HyphenPunk Fall 2022: HyphenPunk Magazine, #5

By Jasen Bacon

Eleven New Stories from four different -punk genres

NomadPunk by Christopher R. Muscato, plus his manifesto on this new subgenre of SolarPunk
SolarPunk by Simon Kewin and K. H. Brower
MythPunk by Gary Every
DesertPunk by Melanie Moyer
CyberPunk by J. G. Grimmer, Tadayoshi Kohno, Kyle Decker, Eric Farrell, John Joseph Ryan, and Jennifer Jeanne McArdle

• Language: English
• Publisher: HyphenPunk
• Release date: Sep 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215679593

Book preview

Nomadpunk: A Genealogy

by Christopher R. Muscato

There are seemingly countless genres, sub-genres, and sub-sub-genres of literary styles that have attached themselves to the liberally applied suffix -punk. With no governing body to regulate the application of this term, its use can risk seeming empty, void of functional meaning. In fact, there are so many movements that have appropriated the punk moniker that one is forced to question whether there is any value in continuing to utilize it in a meaningful way.

Yes, yes there is. And that is what I’m here to do.

The goal of this manifesto is to establish the literary boundaries and specifications for what I am calling nomadpunk. In the broadest sense, these are stories about freedom of movement and freedom of self as one lens through which to approach utopian visions of ecologically sustainable futures and a harmonious relationship between technology and the environment. While climate fiction in general explores ecological solutions and challenges, nomadpunk is defined by a distinct focus on mobility as being an essential part of conversations about social norms, economics, and power in relation to climate activism. But let’s start at the beginning.

Within the cli-fi movement, nomadpunk owes its existence to one specific iteration of climate fiction: solarpunk. Solarpunk stories are identifiable by the generally optimistic belief that challenges of the climate crisis can be overcome with responsible technological and futuristic development for the betterment of humanity and the world itself, morality writ beyond humanist limitations. Notably, these sustainable futures are presented as achievable ideals, not alternate realities. In that, solarpunk contains a sense of utopianism; if not utopia in practice, then at least utopia in ideology.

Solarpunk stories are hopeful and bright, but are still driven by conflict, by challenging authority, fighting the status quo, and upending systems of power. They still are, after all, -punk stories. To quote Adam Flynn’s crucial 2014 essay Solarpunk: Notes Towards a Manifesto, the -punkness of solarpunk can perhaps best be understood as infrastructure as a form of resistance. Solar panels, wind turbines, community gardening; these are forms of rebellion against a global order of oil and gas, greed and profit, extraction and destruction.

I have been in love with solarpunk since the earliest anthologies were published. The more I read, I consistently found that the solarpunk stories I enjoyed the most were those that focused on freedom, liberty, decentralization, and community. For the protagonists, mobility was a part of their identity and, crucially, a component of the most -punk parts of that solarpunk tale. However, this freedom to wander beyond borders, to defy restrictions of place, to rebel against the ways sedentary people should behave; it felt more aesthetic than narrative, more a happy accident than an intentional critique of presumptions about the future of urban development.

Still, it was clear that there were authors other than myself who were interested, to at least some degree, in the role of mobility as an element of liberty and nomadism as a pathway to ecological harmony. And that is when I began to wonder if it were possible to work those motifs into a distinct sub-genre of solarpunk, an articulation of these themes through a pointed critique of mobility as a part of the solarpunk movement. The result, as you’ve probably guessed, is nomadpunk.

Nomadpunk, as a solarpunk subgenre, shares the same core principles of its lineage. It is defined by the climate crisis and humanity’s relationship with the environment. It is ultimately optimistic and hopeful, presents conflict and struggle as things that can be overcome, and utilizes technology as a tool for resistance and improvement. The technology can be visceral, but it is not suffocating or anesthetizing. It can be around us, even within us, without separating us from the rest of the natural world.

Where nomadpunk differs from solarpunk is in its distinct focus on human movement. Solarpunk, as a genre, is still largely attached to traditional models of civilization, in which urban development is presented within a sort of teleological progression of human societies. Andrew Dana Hudson’s 2015 essay On the Political Dimensions of Solarpunk makes this point by arguing that ...solarpunk shouldn’t shy away from its urban destiny. Solarpunk is a continuation of the Anthropocene. Humans began as nomads, invented farming and settled down, built cities, and have been expanding on that process of urbanization ever since. That’s the order of events, and that’s the thread we’ll follow into the future. This is the narrative many of us are familiar with. However, archaeological and historical evidence proves that this simple sequencing has never actually been an accurate depiction of reality. Societies across the world shifted between nomadism, semi-nomadism, and sedentism, sometimes making seasonal or generational changes to styles of subsistence.

The point is that sedentism was never a foregone conclusion. Neither should we see it as the natural path forward, nor only the dire consequence of societal collapse and failure (and therefore something to be overcome).

Nomadpunk, as a subgenre, approaches the basic ethos of solarpunk from a perspective that rejects the assumed dominance of sedentism in humanity’s restoration of our place within nature. Nomadpunk stories can focus on entire communities that live as nomads and travel with the seasons and changing of resources, or a few people who choose to live semi-nomadically in an otherwise sedentary world, or even an individual who bikes to work, charging their laptop with the kinetic energy produced by cycling because it slows down the pace of industrial life and helps them connect with the environment. The shared elements in these stories are freedom and mobility as being fundamental parts of reorganizing human relationships with ecology and with relationships of power. If solarpunk presents infrastructure as a form of resistance, then nomadpunk expands that to include railways and open spaces, borderless societies and intentional transience, transportation networks that elevate and liberate. The -punk elements of these stories may often come from demanding or creating infrastructure of mobility where it does not exist, or fighting to dismantle infrastructure that confines people as in the harmful effects of ghettoization, urban decay, or rigid and nationalist borders. Demanding freedom of mobility, and equal access to mobility, can be acts of radical utopianism.

In the foundational essay From Steampunk to Solarpunk (Republic of the Bees, 2008), the author describes the role of technology in solarpunk in the following terms: Solarpunk also conflates modern technology with older technology...we sometimes do best to revive older technologies that are based on other sources of energy, such as solar power and wind power. By the same token, nomadpunk conflates modern ecological sustainability with older models of subsistence and movement, made secure and sustainable with new and responsible technologies. It’s worth noting that From Steampunk to Solarpunk elects as its (literal) flagship the Beluga Skysail, a modern cargo vessel powered by wind and sails, mobility enhanced through futuristic applications of ancient ideas.

This example illustrates that there is plenty of room within solarpunk for a critique of human movement (which is why I’m presenting nomadpunk as a subgenre, and not a distinct genre of its own). Not only does solarpunk support decentralized power (making the genre itself rife for proliferation), but solarpunk is also a genre that rejects a strictly neoliberal Western approach to the future, drawing heavily from Afrofuturism, Amazofuturism, and indigenous rights/traditions as incorporated into climate solutions. This should go without saying, but many of these cultures, prior to colonialism, embraced nomadism or semi-nomadism as a part of their relationships with natural resources and their own human place within (not above) natural ecosystems. These elements, already within solarpunk, are a natural fit for further examination within nomadpunk.

As for a brief note on style, one hope of this essay is to help loosely consolidate some of the existing trends in mobility-based solarpunk into a distinct subgenre. This means a consideration of what nomadpunk actually looks like, and feels like. In keeping with the movement-based themes of the subgenre, nomadpunk stories should be defined by the journey more than the destination, the craft of storytelling more than plot or resolution. These are stories with room to wander, meander, and turn around. Techniques such as stream of consciousness, alternating narrators, and nonlinear narratives all fit well within this style. Maybe the story reaches a clear conclusion; maybe it creates an entirely new set of paths. Characters may complete an arc, or perhaps we only get a glimpse of their journey with neither beginning nor end clearly identified. If writers tend to see a blank page in terms of tyranny, nomadpunk sees it as terra incognita. The story is the act of exploration.

Can cities still exist in an ecologically balanced future? Can settled societies be part of our utopian fantasies? Yes, and there are good reasons to argue that they should. But there are also reasons to argue that this should not be the only model of humanity’s future, either immediate or distant.

And in respect to that conversation, nomadpunk may have something of value to say.

Sayeh Sáfári’s Brilliant Bumbershoots

by Christopher R. Muscato

---

None of this would have been possible without the object to my left. That is crucial to understand.

The fact that I am writing this means my investigation has yielded results, extraordinary ones, results that must be made public. To understand this, however, I think it appropriate to consider the item that set me on this path.

Although it is folded now, resting in its way, it has sheltered me in rain and sun, acted as my accessory and prop, my anchor and moral compass. A rebellious green color, with an almost crystalline shimmer, it unfolds at the simplest touch and collapses without a fuss. It is a trustworthy, uncomplicated companion. And it was almost never mine at all. I had no intention of procuring it. I had no idea of the impact it would have, and that’s to say nothing of the person who gave it to me.

With the hypnotic humming of rails beneath me, I can close my eyes and still describe every detail of that moment. I can still picture clearly, in my mind, Sayeh.

---

Exceedingly pleasant was the day, precisely as one might hope to encounter for such an event. It was picnic weather, day-by-the-beach weather, fair weather.

Of course, this was no ordinary fair. It was a World’s Fair.

I had arrived in Chicago a few days earlier, the city being a scheduled part of my grand tour of the new American green cities. For months I had traveled the electric railways, dashing across the continent at the speed of progress, conducting a remarkably thorough survey of the newest infrastructural developments. To have missed the Sustainable Future’s Green World’s Fair, the first of its kind, would have been unthinkable; impeachable, even.

As I meandered about the raucous midway that preceded the main entry to the fairgrounds themselves, I took in the crowds surrounding me (at very close proximity, I might add). A gentle push here, an accidental elbow there. The thoroughfare was packed with anxious spectators, all polite enough, if a bit impatient considering the lack of opportunity to move any quicker than we were. One or two did recognize me, something to which I have never become accustomed, but for the most part I remained anonymous, just one of many eager spectators. From overalls still stained with the dirt of that day’s labor in the greenhouses, to the more fanciful cotton gowns with their organic motifs and swirling colors made possible by kinetic-motion-powered nanotech sewn into the ruffling folds of the fabric, it seemed that all of Chicago had come out for the occasion. And I could not blame them in the slightest.

As I finally reached the main gate, adorned in patterns of twisting vines, there was a sign:

We hereby dedicate this fair to the future generations. May we be ancestors worthy of remembering.

Let me pause here, dear reader, to explain the form and function of these so-called Green World’s Fairs, the inaugural exposition in Chicago already lauded as the prime example of what has since become an oft-imitated spectacle. Conceived as a way to support integration of national climate efforts into more globalized initiatives, the Green World’s Fairs are a chance for countries, climate NGOs, and activism groups to show off the latest in sustainable technology and practices.

And show off they did. Having entered through the main gate, my jaw hung open as I beheld marvels at every turn. The fair grounds were built within a garden, naturally, and each pavilion was replete with monuments to human ingenuity and optimism, a celebration of our faith in our ability to do better.

Throughout that morning I read about revitalizing indigenous architecture to deal with heat in the US Southwest and observed models of the tolou keur plots successfully being used to stave off the advance of the desert in Senegal. I sampled edible, biodegradable plastics made from crustacean shells, attended a seminar on hydroponics as infrastructure, and toured the interior of a prototype vertical greenhouse. Amusements abounded in the food sponsored by decentralized agricultural producers, the tree swings that held entire families, the chances to participate in music classes, poetry reading, and plein air painting. Equally diverting were the sweets, and on more than one occasion I found my plans sidetracked by simple, sucrose temptations scattered throughout the booths. 

Of course, my book on the new infrastructure was not going to write itself, and so I interviewed experts in the booths, fair organizers, random passersby, really anybody whose opinion I thought could be incorporated into my travelogue/history monograph. A few people asked for autographs, others wanted my opinion on this technology or that idea. I found myself at one point giving an impromptu lecture in one of the food tents to some students, buzzing with the passions of youth as they debated the breakup of the old corporate order. I appreciated their vigor but found my own attention drifting to a passing cart peddling candied fruits, and I excused myself at the politest opportunity in pursuit, leaving the students to their dialogic salon.

It was warming up by this point and, as I had acquired my treat, I found a stool in the shade on which to sit and looked up. I’d been so focused on the booths and pavilions that I had yet to take a moment to truly appreciate the centerpiece of the fair.

Towering above the winding maze of gardens and pavilions was the World Tree, although I think it’s more fit to the moniker affectionately given to it by the media: The Chrysalis Palace. Staggering