pacific Leaders (pp. 10-12). NZ: He Parekereke & Victoria University of Wellington. Suaalii-Sauni, T., & Fulu-Aiolupotea, S. M. (2014). Decolonising Pacific research, building Pacific research communities, and developing Pacific research tools: The case of the talanoa and the faafaletui in Samoa. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 55(3), 331-344. Taafaki, I., & Fowler, M. K. (2019). Clothing mats of the Marshall Islands: The history, the culture, and the weavers. US: Kindle Direct. Taufe’ulungaki, A. M. (2014). Look back to look forward: A reflective Pacific journey. In M. ‘Otunuku, U. Nabobo-Baba, S. Johansson Fua (Eds.), Of Waves, Winds, and Wonderful Things: A Decade of Rethinking Pacific Education (pp. 1-15). Fiji: USP Press. Thaman, K. H. (1995). Concepts of learning, knowledge and wisdom in Tonga, and their relevance to modern education. Prospects, 25(4), 723-733. Thaman, K. H. (1997). Reclaiming a place: Towards a Pacific concept of education for cultural development. The Journal of the Polynesian Society, 106(2), 119-130. Thiong’o, N. W. (1986). Decolonising the mind: The politics of language in African literature. Kenya: East African Educational Publishers. Vaioleti, T. (2006). Talanoa research methodology: A developing position on Pacific research. Waikato Journal of Education, 12, 21-34. Walsh, J. M., Heine, H. C., Bigler, C. M., & Stege, M. (2012). Etto nan raan kein: A Marshall Islands history (First Edition). China: Bess Press.

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ABSTRACT Effectiveness of electronic kelurahan application function in Pontianak City is a research to know how function of e-village application helps civil apparatus of state serve society at urban village level in order to develop smart city concept. This research uses the theories by Rian Van der Merwe and James Bekker, the theory is designed to evaluate and know the benefits of a website or application by assessing how the conditions of interface, navigation, content, reliability, and technical. This research uses qualitative method with case study technique, this is done in order to present the phenomenon of multi perspective description. From the results of research, basically the existence of e-kelurahan applications is very useful for the government, but not too effective, there are still problems that must be fixed, so that the future of this application can be more effective and better than before. Research results recomende to perfect e-kelurahan applications dan system. Keywords: e-kelurahan, e-government, public service

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Practically any good story follows certain narrative conventions in order to hold its readers' attention and leave them with a feeling of satisfaction -- this goes for fictional tales as well as for many news reports (we do tend to call them 'news stories', after all), for idle gossip as well as for academic papers. In the Western tradition of storytelling, it's customary to start with the exposition, build up to major events, and end with some form of narrative closure. Indeed, audience members will feel disturbed if there is no sense of closure at the end -- their desire for closure is a powerful one. From this brief description of narrative patterns it is also clear that such narratives depend crucially on linear progression through the story in order to work -- there may be flashbacks and flashforwards, but very few stories, it seems, could get away with beginning with their point of closure, and work back to the exposition. Closure, as the word suggests, closes the story, and once reached, the audience is left with the feeling of now knowing the whole story, of having all the pieces necessary to understand its events. To understand how important the desire to reach this point is to the audience, just observe the discussions of holes in the plot which people have when they're leaving a cinema: they're trying to reach a better sense of closure than was afforded them by the movie itself. In linearly progressing media, this seems, if you'll pardon the pun, straightforward. Readers know when they've finished an article or a book, viewers know when a movie or a broadcast is over, and they'll be able to assess then if they've reached sufficient closure -- if their desires have been fulfilled. On the World Wide Web, this is much more difficult: "once we have it in our hands, the whole of a book is accessible to us readers. However, in front of an electronic read-only hypertext document we are at the mercy of the author since we will only be able to activate the links which the author has provided" (McKnight et al. 119). In many cases, it's not even clear whether we've reached the end of the text already: just where does a Website end? Does the question even make sense? Consider the following example, reported by Larry Friedlander: I watched visitors explore an interactive program in a museum, one that contained a vast amount of material -- pictures, film, historic explanations, models, simulations. I was impressed by the range of subject matter and by the ambitiousness and polish of the presentation. ... But to my surprise, as I watched visitors going down one pathway after another, I noticed a certain dispirited glaze spread over their faces. They seemed to lose interest quite quickly and, in fact, soon stopped their explorations. (163) Part of the problem here may just have been the location of the programme, of course -- when you're out in public, you might just not have the time to browse as extensively as you could from your computer at home. But there are other explanations, too: the sheer amount of options for exploration may have been overwhelming -- there may not have been any apparent purpose to aim for, any closure to arrive at. This is a problem inherent in hypertext, particularly in networked systems like the Web: it "changes our conception of an ending. Different readers can choose not only to end the text at different points but also to add to and extend it. In hypertext there is no final version, and therefore no last word: a new idea or reinterpretation is always possible. ... By privileging intertextuality, hypertext provides a large number of points to which other texts can attach themselves" (Snyder 57). In other words, there will always be more out there than any reader could possibly explore, since new documents are constantly being added. There is no ending if a text is constantly extended. (In print media this problem appears only to a far more limited extent: there, intertextuality is mostly implicit, and even though new articles may constantly be added -- 'linked', if you will -- to a discourse, due to the medium's physical nature they're still very much separate entities, while Web links make intertextuality explicit and directly connect texts.) Does this mark the end of closure, then? Adding to the problem is the fact that it's not even possible to know how much of the hypertextual information available is still left unexplored, since there is no universal register of all the information available on the Web -- "the extent of hypertext is unknowable because it lacks clear boundaries and is often multi-authored" (Snyder 19). While reading a book you can check how many more pages you've got to go, but on the Web this is not an option. Our traditions of information transmission create this desire for closure, but the inherent nature of the medium prevents us from ever satisfying it. Barrett waxes lyrical in describing this dilemma: contexts presented online are often too limited for what we really want: an environment that delivers objects of desire -- to know more, see more, learn more, express more. We fear being caught in Medusa's gaze, of being transfixed before the end is reached; yet we want the head of Medusa safely on our shield to freeze the bitstream, the fleeting imagery, the unstoppable textualisations. We want, not the dead object, but the living body in its connections to its world, connections that sustain it, give it meaning. (xiv-v) We want nothing less, that is, than closure without closing: we desire the knowledge we need, and the feeling that that knowledge is sufficient to really know about a topic, but we don't want to devalue that knowledge in the same process by removing it from its context and reducing it to trivial truisms. We want the networked knowledge base that the Web is able to offer, but we don't want to feel overwhelmed by the unfathomable dimensions of that network. This is increasingly difficult the more knowledge is included in that network -- "with the growth of knowledge comes decreasing certainty. The confidence that went with objectivity must give way to the insecurity that comes from knowing that all is relative" (Smith 206). The fact that 'all is relative' is one which predates the Net, of course, and it isn't the Internet or the World Wide Web that has destroyed objectivity -- objectivity has always been an illusion, no matter how strongly journalists or scientists have at times laid claims ot it. Internet-based media have simply stripped away more of the pretences, and laid bare the subjective nature of all information; in the process, they have also uncovered the fact that the desire for closure must ultimately remain unfulfilled in any sufficiently non-trivial case. Nonetheless, the early history of the Web has seen attempts to connect all the information available (LEO, one of the first major German Internet resource centres, for example, took its initials from its mission to 'Link Everything Online') -- but as the amount of information on the Net exploded, more and more editorial choices of what to include and what to leave out had to be made, so that now even search engines like Yahoo! and Altavista quite clearly and openly offer only a selection of what they consider useful sites on the Web. Web browsers still hoping to find everything on a certain topic would be well-advised to check with all major search engines, as well as important resource centres in the specific field. The average Web user would probably be happy with picking the search engine, Web directory or Web ring they find easiest to use, and sticking with it. The multitude of available options here actually shows one strength of the Internet and similar networks -- "the computer permits many [organisational] structures to coexist in the same electronic text: tree structures, circles, and lines can cross and recross without obstructing one another. The encyclopedic impulse to organise can run riot in this new technology of writing" (Bolter 95). Still, this multitude of options is also likely to confuse some users: in particular, "novices do not know in which order they need to read the material or how much they should read. They don't know what they don't know. Therefore learners might be sidetracked into some obscure corner of the information space instead or covering the important basic information" (Nielsen 190). They're like first-time visitors to a library -- but this library has constantly shifting aisles, more or less well-known pathways into specialty collections, fiercely competing groups of librarians, and it extends almost infinitely. Of course, the design of the available search and information tools plays an important role here, too -- far more than it is possible to explore at this point. Gay makes the general observation that "visual interfaces and navigational tools that allow quick browsing of information layout and database components are more effective at locating information ... than traditional index or text-based search tools. However, it should be noted that users are less secure in their findings. Users feel that they have not conducted complete searches when they use visual tools and interfaces" (185). Such technical difficulties (especially for novices) will slow take-up of and low satisfaction with the medium (and many negative views of the Web can probably be traced to this dissatisfaction with the result of searches -- in other words, to a lack of satisfaction of the desire for closure); while many novices eventually overcome their initial confusion and become more Web-savvy, others might disregard the medium as unsuitable for their needs. At the other extreme of the scale, the inherent lack for closure, in combination with the societally deeply ingrained desire for it, may also be a strong contributing factor for another negative phenomenon associated with the Internet: that of Net users becoming Net junkies, who spend every available moment online. Where the desire to know, to get to the bottom (or more to the point: to the end) of a topic, becomes overwhelming, and where the fundamental unattainability of this goal remains unrealised, the step to an obsession with finding information seems a small one; indeed, the neverending search for that piece of knowledge surpassing all previously found ones seems to have obvious similarities to drug addiction with its search for the high to better all previous highs. And most likely, the addiction is only heightened by the knowledge that on the Web, new pieces of information are constantly being added -- an endless, and largely free, supply of drugs... There is no easy solution to this problem -- in the end, it is up to the user to avoid becoming an addict, and to keep in mind that there is no such thing as total knowledge. Web designers and content providers can help, though: "there are ways of orienting the reader in an electronic document, but in any true hypertext the ending must remain tentative. An electronic text never needs to end" (Bolter 87). As Tennant & Heilmeier elaborate, "the coming ease-of-use problem is one of developing transparent complexity -- of revealing the limits and the extent of vast coverage to users, and showing how the many known techniques for putting it all together can be used most effectively -- of complexity that reveals itself as powerful simplicity" (122). We have been seeing, therefore, the emergence of a new class of Websites: resource centres which help their visitors to understand a certain topic and view it from all possible angles, which point them in the direction of further information on- and off-site, and which give them an indication of how much they need to know to understand the topic to a certain degree. In this, they must ideally be very transparent, as Tennant & Heilmeier point out -- having accepted that there is no such thing as objectivity, it is necessary for these sites to point out that their offered insight into the field is only one of many possible approaches, and that their presented choice of information is based on subjective editorial decisions. They may present preferred readings, but they must indicate that these readings are open for debate. They may help satisfy some of their readers' desire for closure, but they must at the same time point out that they do so by presenting a temporary ending beyond which a more general story continues. If, as suggested above, closure crucially depends on a linear mode of presentation, such sites in their arguments help trace one linear route through the network of knowledge available online; they impose a linear from-us-to-you model of transmission on the normally unordered many-to-many structure of the Net. In the face of much doomsaying about the broadcast media, then, here is one possible future for these linear transmission media, and it's no surprise that such Internet 'push' broad- or narrowcasting is a growth area of the Net -- simply put, it serves the apparent need of users to be told stories, to have their desire for closure satisfied through clear narrative progressions from exposition through development to end. (This isn't 'push' as such, really: it's more a kind of 'push on demand'.) But at the same time, this won't mean the end of the unstructured, networked information that the Web offers: even such linear media ultimately build on that networked pool of knowledge. The Internet has simply made this pool public -- passively as well as actively accessible to everybody. Now, however, Web designers (and this includes each and every one of us, ultimately) must work "with the users foremost in mind, making sure that at every point there is a clear, simple and focussed experience that hooks them into the welter of information presented" (Friedlander 164); they must play to the desire for closure. (As with any preferred reading, however, there is also a danger that that closure is premature, and that the users' process or meaning-making is contained and stifled rather than aided.) To return briefly to Friedlander's experience with the interactive museum exhibit: he draws the conclusion that visitors were simply overwhelmed by the sheer mass of information and were reluctant to continue accumulating facts without a guiding purpose, without some sense of how or why they could use all this material. The technology that delivers immense bundles of data does not simultaneously deliver a reason for accumulating so much information, nor a way for the user to order and make sense of it. That is the designer's task. The pressing challenge of multimedia design is to transform information into usable and useful knowledge. (163) Perhaps this transformation is exactly what is at the heart of fulfilling the desire for closure: we feel satisfied when we feel we know something, have learnt something from a presentation of information (no matter if it's a news report or a fictional story). Nonetheless, this satisfaction must of necessity remain intermediate -- there is always much more still to be discovered. "From the hypertext viewpoint knowledge is infinite: we can never know the whole extent of it but only have a perspective on it. ... Life is in real-time and we are forced to be selective, we decide that this much constitutes one node and only these links are worth representing" (Beardon & Worden 69). This is not inherently different from processes in other media, where bandwidth limitations may even force much stricter gatekeeping regiments, but as in many cases the Internet brings these processes out into the open, exposes their workings and stresses the fundamental subjectivity of information. Users of hypertext (as indeed users of any medium) must be aware of this: "readers themselves participate in the organisation of the encyclopedia. They are not limited to the references created by the editors, since at any point they can initiate a search for a word or phrase that takes them to another article. They might also make their own explicit references (hypertextual links) for their own purposes ... . It is always a short step from electronic reading to electronic writing, from determining the order of texts to altering their structure" (Bolter 95). Significantly, too, it is this potential for wide public participation which has made the Internet into the medium of the day, and led to the World Wide Web's exponential growth; as Bolter describes, "today we cannot hope for permanence and for general agreement on the order of things -- in encyclopedias any more than in politics and the arts. What we have instead is a view of knowledge as collections of (verbal and visual) ideas that can arrange themselves into a kaleidoscope of hierarchical and associative patterns -- each pattern meeting the needs of one class of readers on one occasion" (97). To those searching for some meaningful 'universal truth', this will sound defeatist, but ultimately it is closer to realism -- one person's universal truth is another one's escapist phantasy, after all. This doesn't keep most of us from hoping and searching for that deeper insight, however -- and from the preceding discussion, it seems likely that in this we are driven by the desire for closure that has been imprinted in us so deeply by the multitudes of narrative structures we encounter each day. It's no surprise, then, that, as Barrett writes, "the virtual environment is a place of longing. Cyberspace is an odyssey without telos, and therefore without meaning. ... Yet cyberspace is also the theatre of operations for the reconstruction of the lost body of knowledge, or, perhaps more correctly, not the reconstruction, but the always primary construction of a body of knowing. Thought and language in a virtual environment seek a higher synthesis, a re-imagining of an idea in the context of its truth" (xvi). And so we search on, following that by definition end-less quest to satisfy our desire for closure, and sticking largely to the narrative structures handed down to us through the generations. This article is no exception, of course -- but while you may gain some sense of closure from it, it is inevitable that there is a deeper feeling of a lack of closure, too, as the article takes its place in a wider hypertextual context, where so much more is still left unexplored: other articles in this issue, other issues of M/C, and further journals and Websites adding to the debate. Remember this, then: you decide when and where to stop. References Barrett, Edward, and Marie Redmont, eds. Contextual Media: Multimedia and Interpretation. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT P, 1995. Barrett, Edward. "Hiding the Head of Medusa: Objects and Desire in a Virtual Environment." Barrett & Redmont xi- vi. Beardon, Colin, and Suzette Worden. "The Virtual Curator: Multimedia Technologies and the Roles of Museums." Barrett & Redmont 63-86. Bolter, Jay David. Writing Space: The Computer, Hypertext, and the History of Writing. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1991. Friedlander, Larry. "Spaces of Experience on Designing Multimedia Applications." Barrett & Redmont 163-74. Gay, Geri. "Issues in Accessing and Constructing Multimedia Documents." Barrett & Redmont 175-88. McKnight, Cliff, John Richardson, and Andrew Dillon. "The Authoring of Hypertext Documents." Hypertext: Theory into Practice. Ed. Ray McAleese. Oxford: Intellect, 1993. Nielsen, Jakob. Hypertext and Hypermedia. Boston: Academic Press, 1990. Smith, Anthony. Goodbye Gutenberg: The Newspaper Revolution of the 1980's [sic]. New York: Oxford UP, 1980. Snyder, Ilana. Hypertext: The ELectronic Labyrinth. Carlton South: Melbourne UP, 1996. Tennant, Harry, and George H. Heilmeier. "Knowledge and Equality: Harnessing the Truth of Information Abundance." Technology 2001: The Future of Computing and Communications. Ed. Derek Leebaert. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT P, 1991. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Axel Bruns. "What's the Story: The Unfulfilled Desire for Closure on the Web." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.5 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/closure.php>. Chicago style: Axel Bruns, "What's the Story: The Unfulfilled Desire for Closure on the Web," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 5 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/closure.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Axel Bruns. (1999) What's the story: the unfulfilled desire for closure on the Web. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(5). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/closure.php> ([your date of access]).

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“Man has, as it were, become a kind of prosthetic God. When he puts on all his auxiliary organs he is truly magnificent; but those organs have not grown on to him and they still give him much trouble at times” (Freud 37-39).Introduction and Background Self-tracking is not a new phenomenon. For centuries, people have used self-examination and monitoring as a means to attain knowledge and understanding about themselves. People would often record their daily activities (like food consumption, sleep and physical exercise) and write down accompanying thoughts and reflections. However, the advent of digital technology in the past decades has drastically changed the self-tracking sphere. In fact, the popularisation of self-tracking technology (STT) in mobile applications and wearable devices has allowed users to track daily activities on a closer and more accurate scale than previously affordable. Gary Wolf, the founder of a niche movement called the ‘Quantified Self’, suggested that “if you want to replace the vagaries of intuition with something more reliable, you first need to gather data. Once you know the facts, you can live by them” (Wolf). This reveals that STT has the capacity to guide users by virtue of the data collected and insights provided by the technology. Thus, instead of using intuition, which is potentially unreliable and subjective, data – finite and objective by nature – can be used to guide the process by providing definitive facts, figures and patterns. Arguably, this technologises users, allowing them to enhance their performance and capabilities by using STTs to regulate and monitor their behaviour. Hence, in this article, I position self-tracking technology (STT) as an interactive media technology, a tool for surveillance and regulation, and an “extension of man”. However, the use of and reliance on STT can compromise personal autonomy, and this journal article will investigate how users’ personal autonomy has been affected due to STT’s function as an extension of man, or a “prosthetic”. I use case study vignettes to investigate impacts on personal autonomy in three spheres: the workspace, relationships and the physical environment. Extending ManSTTs reconfigure our bodies in data form and implicate our personhood and autonomy. Human physicality has changed now that technology and data have become so integral to how we experience and view our bodies. STTs technologise human bodies, transforming them into data bodies, augmented and reliant on digital media. As Marshall McLuhan (63) put it: “In this electric age we see ourselves being translated more and more into the form of information, moving toward the technological extension of consciousness”. With the integration of STT into our daily lives, consumers increasingly rely on cues from their devices and applications to inform them about their bodies. This potentially affects the autonomy of an individual – since STT becomes an extension of the human body. In the 1960s, when the mass media was burgeoning, Marshal McLuhan proposed the idea that the media acted as an extension of man. STTs similarly act as an extension of users’ embodied capabilities and senses, since the data collected by these technologies is shared with users, allowing them to alter their bodies and minds, aiming to be as productive and effective as possible. In Understanding Media, McLuhan’s interpretation of electronic media was prescient. He anticipated the development of so-called “smart” devices, noting that, in the information age man “wears [his] brain outside [his] skull and [his] nerves outside [his] hide” (63). This is reflective of STT’s heavy reliance on sensor technology and smart technology. Simply examining how a Fitbit – a popular wearable self-tracking device – operates is illustrative. For instance, some Fitbits have an altimeter sensor that detects when the wearer is elevated, and hence counts floors. Fitbits also count steps using a three-axis accelerometer, which turns the wearer’s movements into data. Furthermore, Fitbit devices are capable of analysing and interpreting this acceleration data to provide insights about “frequency, duration, intensity, and patterns of movement to determine [users’] steps taken, distance travelled, calories burned, and sleep quality” (“Fitbit”). Fitbit relies on sensor technologies (“nerves”) to detect and interpret activities, and such insights are then transmitted to users’ smart devices (“brains”) for storage, to be analysed at a time of convenience. This modus operandi is not exclusive to Fitbit, and in fact, is the framework for many STTs. Hence, STTs have the potential to extend the natural capabilities of the human body to regulate behaviour.The WorkplaceThis notion of STT as a regulatory prosthetic is seen in its ability to enforce standardised norms on individuals by using surveillance as a disciplinary measure. STTs can enforce norms on users by transforming the workplace into a panopticon, which is an institutional structure that allows a watchman to observe individuals without them knowing whether they are being watched or not. STTs are used to gather data about performance and behaviour, and users are monitored constantly. As a result, they adjust their behaviouraccordingly. US retail titan Amazon has repeatedly raised concerns over the past years because of its use of wearables to survey workers during shifts. Adam Littler, an Amazon employee, came forward in 2013 accusing his employers of forcing him to walk 11 miles during a single work shift. His distance travelled was measured and tracked using a pedometer, while a handheld scanner guided him around the warehouse and notified him if he was meeting his targets (Aspinall). Amazon also recently designed and patented a wristband that is capable of tracking wearers’ (employees’) movements, including hand placement (Kelly). The reliance on such tracking technology to guide actions and supplement users with information to increase productivity reveals how STT can serve as a prosthetic that is used to enhance man’s abilities and performance However, the flipside of such enhancement is exploitation – employers augment users with technology and force them to adhere to standards of performance that are difficult to achieve. For instance, documents have recently surfaced that suggest Amazon terminates employees based on productivity statistics. It was reported that around 300 full-time employees were fired for “failing to meet productivity quotas”. According to the documents, “Amazon’s system tracks the rates of each individual associate’s productivity and automatically generates any warnings or terminations regarding quality or productivity without input from supervisors” (Lecher). This is reflective of how actors that are in power, like employers, can impose self-tracking practises onto employees that compromise their personal autonomy. Foucault finds that the panopticon’s utility and potency as a discipline mechanism lies in its efficiency as enforcers do not have to constantly survey people to ensure they conform. Thus, it manoeuvres existing power structures to achieve a particular goal – for instance, higher productivity or economic growth. Foucault also notes: The discipline of the workshop, while remaining a way of enforcing respect for the regulations and authorities, of preventing thefts and losses, tends to increase aptitudes, speeds, output and therefore profits; it still exerts a moral influence over behaviour, but more and more it treats actions in terms of their results, introduces bodies into a machinery, forces into an economy. (210) STTs in the workspace (or workshop) can act as prostheses, allowing employers to enhance their employee’s capabilities. Such technology creates an environment in which workers feel pressured to perform in adherence to certain set standards. Thus, employees are disciplined by STTs, and by the surveillance of their employers that follows. Arguably, such surveillance is detrimental to personal autonomy, as the surveyed feel that they have to behave in compliance to standards enforced by those in power (ie. their employers). Physical Environment With the aim of productivity and efficiency in mind, users grow dependant on devices to augment their realities with helpful technology. As mentioned earlier, McLuhan (90) ideates that “technologies are extensions of our physical and nervous systems to increase power and speed” is particularly significant. The iPhone is an example that illustrates this point very clearly as they are inbuilt with complex technology that includes a variety of sensors. The iPhone 7, for example, has a range of sensors including an accelerometer, a gyroscope, a magnetometer, a GPS, a barometer, and an ambient light sensor (Nield). These gather information about users’ surroundings and feed it back to them, and they are then able to make informed decisions. Hence, if a user wants to travel to a certain place, the phone has the ability to point out the quickest route possible, or which route to take if they would like to stop by a certain location along the way. This cultivates a reliance on navigational technologies that use automated self-tracking to direct users’ daily lives, functioning as an extension and enhancement of their geographical memory and sense of direction. However, using these technologies may in fact be dulling our body’s abilities. For instance, anthropologist Tim Ingold posits that relying on navigation technology has reduced humans’ inborn wayfaring capabilities (Ingold). These satellite navigation technologies are one of the most popular ways in which people track their movements and move through space; for instance, a whole market of rideshare applications like Uber and OlaCabs rely on this technology. Using this technology has allowed people to navigate and travel with ease. However, this can be seen to lead to a lack of “spatial awareness and cartographic literacy”. Essentially, traditional maps skills are viewed as redundant and it can encourage an over-reliance on technology (Speake and Axon). According to McKinlay navigation is a “use-it-or-lose-it skill” and “automatic wayfinding” was reducing natural navigation abilities. A UCL neuroscience study found that licensed London taxi drivers have a larger than average hippocampus in their brains, as they are capable of storing a mental map of the city in their minds, by learning street layouts and locations of places of interest. The hippocampus is the part of the brain that is linked to spatial memory and navigation skills (Maguire, Woollett and Spiers 1093). Dr Eleanor Maguire, the neuroscientist who led the study, noted that if the taxi drivers started “using GPS, that knowledge base will be less and possibly affect the brain changes we are seeing” (Dobson). In turn, an increasing reliance on GPS and navigation technologies in self-tracking devices may result in a diminishing hippocampus, according to neuroscientist Veronique Bohbot of McGill University. The atrophy of the hippocampus has also been linked to the risk of dementia (Weeks), which reveals how the technologies that augment space may atrophy the “natural abilities” (McKinlay) and thus, the autonomy of users. RelationshipsAs with areas like the workspace and spatial environments, sociality and intimacy are increasingly being mediated by technology – the digital capabilities of new media have expanded users’ options and provided a variety of technological tools that allow us to streamline and reflect on social interactions and behaviour, serving as a social prosthetic. This is especially significant in the sphere of self-tracking. However, relying on STT to gain insight into sociality may alter the ways in which we think of intimacy and communication, and may also have an impact on users’ independence and trust. Hasinoff (497-98) notes that using tracking technologies within families and intimate relationships can have potentially harmful effects, such as a loss of trust. In particular, children who are pushed into self-tracking by their families may suffer from a loss of independence as well as an inability to perceive and react to risk. In such a situation, STT serves as a prosthetic that aims to ensure safety, however, surveillance through STTs enforces power disparities and simultaneously creates a dependency between the watched and watchers, and this would affect users’ personal autonomy as they are viewed under a panoptic lens. In fact, Hasinoff finds that “[family tracking and monitoring apps] exaggerate risks, offer illusory promises of safety, and normalize surveillance and excessive control in familial relationships”. I argue that this is the consequence of pushed self-tracking in the sphere of sociality and intimacy. Users may feel pressure from their families or partners to participate in self-tracking and allow their data to be accessed by them. However, the process of participating in such a mediated and monitored relationship could create “asymmetrical relations of visibility” (Trottier 320), as this sharing of information may not always be two sided. For instance, on the app Life360, parents can enforce that their children share their locations at all times, while they are able to conceal their own locations. This intensifies the watcher’s control and diminishes the watched’s privacy and autonomy. Quite ironically, Life360’s tagline is “feel free, together”. As an app geared at family safety, Life360 assumes that the family is a safe space – however, families too may pose a significant risk to vulnerable users’ (such as young children and women) autonomy and privacy. User complaints about inaccurate location information reveal “controlling, asymmetrical, and potentially abusive uses of the app” that can aggravate dysfunctional power dynamics in intimate and familial relationships. For instance, jealous partners or overprotective parents could grow increasingly suspicious or even aggressive (Hasinoff 504). Critical users who reviewed the app claimed that the app “ruined [their] social life” and enabled their “family to stalk [them] 24/7”. In another case, a user claimed the app was “toxic”, noting it would “destroy their [children’s] trust” (App Store; Life360). While the app asserts that each user does have control over the extent of location sharing, they may feel the need to remain visible because of familial pressure and expectations, since their family relies visibility on the app as an indicator of safety. This too, is problematic – self-tracking one’s locations provides just that – a geolocation pin, which is not a clear measure or indicator of the well-being or safety of the user. Simpson argues that constructing location information as safety information is not reliable because it could “promote a false sense of security based on the sense that if you know where your child is then that means they are safe” (277). Additionally, this also sets an imperative that users need to be monitored or monitor themselves at all times to ensure safety, and such a use of surveillance technology could result in users being hyperalert and anxious (Hasinoff 497). Extending man’s awareness to this degree and engaging in such surveillance may create a false sense of security and dependency, that ultimately puts everyone’s autonomy at risk.ConclusionSTT performs as an informational prosthetic for man. We conventionally tend to think of prostheses as extensions of our physical and sensory abilities, used to enhance or replace missing functions. In the case of STT, they have inbuilt decision-making and guidance capabilities, enhancing humans’ ability to process and understand information. This is a new type of digital prosthetic that has not existed before. It thus seems that the new generation of prostheses are no longer just physical and material – they operate as intellectual and cognitive extensions of our bodies. However, when users’ decision-making processes are increasingly displaced by informational prostheses, it is important to determine the extent to which they are impairing our organic capacity for orienting, sense-making and intimacy. ReferencesApp Store. Mobile app. Apple Inc. Accessed 1 Jun. 2019.Aspinall, Adam. “Amazon Forces Warehouse Staff to Walk 11 Miles per Shift Says Former Employee.” Mirror 25 Nov. 2013. <https://www.mirror.co.uk/money/city-news/amazon-worker-rights-retail-giant-2851079>.Dobson, Roger. “Cabbies Really Do Have More Grey Matter to Store All That Information, Scientists Say.” Independent 17 Dec. 2006. <https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/taxi-drivers-knowledge-helps-their-brains-grow-428834.html>.Fitbit. “How Does My Fitbit Device Calculate My Daily Activity?” 1 June 2019 <https://help.fitbit.com/articles/en_US/Help_article/1141>.Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. London: Penguin, 1977. Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and Its Discontents. New York: Picador, 1930.Hasinoff, Amy Adele. “Where Are You? Location Tracking and the Promise of Child Safety.” Television & New Media 18.6 (2016): 496-512. DOI: 10.1177/1527476416680450.Ingold, Tim. Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge, 2011.Kelly, Heather. “Amazon's Idea for Employee-Tracking Wearables Raises Concerns.” CNN Business 2 Feb. 2018. <https://money.cnn.com/2018/02/02/technology/amazon-employee-tracker/index.html>. Lecher, Colin. “How Amazon Automatically Tracks and Fires Warehouse Workers for ‘Productivity’.” The Verge 25 Apr. 2019. <https://www.theverge.com/2019/4/25/18516004/amazon-warehouse-fulfillment-centers-productivity-firing-terminations>.Life360. “Life360 – Feel Free, Together.” 1 June 2019 <https://www.life360.com/>.Lupton, Deborah. The Quantified Self. Malden: Polity, 2016.Maguire, Eleanor, Katherine Woollett, and Hugo Spiers. “London Taxi Drivers and Bus Drivers: A Structural MRI and Neuropsychological Analysis.” Wiley Interscience 16.12 (2006): 1091-1101. DOI: 10.1002/hipo.20233.McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964.McKinlay, Roger. “Technology: Use or Lose Our Navigation Skills.” Nature 30 Mar. 2016. <https://www.nature.com/news/technology-use-or-lose-our-navigation-skills-1.19632>.Nield, David. “All the Sensors in Your Smartphone, and How They Work.” Gizmodo Australia 28 July 2017. <https://www.gizmodo.com.au/2017/07/all-the-sensors-in-your-smartphone-and-how-they-work/>.Satariano, Adam. “Would You Wear a FitBit So Your Boss Could Track Your Weight Loss?” Daily Herald 9 Jan. 2014. <https://www.dailyherald.com/article/20140901/business/140909985/>.Simpson, Brian. “Tracking Children, Constructing Fear: GPS and the Manufacture of Family Safety.” Information & Communications Technology Law 23.3 (2014): 273–285. DOI: 10.1080/13600834.2014.970377.Speake, Janet, and Stephen Axon. “‘I Never Use ‘Maps’ Anymore’: Engaging with Sat Nav Technologies and the Implications for Cartographic Literacy and Spatial Awareness.” The Cartographic Journal 49.4 (2013): 326-336. DOI: 10.1179/1743277412Y.0000000021.Trottier, Daniel. “Interpersonal Surveillance on Social Media.” Canadian Journal of Communication 37.2 (2012): 319–332. DOI: 10.22230/cjc.2012v37n2a2536.Weeks, Linton. “From Maps to Apps: Where Are We Headed?” NPR 4 May 2010. <https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=124608376>.Wolf, Gary. “The Data-Driven Life.” The New York Times Magazine 28 Apr. 2010. <https://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/02/magazine/02self-measurement-t.html>.

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The challenge of providing public benefit from development control archaeology has been a concern across Europe after both the Valletta and Faro conventions encouraged the view that the public must be the key beneficiaries of archaeological work, and since then the theoretical concept of public benefit has become well recognised across our profession. However, it seems to me that the archaeological sector does not yet provide this in a meaningful way or know how to maximise the public benefit potential of our work; indeed, this is acknowledged at the highest levels (e.g. British Academy 2017, 33). The EAC established their Working Group on 'Making the Case' to investigate examples of best practice and provide a practical toolkit for the better articulation of public benefit arising from development-led archaeology (EAC 2019). In the UK the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists has published a briefing document that outlines the potential for public benefit offered by archaeology (CIfA 2020). This dovetails well with a new research project, funded by United Kingdom Research and Innovation (UKRI) and hosted at Museum of London Archaeology (MOLA), intended to ensure that public benefit is at the heart of decision-making throughout the development control sector in the UK (MOLA 2019). This article provides an introduction to the rationale behind this project and outlines how the project ambitions could be achieved through a careful navigation through the complex structures of development programmes' procurement and management.

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IntroductionFor many, north is an abstract point on a compass, an arrow that tells you which way to hold up a map. Though scientifically defined according to the magnetic north pole, and/or the earth’s axis of rotation, these facts are not necessarily discernible to the average person. Perhaps for this reason, the Oxford English Dictionary begins with reference to the far more mundane and accessible sun and features of the human body, in defining north as; “in the direction of the part of the horizon on the left-hand side of a person facing the rising sun” (OED Online). Indeed, many of the words for ‘north’ around the world are etymologically linked to the left hand side (for example Cornish clēth ‘north, left’). We shall see later that even in English, many speakers conceptualise ‘north’ in an egocentric way. Other languages define ‘north’ in opposition to an orthogonal east-west axis defined by the sun’s rising and setting points (see, e.g., the extensive survey of Brown).Etymology aside, however, studies such as Brown’s presume a set of four cardinal directions which are available as primordial ontological categories which may (or may not) be labelled by the languages of the world. If we accept this premise, the fact that a word is translated as ‘north’ is sufficient to understand the direction it describes. There is good reason to reject this premise, however. We present data from three languages among which there is considerable variance in how the words translated as ‘north’ are typically used and understood. These languages are Kuuk Thaayorre (an Australian Aboriginal language spoken on Cape York Peninsula), Marshallese (an Oceanic language spoken in the Republic of the Marshall Islands), and Dhivehi (an Indo-Aryan language spoken in the Maldives). Lastly, we consider the results of an experiment that show Australian English speakers tend to interpret the word north according to the orientation of their own bodies and the objects they manipulate, rather than as a cardinal direction as such.‘North’ in Kuuk ThaayorreKuuk Thaayorre is a Pama-Nyungan language spoken on the west coast of Australia’s Cape York Peninsula in the community of Pormpuraaw. The Kuuk Thaayorre words equivalent to north, south, east and west (hereafter, ‘directionals’) are both complex and frequently used. They are complex in the sense that they combine with prefixes and suffixes to form dozens of words which indicate not only the direction involved, but also the degree of distance, whether there is motion from, towards, to a fixed point, or within a bounded area in that location, proximity to the local river, and more. The ubiquity of these words is illustrated by the fact that the most common greeting formula involves one person asking nhunt wanthan pal yan? ‘where are you going’ and the other responding, for example, ngay yuurriparrop yan ‘I’m going a long way southwards towards the river’, or ngay iilungkarruw yan ‘I’m coming from the northwest’. Directional terms are strewn liberally throughout Kuuk Thaayorre speech. They are employed in the description of both large-scale and small-scale spaces, whether giving directions to a far-off town, asking another person to ‘move a little to the north’, or identifying the person ‘to the east’ of another in a photograph. Likewise, directional gestures are highly frequent, sometimes augmenting the information given in the speech stream, sometimes used in the absence of spoken directions, and other times redundantly duplicating the information given by a directional word.The forms and meanings of directional words are described in detail in Gaby (Gaby 344–52). At the core of this system are six directional roots referring to the north and south banks of the nearby Edward River as well as two intersecting axes. One of these axes is equivalent to the east—west axis familiar to English speakers, and is defined by the apparent diurnal trajectory of the sun. (At a latitude of 14 degrees 54 minutes south, the Kuuk Thaayorre homeland sees little variation in the location of sunrise and sunset through the year.) While the poles of the second axis are translated by the English terms north and south, from a Western perspective this axis is skewed such that Kuuk Thaayorre -ungkarr ‘~north’ lies approximately 35 degrees west of magnetic north. Rather than being defined by magnetic or polar north, this axis aligns with the local coastline. This is true even when the terms are used at inland locations where there is no visual access to the water or parallel sand ridges. How Kuuk Thaayorre speakers apply this system to environments further removed from this particular stretch of coast—especially in the presence of a differently-oriented coast—remains a topic for future research.‘North’ in MarshalleseMarshallese is the language of the people of the Marshall Islands, an expansive archipelago consisting of 22 inhabited atolls and three inhabited non-atoll islands located in the Northern Pacific. The Marshallese have a long history as master navigators, a skill necessary to keep strong links between far-flung and disparate islands (Lewis; Genz).Figure 1: The location of the Marshall IslandsAs with other Pacific languages (e.g. Palmer; Ross; François), Marshallese deploys a complex system of geocentric references. Cardinal directions are historically derived from the Pacific trade winds, reflecting the importance of these winds for navigation and wayfinding. The etymologies of the Marshallese directions are shown in Table 1 below. The terms given in this table are in the Ralik dialect, spoken in the western Marshall Islands. The terms used in the Ratak (eastern) dialect are related, but slightly different in form. See Schlossberg for more detailed discussion. Etymologies originally sourced from Bender et al. and Ross.Table 1: Marshallese cardinal direction words with etymological source semantics EastWestNorthSouthNoun formrearrilik iōn̄ rōkEtymology‘calm shore (of islet)’‘rough shore (of islet)’‘windy season’; ‘season of northerly winds’‘dry season’; ‘season of southerly winds’Verb modifier formtatonin̄a rōn̄aEtymology‘up(wind)’‘down(wind)’‘windy season’; ‘season of northerly winds’‘dry season’; ‘season of southerly winds’As with many other Oceanic languages, Marshallese has three domains of spatial language use: the local domain, the inshore-maritime domain and the navigational domain. Cardinal directions are the sole strategy employed in the navigational domain, which occurs when sailing on the open ocean. In the inshore-maritime domain, which applies when sailing on the ocean or lagoon in sight of land, a land-sea axis is used (The question of whether, in fact, these directions form axes as such is considered further below). Similarly, when walking around an island, a calm side-rough side (of island) axis is employed. In both situations, either the cardinal north-south axis or east-west axis is used to form a secondary cross-axis to the topography-based axis. The cardinal axis parallel to the calm-rough or land-sea axis is rarely used. When the island is not oriented perfectly perpendicular to one of the cardinal axes, the cardinal axes rotate such that they are perpendicular to the primary axis. This can result in the orientation of iōn̄ ‘north’ being quite skewed away from ‘true’ north. An example of how the cardinal and topographic axes prototypically work is exemplified in Figure 2, which shows Jabor, an islet in Jaluit Atoll in the south-west Marshalls.Figure 2: The geocentric directional system of Jabor, Jaluit AtollWhile cartographic cardinal directions comprise two perpendicular axes, this is not the case for many Marshallese. The clearest evidence for this is the directional system of Kili Island, a small non-atoll island approximately 50km west of Jaluit Atoll. The directional system of Kili is similar to that of Jabor, with one notable exception; the iōn̄-rōk ‘north-south’ and rear-rilik ‘east-west’ axes are not perpendicular but rather parallel (Figure 3) The rear-rilik axis takes precedence and the iōn̄-rōk axis is rarely used, showing the primacy of the east-west axis on Kili. This is a clear indication that the Western abstraction of crossed cardinal axes is not in play in the Marshall Islands; the iōn̄-rōk and rear-rilik axes can function completely independently of one another.Figure 3: Geocentric system of spatial reference on KiliSpringdale is a small city in north-west of the landlocked state of Arkansas. It hosts the largest number of expatriate Marshallese in the United States. Of 26 participants in an object placement task, four respondents were able to correctly identify the four cardinal points (Schlossberg). Aside from some who said they simply did not know others gave a variety of answers, including that iōn̄, rōk, rilik and rear only exist in the Marshall Islands. Others imagined a canonical orientation derived from their home atoll and transposed this onto their current environment; one person who was facing the front door in their house in Springdale reported that they imagined they were in their house in the Marshall Islands, where when oriented towards the door, they were facing iōn̄ ‘north’, thus deriving an orientation with respect to a Marshallese cardinal direction. Aside from the four participants who identified the directions correctly, a further six participants responded in a consistent—if incorrect—way, i.e. although the directions were not correctly identified, the responses were consistent with the conceptualisation of crossed cardinal axes, merely that the locations identified were rotated from their true referents. This leaves 16 of the 26 participants (62%) who did not display evidence of having a conceptual system of two crossed cardinal axes.If one were to point in a direction and say ‘this is north’, most Westerners would easily be able to identify ‘south’ by pointing in the opposite direction. This is not the case with Marshallese speakers, many of whom are unable to do the same if given a Marshallese cardinal direction and asked to name its opposite (cf. Schlossberg). This demonstrates that for many Marshallese, each of these cardinal terms do not form axes at all, but rather are four unique locally-anchored points.‘North’ in DhivehiDhivehi is spoken in the Maldives, an archipelago to the southwest of India and Sri Lanka in the Indian Ocean (see Figure 4). Maldivians have a long history of sailing on the open waters, in order to fish and to trade. Traditionally, much of the adult male population would spend long periods of time on such voyages, riding the trade winds and navigating by the stars. For Maldivians, uturu ‘north’ is a direction of safety—the long axis of the Maldivian archipelago runs north to south, and so by sailing north, one has the best possible chance of reaching another island or (eventually) the mainlands of India or Sri Lanka.Figure 4: Location of the MaldivesIt is perhaps unsurprising, then, that many Maldivians are well attuned to the direction denoted by uturu ‘north’, as well as to the other cardinal directions. In an object placement task performed by 41 participants in Laamu Atoll, 32 participants (78%) correctly placed a plastic block ‘to the north’ (uturaṣ̊) of another block when instructed to do so (Lum). The prompts dekonaṣ̊ ‘to the south’ and huḷangaṣ̊ ‘to the west’ yielded similarly high rates of correct responses, though as many as 37 participants (90%) responded correctly to the prompt iraṣ̊ ‘to the east’—this is perhaps because the term for ‘east’ also means ‘sun’ and is strongly associated with the sunrise, whereas the terms for the other cardinal directions are comparatively opaque. However, the path of the sun is not the only environmental cue that shapes the use of Dhivehi cardinal directions. As in Kuuk Thaayorre and Marshallese, cardinal directions in Dhivehi are often ‘calibrated’ according to the orientation of local coastlines. In Fonadhoo, for example, which is oriented northeast to southwest, the system of cardinal directions is rotated about 45 degrees clockwise: uturu ‘north’ points to what is actually northeast and dekona/dekunu ‘south’ to what is actually southwest (i.e., along the length of the island), while iru/iramati ‘east’ and huḷangu ‘west’ are perpendicular to shore (see Figure 5). However, despite this rotated system being in use, residents of Fonadhoo often comment that these are not the ‘real’ cardinal directions, which are determined by the path of the sun.Figure 5: Directions in Fonadhoo, Laamu Atoll, MaldivesIn addition to the four cardinal directions, Dhivehi possesses four intercardinal directions, which are compound terms: iru-uturu ‘northeast’, iru-dekunu ‘southeast’, huḷangu-uturu ‘northwest’, and huḷangu-dekunu ‘southwest’. Yet even a system of eight compass points is not sufficient for describing directions over long distances, especially on the open sea where there are no landmarks to refer to. A system of 32 ‘sidereal’ compass directions (see Figure 6), based on the rising and setting points of stars in the night sky, is available for such purposes—for example, simāgu īran̊ ‘Arcturus rising’ points ENE or 67.5°, while simāgu astamān̊ ‘Arcturus setting’ points WNW or 292.5°. (These Dhivehi names for the sidereal directions are borrowings from Arabic, and were probably introduced by Arab seafarers in the medieval period, see Lum 174-79). Eight sidereal directions coincide with the basic (inter)cardinal directions of the solar compass described earlier. For example, gahā ‘Polaris’ in the sidereal compass corresponds exactly with uturu ‘north’ in the solar compass. Thus Dhivehi has both a sidereal ‘north’ and a solar ‘north’, though the latter is sometimes rotated according to local topography. However, the system of sidereal compass directions has largely fallen out of use, and is known only to older and some middle-aged men. This appears to be due to the diversification of the Maldivian economy in recent decades along with the modernisation of Maldivian fishing vessels, including the introduction of GPS technology. Nonetheless, fishermen and fishing communities use solar compass directions much more frequently than other groups in the Maldives (Lum; Palmer et al.), and some of the oldest men still use sidereal compass directions occasionally.Figure 6: Dhivehi sidereal compass with directions in Thaana script (used with kind permission of Abdulla Rasheed and Abdulla Zuhury)‘North’ in EnglishThe traditional definition of north in terms of Magnetic North or Geographic North is well known to native English speakers and may appear relatively straightforward. In practice, however, the use and interpretation of north is more variable. English speakers generally draw on cardinal directions only in restricted circ*mstances, i.e. in large-scale geographical or navigational contexts rather than, for example, small-scale configurations of manipulable objects (Majid et al. 108). Consequently, most English speakers do not need to maintain a mental compass to keep track of North at all times. So, if English speakers are generally unaware of where North is, how do they perform when required to use it?A group of 36 Australian English speakers participated in an experimental task where they were presented with a stimulus object (in this case, a 10cm wide cube) while facing S72ºE (Poulton). They were then handed another cube and asked to place it next to the stimulus cube in a particular direction (e.g. ‘put this cube to the north of that cube’). Participants completed a total of 48 trials, including each of the four cardinal directions as target, as well as expressions such as behind, in front of and to the left of. As shown in Figure 7, participants’ responses were categorised in one of three ways: correct, near-correct, or incorrect.Figure 7: Possible responses to prompt of north: A = correct, B = near-correct (aligned with the side of stimulus object closest to north), C = incorrect.Every participant placed their cube in alignment with the axes of the stimulus object (i.e. responses B and C in Figure 7). Orientation to Magnetic/Geographic North was thus insufficient to override the local cues of the task at hand. The 9% of participants showed some awareness of the location of Magnetic/Geographic North, however, by making the near-correct response type B. No participants who behaved in such a way expressed certainty in their responses, however. Most commonly, they calculated the rough direction concerned by triangulating with local landmarks such as nearby roads, or the location of Melbourne’s CBD (as verbally expressed both during the task and during an informal interview afterwards).The remaining 91% of participants’ responses were entirely incorrect. Of these, 13.2% involved similar thought processes as the near-correct responses, but did not result in the identification of the closest side of the stimulus to the instructed direction. However, 77.8% of the total participants interpreted north as the far side of the stimulus. While such responses were classified incorrect on the basis of Magnetic or Geographic North, they were consistent with one another and correct with respect to an alternative definition of English north in terms of the participant’s own body. One of the participants alludes to this alternative definition, asking “Do you mean my North or physical North?”. We refer to this alternative definition as Relative North. Relative North is not bound to any given point on the Earth or a derivation of the sun’s position; instead, it is entirely bound to the perceiver’s own orientation. This equates the north direction with forward and the other cardinals’ points are derived from this reference point (see Figure 8). Map-reading practices likely support the development of the secondary, Relative sense of North.Figure 8: Relative North and the Relative directions derived from itConclusionWe have compared the words closest in meaning to the English word north in four entirely unrelated languages. In the Australian Aboriginal language Kuuk Thaayorre, the ‘north’ direction aligns with the local coast, pointing in a direction 35 degrees west of Magnetic North. In Marshallese, the compass direction corresponding to ‘north’ is different for each island, being defined in opposition to an axis running between the ocean and lagoon sides of that island. The Dhivehi ‘north’ direction may be defined either in opposition to the (sun-based) east-west axis, calibrated to the configuration of the local island, as in Marshallese, or defined in terms of Polaris, the Pole star. In all these cases, though, the system of directions is anchored by properties of the external environment. English speakers, by contrast, are shown to—at least some of the time—define north with reference to their own embodied perspective, as the direction extending outwards from the front of their bodies. These findings demonstrate that, far from being universal, ‘north’ is a culture-specific category. As such, great care must be taken when translating or drawing equivalencies between these concepts across languages.ReferencesBender, Byron W., et al. “Proto-Micronesian Reconstructions: I.” Oceanic Linguistics 42.1 (2003): 1–110.Brown, Cecil H. “Where Do Cardinal Direction Terms Come From?” Anthropological Linguistics 25.2 (1983): 121–161. François, Alexandre. “Reconstructing the Geocentric System of Proto-Oceanic.” Oceanic Linguistics 43.1 (2004): 1–31. Gaby, Alice R. A Grammar of Kuuk Thaayorre. Vol. 74. Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton, 2017.Genz, Joseph. “Complementarity of Cognitive and Experiential Ways of Knowing the Ocean in Marshallese Navigation.” Ethos 42.3 (2014): 332–351.Lewis, David Henry. We, the Navigators: The Ancient Art of Landfinding in the Pacific. 2nd ed. Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press, 1994. Lum, Jonathon. "Frames of Spatial Reference in Dhivehi Language and Cognition." PhD Thesis. Melbourne: Monash University, 2018. Majid, Asifa, et al. “Can Language Restructure Cognition? The Case for Space.” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 8.3 (2004): 108–114.OED Online. “North, Adv., Adj., and N.” Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. <http://www.oed.com.ezproxy.lib.monash.edu.au/view/Entry/128325>.Palmer, Bill. “Absolute Spatial Reference and the Grammaticalisation of Perceptually Salient Phenomena.” Representing Space in Oceania: Culture in Language and Mind. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics, 2002. 107–133. ———, et al. "“Sociotopography: The Interplay of Language, Culture, and Environment.” Linguistic Typology 21.3 (2017). DOI:10.1515/lingty-2017-0011.Poulton, Thomas. “Exploring Space: Frame-of-Reference Selection in English.” Honours Thesis. Melbourne: Monash University, 2016.Ross, Malcolm D. “Talking about Space: Terms of Location and Direction.” The Lexicon of Proto-Oceanic: The Culture and Environment of Ancestral Oceanic Society: The Physical Environment. Eds. Malcolm D. Ross, Andrew Pawley, and Meredith Osmond. Vol. 2. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics, 2003. 229–294. Schlossberg, Jonathan. Atolls, Islands and Endless Suburbia: Spatial Reference in Marshallese. PhD thesis. Newcastle: University of Newcastle, in preparation.

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Introduction The past decade has seen a burgeoning new field titled “night studies” or “darkness studies” (Gwiazdzinski, Maggioli, and Straw). Key theorists Straw, Shaw, Dunn, and Edensor have spearheaded this new field, publishing a recent flurry of books and other scholarly work dedicated to various aspects of the night. Topics range, for instance, from the history of artificial lighting (Shaw), atmospheres of urban light and darkness (Sumartojo, Edensor, and Pink), street music and public space at night (Reia), the experience of eating in the dark (Edensor and Falconer), walking at night (Morris; Dunn), gendered experiences of the city at night (Hardley; Hardley and Richardson “Mobile Media”, “Mistrust”), and women’s solo experiences of the wilderness at night. Contributing to this new field, this article considers some of the embodied ways mobile media have been deployed in the urban night. To date, this topic has not received much attention within the fields of mobile media or night studies. The research presented in this article draws on a qualitative research project conducted in Australia from 2016-2020. The project focussed on participants’ use of mobile media in urban spaces at night and conducted a specific analysis of pertinent gendered differences. Throughout my iterative and longitudinal research process, I engaged various phases of data collection to explore participants’ night-time mobile media practices, as well as to consider how darkness and the night impact networked practices in ways that speak to the postphenomenological concept of multistability (Ihde Postphenomenology and Technoscience). I highlight the empirical findings through a series of participant stories, exploring salient insights into embodied perceptions of darkness and various ways of co-opting mobile media practices in the urban night. Methods: Data Collection, Interpretation, and Representation My research took place in Perth and Melbourne from 2016-2020. A total of 98 individuals, aged 19 to 67 years, participated. Participants came from diverse backgrounds, including urban and rural Australia, Sweden, America, Ethiopia, Italy, Argentina, USA, and England. They were students, teachers, chefs, unemployed, stay-at-home-parents, miners, small business owners, retired, doctors, and government scientists. They identified across the sexuality and gender identity spectrums. My techniques for data collection were grouped into four main phases: (i) an initial survey; (ii) home visits, which included interviews, haptic experiments, observations, and my own situatedness in participants’ homes; (iii) geo-locative tracking and text messaging; and (iv) online follow-up interviews. The study was open to anyone who lived in Perth or Melbourne, was over 18 years old, and used a smartphone. All phases of the data collection were conducted during the day or at night, depending on participant availability. My focus on darkness and the night, in relation to mobile media, evolved over time. The first question regarding mobile media and the night was posed in 2016 during initial data collection, using an online survey to cast a wide net to gather insights on networked functionality afforded by mobile phones and perceptions of safety and risk in urban and domestic space. Participants frequently referred to the differences between day and night. During home visits and face-to-face interviews in 2017, as well as online interviews in 2020, I sought to gain deeper insights into participants’ sensory experiences of darkness and the night. My interpretation and representation of the data adopts a similar approach as vignettes, which are described by Berry in her book on creative practice and mobile media. For Berry, vignettes are a way of “braiding” (xv) accounts of participant experience together. My particular use of this approach has been published in detail elsewhere (Hardley and Richardson “Digital Placemaking”). Postphenomenology, Multistability, and Mobile Media Throughout this article I frame engagement with mobile media as a particular kind of body-technology relation. As the founder of postphenomenology, Ihde, writes, “technologies transform our experience of the world and our perceptions and interpretations of our world, and we in turn become transformed in this process” (Postphenomenology and Technoscience 44). Ihde adapted phenomenology (from Merleau-Ponty, Husserl, and Heidegger) by shifting away from an essentialist body-subject to non-essentialist contextualisation. As Ihde explains (he uses archery longbows and arrows to make his point), all tools are the “same” in an abstract sense; however, “radically different practices fit differently into various contexts” (Postphenomenology and Technoscience 16). In other words, tools (including mobile media) are never neutral and are always multiple and variable depending on context and practice. All tools are therefore situated and embodied in culturally specific ways. Postphenomenological scholarship can, thus, be said to capture the cultural specificity of all human-technology relations. The following examples help illustrate this defining characteristic of postphenomenology, as distinct from phenomenology. It could be argued that Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological description of the blind man with his cane is an essentialist notion of what it’s like to experience blindness. On the other hand, Wellner’s postphenomenological description of using a mobile phone describes how the same technology can be used by different people in multiple ways, as people assign different meanings to the technology. This notion is best captured by the term multistability, which suggests each technology has numerous uses, applications and purposes. As Irwin explains, the term multistability—one of Ihde’s central concepts within postphenomenology—conveys the inherent adaptability and mutability of both bodies and media engagement, depending on the context or situatedness of a tool’s use. In the following sections, I first explore embodied perceptions of darkness and the night, and then explore how mobile media have modified participants’ embodied perception of darkness and how it informs their situated awareness of their urban surroundings. In terms of my research, this concerns how mobile media users embody their devices in an array of different ways, especially at night. “Feeling” the Night: Embodied Perceptions of Darkness Darkness, and the night, are not simply about the lack of vision. Indeed, while sensory perception in the dark, such as obscured vision and the heightening of other senses, comes into play, we also encounter the night through an enmeshed cultural relationship of darkness and danger. Shaw describes this relationship in the following way: darkness has been equated with danger: the night was a time when demons, criminals and others who presented a threat were imagined to be present in the landscape. Darkness was thus imagined as a space in which both real and mythical dangers were present. (“Controlling Darkness” 5) Chris, a young gay man living in a medium-sized town close to Melbourne, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and laughed when I asked him if he has ever been scared of the dark. He responded: [Silence] Yeah! I have! Wow, what a funny question. [Laughter] I remember always checking my closet as a child before getting into bed. And the door had to be closed. I could not sleep if the closet door was open. When asked what he thought might be in the closet at night, he laughed again and shared: I have no idea. I don’t think I ever thought it was a person, just the unknown. How funny to think about that now—as a gay man I was scared of what might come out of the closet! [Laughter] Chris’s observation of his habitual childhood behaviour illustrates an embodied cultural imagery of darkness and the role of fear, anxieties and the unknown in the dark. He also spoke of “growing out of” his fantastical fear of the dark as he entered adulthood. This contrasts with what many women in my study described, noting their transition from childhood “fears of the dark” to very real and “felt” experiences of darkness and danger. This opened up a major finding in my research, and uncovered navigational and connectivity strategies often deployed by women in urban spaces at night (Hardley and Richardson “Mistrust”). For instance, Leah (a woman in her late 40s living in Perth), revealed her peripatetic engagement with the (sub)urban night when she described her cycling routes with her 8-year-old daughter. While talking with me via Zoom in 2020, she explained: I have an electric bike—it’s great. I can zip around the city and I have a kid’s seat on the back for my daughter. Sometimes I feel like a hybrid pedestrian—I can switch quickly between being on the road or the footpath. Recently, my daughter asked why we always take the long way home at night. I had to think quickly to come up with a response because I think she’s too young to know the truth. I told her that parks are often empty at night, so if something happens to us then there will be no one to help. In a way that’s true, but really, it’s because as a woman and a child it’s safer for us to remain on well-lit streets. Leah’s experience of the city and her mobility at night are distinctly gendered; she reflects on her experience as a “hybrid pedestrian” in relation to what could happen to her and her daughter if they were to ride through the park at night instead of remaining on the well-lit bike path. Overwhelmingly, the men who participated in my study did not share similar experiences or reflections. Introducing the embodiment of darkness and the night, along with associated fears and anxieties, in a general sense sets the atmospheric scene for a postphenomenological analysis of embodied experiences of the urban night and how users co-opt mobile media functionalities to manage their embodied experiences of the dark. Chris and Leah’s stories both suggest how we “feel” at night has important implications for the practical way(s) in which we engage, navigate and curate our experiences of the dark. In the following section, I consider how mobile devices are literally “handled”, particularly by women in the urban context, to mitigate fears and anxieties of the night. I contend that our embodied experience of the urban night is mediated by, and through, our collective and individual fears, anxieties and perceptions of danger in the dark. Co-opting Mobile Media: Multistable Experiences of the Urban Night Reflecting on his own practices of walking at night, Dunn writes, walking at night, however, offers something different, having the capacity to alter our ingrained, seemingly natural predispositions towards the urban surroundings, and our perceptions along with it. (9) Indeed, the night can offer a “capacity to alter”; however, I suggest that it can also reinforce anxieties and fears of the dark (both real and imagined). As such, walking at night can also reinforce “ingrained, seemingly natural predispositions”. Postphenomenology is useful here, as it offers a way to think through practices of what Ihde calls “amplification” and “reduction” of the corporeal schema. Through both actions, mobile media users habituate themselves or take up residence in the urban night by and through their use of smartphone functionalities, as well as their sense of networked connectivity. In the context of this article, the corporeal schema undergoes an amplification and reduction via the co-opting of mobile media, such as an embodied sense of networked connectivity or a tactile prop, to generate a “tele-cocoon” (Habuchi), “shield” (Verhoeff), or “bubble” (Bull Sounding). The corporeal schema can be understood as our lived experience of the world (Merleau-Ponty), whereby our “perceptual reach and bodily boundaries, is always-already extendible through artifacts and technologies” (Hardley and Richardson “Mistrust”). The digital cocoon afforded by mobile media is often gendered and overtly concerned with issues of personal safety and privacy, especially at night. For many women, generating an imagined boundary between the self and others in shared urban spaces is an important function of mobile media. As one Perth participant reflected, my phone’s a good distraction when I’m alone in a public place, especially at night if I’m waiting for someone. Sometimes guys will come up and try to start a conversation—it’s so annoying. If I focus on my phone, it’s like telling them to leave me alone. This tactical use of mobile media to carve out one’s own space in crowded social places was especially common among the women I interviewed. Yet, such practices are also deployed by men, albeit for different reasons. In Melbourne, Dane described the strategic use of his mobile phone as both a creative tool of connection and a means of communicating—especially to women at night—that he was non-threatening. As a proud late-adopter of smartphones, he explained to me that his main reason for buying one had been the camera function; he refers to his smartphone as “a camera that rings”. He particularly enjoys taking photos at night, during which time his familiar streets become “moody and strange”. He spends many hours walking in his neighbourhood, capturing shadows and uploading the images to his public Instagram account. Referring to his dark skin and shaved head, he joked, “I’d look great in a line-up” and added: sometimes I feel a bit self-conscious on the bus or train, particularly late at night, I think maybe I could seem like a threat or something. So, I’ll play a game or chat to friends about my photos via Instagram. I figure it works both ways—I don’t notice anyone and people don’t notice me. As these participant stories reveal, the personal privacy bubble offered by our mobile devices is co-opted differently. Turning to Ihde’s notion of multistability, these examples can be analysed and understood as mobile technologies’ potential variabilities with multiple outcomes (Ihde Postphenomenology and Technoscience). To explore and explain this further, I consider the following participant story in which Britta, an American living in Melbourne, reflected on her night-time pedestrian practices across two cities, sharing: at night, in Australia, my phone would be in my bra. In Philadelphia, it would be in my hand. It's totally different because of safety. When at University in the U.S., I would always talk to a friend while walking from one place to the next. It doesn't even cross my mind to do that in Australia. In Philadelphia, I would call one of the girls I lived with and if someone approached me, I could say, "Oh sh*t, I'm about to get mugged, this is where I am” and they could call the cops. It's a sense of being on guard. I would never walk using headphones in Philadelphia. In Australia, if I go running at night I listen to music with one earphone in. In this vignette, Britta has habituated an acute awareness of her corporeal schema. As Wellner suggests, “the world is always a negotiation between humans and their tools, their artifacts, their technology, and their devices” (5). In this context, Britta has an amplified awareness of her situatedness, and uses her mobile phone to listen to music in different ways depending on her geographical location. There is a direct connection to her use of headphones to listen to music and her embodied perception of personal safety at night. Turning to Ihde, this participant story can be explained through the term “non-neutrality”, which describes how “no technology is ‘one thing,’ nor is it incapable of belonging to multiple contexts” (Ihde Technology and Prognostic 47). Such an example points to the non-neutrality of mobile media, and how “our perception and environment are mediated by the technology” (Wellner 15). This analysis can be extended further to consider the use of headphones (as an extension of the mobile phone) and geographical location in relation to the concept of multistability—that is, the specificity of use. As Irwin writes, “how is it to be an earbudded body in the world? ... Earbuds are non-neutral and they are becoming deeply imbedded in daily life” (81). Indeed, Bull’s influential work on how personal stereos and iPods change users’ experiences of public spaces (Sound Moves) is useful here in understanding the background of what Irwin refers to as “keeping sound in and sound out” (81). It is, according to Irwin, “about privacy and isolation” (81); however, as Britta’s vignette shows, mobile media practices of privacy and isolation in urban spaces can be impacted by geographical location and urban darkness, and are also distinctly gendered. Applying the concept of multistability allows me to consider how, in some instances, mobile phones are often deployed as a proxy Do Not Disturb sign when alone in public (Hardley and Richardson “Mistrust”). While, in other instances, one’s embodied experience of being an earbudded body in the world can increase their perceptual sense of risk based on various factors, such as geographical location. Beyond this, it also speaks to the relational ontology between body and technology and the mutability of perception. In Britta’s example, her corporeal schema in the urban night is amplified by and through her personal and situated embodiment of mobile media use, particularly her decision to use headphones in specific ways depending on her geographical location. In 2017, I conducted a home visit with Dominique, a woman in her 30s living in Perth. During this visit, she reflected on her use of a Bluetooth earpiece, especially at night, sharing: I use a Bluetooth earpiece to talk over the phone. I also sometimes wear it at night even if I'm not on the phone or expecting a call as I can quickly request that Siri call someone for me without having to actually dig out my phone, unlock it and make the call. I prefer having my hands free. It can make me feel safer at night. Dominique’s description of having her mobile phone on standby can be understood as a habituated practice to overcome her anxieties of being alone at night in urban space, as well as to apprehend her sensory experience of the urban night by remaining “hands free”. Similar to Britta, Dominique’s embodiment in the urban night had become habituated and sedimented over time—or, in other words, “[a] force of habit” (Rosenberger and Verbeek 25). In this way, Dominique’s embodiment is configured depending on her contextual specificity, such as being alone in public spaces at night. Conclusion This article contributes to the emerging interdisciplinary field of “night studies” and “darkness studies” by focusing on the relationship between mobile media practices and the urban night. I based my methods, including data collection, interpretation and representation, in a postphenomenological framework, and detailed how this framework is useful in reflecting deeply and critically on mobile media use at night. Drawing from the framework’s key concept of multistability, I suggest a particular analysis of how users co-opt mobile media functionalities in situationally unique and personal ways in the urban night. The ways in which users co-opt these functionalities are often gendered. I unpacked how some of my research participants deploy mobile media functions as a means of managing their fears and anxieties of darkness and the urban night, and suggest that such uses are always dependent on the users specific situatedness, both within urban spaces and toward other city dwellers. In sum, this article has stressed the importance of situated and embodied experiences of darkness, and deploys postphenomenological insights to glean ways in which mobile media is implicated in the configuration of embodiment of the night. References Berry, Marsha. Creating with Mobile Media. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017. Bull, Michael. Sounding Out the City: Personal Stereos and the Management of Everyday Life. New York: Berg Publishers, 2000. ———. Sound Moves: iPod Culture and Urban Experience. New York: Routledge, 2007. Dunn, Nick. Dark Matters: A Manifesto for the Nocturnal City. Alresford: Zero Books, 2016. Edensor, Tim. “Introduction to Geographies of Darkness.” Cultural Geographies 22.4 (2015). 27 March 2016 <https://doi.org/10.1177/1474474015604807>. Edensor, Tim, and Emily Falconer. "Dans Le Noir? Eating in the Dark: Sensation and Conviviality in a Lightless Place." Cultural Geographies 22.4 (2015). 2 April 2017 <https://doi.org/10.1177/1474474014534814>. Gwiazdzinski, Luc, Marco Maggioli, and Will Straw. "Geographies of the Night: From Geographical Object to Night Studies." Bollettino della Società Geografica Italiana 14 (2018): 9-22. Habuchi, Ichiyo. “Accelerating Reflexivity.” Personal, Portable, Pedestrian: Mobile Phones in Japanese Life. Eds. Mizuko Ito, Misa Matsuda, and Daisuke Okabe. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005. 165-182. Hardley, Jess. “Mobile Media and the Urban Environment: Perceptions of Space and Safety.” Proceedings of the American Association of Geographers Annual Meeting, Washington DC, 3–7 Apr. 2019. 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Shaw, Robert. “Controlling Darkness: Self, Dark and the Domestic Night.” Cultural Geographies 22.4 (2014). 16 Nov. 2016 <https://doi.org/10.1177/1474474014539250>. Shaw, Robert. The Nocturnal City. London: Routledge, 2018. Straw, Will. "Media and the Urban Night." Articulo 11 (2015). 15 Aug. 2017 <https://doi.org/10.4000/articulo.3098>. Sumartojo, Shanti, Tim Edensor, and Sarah Pink. "Atmospheres in Urban Light." Ambiances (En Ligne) 5 (2019). 5 June 2020 <https://doi.org/10.4000/ambiances.2586>. Verhoeff, Nanna. Mobile Screens: The Visual Regime of Navigation. Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 2012. Wellner, Galit. A Postphenomenological Inquiry of Cell Phones: Genealogies, Meanings, and Becoming. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2016.

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Content warning: although it was kept to a minimum, this text displays instances of (anti-Semitic) hate speech. During the 2016 U.S. election and its aftermath, multiple journalistic accounts reported on “alt-right trolls” emanating from anonymous online spaces like the imageboard 4chan (e.g. Abramson; Ellis). Having gained infamy for its nihilist trolling subcultures (Phillips, This Is Why) and the loose hacktivist movement Anonymous (Coleman), 4chan now drew headlines because of the alt-right’s “genuinely new” concoction of white supremacy, ironic Internet humour, and a lack of clear leadership (Hawley 50). The alt-right “anons”, as imageboard users call themselves, were said to primarily manifest on the “Politically Incorrect” subforum of 4chan: /pol/. Gradually, a sentiment arose in the titles of several news articles that the pro-Trump “alt-right trolls” had successfully won the metapolitical battle intertwined with the elections (Phillips, Oxygen 5). For instance, articles titled that “trolls” were “The Only True Winners of this Election” (Dewey) or even “Plotting a GOP Takeover” (Stuart).The headlines were as enticing as questionable. As trolling-expert Whitney Phillips headlined herself, the alt-right did not attain political gravity solely through its own efforts but rather was “Conjured Out of Pearl Clutching and Media Attention” (“The Alt-Right”), with news outlets being provoked to criticise, debunk, or sensationalise its trolling activities (Faris et al. 131; Phillips, “Oxygen” 5-6). Even with the right intentions, attempts at denouncement through using vague, structuralist notions–from “alt-right” and “trolls” to “the basket of deplorables” (Robertson) – arguably only strengthened the coherence of those it was meant to disavow (Phillips, Oxygen; Phillips et al.; Marantz). Phillips et al. therefore lamented such generalisations, arguing attributing Trump’s win to vague notions of “4chan”, “alt-right”, or “trolls” actually bestowed an “atemporal, almost godlike power” to what was actually an “ever-reactive anonymous online collective”. Therefore, they called to refrain from making claims about opaque spaces like 4chan without first “plotting the landscape” and “safeguarding the actual record”. Indeed, “when it comes to 4chan and Anonymous”, Phillips et al. warned, “nobody steps in the same river twice”.This text answers the call to map anonymous online groups by engaging with the complexity of testing the muddy waters of the ever-changing and dissimulative 4chan-current. It first argues how anti-structuralist research outlooks can answer to many of the pitfalls arising from this complex task. Afterwards, it traces the word trump as it was used on 4chan/pol/ to problematise some of the above-mentioned media narratives. How did anons consider Trump, and how did the /pol/-current change during the build-up of the 2016 U.S. elections and afterwards?On Researching Masked and Dissimulative ExtremistsWhile potentially playing into the self-imagination of malicious actors (Phillips et al.), the frequent appearance of overblown narratives on 4chan is unsurprising considering the peculiar affordances of imageboards. Imageboards are anonymous – no user account is required to post – and ephemeral – posts are deleted after a certain amount of activity, sometimes after days, sometimes after minutes (Bernstein et al.; Hagen). These affordances complicate studying collectives on imageboards, with the primary reasons being that 1) they prevent insights into user demographics, 2) they afford particularly dissimulative, playful discourse that can rarely be taken at face value (Auerbach; de Zeeuw and Tuters), and 3) the sheer volume of auto-deleted activity means one has to stay up-to-date with a rapid waterfall of subcultural ephemera. Additionally, the person stepping into the muddy waters of the chan-river also changes their gaze over time. For instance, Phillips bravely narrates how she once saw parts of the 4chan-stream as “fun” to only later realise the blatantly racist elements present from the start (“It Wasn’t Just”).To help render legible the changing currents of imageboard activity without relying on vague understandings of the “alt-right”, “trolls”, or “Anonymous”, anti-structuralist research outlooks form a possible answer. Around 1900, sociologists like Gabriel Tarde already argued to refrain from departing from structuralist notions of society and instead let social compositions arise through iterative tracing of minute imitations (11). As described in Bruno Latour’s Reassembling the Social, actor-network theory (ANT) revitalises the Tardean outlook by similarly criticising the notion of the “social” and “society” as distinct, sui-generis entities. Instead, ANT advocates tracing “flat” networks of agency made up of both human and non-human actors (165-72). By tracing actors and describing the emerging network of heterogeneous mediators and intermediaries (105), one can slowly but surely get a sense of collective life. ANT thus takes a page from ethnomethodology, which advocates a similar mapping of how participants of a group produce themselves as such (Garfinkel).For multiple reasons, anti-structuralist approaches like ANT can be useful in tracing elusive anonymous online groups and their changing compositions. First, instead of grasping collectives on imageboards from the outset through structuralist notions, as networked individuals, or as “amorphous and formless entities” (see e.g. Coleman 113-5), it only derives its composition after following where its actors lead. This can result in an empirical and literally objective mapping of their collectivity while refraining from mystifications and non-existent connections–so often present in popular narratives about “trolls” and the “alt-right”. At the same time, it allows prominent self-imaginations and mythologizations – or, in ANT-parlance, “localisations of the global” (Latour 173-190) – rise to the surface whenever they form important actors, which, as we will see, tends to happen on 4chan.Second, ANT offers a useful lens with which to consider how non-human actors can uphold a sense of collectivity within anonymous imageboards. This can include digital objects as part of the infrastructure–e.g. the automatically assigned post numbers having mythical value on 4chan (Beran, It Came From 69)–but also cultural objects like words or memes. Considering 4chan’s anonymity, this focus on objects instead of individuals is partly a necessity: one cannot know the exact amount and flow of users. Still, as this text seeks to show, non-human actors like words or memes can form suitable actors to map the changing collectivity of anonymous imageboard users in the absence of demographic insights.There are a few pitfalls worth noting when conducting ANT-informed research into extremist spaces like 4chan/pol/. The aforementioned ironic and dissimulative rhetoric of anonymous forum culture (de Zeeuw and Tuters) means tracing is complicated by implicit (yet omnipresent) intertextual references undecipherable to the untrained eye. Even worse, when misread or exaggerated, such tracing efforts can play into trolling tactics. This can in turn risk what Phillips calls “giving oxygen” to bigoted narratives by amplifying their presence (“Oxygen”). Since ANT does not prescribe what sort of description is needed (Latour 149), this exposure can be limited and/or critically engaged with by the researcher. Still, it is inevitable that research on extremist collectives adds at least some garbage to already polluted information ecologies (Phillips and Milner 2020), even when “just” letting the actors speak (Venturini). Indeed, this text will unfortunately also show hate speech terms below.These complications of irony and amplification can be somewhat mitigated by mixing ethnographic involvement with computational methods. Together, they can render implicit references explicit while also mapping broad patterns in imitation and preventing singular (misleading) actors from over-dominating the description. When done well, such descriptions do not only have to amplify but can also marginalise and trivialise. An accurate mapping can thereby counter sensationalist media narratives, as long as that is where the actors lead. It because of this potentiality that anti-structuralist tracing of extremist, dissimulative online groups should not be discarded outright.Stopping Momentarily to Test the WatersTo put the above into practice, what follows is a brief case study on the term trump on 4chan/pol/. Instead of following users, here the actor trump is taken an entry point for tracing various assemblages: not only referring to Donald J. Trump as an individual and his actions, but also to how /pol/-anons imagine themselves in relation to Trump. In this way, the actor trump is a fluid one: each of its iterations contains different boundaries and variants of its environment (de Laet and Mol 252). By following these environments, can we make sense of how the delirious 2016 U.S. election cycle played out on /pol/, a space described as the “skeleton key to the rise of Trump” (Beran, 4chan)?To trace trump, I use the 4plebs.com archive, containing almost all posts made on /pol/ between late-2013 and early 2018 (the time of research). I subsequently use two text mining methods to trace various connections between trump and other actors and use this to highlight specific posts. As Latour et al. note, computational methods allow “navigations” (593) of different data points to ensure diverse empirical perspectives, preventing both structuralist “zoomed-out” views and local contexts from over-dominating. Instead of moving between micro and macro views, such a navigation should therefore be understood as a “circulation” around the data, deploying various perspectives that each assemble the actors in a different way. In following this, the case study aims to demonstrate how, instead of a lengthy ethnographic account, a brief navigation using both quali- and quantitative perspectives can quickly demystify some aspects of seemingly nebulous online groups.Tracing trump: From Meme-Wizard to Anti-Semitic TargetTo get a sense of the centrality of Trump on /pol/, I start with post frequencies of trump assembled in two ways. The first (Figure 1) shows how, soon after the announcement of Trump’s presidential bid on 16 June 2015, around 100,000 comments mention the word (2% of the total amount of posts). The frequencies spike to a staggering 8% of all comments during the build-up to Trump’s win of the Republican nomination in early 2016 and presidential election in November 2016. Figure 1: The absolute and relative amount of posts on 4chan/pol/ containing the word trump (prefixes and suffixes allowed).To follow the traces between trump and the more general discourse surrounding it, I compiled a more general “trump-dense threads” dataset. These are threads containing thirty or more posts, with at least 15% of posts mentioning trump. As Figure 2 shows, at the two peaks, 8% of any thread on /pol/ was trump-dense, accounting for approximately 15,000 monthly threads. While Trump’s presence is unsurprising, these two views show just how incredibly central the former businessman was to /pol/ at the time of the 2016 U.S. election. Figure 2: The absolute and relative amount of threads on 4chan/pol/ that are “trump-dense”, meaning they have thirty comments or more, out of which at least 15% contain the word trump (prefixes and suffixes allowed).Instead of picking a certain moment from these aggregate overviews and moving to the “micro” (Latour et al.), I “circulate” further with Figure 3, showing another perspective on the trump­-dense thread dataset. It shows a scatter plot of trump-dense threads grouped per week and plotted according to how similar their vocabulary is. First, all the words per week are weighted with tf-idf, a common information retrieval algorithm that scores units on the basis if they appear a lot in one of the datasets but not in others (Spärck-Jones). The document sets are then plotted according to the similarity of their weighted vocabulary (cosine similarity). The five highest-scoring terms for the five clusters (identified with K-means) are listed in the bottom-right corner. For legibility, the scatterplot is compressed by the MDS algorithm. To get a better sense of specific vocabulary per week, terms that appeared in all weeks are filtered out (like trump or hillary). Read counterclockwise, the nodes roughly increase in time, thus showing a clear temporal change of discourse, with the first clusters being more similar in vocabulary than the last, and the weeks before and after the primary election (orange cluster) showing a clear gap. Figure 3: A scatterplot showing cosine distances between tf-idf weighted vocabularies of trump-dense threads per week. Compressed with MDS and coloured by five K-means clusters on the underlying tf-idf matrix (excluding terms that appeared in all weeks). Legend shows the top five tf-idf terms within these clusters. ★ denotes the median week in the cluster.With this map, we can trace other words appearing around trump as significant actors in the weekly documents. For instance, Trump-supportive words like stump (referring to “Can’t Stump the Trump”) and maga (“Make America Great Again”) are highly ranked in the first two clusters. In later weeks, less clearly pro-Trump terms appear: drumpf reminds of the unattractive root of the Trump family name, while impeached and mueller show the Russia probe in 2017 and 2018 were significant in the trump-dense threads of that time. This change might thus hint at growing scepticism towards Trump after his win, but it is not shown how these terms are used. Fortunately, the scatterplot offers a rudder with which to navigate to further perspectives.In keeping with Latour’s advice to keep “aggregate structures” and “local contexts” flat (165-72), I contrast the above scatterplot with a perspective on the data that keeps sentence structures intact instead of showing abstracted keyword sets. Figure 4 uses all posts mentioning trump in the median weeks of the first and last clusters in the scatterplot (indicated with ★) and visualises word trees (Wattenberg and Viégas) of most frequent words following “trump is a”. As such, they render explicit ontological associations about Trump; what is Trump, according to /pol/-anons? The first word tree shows posts from 2-8 November 2015, when fifteen Republican competitors were still in the race. As we have seen in Figure 1, Trump was in this month still “only” mentioned in around 50,000 posts (2% of the total). This word tree suggests his eventual nomination was at this point seen as an unlikely and even undesirable scenario, showing derogatory associations like retard and failure, as well as more conspiratorial words like shill, fraud, hillary plant, and hillary clinton puppet. Notably, the most prominent association, meme, and others like joke and f*cking comic relief, imply Trump was not taken too seriously (see also Figure 5). Figure 4: Word trees of words following “trump is a” in the median weeks of the first and last clusters of the scatterplot. Made with Jason Davies’s Word Tree application. Figure 5: Anons who did not take Trump seriously. Screencapture taken from archive.4plebs.org (see post 1 and post 2 in context).The first word tree contrast dramatically with the one from the last median week from 18 to 24 December 2017. Here, most associations are anti-Semitic or otherwise related to Judaism, with trump most prominently related to the hate speech term kike. This prompts several questions: did /pol/ become increasingly anti-Semitic? Did already active users radicalise, or were more anti-Semites drawn to /pol/? Or was this nefarious current always there, with Trump merely drawing anti-Semitic attention after he won the election? Although the navigation did not depart from a particular critical framework, by “just following the actors” (Venturini), it already stumbled upon important questions related to popular narratives on 4chan and the alt-right. While it is tempting to stop here and explain the change as “radicalisation”, the navigation should continue to add more empirical perspectives. When doing so, the more plausible explanation is that the unlikely success of Trump briefly attracted (relatively) more diverse and playful visitors to /pol/, obscuring the presence and steady growth of overt extremists in the process.To unpack this, I first focus on the claim that a (relatively) diverse set of users flocked to /pol/ because of the Trump campaign. /pol/’s overall posting activity rose sharply during the 2016 election, which can point to already active users becoming more active, but is likely mostly caused by new users flocking to /pol/. Indeed, this can be traced in actor language. For instance, many anons professed to be “reporting in” from other 4chan boards during crucial moments in the campaing. One of the longest threads in the trump-dense threads dataset (4,504 posts) simply announces “Cruz drops out”. In the comments below, multiple anons state they arrived from other boards to join the Trump-infused activity. For instance, Figure 6 shows an anon replying “/v/ REPORTING IN”, to which sixty other users reacted by similarly affirming themselves as representatives from other boards (e.g. “/mu/ here. Ready to MAGA”). While but another particular view, this implies Trump’s surprising nomination stimulated a crowd-like gathering of different anons jumping into the vortex of trump-related activity on /pol/. Figure 6: Replies by outside-anons “reporting in” the sticky thread announcing Ted Cruz's drop out, 4 May 2016. Screenshots taken from 4plebs.org (see post 1 and post 2 in context).Other actor-language further expresses Trump’s campaign “drew in” new and unadjusted (or: less extreme) users. Notably, many anons claimed the 2016 election led to an “invasion of Reddit users”. Figure 7 shows one such expression: an annotated timeline of /pol/’s posting activity graph (made by 4plebs), posted to /pol/ on 26 February 2016 and subsequently reposted 34 times. It interprets 2016 as a period where “Trump sh*t goes into overdrive, meme sh*t floods /pol/, /pol/ is now reddit”. Whether these claims hold any truth is difficult to establish, but the image forms an interesting case of how the entirety “/pol/” is imagined and locally articulated. Such simplistic narratives relate to what Latour calls “panoramas”: totalising notions of some imagined “whole” (188-90) that, while not to be “confused with the collective”, form crucial data since they express how actors understand their own composition (190). Especially in the volatile conditions of anonymous and ephemeral imageboards, repeated panoramic narratives can help in constructing a sense of cohesion–and thereby also form interesting actors to trace. Indeed, following the panoramic statement “/pol/ is now reddit”, other gatekeeping-efforts are not hard to find. For instance, phrases urging other anons to go “back to reddit” (occurring in 19,069 posts in the total dataset) or “back to The_Donald” (a popular pro-Trump subreddit, 1,940 posts) are also particularly popular in the dataset. Figure 7: An image circulated on /pol/ lamenting that "/pol/ is now reddit" by annotating 4plebs’s posting metrics. Screenshot taken from archive.4plebs.org (see posts).Did trump-related activity on /pol/ indeed become more “meme-y” or “Reddit-like” during the election cycle, as the above panorama articulates? The activity in the trump-dense threads seems to suggest so. Figure 8 again uses the tf-idf terms from these threads, but here with the columns denoting the weeks and the rows the top scoring tf-idf terms of their respective week. To highlight relevant actors, all terms are greyed out (see the unedited sheet here), except for several keywords that indicate particularly playful or memetic vernacular: the aforementioned stump, emperor, referring to Trump’s nickname as “God Emperor”; energy, referring to “high energy”, a common catchphrase amongst Trump supporters; magic, referring to “meme magic”, the faux-ironic belief that posting memes affects real-life events; and pepe, the infamous cartoon frog. In both the tf-idf ranking and the absolute frequencies, these keywords flourish in 2016, but disappear soon after the presidential election passes. The later weeks in 2017 and 2018 rarely contain similarly playful and memetic terms, and if they do, suggest mocking discourse regarding Trump (e.g. drumpf). This perspective thus pictures the environment around trump in the run-up to the election as a particularly memetic yet short-lived carnival. At least from this perspective, “meme sh*t” thus indeed seemed to have “flooded /pol/”, but only for a short while. Figure 8: tf-idf matrix of trump-dense threads, columns denoting weeks and rows denoting the top hundred most relevant terms per week. Download the full tf-idf matrix with all terms here.Despite this carnivalesque activity, further perspectives suggest it did not go at the expense of extremist activity on /pol/. Figure 9 shows the absolute and relative counts of the word "jew" and its derogatory synonym "kike". Each of these increases from 2015 onwards. As such, it seems to align with claims that Trump’s success and /pol/ becoming increasingly extremist were causally related (Thompson). However, apart from possibly confusing correlation with causation, the relative presence remains fairly stable, even slightly decreasing during the frenzy of the Trump campaign. Since we also saw Trump himself become a target for anti-Semitic activity, these trendlines rather imply /pol/’s extremist current grew proportionally to the overall increase in activity, and increased alongside but not but necessarily as a partisan contingent as a result of Trump’s campaign. Figure 9: The absolute and relative frequency of the terms "jew" and "kike" on 4chan/pol/.ConclusionCombined, the above navigation implies two main changes in 4chan/pol/’s trump-related current. First, the climaxes of the 2016 Republican primaries and presidential elections seem to have invoked crowd-like influxes of (relatively) heterogeneous users joining the Trump-delirium, marked by particularly memetic activity. Second, /pol/ additionally seemed to have formed a welcoming hotbed for anti-Semites and other extremists, as the absolute amount of (anti-Semitic) hate speech increased. However, while already-present and new users might have been energised by Trump, they were not necessarily loyal to him, as professed by the fact that Trump himself eventually became a target. Together with the fact that anti-Semitic hate speech stayed relatively consistent, instead of being “countercultural” (Nagle) or exclusively pro-Trump, /pol/ thus seems to have been composed of quite a stable anti-Semitic and Trump-critical contingent, increasing proportionally to /pol/’s general growth.Methodologically, this text sought to demonstrate how a brief navigation of trump on 4chan/pol/ can provide provisional yet valuable insights regarding continuously changing current of online anonymous collectives. As the cliché goes, however, this brief exploration has left more many questions, or rather, it did not “deploy the content with all its connections” (Latour 147). For instance, I have not touched on how many of the trump-dense threads are distinctly separated and pro-Trump “general threads” (Jokubauskaitė and Peeters). Considering the vastness of such tasks, the necessity remains to find appropriate ways to “accurately map” the wild currents of the dissimulative Web–despite how muddy they might get.NoteThis text is a compressed and edited version of a longer MA thesis available here.ReferencesAbramson, Seth. “Listen Up, Progressives: Here’s How to Deal with a 4Chan (“Alt-Right”) Troll.” Medium, 2 May 2017. <https://medium.com/@Seth_Abramson/listen-up-progressives-heres-how-to-deal-with-a-4chan-alt-right-troll-48594f59a303>.Auerbach, David. “Anonymity as Culture: Treatise.” Triple Canopy, n.d. 22 June 2020 <https://www.canopycanopycanopy.com/contents/anonymity_as_culture__treatise>.Beran, Dale. “4chan: The Skeleton Key to the Rise of Trump”. Medium, 14 Feb. 2017. <https://medium.com/@DaleBeran/4chan-the-skeleton-key-to-the-rise-of-trump-624e7cb798cb>.Beran, Dale. It Came from Something Awful: How a Toxic Troll Army Accidentally Memed Donald Trump into Office. 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New York: Columbia UP, 2017.Jokubauskaitė, Emilija, and Stijn Peeters. “Generally Curious: Thematically Distinct Datasets of General Threads on 4chan/Pol/”. Proceedings of the International AAAI Conference on Web and Social Media 14.1 (2020): 863-7. <https://www.aaai.org/ojs/index.php/ICWSM/article/view/7351>.Latour, Bruno. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory. New York: Oxford UP, 2005.Latour, Bruno, Pablo Jensen, Tommaso Venturini, Sébastian Grauwin, and Dominique Boullier. “‘The Whole Is Always Smaller than Its Parts’. A Digital Test of Gabriel Tarde’s Monads.” British Journal of Sociology 63.4 (2012): 590-615.Marantz, Andrew. Antisocial: Online Extremists, Techno-Utopians, and the Hijacking of the American Conversation. New York: Penguin Random House, 2019.Nagle, Angela. Kill All Normies: Online Culture Wars from 4chan and Tumblr to Trump and the White House. Winchester: Zero Books, 2017.Phillips, Whitney. 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Cambridge: MIT Press, 2015.———. “The Alt-Right Was Conjured Out of Pearl Clutching and Media Attention.” Motherboard, 12 Oct. 2016 <https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/jpgaeb/conjuring-the-alt-right>.———. “The Oxygen of Amplification: Better Practices for Reporting on Extremists, Antagonists, and Manipulators Online.” Data & Society, 2018. <https://datasociety.net/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/1_PART_1_Oxygen_of_Amplification_DS.pdf>.———. “It Wasn’t Just the Trolls: Early Internet Culture, ‘Fun,’ and the Fires of Exclusionary Laughter.” Social Media + Society (2019). <https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/2056305119849493>.Phillips, Whitney, Gabriella Coleman, and Jessica Beyer. “Trolling Scholars Debunk the Idea That the Alt-Right’s sh*tposters Have Magic Powers.” Motherboard, 22 Mar. 2017. <https://motherboard.vice.com/en_us/article/z4k549/trolling-scholars-debunk-the-idea-that-the-alt-rights-trolls-have-magic-powers>.Robertson, Adi. “Hillary Clinton Exposing Pepe the Frog Is the Death of Explainers.” The Verge, 15 Sep. 2016. <https://www.theverge.com/2016/9/15/12926976/hillary-clinton-trump-pepe-the-frog-alt-right-explainer>.Spärck Jones, Karen. “A Statistical Interpretation of Term Specificity and its Application in Retrieval.” Journal of Documentation 28.1 (1972): 11-21.Stuart, Tessa. “Inside the DeploraBall: The Trump-Loving Trolls Plotting a GOP Takeover.” Rolling Stone, 20 Jan. 2017. <https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/politics-features/inside-the-deploraball-the-trump-loving-trolls-plotting-a-gop-takeover-128128/>.Tarde, Gabriel. The Laws of Imitation. Ed. and trans. Elsie Clews Parsons. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1903.Thompson, Andrew. “The Measure of Hate on 4chan.” Rolling Stone, 10 May 2018. <https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/politics-news/the-measure-of-hate-on-4chan-627922/>.Venturini, Tommaso. “Diving in Magma: How to Explore Controversies with Actor-Network Theory.” Public Understanding of Science 19.3 (2010): 258-273.Wattenberg, Martin, and Fernanda Viégas. “The Word Tree, an Interactive Visual Concordance.” IEEE Transactions on Visualization and Computer Graphics 14.6 (2008): 1221-1228.

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Abstract:

ExpositionPortland, Oregon (USA) has become known for an artisanal or ‘maker’ economy that relies on a resurgence of place specificity (Heying), primarily expressed and exported to a global audience in the notion of ‘Portland Made’ (Roy). Portland Made reveals a tension immanent in the notion of ‘place’: place is both here and not here, both real and imaginary. What emerges is a complicated picture of how place conceptually captures various intersections of materiality and mythology, aesthetics and economics. On the one hand, Portland Made represents the collective brand-identity used by Portland’s makers to signify a products’ material existence as handcrafted, place-embedded, and authentic. These characteristics lead to certain assumptions about the concept of ‘local’ (Marotta and Heying): what meaning does Portland Made convey, and how is such meaning distributed? On the other hand, the seemingly intentional embedding of place-specificity in objects meant for distribution far outside of Portland begs another type of question: how does Portland come to be discursively representative of these characteristics, and how are such representations distributed to global audiences? How does this global distribution and consumption of immaterial Portland feed back into the production of material Portland?To answer these questions we look to the realm of social media, specifically the popular image-based service Instagram. For the uninitiated, Instagram is a web-based social media service that allows pictures to be shared and seen by anyone that follows a person or business’ Instagram account. Actions include posting original photos (often taken and posted with a cell phone), ‘liking’ pictures, and ‘hash-tagging’ posts with trending terms that increase visibility. Instagram presents us with a complex view of place as both material and virtual, sometimes reifying and sometimes abstracting often-contradictory understandings of place specificity. Many makers use Instagram to promote their products to a broad audience and, in doing so, makers participate in the construction of Portland’s mythology. In this paper, we use empirical insights to theorise makers’ role in shaping and cultivating the virtual and material aspects of place. Additionally, we discuss how makers navigate the complex relationships tied to the importance of place in their specific cultural productions. In the first section, we develop the notion of a curated maker subjectivity. In the second section, we consider the relationship between subjectivity and place. Both sections emphasize how Instagram mediates the relationship between place and subjectivity. Through spotlighting particular literatures in each section, we attempt to fill a gap in the literature that addresses the relationship between subjectivity, place, and social media. Through this line of analysis, we attempt to better understand how and where Portland is made, along with the implications for Portland’s makers.ActionThe insights from this paper came to us inadvertently. While conducting fieldwork that interrogated ‘localism’ and how Portland makers conceptualise local, makers repeatedly discussed the importance of social media to their work. In our fieldwork, Instagram in particular has presented us with new opportunities to query the entanglements of real and virtual embedded in collective identifications with place. This paper draws from interviews conducted for two closely related research projects. The first examines maker ecosystems in three US cities, Portland, Chicago and New York (Doussard et. al.; Wolf-Powers and Levers). We drew from the Portland interviews (n=38) conducted for this project. The second research project is our multi-year examination of Portland’s maker community, where we have conducted interviews (n=48), two annual surveys of members of the Portland Made Collective (n=126 for 2014, n=338 for 2015) and numerous field observations. As will be evident below, our sample of makers includes small crafters and producers from a variety of ‘traditional’ sectors ranging from baking to carpentry to photography, all united by a common identification with the maker movement. Using insights from this trove of data as well as general observations of the changing artisan landscape of Portland, we address the question of how social media mediates the space between Portland as a material place and Portland as an imaginary place.Social Media, Subjectivity, and Authenticity In the post-Fordist era, creative self-enterprise and entrepreneurialism have been elevated to mythical status (Szeman), becoming especially important in the creative and digital industries. These industries have been characterized by contract based work (Neff, Wissinger, and Zukin; Storey, Salaman, and Platman), unstable employment (Hesmondhalgh and Baker), and the logic of flexible specialization (Duffy and Hund; Gill). In this context of hyper individualization and intense competition, creative workers and other entrepreneurs are increasingly pushed to strategically brand, curate, and project representational images of their subjectivity in order to secure new work (Gill), embody the values of the market (Banet-Weiser and Arzumanova), and take on commercial logics of authenticity (Duffy; Marwick and boyd). For example, Duffy and Hund explore how female fashion bloggers represent their branded persona, revealing three interrelated tropes typically used by bloggers: the destiny of passionate work; the presentation of a glam lifestyle; and carefully curated forms of social sharing. These curated tropes obscure the (unpaid) emotional and aesthetic labour (Hracs and Leslie), self-discipline, and capital required to run these blogs. Duffy and Hund also point out that this concealment is generative of particular mythologies about creative work, gender, race, and class. To this list we would add place; below, we will show the use of Instagram by Portland’s makers not only perpetuates particular mythologies about artisan labour and demands self-branding, but is also a spatial practice that is productive of place through the use of visual vernaculars that reflect a localized and globalized articulation of the social and physical milieu of Portland (Hjorth and Gu; Pike). Similar to many other artists and creative entrepreneurs (Pasquinelli and Sjöholm), Portland’s makers typically work long hours in order to produce high quality, unique goods at a volume that will afford them the ability to pay rent in Portland’s increasingly expensive central city neighbourhoods. Much of this work is done from the home: according to our survey of Portland Made Collective’s member firms, 40% consist of single entrepreneurs working from home. Despite being a part of a creative milieu that is constantly captured by the Portland ‘brand’, working long hours, alone, produces a sense of isolation, articulated well by this apparel maker:It’s very isolating working from home alone. [...] The other people I know are working from home, handmade people, I’ll post something, and it makes you realize we’re all sitting at home doing the exact same thing. We can’t all hang out because you gotta focus when you’re working, but when I’m like ugh, I just need a little break from the sewing machine for five minutes, I go on Instagram.This statement paints Instagram as a coping mechanism for the isolation of working alone from home, an important impetus for makers to use Instagram. This maker uses Instagram roughly two hours per workday to connect with other makers and to follow certain ‘trendsetters’ (many of whom also live in Portland). Following other makers allows the maker community to gauge where they are relative to other makers; one furniture maker told us that she was able to see where she should be going based on other makers that were slightly ahead of her, but she could also advise other makers that were slightly behind her. The effect is a sense of collaborative participation in the ‘scene’, which both alleviates the sense of isolation and helps makers gain legitimacy from others in their milieu. As we show below, this participation demands from makers a curative process of identity formation. Jacque Rancière’s intentional double meaning of the French term partage (the “distribution of the sensible”) creates space to frame curation in terms of the politics around “sharing in” and “sharing out” (Méchoulan). For Rancière, the curative aspect of communities (or scenes) reveals something inherently political about aesthetics: the politics of visibility on Instagram “revolve around what is seen and what can be said about it, who has the ability to see and the talent to speak, around the properties of space and the possibilities of time” (8-9). An integral part of the process of curating a particular identity to express over Instagram is reflected by who they follow or what they ‘like’ (a few makers mentioned the fact that they ‘like’ things strategically).Ultimately, makers need followers for their brand (product brand, self-brand, and place-brand), which requires makers to engage in a form of aesthetic labour through a curated articulation of who a maker is–their personal story, or what Duffy and Hund call “the destiny of passionate work”–and how that translates into what they make at the same time. These identities congeal over Instagram: one maker described this as a “circle of firms that are moving together.” Penetrating that circle by curating connections over Instagram is an important branding strategy.As a confections maker told us, strategically using hashtags and stylizing pictures to fit the trends is paramount. Doing these things effectively draws attention from other makers and trendsetters, and, as an apparel maker told us, getting even one influential trendsetter or blogger to follow them on Instagram can translate into huge influxes of attention (and sales) for their business. Furthermore, getting featured by an influential blogger or online magazine can yield instantaneous results. For instance, we spoke with an electronics accessories maker that had been featured in Gizmodo a few years prior, and the subsequent uptick in demand led him to hire over 20 new employees.The formulation of a ‘maker’ subjectivity reveals the underlying manner in which certain subjective characteristics are expressed while others remain hidden; expressing the wrong characteristics may subvert the ability for makers to establish themselves in the milieu. We asked a small Portland enterprise that documents the local maker scene about the process of curating an Instagram photo, especially curious about how they aesthetically frame ‘site visits’ at maker workspaces. We were somewhat surprised to hear that makers tend to “clean too much” ahead of a photo shoot; the photographer we spoke with told us that people want to see the space as it looks when it’s being worked in, when it’s a little messy. The photographer expressed an interest in accentuating the maker’s ‘individual understanding’ of the maker aesthetic; the framing and the lighting of each photo is meant to relay traces of the maker to potential consumers. The desire seems to be the expression and experience of ‘authenticity’, a desire that if captured correctly grants the maker a great deal of purchase in the field of Portland Made consumers. This is all to say that the curation of the workspaces is essential to the construction of the maker subjectivity and the Portland imaginary. Maker workshops are rendered as real places where real makers that belong to an authentic maker milieu produce authentic Portland goods that have a piece of Portland embedded within them (Molotch). Instagram is central in distributing that mythology to a global audience.At this point we can start to develop the relationship between maker subjectivity and place. Authenticity, in this context, appears to be tied to the product being both handmade and place-specific. As the curated imaginary of Portland matures, a growing dialogue emerges between makers and consumers of Portland Made (authentic) goods. This dialogue is a negotiated form of authority in which the maker claims authority while the consumer simultaneously confers authority. The aforementioned place-specificity signals a new layer of magic in regards to Portland’s distinctive position: would ‘making’ in any other place be generative of such authority? According to a number of our interviewees, being from Portland carries the assumption that Portland’s makers have a certain level of expertise that comes from being completely embedded in Portland’s creative scene. This complex interplay between real and virtual treats Portland’s imaginary as a concrete reality, preparing it for consumption by reinforcing the notion of an authoritative collective brand (Portland Made). One bicycle accessory maker claimed that the ability of Portland’s makers to access the Portland brand transmits credibility for makers of things associated with Portland, such as bikes, beer, and crafty goods. This perhaps explains why so many makers use Portland in the name of their company (e.g. Portland Razor Company) and why so many stamp their goods with ‘Made in Portland’.This, however, comes with an added set of expectations: the maker, again, is tasked with cultivating and performing a particular aesthetic in order to achieve legitimacy with their target audience, only this time it ends up being the dominant aesthetic associated with a specific place. For instance, the aforementioned bicycle accessory maker that we spoke with recalled an experience at a craft fair in which many of the consumers were less concerned with his prices than whether his goods were handmade in Portland. Without this legitimation, the good would not have the mysticism of Portland as a place locked within it. In this way, the authenticity of a place becomes metonymic (e.g. Portlandia), similar to how Detroit became known as ‘Motor City’. Portland’s particular authenticity is wrapped up in individuality, craftiness, creativity, and environmental conscientiousness, all things that makers in some way embed in their products (Molotch) and express in the photos on their Instagram feeds (Hjorth).(Social) Media, Place, and the Performance of Aesthetics In this section, we turn our attention to the relationship between subjectivity, place, and Instagram. Scholars have investigated how television production (Pramett), branding (Pike), and locative-based social media (Hjorth, Hjorth and Gu, Hjorth and Lim, Leszczynski) function as spatial practices. The practices affect and govern experiences and interactions with space, thereby generating spatial hybridity (de Souza e Silva). McQuire, for example, investigates the historical formation of the ‘media city’, demonstrating how various media technologies have become interconnected with the architectural structures of the city. Pramett expands on this analysis of media representations of cities by interrogating how media production acts as a spatial practice that produces and governs contested urban spaces, the people in those spaces, and the habitus of the place, forming what she dubs the “media neighbourhood.” The media neighbourhood becomes ordered by the constant opportunities for neighbourhood residents to be involved in media production; residents must navigate and interact with local space as though they may be captured on film or asked to work in the background production at any moment. These material (on site shooting and local hiring practices) and immaterial (textual, musical, and visual representations of a city) production practices become exploitative, extracting value from a place for media industries and developers that capitalize on a place’s popular imaginary.McQuire’s media city and Pramett’s media neighbourhood help us understand the embeddedness of (social) media in the material landscapes of Portland. Over the past few years, Portland has begun experiencing new flows of tourists and migrants–we should note that more than a few makers mentioned in interviews that they moved to Portland in order to become makers–expecting to find what they see on Instagram overlaid materially on the city itself. And indeed, they do: ‘vibrant’ neighbourhood districts such as Alberta Arts, Belmont, Mississippi, Hawthorne, Northwest 23rd, and downtown Portland’s rebranded ‘West End’ are all increasingly full of colourful boutiques that express maker aesthetics and sell local maker goods. Not only do the goods and boutiques need to exemplify these aesthetic qualities, but the makers and the workspaces from which these goods come from, need to fit that aesthetic.The maker subjectivity is developed through the navigation of both real and virtual experiences that contour the social performance of a ‘maker aesthetic’. This aesthetic has become increasingly socially consumed, a trend especially visible on Instagram: as a point of reference, there are at least four Portland-based ‘foodies’ that have over 80,000 followers on Instagram. One visible result of this curated and performed subjectivity and the place-brand it captures is the physical transformation of Portland: (material) space has become a surface onto which the (virtual) Instagram/maker aesthetic is being inscribed, a stage on which the maker aesthetic is performed. The material and immaterial are interwoven into a dramaturgy that gives space a certain set of meanings oriented toward creativity, quirkiness, and consumption. Meanings cultivated over Instagram, then, become productive of meaning in place. These meanings are consumed by thousands of tourists and newly minted Portlanders, as images of people posing in front of Portland’s hipster institutions (such as Salt & Straw or Voodoo Donuts) are captured on iPhones and redistributed back across Instagram for the world to experience. Perhaps this is why Tokyo now has an outpost of Portland’s Blue Star Donuts or why Red Hook (Brooklyn) has its own version of Portland’s Pok Pok. One designer/maker, who had recently relocated to Portland, captured the popular imaginary of Portland in this conversation:Maker: People in Brooklyn love the idea that it came from Portland. People in Seattle love it; people in the Midwest love that it came from Portland right now, because Portland’s like the thing.Interviewer: What does that mean, what does it embody?Maker: They know that it’s local, it like, they know that maker thing is there, it’s in Portland, that they know it’s organic to Portland, it’s local to Portland, there’s this crazy movement that you hear throughout the United States about–Interviewer: So people are getting a piece of that?Maker: Yeah.For us, the dialogical relationship between material and immaterial has never been more entangled. Instagram is one way that makers might control the gap between fragmentation and belonging (i.e. to a particular community or milieu), although in the process they are confronted with an aesthetic distribution that is productive of a mythological sense of place that social media seems to produce, distribute, and consume so effectively. In the era of social media, where sense of place is so quickly transmitted, cities can come to represent a sense of collective identity, and that identity might in turn be distributed across its material landscape.DenouementThrough every wrench turn, every stitching of fabric, every boutique opening, and every Instagram post, makers actively produce Portland as both a local and global place. Portland is constructed through the material and virtual interactions makers engage in, both cultivating and framing everyday interactions in space and ideas held about place. In the first section, we focused on the curation of a maker aesthetic and the development of the maker subjectivity mediated through Instagram. The second section attempted to better understand how those aesthetic performances on Instagram become imprinted on urban space and how these inscriptions feedback to global audiences. Taken together, these performances reveal the complex undertaking that makers adopt in branding their goods as Portland Made. In addition, we hope to have shown the complex entanglements between space and place, production and consumption, and ‘here’ and ‘not here’ that are enrolled in value production at the nexus of place-brand generation.Our investigation opens the door to another, perhaps more problematic set of interrogations which are beyond the scope of this paper. In particular, and especially in consideration of Portland’s gentrification crisis, we see two related sets of displacements as necessary of further interrogation. First, as we answer the question of where Portland is made, we acknowledge that the capturing of Portland Made as a brand perpetuates a process of displacement and “spatio-subjective” regulation that both reflects and reproduces spatial rationalizations (Williams and Dourish). This dis-place-ment renders particular neighbourhoods and populations within Portland, specifically ethnic minorities and the outer edges of the metropolitan area, invisible or superfluous to the city’s imaginary. Portland, as presented by makers through their Instagram accounts, conceals the city’s “power geometries” (Massey) and ignores the broader social context Portland exists in, while perpetuating the exclusion of ethnic minorities from the conversation about what else is made in Portland.Second, as Portland Made has become virtually representative of a deepening connection between makers and place, the performance of such aesthetic labour has left makers to navigate a process that increasingly leads to their own estrangement from the very place they have a hand in creating. This process reveals an absurdity: makers are making the very thing that displaces them. The cultivation of the maker milieu attracts companies, in-movers, and tourists to Portland, thus creating a tight real estate market and driving up property values. Living and working in Portland is increasingly difficult for makers, epitomized by the recent sale and eviction of approximately 500 makers from the Town Storage facility (Hammill). Additionally, industrial space in the city is increasingly coveted by tech firms, and competition over such space is being complicated by looming zoning changes in Portland’s new comprehensive plan.Our conclusions suggest additional research is needed to understand the relationship(s) between such aesthetic performance and various forms of displacement, but we also suggest attention to the global reach of such dynamics: how is Portland’s maker ecosystem connected to the global maker community over social media, and how is space shaped differentially in other places despite a seemingly hom*ogenizing maker aesthetic? Additionally, we do not explore policy implications above, although there is significant space for such exploration with consideration to the attention that Portland and the maker movement in general are receiving from policymakers hungry for a post-Fordist magic bullet. ReferencesBanet-Weiser, Sarah, and Inna Arzumanova. “Creative Authorship, Self-Actualizing Women, and the Self-Brand.” Media Authorship. Eds. Cynthia Chris and David A. Gerstner. New York, NY: Routledge, 2012: 163-179. De Souza e Silva, Adriana. “From Cyber to Hybrid: Mobile Technologies as Interfaces of Hybrid Spaces.” Space and Culture 9.3 (2006): 261–278.Duffy, Brooke Erin, “The Romance of Work: Gender and Aspirational Labour in the Digital Culture Industries.” International Journal of Cultural Studies (2015): 1–17. Duffy, Brooke Erin, and Emily Hund. “‘Having It All’ on Social Media: Entrepreneurial Femininity and Self-Branding among Fashion Bloggers.” Social Media + Society 1.2 (2015): n. pag. Doussard, Marc, Charles Heying, Greg Schrock, and Laura Wolf-Powers. Metropolitan Maker Networks: The Role of Policy, Organization, and "Maker-Enabling Entrepreneurs" in Building the Maker Economy. Progress update to the Ewing Marion Kauffman Foundation. 2015. Gill, Rosalind. “‘Life Is a Pitch’: Managing the Self in New Media Work.” Managing Media Work (2010): n. pag. Hammill, Luke. "Sale of Towne Storage Building Sends Evicted Artists, Others Scrambling for Space." The Oregonian, 2016.Hesmondhalgh, David, and Sarah Baker. Creative Labour: Media Work in Three Cultural Industries. London, UK: Routledge, 2011. Heying, Charles. Brew to Bikes: Portland’s Artisan Economy. Portland, OR: Ooligan Press, 2010. Hjorth, Larissa. “The Place of the Emplaced Mobile: A Case Study into Gendered Locative Media Practices.” Mobile Media & Communication 1.1 (2013): 110–115. Hjorth, Larissa, and Kay Gu. “The Place of Emplaced Visualities: A Case Study of Smartphone Visuality and Location-Based Social Media in Shanghai, China.” Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies 26.5 (2012): 699–713. Hjorth, Larissa, and Sun Sun Lim. “Mobile Intimacy in an Age of Affective Mobile Media.” Feminist Media Studies 12.4 (2012): 477–484. Hracs, Brian J., and Deborah Leslie. “Aesthetic Labour in Creative Industries: The Case of Independent Musicians in Toronto, Canada.” Area 46.1 (2014): 66–73. Leszczynski, A. “Spatial Media/tion.” Progress in Human Geography 39.6 (2014): 729–751. Marotta, Stephen, and Charles Heying. “Interrogating Localism: What Does ‘Made in Portland’ Really Mean?” Craft Economies: Cultural Economies of the Handmade. Eds. Susan Luckman and Nicola Thomas. London, UK: Bloomsbury Academic: forthcoming. Marwick, Alice E., and danah boyd. “I Tweet Honestly, I Tweet Passionately: Twitter Users, Context Collapse, and the Imagined Audience.” New Media & Society 13.1 (2011): 114–133. Massey, Doreen. “A Global Sense of Place.” Space, Place, and Gender. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1994. McQuire, Scott. The Media City: Media, Architecture and Urban Space. Los Angeles, CA: Sage Publications Inc., 2008. Mechoulan, Eric. “Introduction: On the Edges of Jacques Ranciere.” SubStance 33.1 (2004): 3–9. Molotch, Harvey. “Place in Product.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 26.4 (2003): 665–688. Neff, Gina, Elizabeth Wissinger, and Sharon Zukin. “Entrepreneurial Labor among Cultural Producers: ‘Cool’ Jobs in ‘Hot’ Industries.” Social Semiotics 15.3 (2005): 307–334. Pasquinelli, Cecilia, and Jenny Sjöholm. “Art and Resilience: The Spatial Practices of Making a Resilient Artistic Career in London.” City, Culture and Society 6.3 (2015): 75–81. Pike, Andy. “Placing Brands and Branding: A Socio-Spatial Biography of Newcastle Brown Ale.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 36.2 (2011): 206–222. ———. “Progress in Human Geography Geographies of Brands and Branding Geographies of Brands and Branding.” (2009): 1–27. Ranciere, Jacque. The Politics of Aesthetics. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2004. Roy, Kelley. Portland Made. Portland, OR: Self-Published, 2015.

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Abstract:

She lies helpless and fragmented, limbs leaden with story, forced ever further into herself by the viscous shame that suffocates and disables her. Fleshed lips cling to each other, tongue recoils from the sharp taste of the narrative of her body. Within the impotent portal of her mouth, her story sits, an impenetrable oral hymen. — Brenda DowningRape is, without doubt, a catastrophic experience.When rape is experienced in childhood and is also silenced, it can have devastating consequences that carry through to adulthood.In what ways then can the catastrophic memory of silenced childhood rape be coaxed from its hiding place in the female body? How is it possible to make the transition from silenced experience to public articulation? Can creativity fill the body with courage in the face of helplessness and create breath in the suffocating and silencing space of the aftermath? Can creativity help facilitate the personal expression of muted experience?In this paper we will each reflect on the complexities and enabling capacities of the creative and collaborative processes present when negotiating the landscape between the private memory of silenced childhood rape and public articulation and performance. Brenda will retrace the steps of her academic research. She will identify two paths that have taken her from personal and social silence to public voice, and the articulation of her embodied trauma experience through differing modes of creative expression. Alice will reflect on the ways in which preparing Brenda for the journey from articulation and expression to public performance sometimes required moments of freefall full of risk yet also full of creative forces. Images from Brenda’s solo performance aperture will accompany these reflections. aperture is a companion piece to Brenda’s doctoral research and is the creative result of our collaboration.BrendaIn 2008, I completed my feminist and autoethnographic Honours research. This work explored the multiple and significant ramifications of my silenced and silencing experience of childhood rape. Commencing this research as a mature aged woman inevitably involved a movement back through time to revisit 1971, the year of my rape experience, gathering recollections of the aftermath along the way. My memories of the events of that year, folded tight within me since I was eleven years old and enveloped in a shroud of secrecy for decades, had nonetheless been held with full consciousness and silenced in an act of pragmatism that allowed me to function. These were not uncovered or recovered memories; rather they were suppressed and revisited. I didn’t experience a sudden cracking open of lost memory, instead I stepped easily, though not without discomfort, into the archives of my body and reached with outstretched hand. In the gesture, I offered my memories the opportunity to speak, and speak they did.From within my body, stored memories were unleashed and hurled themselves at me. I caught these memories and held them close. I turned them over, set them down, reached again. I reflected, I explored, paused, considered. I sat alongside them. I got angry. I wept. It was as though these embodied memories, these lived subjective experiences, had been crouching impatiently just beneath the surface awaiting release from the repressive silence that had contained them for so many years.But what had helped facilitate this release? Was it simply the opportunity to be immersed in self-reflective and reflexive research? Following the conventionally written academic-style opening chapters of my Honours thesis, sits my autoethnographic chapter. It was no accident of method that I explored my personal experience through creative writing. I didn’t stumble into this medium; I had a compelling and irresistible urge to express my experience creatively. It seemed the only way. When I sat down to write, the sentences were expelled from my body like a series of long-held but desperate exhalations. They emerged as my memories had sat since childhood, blunt, raw and panting, filled with barely-contained energy. They revealed the chaos and disconnection of the body and mind in the aftermath of silenced childhood rape. They disrupted chronology and mirrored shattered identity. Temporally and spatially they were restless birds, unable to perch for too long, nor in one place. Slipping in and out of the first and third person, they struggled to sustain a fixed identity, or perhaps, refused one. Relational threads appeared transparent but were as strong as lines that support the weight of thrashing fish.In the laying down of the multiple layers of my story, I soon realised the writing was serving an additional purpose. It had evolved to become a critical factor in not only the actualisation of my story but also a means of making sense of my experience by locating it within wider familial, social and cultural contexts. The grounding of my experience through reflexivity and the piecing together of my tenuous sense of self became intimately entwined in the creative process. I recorded each evocative exhalation with frantic diligence, as though I mustn’t lose a word. I felt my visibility, my credibility reliant on each syllable and every nuance. I intuitively sensed that the creative re-capturing of my story would liberate my memories from the smothering folds of corporeal darkness in which they had reluctantly huddled and in that liberation, I would also find freedom from the dragging and stultifying weight of their heavy presence. Helene Cixous talks of moments when we are “unwoven weft” (38), when writings or “songs of an unheard-of purity flow through you [...] well up […] surge forth” (39). I’m certain the liberation of story and self I experienced through the creative writing medium, at a point when I too was unwoven weft, gave me the courage to walk in the night shadows of my embodied childhood memories, the light of creativity guiding my way. In making the transition in 2009 from Honours to doctoral research, I carried with me the knowledge that to ignore or pay cursory attention to the materiality of the raped body is to deny its cellular intelligence and its abundant creative reserves. While the researching and writing of my Honours project was deeply satisfying, what emerged for me during that process was an intense desire for a more three-dimensional aesthetic and embodied engagement with my PhD project. I felt the poetics of embodied language and my moving body would satisfy this desire.With the addition of a performance modality I was convinced I could lift the words off the thesis page in order to, literally, bring the information to life. Through performance I knew I could give the bones of the written language of sexual trauma a heartbeat, a pulse, give them breath. I believed a performance held the potential to drape flesh on the words and pump blood through their sentences. I wanted the narrative of sexual trauma to move and sweat, collapse and stand rather than remain in stasis. I wanted the unresolved nature of silenced sexual trauma to permeate the flesh and speak with more than written language. I wanted my raped female body to be fully present. A performance seemed the only way to convey the three-dimensionality of my muted experience. “Performance is a promissory act,” Della Pollock tells us, “not because it can promise possible change but because it catches its participants—often by surprise—in a contract with possibility: with imagining what might be, could be, should be” (2). When I came across these words, I felt certain that I could create for an audience Pollock’s contract with possibility. Through a performance modality a portal would open to the reality of how it is to live with silenced and unresolved sexual trauma. Beyond that portal an invitation would await for others to engage with the difficulties and compromises of this reality through embodied imagination and somatic empathy. A performance, I felt, could act as a physical, emotional and intellectual bridge of communication between those who have experienced sexual violence and those who have not. In the actualisation of this PhD project my role would be multiple. I would take up the position not only of the researcher but also the researched. Through an engagement with the somatic work of Body-Mind Centering® (BMC®), my still traumatised body would become the primary focus of the research. Additionally, I would present this work in the solo performance aperture. My body then, would become the site of somatic inquiry, providing the embodied text for the research, scribing the work in symbolic language and articulating the emotional landscape of the aftermath of my trauma through performance. As Tami Spry notes, “words can construct, but cannot hold the weight of the body” (170). The words of my thesis then would construct my story from the findings of my somatic inquiry as well as shape my research but the performance would hold the weight of my flesh in the embodied articulation of my story. But I couldn’t do this alone.Help arrived in mid-2010, when I was introduced to and entered the world of BMC® and the work of Alice Cummins. At times the BMC® work and the creative development phase of aperture felt a little like attempting a base jump with a parachute that might, or might not open. However, with Alice’s depth of knowledge and experience guiding me, I have taken what has been an extraordinarily profound journey of somatic exploration resulting in personal healing, revelation, illumination and embodied performance. AliceAs a dance artist and somatic movement educator, my teaching and choreography are influenced by post-modern dance practices and feminist philosophy. My interests have engaged me with socio-political concerns and how the poetics of the moving body articulates our humanity. In my somatic movement practice I draw on BMC®, the work of Bonnie Bainbridge Cohen, with whom I studied in Massachusetts, 1995-98. BMC® evolved in the post-modern dance scene of New York City in the early 1970s and belongs to the lineage of moving research pioneered by Rudolph Laban, F.M. Alexander, and Mabel Todd.Bainbridge Cohen writes:Body-Mind Centering® (BMC®) is an ongoing, experiential journey into the alive and changing territory of the body. The explorer is the mind – our thoughts, feelings, energy, soul, and spirit. Through this journey we are led to an understanding of how the mind is expressed through the body in movement. (1)In June 2010 Brenda participated in a three-day BMC® workshop. During an integrative practice of Authentic Movement she experienced pleasure in moving for the first time. This experience was profound for Brenda after a lifetime of repressing sensation and feeling as a way to contain the memory of her rape. To unravel a torment you must begin somewhere. — Louise BourgeoisSo we began.Before embarking on the creative development of performance making it was critical that Brenda did private work with me. Her history was too traumatic to venture into making work from the body without prior therapeutic hands-on work. When trauma has occurred, the tissue holds this frozen as a way to contain the terror. But it lies in wait and erupts unexpectedly when the circ*mstances stimulate or provoke memory. As BMC® teacher Phoebe Neville (1996) says: “Memory remains in the tissue until we are ready to feel it”. During her two years of private sessions this hands-on work gave Brenda the capacity to feel and helped her develop somatic and personal insight. This provided the leverage for her understanding, and eventually the making involved in the collaborative process. A BMC® hands-on technique I used during the therapeutic process was cellular touch. This dialogue through touch invites the cells to breathe—to receive and process new information. This exchange supported and stabilized Brenda’s nervous system and perceptual response cycles and helped cultivate endurance. Through the BMC® work we created a visceral bond of attachment and trust that allowed risk as provocation towards realization not as re-stimulus and withdrawal. This allowed Brenda to go from a withdrawn physicality to a dynamic performance presence. Without this capacity to be present, we could not have found a vocabulary that might unearth and express her story through embodied performance making. Brenda’s capacity to be “100% available to be seen” (Hay), would allow meaning to touch her audience. I make work with and through the bodymind and for Brenda’s “voice” to be heard I knew she needed to be able to access the intelligence and imaginary life of her body ... to make, to grasp, to reveal her experience. As artistic director of aperture it was my role to discern how the creative met the psychodynamic and became new realisation and transformation. The BMC® philosophy “support precedes change” (Cohen) infused the collaborative process. Our collaboration also involved a constant flow and exchange of ideas, feelings, intuitive responses and imaginings in both verbal and somatic conversation. This process enabled Brenda’s experience of childhood rape to become a way of exposing the silence and silencing that surrounds rape in our culture.One of the specific research skills we practiced in the creative process was Authentic Movement. Developed in the 1950s by Jungian analyst, Mary Starks Whitehouse, it is a practice that relies on moving and being witnessed. As Brenda moved I, as witness, provided the space of containment and safety, both physical and psychological for the moving exploration to occur. It was in the intersubjective space between us that material arose that might otherwise remain held in the tissue. As Starks Whitehouse says: “Movement, to be experienced, has to be ‘found’ in the body, not put on like a dress or a coat […] it is that which can liberate us” (53). This practice gave Brenda the creative and therapeutic space to explore her experience. In crafting the work I guided Brenda’s movement and emotional states through improvisation and experimentation. In paying close attention to the emergent language and meaning of the nuanced moving, I identified moments of creative potential. Risk and provocation, critical to the transformative act of contemporary performance making, was now possible.As Brenda and I moved to performance making, I was unable to maintain the relationship of client/practitioner. Shifting from the clear perimeters of client and practitioner to an arts practice entails risk. I felt I had to choose at specific moments in our work together to step across the line and transgress, though what it is I transgressed I’m now unsure of. I’ve allowed Brenda into my private realm; she’s shared meals with me, met my friends and partner and slept at my studio home. We’ve spent many hours together and the intimacy of the creative process and the material itself forged our friendship as well as the work. I don’t know if this intimacy was necessary to make this work with Brenda. It is what happened. Brenda’s story touched me deeply and I was participating in its evolution. The work is the result of our private work and our creative relationship, coloured by all its variables. Brenda’s experience of being raped as a child is the catastrophe that we mined to make aperture. The ordeal of this experience shaped her life and her relationships. Its aftermath destroyed her capacity to interact in the world with any agency. When someone has lost their voice and their agency how do we help them find it? During a private session in 2010, Brenda experienced re-stimulation of the trauma. This experience became the “aperture” through which Brenda’s healing has come about. She entered the wound and slowly found her voice and her agency. Both literally and metaphorically, Brenda found her self and her story gathered fleshed substance.The making and performing of aperture was a collaborative process made possible through Brenda’s deep desire for healing and understanding. She led and I followed. Sometimes the path felt perilous and yet it was in these moments that I also felt most certain. These were the risks critical for her realization and empowerment. In both the private and the performance work I practiced a state of love that was self-reflexive and dispassionate. In the moments of greatest distress and disturbance I felt a certainty that was irreducible. The dance we were in was one of survival and I felt the certainty of her innate capacity to survive, and my own capacity to follow her. This was not a certainty constructed of ideas but a felt experience based on every skill and nuance I embodied at that moment. I employed my whole life to work with Brenda and the work also moved my life. What I know and don’t yet know is present in aperture. I am privileged to have witnessed Brenda finding her way to “step into the light”, as Antonio Damasio would put it, and move “through a threshold that separates a protected but limiting shelter from the possibility and risk of a world beyond and ahead” (3).ConclusionThe work of traversing the landscape between private memory and public performance has taken us across some difficult terrain. The adoption of a creative approach has been intrinsic to the navigation of this terrain and central to the storying of this catastrophic experience. The creative process has coaxed, shaped and articulated the complexities and sensitivities of this experience in multiple ways, encouraging voice where once there was silence. This story now speaks and moves. ReferencesBainbridge Cohen, Bonnie. Sensing, Feeling, and Action: The Experiential Anatomy of Body-Mind Centering. 2nd ed. Northampton: Contact Editions, 2008. Bourgeouis, Louise. What Is the Shape of This Problem. Detail. 1999 Cixous, Helene. Coming to Writing and Other Essays. Ed. Jenson, Deborah. Cambridge: Harvard U P, 1991. Cohen, Bainbridge. Personal Communication. 28 Jun. 1995.Damasio, Antonio. The Feeling of What Happens. London: Heinemann & Vintage, 2000. Hay, Deborah. Personal Communication. 20 Jul. 1985.Neville, Phoebe. Personal Communication. 4 Jul. 1996.Pollock, Della. "Introduction: Remembering." Remembering: Oral History Performance. Ed. Pollock, Della. Gordonsville: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. 1-17.Spry, Tami. Body, Paper, Stage: Writing and Performing Autoethnography. Walnut Creek: Left Coast, 2011. Starks Whitehouse, Mary. "Physical Movement and Personality (1963)." Authentic Movement: A Collection of Essays by Mary Starks Whitehouse, Janet Adler & Joan Chodrow. Ed. Pallaro, Patrizia. London: J. Kingsley, 1999. 51-57.

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Abstract:

In the half-century since Shannon invented information theory… engineers have come up with brilliant ways of boiling redundancy out of information… This lets it be transmitted twice as fast (Bill Gates: 33). Shannon’s Code Puts an End to Noise The digital machine is often presented as the perfect medium for the efficient transmission of coded messages: an ever-improving machine, in which coded information travels near to the-speed-of-light. Integrated into a global network of communication, transmission is assumed to be friction-free – everything and everybody are just a click away. Indeed, the old problem of signal interference is subdued by the magnum opus of communication engineering – Shannon’s noiseless channel – a cure for the undesirable uncertainties of message sending (Shannon and Weaver 19). For that reason alone, the digitally enhanced fidelity of Shannon’s digital code, not only heralds a new age of communication, but also marks the end of the problem of noise. In effect, his mathematical theory of communication, establishes a highly effective coding mechanism that travels from sender to receiver, overcoming geographic constraint and the deafening raw of the analogue milieu. This makes the theory itself the substratum of the digital communication utopia, since Shannon’s conquest of noise has solved the reliability problem of code, allowing us to focus on the rapidity and fecundity of our messages. However, despite the ingenuity of the noiseless channel, its subsequent rapid expansion into a vast network of machines means that both senders and receivers pay a price for Shannon’s brilliance. The speed and boundless reproducibility of digital code outperforms our physical capacity to observe it. In this way, transmission works behind the scenes, becoming increasingly independent of the human gaze. Even so, we are assured that we will not be overwhelmed by code; a new digital order has purportedly emerged. As follows, network innovators provide us with robotic codes that work benevolently on our behalf, exploring a seemingly random universe of connection. These intelligent codes search the tangled webs that constitute digital communication networks, autonomously in step with our fleeting transactions and data desires. We can sleep safely at night… this is The Road Ahead. But of course, as we now know, the ideal system for perpetual communication has also turned out to be the perfect medium for the codes designed to destroy it (Gordon). Instead of efficiently taking care of our transmission needs, the flow of code has been interrupted by the relational interactions of a machinic assemblage (Deleuze and Guattari). This is a vast assemblage populated by both human and non-human actors. Its evolution has not followed a predictable path determined by the innovations of the science of code, but instead responds to the complex interactions and interconnectedness of the network environment. In this way, the binary switches of the robotic code have occasionally flipped over from true to false – from the munificent to the malevolent function. The interruption seems to be relatively new, but the human-computer assemblage has a long history of the production of what I term liar codes. They follow on from Gödel and Turing’s realisation of the incompleteness and undecidability of self-referential systems of logic in the 1930s. In the following decades, von Neumann’s ideas on self-reproducing code provided early programmers with the means to play coded games of life. Thirty years later and researchers discovered how unstable a network would become when a similarly coded evolutive got out of control (Shoch and Hupp, Cohen). By 1990, the digital worm had turned. Morris’s code famously ‘crashed’ the Internet. The liar code had escaped the research lab and entered the wild world of the network. Nevertheless, despite what appears to be the uncontrollable evolution of code, it is the assemblage itself that makes a difference. Many liar codes have since followed on from the games, experiments and accidents of the early human-computer assemblage. Some are simply mischievous pranks designed to take up space by making copies of themselves, while others conceal a deeper, sinister pre-programmed function of data piracy (Bey 401-434) and viral hijack. The former spread out across a network, spewing out fairly innocuous alerts, whereas the latter steel passwords, gaining access to safe places, capturing navigation tools, and redirecting our attention to the dark side of the global village. In addition to the deluge of spam, viruses and worms, liar code arrives hidden in Trojan programs. Like Russian dolls, code slips into email inboxes. Simple viral sentences repeatedly trick us into opening these programs and spreading the infection. By saying “I love you” code becomes a recursive deceiver, concealing the true intentions of the virus writer, while ensuring that the victim plays a crucial role in the propagation of the liar. Noise Is Dead – Long Live the New Noise! More recently Liar codes have been cunningly understood as contemporary instances of cultural noise – the other of order (Parikka). However, this does not mean that a solution can be found in the universality of Shannon’s linear diagram – this is an altogether different engineering problem. In principle, Shannon’s noise was more readily apprehended. It existed primarily at a technical level (signal noise), a problem solved by the incorporation of noise into a technical code (redundancy). Contrariwise, liar codes go beyond the signal/noise ratio of the content of a message. They are environmental absurdities and anomalies that resonate outside the technical layer into the cultural milieu of the human-computer assemblage. The new noise is produced by the hissing background distortion of the network, which relentlessly drives communication to a far-from-equilibrial state. Along these lines, the production of what appears to be a surplus of code is subject to the behaviour and functioning of a vast and vulnerable topology of human and non-human machinic interaction. Is the Solution to Be Found in a Clash of Codes? In an attempt to banish the network pirates and their growing phylum of liar codes there has been a mobilisation of antivirus technologies. Netizens have been drafted in to operate the malware blockers, set up firewalls or dig the electronic trenches. But these desperate tactics appeal only to those who believe that they can reverse the drift towards instability, and return a sense of order to the network. In reality, evidence of the effectiveness of these counter measures is negligible. Despite efforts to lower the frequency of attacks, the liar code keeps seeping in. Indeed, the disorder from which the new noise emerges is quite unlike the high entropic problem encountered by Shannon. Like this, digital anomalies are not simply undesirable, random distortions, repaired by coded negentropy. On the contrary, the liar is a calculated act of violence, but this is an action that emerges from a collective, war-like assemblage. Therefore, significantly, it is not the code, but the relational interactions that evolve. For this reason, it is not simply the liar codes that threaten the stability of transmission, but the opening-up of a networked medium that captures messages, turning them into an expression of the unknown of order. Code no longer conveys a message through a channel. Not at all, it is the assemblage itself that anarchically converts the message into an altogether different form of expression. The liar is a rhizome, not a root!! (See figure 1.) A Network Diagram of Senders, Receivers and Deceivers Rhizomatic liar code introduces an anarchic scrambling of the communication model. Ad nauseam, antivirus researchers bemoan the problem of the liar code, but their code-determined defence system has seemingly failed to tell apart the senders, receivers and deceivers. Their tactics cannot sidestep the Gödelian paradox. Interestingly, current research into complex network topologies, particularly the Internet and the Web (Barabási), appears to not only support this gloomy conclusion, but confirms that the problem extends beyond code to the dynamic formation of the network itself. In this way, complex network theory may help us to understand how the human-computer assemblage comes together in the production of viral anomalies. Indeed, the digital network is not, as we may think, a random universe of free arbitrary association. It does not conform to the principles leading to inevitable equilibrium (an averaging out of connectivity). It is instead, an increasingly auto-organised and undemocratic tangle of nodes and links in which a few highly connected aristocratic clusters form alongside many isolated regions. In this far-from-random milieu, the flow of code is not determined by the linear transmission of messages between senders and receivers, or for that matter is it guided by an algorithmic evolutive. On the contrary, while aristocratic networks provide a robust means of holding an assemblage together, their topological behaviour also makes them highly susceptible to viral epidemics. Liar codes easily spread through clusters formed out of preferential linkage, and a desire for exclusive, network alliances between humans and non-humans. From a remote location, a single viral code can promiscuously infect a highly connected population of nodes (Pastor-Satorras & Vespignani). This is the perfect environment for the actions of deceivers and their liar codes. On reflection, a revised diagram of transmission, which tackles head on the viral anomalies of the human-computer assemblage, would perhaps be unworkable. This is consistent with the problem of liar codes, and the resulting collapse of trustworthy transmission. The diagram would ideally need to factor in the anarchic, scrambled lines of communication (see figure 1), as well as the complex topological relations between node and link. Such a diagram would also need to trace significant topological behaviours and functions alongside the malfunctions of codes, coders and the sharing of codes over a network. It is this significant topological intensity of the human-computer assemblage that shifts the contemporary debate on noise away from Shannon’s model towards a complex, non-linear and relational interaction. In this sense, the diagram moves closer to the rhizomatic notion of a network (Deleuze and Guattari 9-10). Not so much a model of transmission, rather a model of viral transduction. References Barabási, Albert-László. Linked: The New Science of Networks. Cambridge, Mass: Perseus, 2002. Bey, Hakim in Ludlow, Peter (ed). Crypto Anarchy, Cyberstates and Pirate Utopias. Cambridge, Mass: MIT, 2001. Cohen, F. “Computer Viruses: Theory and Experiments.” Computers & Security 6 (1987): 22-35. Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. by Brian Massumi. London: The Athlone Press, 1987. Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus. London: The Athlone Press, 1984. Gates, Bill. The Road Ahead. London: Penguin, 1995/1996. Gordon, Sarah. “Technologically Enabled Crime: Shifting Paradigms for the Year 2000.” Computers and Security 1995. (5 Dec. 2005) http://www.research.ibm.com/antivirus/SciPapers/Gordon/Crime.html>. Latour, Bruno. Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society. Harvard University Press, 1988. Parikka, Jussi. “Viral Noise and the (Dis)Order of the Digital Culture.” M/C Journal 7.6 (2005). 5 Dec. 2005 http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0501/05-parikka.php>. Shannon, Claude, and Warren Weaver. The Mathematical Theory of Communication. University of Illinois Press, 1949/1998. Shoch, John F, and Jon A Hupp. “The ‘Worm’ Programs – Early Experience with a Distributed Computation.” Communications of the ACM 25.3 (March 1982): 172–180. 5 Dec. 2005. Pastor-Satorras, Romualdo, and Alessandro Vespignani. “Epidemic Spreading in Scale-Free Networks.” Physical Review Letters 86 (2001). Von Neumann, John, and Arthur Burks. Theory of Self-Reproducing Automata. University of Illinois Press, 1966. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Sampson, Tony. "Senders, Receivers and Deceivers: How Liar Codes Put Noise Back on the Diagram of Transmission." M/C Journal 9.1 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0603/03-sampson.php>. APA Style Sampson, T. (Mar. 2006) "Senders, Receivers and Deceivers: How Liar Codes Put Noise Back on the Diagram of Transmission," M/C Journal, 9(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0603/03-sampson.php>.

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A Site for the Study of Ambience Deep in Melbourne’s subterranean belly lies a long, dark space dedicated to screen-based art. Built along disused train platforms, it’s even possible to hear the ghostly rumblings and clatter of trains passing alongside the length of the gallery on quiet days. Upon descending the single staircase leading into this dimly-lit space, visitors encounter a distinctive sensory immersion. A flicker of screens dapple the windowless vastness ahead, perhaps briefly highlighting entrances into smaller rooms or the faintly-outlined profiles of visitors. This space often houses time-based moving image artworks. The optical flicker and aural stirrings of adjacent works distract, luring visitors’ attention towards an elsewhere. Yet on other occasions, this gallery’s art is bounded by walls, private enclosures which absorb perceptions of time into the surrounding darkness. Some works lie dormant awaiting visitors’ intervention, while others rotate on endless loops, cycling by unheeded, at times creating an environment of visual and aural collision. A weak haze of daylight falls from above mid-way through the space, marking the gallery’s only exit – an escalator fitted with low glowing lights. This is a space of thematic and physical reinvention. Movable walls and a retractable mezzanine enable the 110 metre long, 15 metre wide and almost 10 metre high space to be reformed with each exhibition, as evidenced by the many exhibitions that this Screen Gallery has hosted since opening as a part of the Australian for the Moving Image (ACMI) in 2002. ACMI endured controversial beginnings over the public funds dedicated to its gallery, cinemas, public editing and games labs, TV production studio, and screen education programs. As media interrogation of ACMI’s role and purpose intensified, several pressing critical and public policy questions surfaced as to how visitors were engaging with and valuing this institution and its spaces. In this context, I undertook the first, in depth qualitative study of visitation to ACMI, so as to address these issues and also the dearth of supporting literature into museum visitation (beyond broad, quantitative analyses). Of particular interest was ACMI’s Screen Gallery, for it appeared to represent something experientially unique and historically distinctive as compared to museums and galleries of the past. I therefore undertook an ethnographic study of museum visitation to codify the expression of ACMI’s institutional remit in light of the modalities of its visitors’ experiences in the Gallery. This rich empirical material formed the basis of my study and also this article, an ethnography of the Screen Gallery’s ambience. My study was undertaken across two exhibitions, World without End and White Noise (2005). While WWE was thematically linear in its charting of the dawn of time, globalisation and apocalypse, visitor interaction was highly non-linear. The moving image was presented in a variety of forms and spaces, from the isolation of works in rooms, the cohabitation of the very large to very small in the gallery proper, to enclosures created by multiple screens, laser-triggered interactivity and even plastic bowls with which visitors could ‘capture’ projections of light. Where heterogeneity was embraced in WWE, WN offered a smoother and less rapturous environment. It presented works by artists regarded as leaders of recent practices in the abstraction of the moving image. Rather than recreating the free exploratory movement of WWE, the WN visitor was guided along one main corridor. Each work was situated in a room or space situated to the right-hand side of the passageway. This isolation created a deep sense of immersion and intimacy with each work. Low-level white noise was even played across the Gallery so as to absorb the aural ‘bleed’ from neighbouring works. For my study, I used qualitative ethnographic techniques to gather phenomenological material, namely longitudinal participant observation and interviews. The observations were conducted on a fortnightly basis for seven months. I typically spent two to three hours shadowing visitors as they moved through the Gallery, detailing patterns of interaction; from gross physical movement and speech, to the very subtle modalities of encounter: a faint smile, a hesitation, or lapsing into complete stillness. I specifically recruited visitors for interviews immediately after their visit so as to probe further into these phenomenological moments while their effects were still fresh. I also endeavoured to capture a wide cross-sample of responses by recruiting on the basis of age, gender and reason for visitation. Ten in-depth interviews (between 45 minutes and one hour) were undertaken, enquiring into the factors influencing impressions of the Gallery, such as previous museum and art experiences, and opinions about media art and technology. In this article, I particularly draw upon my interviews with Steven, Fleur, Heidi, Sean, Trevor and Mathew. These visitors’ commentaries were selected as they reflect upon the overall ambience of the Gallery–intimate recollections of moving through darkness and projections of light–rather than engagement with individual works. When referring to ambience, I borrow from Brian Eno’s 1978 manifesto of Ambient Music, as it offers a useful analogy for assessing the complexity within subtle aesthetic experiences, and more specifically, in a spatial environment generated by electronic means. An ambience is defined as an atmosphere, or a surrounding influence: a tint…Whereas the extant canned music companies proceed from the basis of regularizing environments by blanketing their acoustic and atmospheric idiosyncrasies, Ambient Music is intended to enhance these. Whereas conventional background music is produced by stripping away all sense of doubt and uncertainty (and thus all genuine interest) from the music, Ambient Music retains these qualities. And whereas their intention is to ‘brighten’ the environment by adding stimulus to it… Ambient Music is intended to induce calm and a space to think…Ambient Music must be able to accommodate many levels of listening attention without enforcing one in particular; it must be as ignorable as it is interesting. (Eno, "Ambient Music")While Eno’s definition specifically discusses a listening space, it is comparable to the predominantly digital and visual gallery environment as it elicits similar states of attention, such as calm reflection, or even a peaceful emptying of thoughts. I propose that ACMI’s darkened Screen Gallery creates an exploratory space for such intimate, bodily, subjective experiences. I firstly locate this study within the genealogical context of visitor interaction in museum exhibition environments. We then follow the visitors through the Gallery. As the nuances of their journey are presented, I assess the significance of an alternate model for presenting art which encourages ‘active’ aesthetic experience by privileging ambiguity and subtlety–yet heightened interactivity–and is similar to the systemic complexity Eno accords his Ambient Music. Navigating Museums in the Past The first public museums appeared in the context of the emerging liberal democratic state as both a product and articulation of the early stages of modernity in the nineteenth century. Museum practitioners enforced boundaries by prescribing visitors’ routes architecturally, by presenting museum objects within firm knowledge categories, and by separating visitors from objects with glass cabinets. By making their objects publicly accessible and tightly governing visitors’ parameters of spatial interaction, museums could enforce a pedagogical regulation of moral codes, an expression of ‘governmentality’ which constituted the individual as both a subject and object of knowledge (Bennett "Birth", Culture; Hooper-Greenhill). The advent of high modernism in the mid-twentieth century enforced positivist doctrines through a firm direction of visitor movement, exemplified by Le Corbusier’s Musée à Croissance Illimitée (1939) and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in New York (1959) (Davey 36). In more recent stages of modernity, architecture has attempted to reconcile the singular authority imposed by a building’s design. Robert Venturi, a key theorist of post-modern architecture, argued that the museum’s pedagogical failure to achieve social and political reforms was due to the purist and universalist values expressed within modern architecture. He proposed that post-modern architecture could challenge aesthetic modernism with a playful hybridity which emphasises symbolism and sculptural forms in architecture, and expresses a more diverse set of pluralist ideologies. Examples might include Hans Hollein’s Abteiberg Museum (1972-1982), or the National Museum of Australia in Canberra (2001). Contemporary attempts to design museum interactions reflect the aspirations of the ‘new museum.’ They similarly address a pluralist agenda, but mediate increasingly individualised forms of participation though highly interactive technological interfaces (Message). Commenting about art galleries, Lev Manovich greets this shift with some pessimism. He argues that the high art of the ‘white cube’ gallery is now confronting its ‘ideological enemy’, the ‘black box’, a historically ‘lower’ art form of cinema theatre (10). He claims that the history of spatial experimentation in art galleries is being reversed as much moving image art has been exhibited using a video projection in a darkened room, thereby limiting visitor participation to earlier, static forms of engagement. However, he proposes that new technologies could have an important presence and role in cultural institutions as an ‘augmented space’, in which layers of data overlay physical space. He queries whether this could create new possibilities for spatial interaction, such that cultural institutions might play a progressive role in exploring new futures (14). The Screen Gallery at ACMI embodies the characteristics of the ‘new museum’ as far as it demands multiple modalities of participation in a technological environment. It could perhaps also be regarded an experimental ‘black box’ in that it houses multiple screens, yet, as we shall see, elicits participation unbefitting of a cinema. We therefore turn now to examine visitors’ observations of the Gallery’s design, thereby garnering the experiential significance of passage through a moving image art space. Descending into Darkness Descending the staircase into the Gallery is a process of proceeding into shadows. The blackened cavity (fig. 1) therefore looms ahead as a clear visceral departure from the bustle of Federation Square above (fig. 2), and the clean brightness of ACMI’s foyer (fig. 3). Figure 1: Descent into ACMI's Screen Gallery Figure 2: ACMI at Federation Square, Melbourne Figure 3: ACMI’s foyer One visitor, Fleur, described this passage as a sense of going “deep underground,” where the affective power of darkness overwhelmed other sensory details: “I can’t picture it in my mind – sort of where the gallery finishes… And it’s perfect, it’s dark, and it’s… quiet-ish.” Many visitors found that an entrance softened by shadows added a trace of suspense to the beginnings of their journey. Heidi described how, “because it’s dark and you can’t actually see the people walking about… it’s a little bit more mysterious.” Fleur similarly remarked that “you’re not quite sure what you’re going to meet when you go around. And there’s a certain anticipation.” Steven found that the ambiguity surrounding the conventions of procedure through Gallery was “quite interesting, that experience of being a little bit unsure of where you’re going or not being able to see.” He attributed feelings of disorientation to the way the deep shadows of the Gallery routinely obscured measurement of time: “it’s that darkness that makes it a place where it’s like a time sync… You could spend hours in there… You sort of lose track of time… The darkness kind of contributes to that.” Multiple Pathways The ambiguity of the Gallery compelled visitors to actively engage with the space by developing their own rules for procedure. For example, Sean described how darkness and minimal use of signage generated multiple possibilities for passage: “you kind of need to wander through and guide yourself. It’s fairly dark as well and there aren’t any signs saying ‘Come this way,’ and it was only by sort of accident we found some of the spaces down the very back. Because, it’s very dark… We could very well have missed that.” Katrina similarly explained how she developed a participatory journey through movement: “when you first walk in, it just feels like empty space, and not exactly sure what’s going on and what to look at… and you think nothing is going on, so you have to kind of walk around and get a feel for it.” Steven used this participatory movement to navigate. He remarked that “there’s a kind of basic ‘what’s next?’… When you got down you could see maybe about four works immediately... There’s a kind of choice about ‘this is the one I’ll pay attention to first’, or ‘look, there’s this other one over there – that looks interesting, I might go and come back to this’. So, there’s a kind of charting of the trip through the exhibition.” Therefore while ambiguous rules for procedure undermine traditional forms of interaction in the museum, they prompted visitors to draw upon their sensory perception to construct a self-guided and exploratory path of engagement. However, mystery and ambiguity can also complicate visitors’ sense of self determination. Fleur noted how crossing the threshold into a space without clear conventions for procedure could challenge some visitors: “you have to commit yourself to go into a space like that, and I think the first time, when you’re not sure what’s down there… I think people going there for the first time would probably… find it difficult.” Trevor found this to be the case, objecting that “the part that doesn’t work, is that it doesn’t work as a space that’s easy to get around.” These comments suggest that an ‘unintended consequence’ (Beck) of relaxing contemporary museum conventions to encourage greater visitor autonomy, can be the contrary effect of making navigation more difficult. Visitors struggling to negotiate these conditions may find themselves subject to what Daniel Palmer terms the ‘paradox of user control’, in which contemporary forms of choice prove to be illusory, as they inhibit an individual’s freedom through ‘soft’ forms of domination. The ambiguity created by the Gallery’s darkness therefore brings two disparate – if not contradictory – tendencies together, as concluded by Fleur: “The darkness is – it’s both an advantage and a disadvantage… You can’t sort of see each other as well, but there’s also a bit of freedom in that. In that it sort of goes both ways.” A Journey of Subtle Cues Several strategies to ameliorate disorienting navigation experiences were employed in the Screen Gallery, attempting to create new possibilities for meaningful interaction. Some reflect typical curatorial conventions, such as mounting didactic panels along walls and strategically placing staff as guides. However, visitors frequently eschewed these markers and were instead drawn powerfully to affective conventions, including the shadings of light and sound. Sean noted how small beacons of light at foot level were prominent features, as they illuminated the entrances to rooms and corridors: “That’s your over-whelming impression, because it’s dark and there’s just these feature spotlights… and they’re an interesting device, because they sort of lead your eye through the space as well, and say ‘oh that’s where the next event is, there’s a spotlight over there’.” The luminescence of artworks served a similar purpose, for within “the darkness, the boundaries are less visible, and… you’re drawn to the light, you know, you’re drawn to those screens.” He found that directional sound above artworks also created a comparable effect: “I was aware of the fact that things were quiet until you approached the right spot and obviously it’s where the sound was focussed.” These conventions reflect what Trini Castelli calls ‘soft design’, by which space is made cohesively sensual (Glibb in Mitchell 87-88). The Gallery uses light and sound to fashions this visceral ‘feeling’ of spatial continuity, a seamless ambience. Paul described how this had a pleasurable effect, where the “atmosphere of the space” created “a very nice place to be… Lots of low lighting.” Fleur similarly recalled lasting somatic impressions: “It’s a bit like a cave, I suppose… The atmosphere is so different… it’s warm, I find it quite a relaxing place to be, I find it quite calm…Yeah, it has that feeling of private space to it.” Soft design therefore tempers the spatial severity of museums past through this sensuous ‘participatory environment.’ Interaction with art therefore becomes, as Steven enthused, “an exhibition experience” where “it’s as much (for me) the experience of moving between works as attending to the work itself… That seems really prominent in the experience, that it’s not these kind of isolated, individual works, they’re in relation to each other.” Disruptions to this experiential continuity – what Eno had described as a ‘stimulus’ – were subject to harsh judgement. When asked why he preferred to stand against the back wall of a room, rather than take a seat on the chairs provided, Matthew protested that “the spotlight was on those frigging couches, who wants to sit there? That would’ve been horrible.” Visitors clearly expressed a preference towards a form of spatial interaction in which curatorial conventions heighten, rather than detract from, the immersive dynamic of the museum environment. They showed how the feelings of ambiguity and suspense which absorbed them in the Gallery’s entrance gradually began to dissipate. In their place, a preference arose for conventions which maintained the Gallery’s immersive continuity, and where cues such as focused sound and footlights had a calming effect, and created a cohesive sensual journey through the dark. The Ambience of Art Space Visitors’ comments acquire an additional significance when examined in light of Eno’s earlier definition of what he called Ambient Music. He suggested that even in relative stillness, there exists a capacity for active forms of listening which create a “space to think” and generate a “quiet interest.” In addition, and perhaps most importantly, these active forms of listening are augmented by the “atmospheric idiosyncrasies” which are derived from conditions of uncertainty. As I have shown, the darkened Screen Gallery obscures the rules for visitor participation and consequently elicits doubt and hesitation. Visitors must self-navigate and be guided by sensory perception, responding to the kinaesthetic touch of light on skin and the subtle drifts of sound to constructing a journey through the enveloping darkness. This spatial ambience can therefore be understood as the specific condition which make the Gallery a fertile site for new exchanges between visitors, artworks and curation within the museum. Arjun Mulder defines this kind of dynamism in architectural space as a form of systemic interactivity, the “default state of any living system,” in the way that any system can be considered interactive if it links into, and affects change upon another (Mulder 332). Therefore while museums have historically been spaces for interaction, they have not always been interactive spaces in the sense described by Mulder, where visitor participation and processes of exchange are heightened by the conditions of ambience, and can compel self-determined journeys of visitor enquiry and feelings of relaxation and immersion. ACMI’s Screen Gallery has therefore come to define its practices by heightening these forms of encounter, and elevating the affective possibilities for interacting with art. Traditional museum conventions have been challenged by playing with experiential dynamics. These practices create an ambience which is particular to the gallery, and historically unlike the experiential ecologies of preceding forms of museum, gallery or moving space, be it the white cube or a simple ‘black box’ room for video projections. This perhaps signifies a distinctive moment in the genealogy of the museum, indicating how one instance of an art environment’s ambience can become a rubric for new forms of visitor interaction. References Beck, Ulrich. “The Reinvention of Politics: Towards a Theory of Reflexive Modernization.” Reflexive Modernization: Politics, Tradition and Aesthetics in the Modern Social Order. Eds. Ulrich Beck, Anthony Giddens, and Scott Lash. Cambridge: Politics, 1994. 1-55. Bennett, Tony. The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics. London; New York: Routledge. 1995. ———. “Culture and Governmentality.” Foucault, Cultural Studies and Governmentality. Eds. J.Z. Bratich, J. Packer, and C. McCarthy. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003. 47-64. Davey, Peter. “Museums in an N-Dimensional World.” The Architectural Review 1242 (2000): 36-37. Eno, Brian. “Resonant Complexity.” Whole Earth Review (Summer 1994): 42-43. ———. “Ambient Music.” A Year with Swollen Appendices: The Diary of Brian Eno. London: Faber and Faber, 1996. 293-297. Hooper-Greenhill, Eileen. “Museums and Education for the 21st Century.” Museum and Gallery Education. London: Leicester University Press, 1991. 187-193. Manovich, Lev. “The Poetics of Augmented Space: Learning from Prada.” 27 April 2010 ‹http://creativetechnology.salford.ac.uk/fuchs/modules/creative_technology/architecture/manovich_augmented_space.pdf›. Message, Kylie. “The New Museum.” Theory, Culture and Society: Special Issue on Problematizing Global Knowledge. Eds. Mike Featherstone, Couze Venn, and Ryan Bishop, John Phillips. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2006. 603-606. Mitchell, T. C. Redefining Designing: From Form to Experience. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1993. Mulder, Arjun. “The Object of Interactivity.” NOX: Machining Architecture. London: Thames and Hudson, 2004. 332-340. Palmer, Daniel. “The Paradox of User Control.” Melbourne Digital Art and Culture 2003 Conference Proceedings. Melbourne: RMIT, 2003. 167-172. Venturi, Robert. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1966.

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Abstract:

IntroductionCan a person’s tastes in art, music, literature, cinema, sport, humour or other fields be changed through online activity? This article explores that question by comparing recent research findings in the areas of neuroplasticity and flow. Neuroplasticity, also known as brain plasticity, is the idea that the human brain can change its structure and function through thought and activity, even into old age (Doidge). The second concept—flow—comes from the field of psychology, and refers to a deeply satisfying state of focused attention that people sometimes experience while engaging in an enjoyable activity such as browsing the Web (Csikszentmihalyi, Flow). Research into the experiences of web users, conducted from these two different perspectives, reveal interesting connections to the acquisition of taste and opportunities for further investigation. Neuroplasticity The term neuroplasticity comes from the words neuron and plastic. Neurons are the nerve cells in our brains and nervous systems. Plastic, in this context, means flexibility or malleability. Neuroplasticity has replaced the formerly-held belief that the brain is a physiologically static organ, hard-wired like a machine (Kolb, Gibb and Robinson). For much of the last century, scientists believed that adult brains, unlike those of children, could not produce new neurons or build new pathways or connections between neurons. According to this view, any brain function that was lost through damage was irretrievable. Today, research into neuroplasticity has proven that this is not the case. In the late 1960s and 1970s pioneering scientists such as Paul Bach-y-Rita demonstrated that brains change their structure with different activities they perform (Kercel). When certain parts fail, other parts can sometimes take over. Subsequent research by many scientists has validated this once-controversial idea, leading to practical benefits such as the restoration of limb function in stroke victims, and improved cognition and perception in people with learning disabilities (Nowak et al.). Merzenich, for example, has demonstrated how a brain’s processing areas, called brain maps, change in response to what people do over the course of their lives. Different brain maps exist for different activities and functions, including sensory perception, motor skills and higher mental activities. Brain maps are governed by competition for mental resources and the principle of “use it or lose it.” If a person stops exercising particular mental skills, such as speaking Spanish or playing piano, then the brain map space for those skills is handed over to skills that they practise instead. Brain maps are also governed by a principle that is summarised by the expression, “neurons that fire together wire together” (Doidge 63). Neurons in brain maps develop stronger connections to each other when they are activated at the same moment in time. Consequently people are able to form new maps by developing new neural connections. Acquiring Tastes Doidge has illustrated the role that neuroplasticity plays in acquiring new tastes by explaining how habitual viewing of online p*rnography can shape sexual tastes (102). In the mid- to late-1990s, Doidge (a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst) treated several men who had lost interest in their sexual partners as a consequence of their addiction to online p*rnography. Doidge explains their change of sexual taste in terms of neuroplasticity, noting that “p*rnography, delivered by high-speed Internet connections, satisfies every one of the prerequisites for neuroplastic change” (102). The sexual excitement of viewing p*rnography releases a chemical neurotransmitter named dopamine that activates the brain’s pleasure centres. Since “neurons that fire together wire together”, the repeated viewing of p*rnography effectively wires the p*rnographic images into the pleasure centres of the brain with the focused attention required for neuroplastic change. In other words, habitual viewers of p*rnography develop new brain maps based on the photos and videos they see. And since the brain operates on a “use it or lose it” principle, they long to keep those new maps activated. Consequently, p*rnography has an addictive power. Like all addicts, the men who Doidge treated developed a tolerance to the photos and videos they observed and sought out progressively higher levels of stimulation for satisfaction. Doidge explains the result: The content of what they found exciting changed as the Web sites introduced themes and scripts that altered their brains without their awareness. Because plasticity is competitive, the brain maps for new, exciting images increased at the expense of what had previously attracted them—the reason, I believe, they began to find their girlfriends less of a turn-on. (109) If the habitual viewing of online p*rnography can change sexual tastes, what other tastes can be changed through online activity? Art? Music? Literature? Cinema? Sport? Humour? One avenue for investigating this question is to consider existing research into the flow experiences of web users. The term flow refers to a deeply satisfying state of focused attention that was first identified by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (Beyond Boredom) in his studies of optimal experiences. According to Csikszentmihalyi, people in flow “are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience itself is so enjoyable that people will do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it” (Flow 4). Flow experiences are characterised by some common elements, which include a balance between the challenges of an activity and the skills required to meet those challenges; clear goals and feedback; concentration on the task at hand; a sense of control; a merging of action and awareness; a loss of self-consciousness; a distorted sense of time; and the autotelic experience. The term autotelic refers to an activity that is done, not with the expectation of some future benefit, but simply because the doing itself is the reward. Whenever people reflect on their flow experiences, they mention some, and often all, of these characteristics. Support for Csikszentmihalyi’s characterisation of flow can be found in studies of many diverse activities, such as playing computer games (Chen) and participating in sport (Jackson), to mention just two examples. The activities that people engage in to experience flow vary enormously, but they describe how it feels in almost identical terms. Pace has developed a grounded theory of the flow experiences of web users engaged in content-seeking activities including directed searching and exploratory browsing. The term grounded in this instance refers to the fact that the theory was developed using the Grounded Theory research method, and its explanations are grounded in the study’s data rather than deduced from research literature (Charmaz). A review of that theory reveals many similarities between the flow experiences of web users engaged in content-seeking activities and the experiences of habitual viewers of online p*rnography described by Doidge. The following sections will consider several of those similarities. Focused Attention Focused attention is essential for long-term neuroplastic change. Goleman notes that “when practice occurs while we are focusing elsewhere, the brain does not rewire the relevant circuitry for that particular routine” (164). In a series of brain mapping experiments with monkeys, Merzenich discovered that “lasting changes occurred only when his monkeys paid close attention” (Doidge 68). When the animals performed tasks without paying close attention, their brain maps changed, but the changes did not last. Focused attention also plays a central role in the flow experiences of web users. The higher-than-average challenges associated with flow activities require a complete focusing of attention on the task at hand, or as Csikszentmihalyi puts it, “a centering of attention on a limited stimulus field” (Beyond Boredom 40). An important by-product of this fact is that flow leaves no room in one’s consciousness for irrelevant thoughts, worries or distractions (Csikszentmihalyi, Flow 58). People who experience flow frequently report that, while it lasts, they are able to forget about the unpleasant aspects of life. Consider the following comment from a 42-year-old male’s recollection of experiencing flow while using the Web: “It’s a total concentration experience. You’re so interested in doing what it is you’re doing that nothing’s interrupting you.” In everyday life, one’s concentration is rarely so intense that all preoccupations disappear from consciousness, but that is precisely what happens in a flow experience. All of the troubling thoughts that normally occupy the mind are temporarily suspended while the pressing demands of the flow activity consume one’s attention. Let’s now consider a second similarity between the flow experiences of web users and the taste-changing experiences of habitual viewers of online p*rnography. Enjoyment The pleasure experienced by the p*rnography addicts treated by Doidge played an important role in the alteration of their brain maps and sexual tastes. Since “neurons that fire together wire together”, the repeated viewing of p*rnographic photos and videos wired those images into the pleasure centres of their brains with the focused attention required for neuroplastic change. Web users in flow also experience enjoyment, but possibly a different kind of enjoyment to the pleasure described by Doidge. Seligman and Csikszentmihalyi make the following distinction between pleasure and enjoyment: Pleasure is the good feeling that comes from satisfying homeostatic needs such as hunger, sex, and bodily comfort. Enjoyment, on the other hand, refers to the good feelings people experience when they break through the limits of homeostasis—when they do something that stretches them beyond what they were—in an athletic event, an artistic performance, a good deed, a stimulating conversation. (12) The enjoyment experienced by people in flow is sometimes described as “the autotelic experience.” According to Csikszentmihalyi, an autotelic experience is “a self-contained activity, one that is done not with the expectation of some future benefit, but simply because the doing itself is the reward” (Flow 67). Because autotelic experiences are so satisfying, they create a strong desire to repeat the activity that produced the experience. Consider the following comment from a web user about the reasons he enjoys online content-seeking activities that have led to flow: It’s like going to somewhere new. You’re always learning something. You’re always finding something. And you don’t know what it is you’re going to find. There’s so much out there that you’ll go there one day and then you’ll come back, and you’ll actually end up on a different path and finding something different. So it’s investigation of the unknown really. This comment, like many web users’ recollections of their flow experiences, points to a relationship between enjoyment and discovery. This connection is also evident in flow experiences that occur during other kinds of activities. For example, Csikszentmihalyi suggests that “the reason we enjoy a particular activity is not because such pleasure has been previously programmed in our nervous system, but because of something discovered as a result of interaction” (The Evolving Self 189). He illustrates this point with the example of a person who is at first indifferent to or bored by a particular activity, such as listening to classical music. When opportunities for action in the context of the activity become clearer, or when the individual’s skills improve, the activity may start to be interesting and finally gratifying. For example, if a person begins to understand the design underlying a symphony he or she might begin to enjoy the act of listening. This example hints at how discovery, enjoyment and other rewards of flow may engender change in a person’s taste. Let’s now consider a third similarity between the two areas of research. Compulsive Behaviour One consequence of flow experiences being so enjoyable is that they create a strong desire to repeat whatever helped to make them happen. If a person experiences flow while browsing online for new music, for example, he or she will probably want to repeat that activity to enjoy the experience again. Consider the following comment from a 28-year-old female web user who recalled experiencing flow intermittently over a period of three days: “I did go to bed—really late. And then as soon as I got up in the morning I was zoom—straight back on there […] I guess it’s a bit like a gambling addiction.” This study informant’s use of the term addiction highlights another similarity between the flow experiences of web users and habitual viewing of online p*rnography. Flow experiences can, in a very small percentage of cases, encourage compulsive behaviour and possibly addiction. A study by Khang, Kim and Kim found that “experiences of the flow state significantly influenced media addiction” across three media forms: the Internet, mobile phones and video games (2423). Examples of problems associated with excessive Internet use include sleep deprivation, poor eating and exercise habits, conflict with family members, and neglect of academic, interpersonal, financial and, occupational responsibilities (Douglas et al). Some heavy Internet users report feelings of moodiness and anxiety while they are offline, along with an intense desire to log in. Doidge states that “the addictiveness of Internet p*rnography is not a metaphor” (106), but many researchers are reluctant to apply the term addiction to heavy Internet use. Internet addiction first came to the attention of the research community in the mid-1990s when Young conceptualised it as an impulse-control disorder and proposed a set of diagnostic criteria based on the diagnostic criteria for pathological gambling in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. However, after more than fifteen years of research on this subject, there is still no agreement on a definition or diagnostic criteria for Internet addiction. Some researchers argue that Internet addiction is not a true addiction and may be no more than a symptom of other existing disorders such as anxiety or depression (Weinstein and Lejoyeux). Regardless of this controversy, the potential for compulsive behaviour is another clear similarity between the flow experiences of web users and the neuroplastic change caused by habitual viewing of online p*rnography. One more similarity will be considered. Sidetracks In Pace’s study of the flow experiences of web users, informants reported engaging in two general types of content-seeking behaviour: (1) a directed searching mode in which one is motivated to find a particular piece of content such as the answer to a question or a specific music video; and (2) an exploratory browsing mode that is characterised by diffuse motives such as passing time or seeking stimulation. Directed searching and exploratory browsing are not dichotomous forms of navigation behaviour. On the contrary, they are closely interrelated. Web users move back and forth between the two modes, often many times within the same session. Just as web users can change from one navigation mode to another, they can also get sidetracked from one topic to another. For instance, it is reportedly quite common for a web user engaged in a content-seeking activity to decide to pursue a different goal because his or her curiosity is aroused by interesting content or links that are not directly relevant to the task at hand. Consider the following comment from a 21-year-old female web user whose desire to find contact details for a local Tai Chi group disappeared when a link to the Sportsgirl web site attracted her attention: I think I typed in “sports” […] I was actually looking for a place to do Tai Chi and that sort of thing. So I was looking for a sport. And it ended up coming up with the Sportsgirl web site. And I ended up looking at clothes all afternoon. So that was kind of cool. Sidetracks are a common feature of the flow experiences of web users. They are also a prominent feature of the description that Doidge provided of the p*rnography addicts’ neuroplastic change (109). The content of what the men found exciting changed as the web sites they viewed introduced “themes and scripts” or sidetracks that altered their brain maps. “Without being fully aware of what they were looking for, they scanned hundreds of images and scenarios until they hit upon an image or sexual script that touched some buried theme that really excited them”, Doidge notes (110). Conclusion Can a person’s tastes in art, music, literature, cinema, sport, humour or some other field be changed through online activity, just as sexual tastes can? This article alone cannot conclusively answer that question, but significant similarities between the flow experiences of web users and the neuroplastic change experienced by habitual viewers of online p*rnography suggest that flow theory could be a fruitful line of investigation. Can the flow experiences of web users lead to changes in taste, just as the neuroplastic change caused by habitual viewing of online p*rnography can lead to changes in sexual taste? What is the relationship between flow and neuroplastic change? Is the Internet the most appropriate environment for exploring these questions about taste, or do offline flow activities provide insights that have been neglected? These are some of the unanswered questions arising from this discussion that require further investigation. Advances in the field of neuroplasticity have been described as some of “the most extraordinary discoveries of the twentieth century” (Doidge xv). These advances provide an opportunity to revisit related theories and to enhance our understanding of phenomena such as flow and taste. References Charmaz, Kathy. Constructing Grounded Theory: A Practical Guide Through Qualitative Analysis. Thousand Oaks, California: Sage Publications, 2006. Chen, Jenova. “Flow in Games (and Everything Else).” Communications of the ACM 50.4 (2007): 31–34. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. Beyond Boredom and Anxiety: The Experience of Play in Work and Games. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers, 1975. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. The Evolving Self: A Psychology for the Third Millennium. New York: HarperPerennial, 1993. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. New York: HarperPerennial, 1990. Doidge, Norman. The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science. Melbourne: Scribe Publications, 2010. Douglas, Alecia C., Juline E. Mills, Mamadou Niang, Svetlana Stepchenkova, Sookeun Byun, Celestino Ruffini, Seul Ki Lee, Jihad Loutfi, Jung-Kook Lee, Mikhail Atallah, and Marina Blanton. “Internet Addiction: Meta-Synthesis of Qualitative Research for the Decade 1996-2006.” Computers in Human Behavior 24 (2008): 3027–3044. Goleman, Daniel. Focus: The Hidden Driver of Excellence. New York: HarperCollins, 2013. Jackson, Susan. “Toward a Conceptual Understanding of the Flow Experience in Elite Athletes.” Research Quarterly for Exercise and Sport 67.1 (1996): 76–90. Khang, Hyoungkoo, Jung Kyu Kim, and Yeojin Kim. “Self-Traits and Motivations as Antecedents of Digital Media Flow and Addiction: The Internet, Mobile Phones, and Video Games.” Computers in Human Behavior 29 (2013): 2416–2424. Kercel, Stephen W. “Editorial: The Wide-Ranging Impact of the Work of Paul Bach-y-Rita.” Journal of Integrative Neuroscience 4.4 (2005): 403–406. Kolb, Bryan, Robbin Gibb, and Terry E. Robinson. “Brain Plasticity and Behavior.” Current Directions in Psychological Science 12.1 (2003): 1–5. Merzenich, Michael. Soft-Wired: How the New Science of Brain Plasticity Can Change Your Life. San Francisco: Parnassus Publishing, 2013. Nowak, Dennis A., Kathrin Bösl, Jitka Podubeckà, and James R. Carey. “Noninvasive Brain Stimulation and Motor Recovery After Stroke.” Restorative Neurology and Neuroscience 28 (2010): 531–544. Pace, Steven. “A Grounded Theory of the Flow Experiences of Web Users.” International Journal of Human-Computer Studies 60.3 (2004): 327–363. Seligman, Martin E. P., and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. “Positive Psychology: An Introduction.” American Psychologist 55.1 (2000): 5–14. Weinstein, Aviv, and Michel Lejoyeux. “Internet Addiction or Excessive Internet Use.” The American Journal of Drug and Alcohol Abuse 36 (2010): 277–283. Young, Kimberly S. Caught in the Net: How to Recognize the Signs of Internet Addiction—And a Winning Strategy for Recovery. New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1998.

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Abstract:

Digital culture, as we know it, owes much to space exploration. The technological pursuit of outer space has fuelled innovations in signal processing and automated computing that have left an impact on the hardware and software that make our digital present possible. Developments in satellite technologies, for example, produced far-reaching improvements in digital image processing (Gonzalez and Woods) and the demands of the Apollo missions advanced applications of the integrated circuit – the predecessor to the microchip (Hall). All the inventive digital beginnings in space found their way back to earth and contributed to the development of contemporary formations of culture composed around practices dependent on and driven by digital technologies. Their terrestrial adoption and adaptation supported a revolution in information, mediation and communication technologies, increasing the scope and speed of global production, exchange and use of data and advancing techniques of imaging, mapping, navigation, surveillance, remote sensing and telemetry to a point that could only be imagined before the arrival of the space age. Steadily knotted with contemporary scientific, commercial and military endeavours and the fabric of the quotidian, digital devices and practices now have a bearing upon all aspects of our pursuits, pleasures and politics. Our increasing reliance upon the digital shaped the shared surfaces of human societies and produced cultures in their own right. While aware of the uneasy baggage of the term ‘culture’, we use it here to designate all digitally grounded objects, systems and processes which are materially and socially inflecting our ways of life. In this sense, we consider both what Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri describe as “those results of social production that are necessary for social interaction and further production, such as knowledges, languages, codes, information, affects, and so forth” (viii), and the material contexts of these products of the social. The effects of digital technologies on the socio-material ambits of human life are many and substantial and – as we want to suggest here – evolving through their ‘extraterrestrial’ beginnings. The contemporary courses of digital cultures not only continue to develop through investments in space exploration, they are themselves largely contingent on the technologies that we have placed in outer space, for instance, global telecommunications infrastructure, GPS, Google maps, weather and climate monitoring facilities and missile grids all rely on the constellation of satellites orbiting the earth. However, we have been increasingly witnessing something new: modes of social production that developed on earth from the technical demands of the space age are now being directed, or rather returned back to have new beginnings beyond the globe. Our focus in this paper is this outward momentum of digital cultures. We do not aim to overview the entire history of the digital in outer space, but instead to frame the extraterrestrial extension of human technologies in terms of the socio-material dimensions of extra-planetary digital cultures. Hannah Arendt described how the space age accelerated the already rapid pace of techno-scientific development, denying us pause during which to grasp its effects upon the “human condition”. Our treacherously fast technological conquest of outer space leaves in its wake an aporia in language and “the trouble”, as Arendt puts it, is that we will “forever be unable to understand, that is, to think and speak about the things which nevertheless we are able to do” (3). This crisis in language has at its core a problem of ontology: a failure to recognise that the words we use to describe ourselves are always, and have always been, bound up in our technological modes of being. As thinkers such as Gilbert Simondon and Bernard Stiegler argued and Arendt derided (but could not deny), our technologies are inseparably bound up with the evolutionary continuum of the human and the migration of our digital ways of life into outer space still further complicates articulation of our techno-logic condition. In Stiegler’s view the technical is the primordial supplement to the human into which we have been “exteriorising” our “interiors” of social memory and shared culture to alter, assert and advance the material-social ambits of our living milieu and which have been consequently changing the idea of what it is to be human (141). Without technologies – what Stiegler terms “organised inorganic matter” (17), which mediate our relationships to the world – there is no human in the inhuman extraterrestrial environment and so, effectively, it is only through the organisation of inert matter that culture or social life can exist outside the earth. Offering the possibility of digitally abstracting and processing the complexities and perils of outer space, space technologies are not only a means of creating a human milieu ‘out there’, but of expediting potentially endless extra-planetary progress. The transposition of digital culture into outer space occasions a series of beginnings (and returns). In this paper, we explore extra-planetary digital culture as a productive trajectory in broader discussions of the ontological status of technologies that are socially and materially imbricated in the idea of the human. We consider the digital facilitation of exchanges between earth and outer space and assign them a place in an evolving discourse concerned with expressing the human in relation to the technological. We suggest that ontological questions occasioned by the socio-material effects of technologies require consideration of the digital in outer space and that the inhuman milieu of the extraterrestrial opens up a unique perspective from which to consider the nascent shape of what might be the emerging extra-planetary beginnings of the post human. Digital Exurbias The unfolding of extra-planetary digital cultures necessitates the simultaneous exteriorisation of our production of the social into outer space and the domestication of our extraterrestrial activities here on earth. Caught in the processes of mediated exploration, the moon, Mars, Pluto and other natural or human-made celestial bodies such as the International Space Station are almost becoming remote outer suburbs – exurbias of earth. Digital cultures are reaching toward and expanding into outer space through the development of technologies, but more specifically through advancing the reciprocal processes of social exchanges between terrestrial and extraterrestrial space. Whether it be through public satellite tracking via applications such as Heavens-Above or The High Definition Earth Viewing system’s continuous video feed from the camera attached to the ISS (NASA, "High Definition") – which streams us back an image of our planetary habitat from an Archimedean point of view – we are being encouraged to embrace a kind of digital enculturation of extraterrestrial space. The production of social life outside our own planet has already had many forms, but perhaps can be seen most clearly aboard the International Space Station, presently the only extraterrestrial environment physically occupied by humans. Amongst its many landmark events, the ISS has become a vigorous node of social media activity. For example, in 2013 Chris Hadfield became a Twitter phenomenon while living aboard the ISS; the astronaut gathered over a million Twitter followers, he made posts on Facebook, Tumblr and Reddit, multiple mini-vids, and his rendition of David Bowie’s Space Oddity on YouTube (Hadfield) has thus far been viewed over 26 million times. His success, as has been noted, was not merely due to his use of social media in the unique environment of outer space, but rather that he was able to make the highly technical lives of those in space familiar by revealing to a global audience “how you make a sandwich in microgravity, how you get a haircut” (Potter). This techno-mediation of the everyday onboard ISS is, from a Stieglerian perspective, a gesture toward the establishment of “the relation of the living to its milieu” (49). As part of this process, the new trends and innovations of social media on earth are, for example, continuously replayed and rehearsed in the outer space, with a litany of ‘digital firsts’ such as the first human-sent extraterrestrial ‘tweet’, first Instagram post, first Reddit AMA and first Pinterest ‘pin’ (Knoblauch), betraying our obsessions with serial digital beginnings. The constitution of an extra-planetary milieu progresses with the ability to conduct real-time interactions between those on and outside the earth. This, in essence, collapses all social aspects of the physical barrier and the ISS becomes merely a high-tech outer suburb of the globe. Yet fluid, uninterrupted, real-time communications with the station have only just become possible. Previously, the Iinternet connections between earth and the ISS were slow and troublesome, akin to the early dial-up, but the recently installed Optical Payload for Lasercomm Science (OPAL), a laser communications system, now enables the incredible speeds needed to effortlessly communicate with the human orbital outpost in real-time. After OPAL was affixed to the ISS, it was first tested using the now-traditional system test, “hello, world” (NASA, "Optical Payload"); referencing the early history of digital culture itself, and in doing so, perhaps making the most apt use of this phrase, ever. Open to Beginnings Digital technologies have become vital in sustaining social life, facilitating the immaterial production of knowledge, information and affects (Hardt and Negri), but we have also become increasingly attentive to their materialities; or rather, the ‘matter of things’ never went away, it was only partially occluded by the explosion of social interactivities sparked by the ‘digital revolution’. Within the ongoing ‘material turn’, there have been a gamut of inquiries into the material contexts of the ‘digital’, for example, in the fields of digital anthropology (Horst and Miller), media studies (Kirschenbaum, Fuller, Parikka) and science and technology studies (Gillespie, Boczkowski, and Foot) – to mention only a very few of these works. Outside the globe material things are again insistent, they contain and maintain the terrestrial life from which they were formed. Outer space quickens our awareness of the materiality underpinning the technical apparatus we use to mediate and communicate and the delicate support that it provides for the complex of digital practices built upon it. Social exchanges between earth and its extra-planetary exurbias are made possible through the very materiality of digital signals within which these immaterial interactions can take place. In the pared down reality of contemporary life in outer space, the sociality of the digital is also harnessed to bring forth forms of material production. For example, when astronauts in space recently needed a particular wrench, NASA was able to email them a digital file from which they were then able print the required tool (Shukman). Through technologies such as the 3D printer, the line between products of the social and the creation of material objects becomes blurred. In extra-planetary space, the ‘thingness’ of technologies is at least as crucial as it is on earth and yet – as it appears – material production in space might eventually rely on the infrastructures occasioned by the immaterial exchanges of digital culture. As technical objects, like the 3D printer, are evolving so too are conceptions of the relationship that humans have with technologies. One result of this is the idea that technologies themselves are becoming capable of producing social life; in this conception, the relationships and interrelationships of and with technologies become a potential field of study. We suggest here that the extra-planetary extension of digital cultures will not only involve, but help shape, the evolution of these relationships, and as such, our conceptions and articulations of a future beyond the globe will require a re-positioning of the human and technical objects within the arena of life. This will require new beginnings. Yet beginnings are duplicitous, as Maurice Blanchot wrote – “one must never rely on the word beginning”; technologies have always been part of the human, our rapport is in some sense what defines the human. To successfully introduce the social in outer space will involve an evolution in both the theory and practice of this participation. And it is perhaps through the extra-planetary projection of digital culture that this will come about. In outer space the human partnership with the objects of technology, far from being a utopian promise or dystopian end, is not only a necessity but also a productive force shaping the collective beginnings of our historical co-evolution. Objects of technology that migrate into space appear designed to smooth the ontological misgivings that might arise from our extra-planetary progress. While they are part of the means for producing the social in outer space and physical fortifications against human frailty, they are perhaps also the beginnings of the extraterrestrial enculturation of technologies, given form. One example of such technologies is the anthropomorphic robots currently developed by the Dextrous Robotics Laboratory for NASA. The latest iteration of these, Robotnaut 2 was the first humanoid robot in space; it is a “highly dexterous” robot that works beside astronauts performing a wide range of manual and sensory activities (NASA, "Robonaut"). The Robonaut 2 has recorded its own series of ‘firsts’, including being the “first robot inside a human space vehicle operating without a cage, and first robot to work with human-rated tools in space” (NASA, "Robonaut"). One of the things which mark it as a potential beginning is this ability to use the same tools as astronauts. This suggests the image of a tool using a tool – at first glance, something now quite common in the operation of machines – however, in this case the robot is able to manipulate a tool that was not designed for it. This then might also include the machine itself in our own origins, in that evolutionary moment of grasping a tool or stealing fire from the gods. As an exteriorisation of the human, these robots also suggest that a shared extra-planetary culture would involve acknowledging the participation of technologic entities, recognising that they share these beginnings with us, and thus are participating in the origins of our potential futures beyond the globe – the prospects of which we can only imagine now. Identifiably human-shaped, Robonauts are created to socialise with, and labour together with, astronauts; they share tools and work on the same complex tasks in the same environment aboard the International Space Station. In doing so, their presence might break down the separation between the living and the nonliving, giving form to Stiegler’s hypothesis regarding the ontology of technical objects, and coming to represent a mode of “being” described as “organized inert matter” (49). The robonaut is not dominated by the human, like a hand-held tool, nor is it dominating like a faceless system; it is engineered to be conducted, ‘organised’ rather than controlled. In addition to its anthropomorphic tendencies – which among other things, makes them appear more human than astronauts wearing space suits – is the robonaut’s existence as part of an assemblage of networked life that links technical objects with wet bodies into an animate system of information and matter. While this “heralds the possibility of making the technical being part of culture” (Simondon 16), it also suggests that extra-planetary digital cultures will harness what Simondon formulates as an “ensemble” of “open machines” – a system of sensitive technologies toward which the human acts as “organizer and as a living interpreter” (13). In the design of our extra-planetary envoys we are evolving toward this openness; the Robonaut, a technical object that shares in digital culture and its social and material production, might be the impetus through which the human and technological acquire a language that expresses a kind of evolutionary dialectic. As a system of inclusions that uses technologies to incorporate/socialise everything it can, including its own relationship with technical objects, digital culture in outer space clarifies how technologies might relate and “exchange information with each other through the intermediacy of the human interpreter” (Simondon 14). The Robonaut, like the tweeting astronaut, provides the test signals for what might eventually become points of communication between different modes of being. In this context, culture is collective cumulative memory; the ‘digital’ form of culture suggests an evolution of both technologic life and human life because it incorporates the development of more efficient means of storing and transmitting memory as cultural knowledge, while recognising the experience of both. Social learning and memory will first define the evolution of the Robonaut. Digital culture and the social expressed through technology – toward a shared social life and cultural landscape established in outer space – will involve the conservation, transmission and setting of common patterns that pool a composite interplay of material, neurobiologic and technologic variables. This will in turn require new practices of enculturation, conviviality with technologies, a sharing, incorporation and care. Only then might this transform into a discussion concerning the ontologies of the ‘we’. (Far from) Conclusions Hannah Arendt wrote that technologic progress could not find full expression in “normal” (3) language and that we must constantly be aware that our knowledge, politics, ethics and interactions with regard to technologies are incomplete, unformulated or unexpressed. It could be said then that our relationship with technologies is constantly beginning, that this need to keep finding new language to grasp it means that it actually progresses through its rehearsal of beginnings, through the need to maintain the productive inquisitive force of a pleasant first meeting. Yet Arendt’s idea emerges from a kind of contempt for technology and her implied separation between ‘normal’ and what could be called ‘technical’ language suggests that she privileges the lay ‘human’ tongue as the only one in which meaningful ideas can be properly expressed. What this fails to acknowledge is an appreciation of the potential richness of technical language and Arendt instead establishes a hierarchy that privileges one’s ‘natural’ language. The invocation of the term ‘normal’ is itself an admission of unequal relations with technologies. For a language to develop in which we can truly begin to express and understand the human relationship with ever-changing but ever-present technologies,, we must first allow the entrance of the language of technology into social life – it must be incorporated, learnt or translated. In the future, this might ultimately give technology a voice in a dialogue that might be half-composed of binary code. Digital culture is perhaps a forerunner of such a conversation and perhaps it is in the milieu of outer space that it could be possible to see advances in our ideas about the mutually co-constitutive relationship between the human and technical. The ongoing extra-planetary extension of the digital cultures have the productive potential to sculpt the material and social ambits of our world, and it is this capacity that may precipitate beginnings which will leave lasting imprints upon the prospects of our shared post-human futures. References Arendt, Hannah. The Human Condition. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958. Blanchot, Maurice. Friendship. Trans. Elizabeth Rottenberg. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997. Originally published in French in 1971 under the title L’Amitié. Fuller, Matthew. Media Ecologies: Materialist Energies in Art and Technoculture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005. Gillespie, Tarleton, Pablo J. Boczkowski, and Kirsten A. Foot (eds.). Media Technologies: Essays on Communication, Materiality, and Society. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2014. Gonzalez, Rafael, and Richard E. Woods. Digital Image Processing. 2nd ed. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2002. 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