
2055 or thereabouts;
mother earth, extra warm, limps on,
33 years into a soft collapse.

The antecedent patchwork of calamities presumably includes climate change, crop failure, exodus, unmentionable rhetoric, nuclear bomb. Little resistance, if any, would be put up to the gentle spiral, the catastrophe always someone else’s, somewhere else, inevitable, familiar, boring.

The promise of rescue through technological advance turned out to be something of a damp squib.

Residual society retreats to hollow metropoles and suburbs which, though varied, are generally lifeless, individualistic, convenient, synthetic, semi-stable. Ordinary humans depend on flimsy regional governments, bogus corporate subscriptions, local hoarders of resources (landlords), etc.

Infrastructure was gradually ruined in the collapse, obviously. The internet seems to be off. Essential materials are unavailable, skills forgotten. Officially (apocryphally) the world ‘rebuilds’. 

Paintings, books, musical instruments, etc. are generally hoarded, burnt for energy or otherwise lost. A steady diet of rubbish tech-food, amoral hyper-tainment and sedative mod-cons is available; conventional wisdom states that fresh food is a thing of the past, factory-animal pulp aside.

Despite all this, the birds, ungovernable, continue to sing.

Much of the rest of the surface of the planet has returned to the default state of things, and the particulars of the wilderness zone are by this point basically unknown.




Act 1.
------

Mid-afternoon.
We join a relatively exhausted, relatively old protagonist who, with middling progress, wades uphill against nettles, gorse and irregular woodland. An unwilling participant of the domestic world, they now opt for the possible miseries of The Outside – not so much a quest for sanctuary as an abandoning of ship.

Lost in green, the protagonist comes across a (quite unintimidated) fawn. Some playful intermammalian interaction implausibly follows. The two exchange kind words in universal language. The juvenile eventually loses interest, politely withdraws, bounces off. Speechless, the protagonist advances into the foliage.

Beyond the noise, a rudimentary geodesic dome of mixed materials comes into view. Approaching cautiously (muted exclamation; soft footsteps), the protagonist peers through a dank, algal pane. A few half-obscured characters, mumbling variously, dustily clothed, tend to a patchy abundance of fruit and vegetables. 

Heard from afar, from a high plateau, carried on the wind: the sound of an oboe fantasy. A soloist performs, apparently to nobody, a mournful, circuitous, poncy impromptu.

An inner monologue: encouraged by recent fortune, the protagonist resolves to contact and thank the unidentified oboist. This turns out to be a good idea for other reasons. The forest, temporarily navigable, low-density, generously offers the relief of safe passage. Buoyed by unanticipated ease, the protagonist is guided, at times light-headed, along a sequence of small rewards: rare genera, frutti di bosco etc., each increment in altitude facilitating a more acceptable temperature.

A pond scene.
The protagonist arrives, abruptly, at a clear, cold, knee-deep, ellipsoid pond with garden gnome and elegantly restored cast-iron/oak bench. They admire the handiwork aloud. No oboist is found. Frogs, birds and several domesticated cats sit around providing associated sound ‘fx’. Chimes chime. Protagonist quenches their thirst with the apparently potable (lightly sparkling?) water, takes a seat. 

Observing the inexplicable fauna of the highland pool, the protagonist drifts into an accidental pond dream. Sound ‘fx’ mostly continue. They imagine playing the oboe (in their dream they play a clarinet instead).


*


Act 2.
------

Earliest dawn.
A cacophony of improvisers is heard downhill, back in the direction of the dome: a woodwind group of unknown size delivers a many-oboe fantasy – asymmetrical, beautiful, horrible. Protagonist absorbs, bewildered.

The geodesic dome contains an imprecise harmony of cultivars, overgrowing a selection of lumpen containers and supports: greengages, cabbage, parsnip, quince(?), hot peppers, primordial beans, endless marrows, pumpkins. It also houses many billions of insects, mostly unpleasant, two rats, a few stray hedge warblers, and so on. The air is humid with sweet odour; ugly apparatus mildly bubbles, intermittently whirrs, a system of piecemeal order.

A half-asleep protagonist turns up. Finding the dome unattended, they dare to enter, very hungry, examining (and audibly partaking of) the foodstuffs. 

Johannes arrives; resident domer, 63, mediumly toothless, visibly sunburnt, gardener’s omnibus in hand. Both characters are equally startled: “I beg your pardon” and so on. He soon welcomes, warmly, naming species in Latin, particularly pleased to show a seed-bank of his own devising. They compare lists in stereo; regrettably, there are no tomatoes. Johannes explains that the group is attempting to maintain, despite the presence a medium-large geodesic dome, the lowest possible profile. From time to time he yawns. “All of this is temporary,” he admits.

Other members are then introduced in accelerating manner: ~15 to 20 people in total, many oldish, but some young, wide variety of accents, obvious pseudonyms (Jodhpur, Thursday). It’s unclear whom the kids belong to etc. Several of the adults are various kinds of rogered, but at peace. Ultimately they share a broad pint of barrel-grog or moonshine or ergot or whatever, discussing in enthusiastic detail the logistics of the shite-pail, biogas digester, worm farm. Dubious talk of soil cycles, perpetual youth, amateur dentistry. Old dreamers maintain optimism about Mutual Aid. Somebody reels off quotes from a single philosopher. Aches and bruises are compared. The group dynamic is pleasant, worn, human. Conversation devolves into inebriated collage.

Dawn again. A speaker beeps.
The protagonist awakens in poor condition, variously soiled. A cursor prompt flickers on the monitor of an early consumer personal computer. We are in a kind of shed, adjacent to the dome, with assorted computer peripherals and 12V irrigation systems apparently patched together to regulate the dome. On the computer is an incomplete gardening spreadsheet for 2051, one game and an internet browser. Some of the most robust websites are vestigially accessible after all; a list titled ‘working pages’ is taped beside the screen. The residents seem only to have looked up carpentry resources, public domain novels, sitcom clips. Another sign reads “avoid broadcast at all costs”.  Communication with other computers doesn’t seem to be possible anyway.

A conversation with Jodphur.
She patiently answers questions, absorbs skepticism, shrugs shoulders, exhibits a small collection of rescued vinyl records. They listen to some forgotten disc together. There is some debate about whether it’s playing at the correct speed. 

Outside.
a gathering, muttering in clumps, forming an approximate oval. They share a soup of general vegetable, XL pot. A percussion circle of sorts is ongoing, pots and pans and so on, bearded elder on flute. A refrain is sung and hummed:
“you will never be alone again, you will never be at home again”.

Based on a positive impression, the community extends an open invitation. The protagonist, silent, contemplates their membership opportunity and the parameters of a probable future in this other eden, demi-paradise. A female resident provides oratorio.

No particular decision made, preoccupied by rumination, the protagonist is handed a oboe, and plays a delicate impromptu, mirroring some themes of the elder flautist.

The birds continue to sing;
a waltz plays for the credits.

