Narracene is an ecopoetic world-building project which asks:
What if the human capacity to extractively narrativise the natural world had the same pollutive, non-biodegradable quality as plastic pollution?
What if this residual narrative (which already, inarguably, possesses a life of its own) not only outlived us, but created a new world from the refuse we will leave behind?
What if, therefore, the fantastical world of myth and legend does not lie before our collective living memory, but after?
What right do we have to that world, if any?
The first creature to emerge from this soupy idea was APHOS: a prologue for an imagined epic set and performed upon the plastic-choked oceans of the world I now call ‘The Narracene’.
Since then, the idea of a mythic future waste-world has evolved to not only walk on land (and burrow deep beneath it, and fly high above it), but beyond its textual origins, into collage, costume, dance and (most recently) TTRPG.
Narracene is…
…a lament against man-made climate change, pollution and reckless consumption.
…a refutation of the nihlistic arrogance that assumes that the world will end with us, and calling this selfish doom-spiral ‘The Anthropocene’.
…an homage to the awesome power of storytelling as a creative (and extractive) power.
…an exploratoion of a ruined, beautiful, post-human world and the inner lives of the mutant plastic merpeople and fairy-folk who call it home.
Like any project you develop over a long time and hold close to your heart, ‘Narracene’ is often a source of frustration. Like its chorus of mutant myth things, it is an amalgamation, a gross gestalt of influences* that refuses to stay as one thing for any length of time and often threatens to wriggle off the line entirely, though I refuse to let it go.
Whatever Narracene eventually choses to become when it fully emerges, I hope it frightens me.
*a gross gestalt of influences:
Staying with the Trouble & A Cyborg Manifesto (Donna Harraway) Heart: The City Beneath (Rowan, Rook and Deckard) Earth Shattering: ecopoems (ed. Neil Astley) The Last Alchemist (and all the work of Colin Thompson) Rainworld (Video-Cult) Our Wives Under the Sea (Julia Armfield) Orpheus and Eurydice (and other katabasis myths) (Greek/Various) Plastic Beach (Gorillaz) The Silt Verses (John Ware and Una Hussen) Vassen RPG (Johan Egerkrans, Nils Hintze, Graeme Davis) Mutazoine (Die Gute Fabric) Māui fishes up the North Island (Myth, Aotearoan) Other Minds & Metazoa (Peter Godfrey-Smith) The art of Hannah Höch Stalker (Andrei Tarcovsky) The Theban Plays (Sophocles) Troika! & Acid Death Fantasy (Luke Gearing) Beowulf (Myth, Old English/Norse) The Medusa and the Snail (Lewis Thomas) Norco (Geography of Robots) Without Sinking (Hildur Guðnadóttir)
Somewhere at the end of history, a woman who rules over a floating island of plastic waste from a ruined oil rig casts her barbed hook of stories in to a sea grown strange.
The chimeras she hauls to the surface are the mutant, half formed runoff of all the excess language we have irresponsibly dumped in to the ocean, narratives that have mingled with all the other non-biodegradable waste and born a new form of unwillingly conscious life.
As a new story begins, they come with a welcome, and a warning.
(Scroll down to read the words and a bit of an authors note)
Siphonophore: A colonial organism formed of multicellular units that multiply and combine to create a functional colony able to move, reproduce, and digest sustenance.
Sentence: A set of words that is complete in itself, typically containing a subject and predicate, conveying a statement, question, exclamation, or command.
Aphos is a fragment of a tragedy passed up to us from the ecologically devastated future. Its narrators are the unwilling evolution of our Undines, Merfolk and Nyads, born long after we are drowned, and only our floating waste – both physical and ephemeral – remains.
It was written in alternating iambic hexameter and pentameter, partially to echo the feel of waves, and partially as dictated by the chemical equation for Styrene, the ancestor of most commercial plastics: C6H5CH=CH2.
It is also silly and self-serious, because if the inevitable environmental collapse cant be turned in to tragic melodrama then I don’t know what can.
“What gloom, what tragic creatures surface here?” You ask. “What tales may come were we to comb their guts?” No need for that: We are compelled to spill them here For that is all we do and all we are; Behold the abiogenesis of language We chorus dredged from brine and silt, dragged up Within this gouging net all festulent with verse Our gulping hydro-carbon breaths amassed And rhymth’d in the light, hooks bedded in our throats So you might ogle suffering and say: “This is exactly how we saw it turning out!” As on some mountainside reduced to beach The liver of Prometheus renews alone Pecked at by gulls amidst his long stripped bones.
Back when those dark and unremembered places held That bastioned against effluvic words Where hid some serpents safe from your imaginings Moving unseen despite titanic size Entwined sublime in abyssopelagic goop They sunk below the dark and so escaped But we chimeric slops were not so fortunate As oil-bright sea grew loud with your excess Your tales fell soft as marine snow upon our heads And we partook of them unwittingly For we by then had lived so long amongst your waste We could not tell fictions from sustenance. So we were spawned: ephemera made flesh And if you would make new Ourorberos of us Know that, like yours, our noise will not degrade, But swirl and coalesce towards eternity Siphonophoric in it’s symphony.
But come you rubbery spirits! Descend again To stick us with the bright intangible, Leave your alluvia encrusted on our skulls! Roar loud you once coagulated waves Future and past, unstick yourselves to clash once more Together like those predatory rocks Churn this synthetic soup of stories they call Sea So they might hear the tale of Drowned Hadal, Who cast herself as Hero, Tyrant, Oracle Who would not spur her iron Argo on Who sought Katabasis in leaky submarine Who bid the rowers pause with arms outstretched. But every Hades needs its hunting ground, and so
We’ll tell first of the oil-rig, for this Aberrant tale has its castle constructed first, With kingdom following as afterbirth: This unrepentant fist against the sky ensconced In jaundiced clouds, with oil-bright sea for moat, Dark halls of steel and concrete unassailable With towers spitting gouts of fire and smoke Into the then-blue sky, mighty steel proboscis Sunk deep within Gaia’s collapsing vein Tamed the currents with gibbet crane, with hook and chain ‘Till it became a knag in Ocean’s stump, Assembling all the world’s elastic effluence. So island formed: it came in many parts This simulacra land, unreal and more than real For this platonic mass could not erode A pickled Albion, adrift and zombified Well crafted from the bric-a-brac of man Collaged, haphazard styrene poem of a place Borne onwards upon these unwilling tides.
And so, at last they came, escaping from the world As Ulysses from burning wooden horse Across horizon’s brink lain open like a wound With oracle in front and fears behind Thinking that they alone bestrode the stories end They found their Ur-Island, made landfall on This amalgamated refuse, rising skywards On those same waves that slowly drowned the land. For here was Gaia processed and refined, her flesh Liquefied, solidified, unending Constructing vain Anthropocene Atlantis there With Babelic oil-rig rising above. It’s here Hadal hoards text, jealous and draconic Amalgamating all that came before To selfish dénouement. So tyranny: A dark Dictatorship of script, well oiled and false Built upon the lie of tragedy, expectant Of catharsis that cannot ever come.
So on eternal plastic throne she sits, Hadal! Fruitless in her wait for Armageddon The one who sees in us the things she wants to see. She teaches us to hate but we cannot We will not be the furies you would make of us. No! For all of these regurgitations The pains and hungerings befitting half formed things We begrudging anthropogenic Gods Are yet animal enough to feed without ire. This submarine she builds inside their heads Will sink and never rise, and fire will cleanse the rest. The energy conversion will complete Light and heat to text turning text to heat and light, Her pecked promethean spark consume itself, Oil-bright sea burn, castle left black and island-less. But comes Hadal, her followers in tow We wait and watch and listen to her netted words And are unwillingly sustained. Alas! For all will soon be lost and so begin again Again a ship again a hero sinks And she will rue the day your bright vulgarities Spilled forth in to the sea and gave us birth: We shells, we not-spirits, we logos without light. We welcome you with open arms and mouths.